Once I stood in a museum looking at a "painting" hanging on the wall. It had all the components of a painting: the canvas, lines and squiggles rendered in pencil, the artist's signature, and some blotches of color here and there. I read the review on the little plaque next to it which described what it was made of, its post-modern symbolism, it's meaning. I didn't see that at all.
Another time I put on a CD to listen to. It had all the components of "music": instruments, notes, pauses, a musician behind the scenes who determined how the people playing the instruments were to perform. I read the review on the back of the CD case which described the musicians, their instruments, its post-modern interpretation and why it was supposed to be musical. I didn't hear that at all.
Today I finished reading a "book". It had all the components of a work of fiction: characters, words, sentences, descriptions of places and ideas and things. I read the blurbs on the back of the book, the reviews here at Goodreads and on Amazon, online on blogs and forums, and even what the author herself said about her post-modern piece of literature. I tried to understand why people liked it, but somehow nobody ever said why, only that they did. Nobody could even tell me what it all meant. They could only describe the component parts. I didn't get it at all.
All of these "beautiful" works of art I just mentioned remind me of a "good" wine. People go on and on about the bouquet, the subtleties, the nuances, and the vast depth of flavor, the slight hints of this and that. At the end of the day, what they're describing is rotten grapes. I kind of feel that way about this book.