Rosemary Waldrop's Blindsight is an intricately crafted work of sublime beauty. Its many threads of theme weave together into what I experienced as (unconventionally) spiritual work. I think it was her preoccupation with the body and its smaller miracles that I found particularly (read: particle (like chemistry and such) ulary) striking, "You should take everything. Except your shoelaces. To heart. Which moves within the flesh. And should." Her voice has a certain authority that begs harmony between page and person, from the tip of your fingertips to the tip of her tongue. It is obscure, troubling, and eccentric, and I never once doubted that she meant every word of it. Every line that turned axiom to me, which was every other line. I'd recommend it, I'd keep it on my nightstand, I'd fall asleep with it under my pillow.