Part of it feels like a (lucid?) fever dream. Told in the form of a letter to his brother. This is such an elevated book that it is hard to say anything about it that does not come off as simple minded. There is no real pulling it apart, as it is mostly just an amalgamation of Catholic and Norse mythology, but told with such care that you don't find the seams you insist must be there. If I had to put a feeling to it, I would describe it as an example of what it must have felt like when primitive man sat around the fire, listening to their tribes story teller tell simple (but deeply human) stories through the night.
Part of me thinks this is an incredible book that somehow built a narrative that feels like dream stuff and poetry. That takes the essence of the noble knight, sheds the vulgar details of reality, and leaves us with the reified core.
Another parts of me thinks this is a gross indulgence, writing a book that would expect even attentive readers to need more than one pass to fully understand. Who does that? Who cares so little for their readers that they would write something like this?