The book starts off well enough, with clearly defined scenes and characterization that appear to be substantial. There's a waterfall of interesting ideas and umpteen possible pathways for them to develop. Invention is not something that Justina Robson is ever going to lack. Here and there, Living Next Door To The God Of Love rises high above the average, only to be pulled crashing down by the weight of is own indulgence, or frustrating lack of definition. The experience was reminiscent of watching a really promising SF TV show, which gets cancelled before all the interesting threads are properly developed or explained. Nor could this work be described as easy to read, indeed I found it took enormous concentration. There's a quantity of sex and violence tossed in, but that only adds to the distraction. One of the joys for any reader is surely trying to work out what happens next, but such speculation is flat out impossible with this book, as the author appears to be changing what is and isn't possible on a whim.

Ultimately, the wonderful and exotic ingredients that go into the mix at the beginning, fail to deliver on their promises. It's not so much that Living Next Door To The God Of Love is badly written, it's that it is written in such an experimental, almost chaotic fashion, as to defy all but the most dedicated comprehension. Most readers, I suspect, simply do not have the time or will to bother with something that's such hard work. Although, I would not be surprised to find this book featuring in future dissertations.