Kleinzeit, by Russell Hoban. ISBN 0-7475-5641-5.
No one writes quite like Russell Hoban. Not even Russell Hoban: no two of his novels (of those I've read so far) are alike. This one is a linguistic romp, a meditation on love and middle age and creativity and the fear of death and Greek myth, and doubtless a dozen other things I was too dazzled to notice on the way through.
I shan't attempt any sort of analysis. It's not that sort of book. Or else it's too much that sort of book for me to do it justice. I'm not sure. Either way, it's more fun than Baha'u'llah's socks. Go buy it.