Despite the seemingly endless story (or shall I say, stories) contained within this oeuvre, this classic, this forgotten history, I can earnestly say that this book is a revival of English magic in itself. It is unsentimental, Dickensian, and all-encompassing, without being cumbersome. The practical, somewhat political, and mundane beginnings of this novel give way to a spectacle of originality that is far more rewarding than expected.

Just like the lights that people seem to think are present but can't seem to find, like the many roads and places of Fairy that confusedly wrap in and out of our consciousness, there is much to this book that lies on the threshold of our knowledge; tall tales and histories and details that we know are there, but can't seem to reach with our mind's eye.

I know the book was written over a long period of time, and the writing seems to reflect that. The characters will suddenly take on a new air, pieces of information will be forgotten, the plot will take a sudden turn to suit a particular new development... It's as if the novel was set down for a time and resumed once again with another frame of mind. There are a number of characters and events that don't seem to add up.

Much is left undone, or simply referential, which, it seems, only reflects the nature of the story itself. It seemed to arrive, out of a convention that dictates that the last page means the end of a story, at a decided ending. And yet nothing was quite resolved, nor ever hinting as anything further. It is the beginning, and not the end, of English magic.