There are few books that actually defy description, and this is one of them. There isn't a plot, not really, and the characters are hardly characters at all. This book is like a poem, filled with symbols and allegories, some seeming to be completely derived of any meaning.
It won't be easy to read this. Most will hate it or give up, and some will love it and cherish it for its lack of ease and coherence.
As for me, I enjoyed it, because this book was like a collection of poems and ideas in the guise of a novel. Some of my favorite bits:
The mother grew, filled up with nothing - cells in cells on cells, a house.
an era without era; blank and silent light and sound
a tone that shifts the lid of sky
In the bathroom the father saw his many selves reach up to turn the lights off, and the father saw the dark.
Some books connect, some do not. This one connected with me, a few times. I hope it does for you too. If not, there are so many other books out there, but none like this.