I know I promised that I’d come back and try to articulate exactly why Till We Have Faces was so significant to me, but I’ve been at a loss for the last week. I’ve tried to explain it to my mother, my wife, and to my brother, and each time I’ve ended up saying, “Trust me; you’ve just got to read this book.”
The best that I can manage is to say that after reading it, there’s no way I could say I don’t believe in God. I felt like the narrator’s struggles with deity often were very close to mine, and I found myself identifying with her anger, angst, and anguish. I particularly was moved by her first trip to the valley, and her frustration at not being able to see divine things, but almost being able to see them- just a glimpse, but not enough. But the resolution of the novel so completely wiped all of that away, and not in a cheap or trite way, but in a way that seems like the kind of thing that would be true about a god.
When her charge against the gods answered itself, I was reeling. When the Fox admitted that he was right about how religion missed the point entirely, but at the same time he was so horribly wrong, I felt like I was experiencing revelation.
All of my concerns about God are resolved on at least a basic, primal level by the mere fact that despite all I have to say, God is. I guess that’s the best that I can do.
Sailing to Byzantium 
I think that’s as good a summation on why you liked it as I could have hoped for. It probably wouldn’t have done enough for your college Literature professor, but it’s fine for a blog.
Granted, I’ve already read the book so I knew what the h*ll you were talking about.