After reading three books by Mathews, the gifts of this author become increasingly apparent . . . He is wise, clever, earthy, and has many surprises up his sleeve. From Carmel, California to Zurich, to Florence (a period in which Mathews details so much interesting information about the feminine aspect of Christianity, Gnosticism, the concept that Mary Magdalene as the Holy Grail bore a child named Sara Kali by Christ and escaped to a French village Saintes Maries de la Mer where the annual celebration of Sara AKA the Black Queen still exists), to France, and to Ireland, Malcolm Clay writes in diary fashion, emails, and in dreams shared about his progress in dissembling his dysfunctional approach to women and in the process finding the validity of his own existence. 'You know, there's something about becoming more aware of what unconsciously runs a person. Awareness is a thief. It's robbed me of an illusion; it's robbed me of the belief that the only way a man can make love to a woman is by physically penetrating her' . . . One of the uniquely beautiful aspects of Mathews' writing is his ability to explore these thoughtful (even profound) topics with a effervescent sense of humor and a gift for communicating details of living in Florence, struggling with the French attitude, and seeking out the funky little eateries and Internet cafes in Ireland. For after all, the main reason for this meandering journey to Europe is to follow-up on a brief but meaningful encounter with a lass named Kelli whom he met in Carmel and agrees to meet in Ireland in hopes that he has finally found his perfect mate . . . But the ending leaves some unanswered questions that suggest we may still be following Malcolm Clay through future novels! --Literary Aficionado, Grady Harp