There are some books, a very few books, that completely take you over. After a book like that you have no desire to read anything else; you want to reread it for the rest of your life. Given time, friends and family will make you see that this is not the best option (say, that maybe you should focus on your work, or that there might be other good books out there only waiting to be discovered). In the meantime, you will lend it to random people in the street (after having bought an extra copy specifically for lending, as dirty strangers cannot be allowed to touch your glorious copy), buy it for your friends and glare at those who do not take your advice. These books show up very rarely, and they are hardly ever announced.

I had never heard of The Gone-Away World until Ben lent it to me. I wasn't expecting it to be very good, but after having read snatches of Master Wu's attempt at explaining why America beat China to the space program, he managed to convince me that at least the language was good. I consented to putting it on my list. Remind me to buy Ben a very nice Christmas present.

I confess I was worried at first. The opening chapter, while well written, did not particularly appeal to my preferences for what a book should be about. They talked about trucks and guns. There were moments of glory in between, but I was very worried about what this would turn into. And then I read on. It quickly became apparent that the author had a good grasp of not only ninjas and pirates and martial arts, but also characters and plot. And language.

Now, mind you don't misunderstand. When I speak of ninjas and pirates, suggest old men with qi and a generally well-written book, I am not talking about something written by a pretentious geek with a good grasp of internet subcultures and a penchant for ornamental language. Good language in this instance is not the flowery verbal tapestry that I will admit sometimes enraptures certain students of literature (and I am by no means excluding myself). That kind of language would have been entirely out of place. When I say good language, I mean that the words generally are just where they ought to be. Think Adams and Pratchett and Wodehouse, but without thinking Adams and Pratchett and Wodehouse at all. Nick Harkaway has that control over language, but he uses it very differently. It appears as purposefully careless, littered with moments of brilliant insight.

What is it about? I don't really want to tell you. I suspect that is because I started out knowing nothing and fell so head over heels; the entire reading process can probably be imagined as one very slow topple, ending with a very sizeable crash (face hitting floor) in the end (did you follow that metaphor?). It tells the story of Gonzo's friend and Gonzo, set in a post-apocalyptic world (with rather long periods of pre-apocalypse and the apocalypse itself). It provides a commentary on modern warfare, multinational companies, international politics and people as cogs in a larger machinery, or not. All this is fed a steady stream of ninjas, pirates, mimes, revolutionaries, contra-revolutionaries, bastards, bigger bastards, bees, a new and rather unexpected use of Tupperware, and details that pretend to mean nothing, but that lie all the while before hitting you over the head.

I did not get hooked until the second chapter. It starts in medias res, and Harkaway's characters (oh, the characters!) grow and develop throughout -- it therefore stands to reason that they cannot be at their best in the very first chapter. I found it disorienting, as it placed me very unprepared in an unknown world with groups whose motivations and backgrounds were a big mystery. It made me think it was just another book about tough men in a post-apocalyptic tough world. But I have never been very good at reading first chapters. And it is a chapter which makes sense later on. I have also talked to some who found it captured their imagination. In other words: if you find the book sucks you in at once, read on; if it doesn't, read on.

One word on the characters before I go on. I said they develop. They also stand out. Harkaway has a knack that you find in Dumas and Conan Doyle. He gives you people in his supporting cast. Anyone who does not love Master Wu and his soft style gong fu has no heart. Anyone who has ever trained any martial art (certainly soft style --I'll wager my first-born) will feel an extreme need to pick it up again.

The novel has a steady, insistent protest against homogenising; it celebrates the unassimilated, what sticks out, is different, impedes the smooth running of the machinery, what creates something new by breaking down the old. Walter Benjamin would call him an allegorist. I am not sure that is not as good a name (and praise) as any. I could go on. But this is not the place for analysis. It is a well-written book with excellent characters and marvellous moments. It scared me on several levels, but I also laughed out loud rather a lot. And I kept reading snatches to the people around me who had no idea what I was on about.

In concusion: Camilla says, Run! Buy! Read! Now!