Wooooooooooo-hooooooooo what a fall what a soar what a plummet what a dash into dark into light what a plunge what a glide thud crash what a drop what a rush what a swoop what a fright what a mad hushed skirl what a smash mush mash-up broke and gashed what a heart in my mouth what an end.

So begins Hotel World, shortlisted for the Booker prize. It is a ghost speaking, the ghost of a hotel chambermaid killed in a freak accident, when she was fool enough to curl up inside a dumb-waiter and heavy enough to cause a snapping of the ropes.

After months of taunting haunting, scattering the mantra remember you must live, the ghost is at the end of her fastly fading tether. She is 'hanging falling breaking between this world and the next' and the first few pages of Hotel World are littered with the gaps left by the forgotten names of things. But still the ghost succeeds in asking the question which haunts her haunting before handing on the narrative baton.

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