I love a lot of things in this novella. The tactual presence of nature: fungus, mycelium, the pond, animals, rabbits and frogs. The horrific nuance everything takes, you can taste it even. The point on dispossession, of being deprived of your roots, your ancestors, your language. And grief, and not finding life interesting

BUT it's too dense, too verbose to me, the rhythm goes missing mostly and it's a pity cause the elements were all there, to keep you on edge, and it could have been great. 

"Life was like a language I couldn't speak"

I'll have to check on everything stelliform press though