This book is truly awful. Imagine an unhappy romance conducted through vague allusions to Pascal, and laughing corrections about standard misconceptions of papal infallibility and the selling of indulgences. Then imagine that this love is sacrificed and legitimatized so that the female can realize the ultimate emptiness of protestantism and can become a Catholic baby machine with another man. Even better the generic aesthete brother kills himself due to his inablity to have any kind of faith or meaningful commitment.
This was amusing in a totally unintentional way. This is probably one of the worst books that I have ever read, including that romance novel I shamefacedly checked out of the public library when I was 15 (and yes read cover to cover). It is an educational experience that this stuff could be published and that the author could be a Nobel prize winner (not that I had any delusions about that being a standard of ideal literary merit left).