The Crow Road by Iain Banks. I was somewhat surprised to realize that this will be the sixteenth Iain Banks book put on the shelves of books that have been read (as opposed to the unread/ to-be-read/ bought-it-years-ago-and-am-never-likely-to-read-it-but-can't-bear-to-get-rid-of-any-books-ever shelf). That's not a record or anything-- we've got way more Rex Stout than that, more Pratchett than that (though those are scattered around a bit), and Brust is in the same neighborhood. It's just that Banks is a somewhat weightier read than the other authors in the mid-teens.

I bought this one a couple of years ago, in Bordeaux, France, of all places, but somehow never got around to reading it. Of course, the opening paragraph is the stuff of legend:

It was the day my grandmother exploded. I sat in the crematorium listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snoring in harmony to Bach's Mass in B Minor, and I reflected that it always seemed to be death that drew me back to Gallanach.

How I managed not to continue with this, I'm not sure.

Surprisingly, this is one of the rare examples of the Nice Iain Banks. Death figures prominently in the story-- I seem to recall it being described as "four funerals and a wedding"-- but none of the deaths are gratuitously nasty. It's hard to believe this is the work of the same twisted individual who wrote The Wasp Factory and Complicity, to say nothing of the deeply unpleasant A Song of Stone.

And yet, there's a wit to it, and a dark humor that is unmistakably Banks. Most of the books is told from the point of view of Prentice McHoan, the aimless middle son of an affluent Scottish family, and his cynical take on the world generates one good quip after another. Other bits focus on other members of Prentice's family; these don't have the same kind of biting wit, but instead have a sort of clever warmth that's really quite charming.