How am I supposed to review this? In one sense, it deserves scorn. This is absolute by-the-numbers Booker Prize bait. A protagonist drifting beyond middle age, contemplating the span of his life and the terrible secret that won't be revealed until near the book's end. Then: catharsis, new understanding, and, one hopes, an optimistic conciliation with mortality, grief, and the cosmos in general.

This is cliche, and it's all framed by a particularly melodramatic impetus (protagonist wakes up from humdrum life, begins Unlikely Pilgrimage across much of Britain, seemingly on a whim and with no preparation). Ultimately Harold is revealed to be not *quite* the passionless milquetoast that he's set up to be, but the outline remains about right.

And yet! (Yes, there has to be an "and yet" -- a formulaic review for a formulaic book.) This recipe can be effective, and it's effectively deployed here. Joyce writes beautifully, and is perfectly measured at all times. She's never maudlin. She gives us just enough inspiring romanticism. She gives us just enough crushing depression. If I can level a criticism beyond the formulaic nature of the work, it's that the comedic interlude with the additional pilgrims isn't half as funny as it deserves to be (though it does manage to introduce levity and break the dour mood). Otherwise, she does a very fine job.

But the important thing is that the book got me. I welled up a handful of times; sometimes it was a pang, and sometimes much more. Joyce's background is in the theater, apparently, first as an actress and then as a playwright. So don't be fooled by the "debut novel" stuff -- she knows how to wrap you around her finger, and she will. Maybe you're made of steelier stuff than me, but I bet this'll jerk some tears. I enjoy that kind of thing; it's worthwhile.

If you like Booker Prizeish novels, I bet you'll like this one. I enjoyed it, but I think I'm most excited for the more inventive-sounding entries on the long list. Perhaps this novel will make it to the next round. But given last year's winner and its focus on a late-middle-age protagonist connecting with a woman he once let down, I sort of doubt it. I imagine the Booker judges are smart enough to be self-conscious.