I have a guilty secret. A dirty secret.

It is a serious and irreparable character flaw, and while I have resigned myself to the nature of this defect, I am very careful about when, and with whom, I reveal this particular shortcoming.

This is because I have learned over time that this "weakness" of mine reduces me, in the eyes of most people, to an intellectual pygmy. A philistine.

I have weathered no small amount of contempt and disdain over the years thanks to this...appetite.

The dreadful truth laid bare? Here it is:

I like fantasy novels.

Yes, I know: the shame. The guilt. But I can't help myself. It's like kleptomania: compulsive and unstoppable.

The fact that 95 percent of novels penned under the banner of 'fantasy' are utter - utter ­- drivel does not deter me.

The fact that I have only managed to read the first book in the most famous fantasy trilogy ever published (its demon spawn line the bookshelves of airports and cheap bookstores everywhere), does not faze me. I continue, much to my own amazement and chagrin - and against my better judgement - to be seduced by the genre.

I think Ursula Le Guin's A Wizard of Earthsea was my downfall. I was 12 years old when I first read this novel, and was absolutely enthralled by it. I was spellbound by its dark atmospherics and enchanted with the tale of a world permeated with dangerous and unpredictable magic.

I have been searching for that thrill ever since.

With varying degrees of success, it has to be said. When it comes to fantasy, 'disappointment' is the word that most often springs to mind.

It was with some interest, then, that I came across a review on Salon about a newish fantasy writer named Steven Erikson, who, the reviewer alleged, was single-handedly re-energizing the genre.

Books are so cheap here in Canada that I thought nothing of whipping out and buying the first book in Erikson's epic series The Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen.

If the title seems somewhat prolix and baleful, it is befitting of a series that is intended to run up to ten books, with each book containing around 1000 pages.

I didn't let this put me off, however. I'm always one for giving fantasy books a chance, although - sadly - they rarely deserve it.

So, it was with equal amounts of trepidation and determination that I delved into Gardens of the Moon.

My initial hesitation soon morphed into a growing sense of excitement. A few chapters into Gardens I began to realize I had stumbled across the real thing: a real honest-to-goodness rip-roaring, page-turning, intelligent, complex, intricate, involving fantasy novel. The kind of novel that fantasy junkies can only wish for, prey for, hope against hope for.

In Steven Erikson I had discovered something wondrous: Fantasy had grown up. Finally.

In the Malazan Book of the Fallen, Erikson weaves a world both miraculous and tragic. He creates, in fact, worlds within worlds - and each is complete in its own breathtaking detail, in its language, symbolism and religiosity.

Magic is a natural and inextricable element in the fabric of the world Erikson creates. It has a physical, almost organic quality - it has a distinct feel and smell, and when it is employed it displaces the physical world, causing a pressure in the air, a headache in those who are near.

Erikson's imagination is vast, while his control of language, form and content is astonishing. The tension in his narrative is taut as a bow-string. His pacing is perfect.

This is no mean feat when you consider that Erikson is up to his fifth book in the series.

And they just keep getting better.

But don't expect an easy read.

The Book of the Fallen is a hermetically sealed, exceedingly elaborate and complex world. (So much so that fans have created their own websites specifically to chronicle and follow the myriad threads of the series). While this creates the illusion that we are stepping into a fully realized world with its own heterogeneous history, it requires some patience from the reader, until the disparate strands start to come together and make sense.