A jaded journalist heads to Venice to attend Belini-fueled parties, snort cocaine, fall in love and write about the Biennale. The whole scene is something out of a dream; a wild, hedonistic celebration of the body. Then the scene changes to Varanasi, that holiest of holy places where people go to die. Here comes the search for something deeper, more transcendental and also more insane. Look out for the knee-slapping gripes about the peculiar behaviour of locals.
For the record, Geoff Dyer knows how to write a sentence.