This is one of the finest novels I've ever read. If you accept the word "depressing" as a final argument against a work, you should avoid it. Actually this book is beyond sadness; it's a study of an utterly blighted yet somehow heroic life. An ancestor, at the turn of the century, of the Finnish author, Axel left few traces; Carpelan reconstructed his life, and this novel is his imagined diary. He was a frustrated musician who became a friend and helper of Jan Sibelius, whose portayal in this novel is also fascinating. Music, and art as a whole, are raised here to a level as sublime as any faith. And while I can compare this novel to *Oblomov by Goncharov, or to Chekhov's compassionate stories of buried lives, it seems also, despite its atheism, to belong among the great spiritual autobiographies - one forgets that Axel is merely a character in a novel. Henry Miller said of Hamsun's *Mysteries that he felt, while reading it, he was reading the true story of his own life; this book may have a similar effect.