Jeff Atman, an English journalist in his forties, seeks enlightenment between the thighs of one city only to find it in the bowels of another city. Or does he By the story&rsquos end, uncertainty rules the universe, and all meanings begin to fade. Which rather destroys the purpose of reading a book or writing a review or... But wait I&rsquoll try again.

This novel is written in two parts. In part one, written as one long chapter uninterrupted by breaks or sections, a melancholic art critic called Jeff travels to the Venice Biennale. Once there, he enjoys stellar sex and atrocious art in equal proportions, only to return to London alone and once more loveless. Part two begins with a shift in narrative voice from third to first person, as a journalist accepts an assignment to travel to Varanasi. We&rsquore not told whether this man is or isn&rsquot Jeff. They share some details of personal history, but as the narrator&rsquos mortal coil begins to unwind, the insubstantiality makes it unnecessary to care about such minor details. A state of mild, uncritical disinterest descends, leaving behind a scent that might be incense or shit, take your pick.

For those Indians who like to polish their patriotism using dusters made of foreign prose, this account of Varanasi provides the familiar corpses-and-cows exotica, minus the obligatory First World sneering. I, however, have never felt the slightest desire to visit Varanasi, so I wasn&rsquot surprised to find yet more confirmation that only terminal-case masochists seek out that city&rsquos dung-smeared charms.

What I did enjoy was Dyer&rsquos explicit exposé of the international art scene. His descriptions of waste and debauchery in old Europe excellently prefigure the scenes set in Varanasi&rsquos filth-encrusted alleys. Indeed, excretion in one form or another becomes the novel&rsquos underlying theme. This is great for readers with mental constipation, but for the rest of us, just another twitch in the tale.