Can I compare a book to a sandwich? That's the only way I can currently think about this story, some ill-tasting bread with a palatable filling. Henderson, the main character, is about as egotistical and meglo-maniacal as they come and I waited and waited, hear Henderson's "I want, I want...", so long for his development and redemption. When it began, and deepened with King Dafu, I was enchanted [(King Dafu put me in mind of "Sophie's World" and conversations with philosophers) the filling, finally], but I was saddened when it was cut short by the unrelated, tidy, comical ending: Henderson in corderoy, with a Persian-speaking child asleep on his lap, the stewardess feeding the lion cub in baggage, while Henderson in fast-rewind seemed to come to some understanding about his past. I stuck it out, not entirely unhappy. Perhaps I missed something vital, elemental, essential.