The gentle Nazification of the soul is explored in that most 21st century of forms, the book. Deep yellow, its pages thick and smelling, almost, like their fish glue binding. The Beach is the classic erotic novel, with little to no poon, but with every suggestive leaf painted in violent arousal. Every tree penetrates the sky to bleeding joy, and the deep dark pits of the soul echo anus. Garland effortlessly crafts visions of tribal life onto a cast of meaningless nobodies. I doubt anyone could give a fuck by the end of the first few pages and most will not finish the book, after discovering anything else to do. Grumblestiltskin! By now you must realise this whole exercise is futile. I’m off to make the tea.