It's strange how... underknown... Francis King seems to be, because he has a very likeable, readable style. This is the second novel of his I've read (not to mention the second book King wrote), and I preferred this one from 1947 to the other one I read, The Dark Glasses from 1954. Riveting beginning and quite a moving ending. Yes, it dragged for me a bit in the middle, but overall, it's an enjoyable read that holds up to multiple interpretations as to what it all means. While the adversity that our protagonist meets is (fortunately) beyond what most of us experience, there are some universal gifts here about... time and wounds, I guess, but it's not so much about one healing all of the others, as it is about life being an accumulation of experiences, many of them in a sense being wounds, but even those wounds making up something like a constellation that describes ones life, for better and for worse.