At an annoyingly young age (compared to me, anyway) Gavin Extence has written a nearly perfect book. What is it about British writers, anyway? Is there some kind of gene that makes them wise and talented beyond their years? A gene that for me--even though I'm twice his age and have that one-fourth Irish thing going--still hasn't quite kicked in?

But enough about me. Enough whining. Let's talk about THE UNIVERSE VERSUS ALEX WOODS, which is, I guess, if it has to be genre-ized, a coming of age story that's about a kid who gets hit in the head with a chunk of meteorite, his mom, astrology, tarot cards, his friend (a girl), an American curmudgeon who befriends him, epilepsy, the nervous system, the universe, Kurt Vonnegut, his books, a book club, disease, death, dignity, religion, bullying, libraries and librarians, overcoming adversity, persistence, adults who are jerks, adults who are gems, revelation, good laws, bad laws, progress, regress, learning to drive, loyalty, heartbreaking sadness, unbridled joy, single-mindedness, empathy, cleverness, courage, being true to yourself, and doing the right thing, no matter what the consequences.

I don't think the story would have had an easy time finding a home here in the good old US of A if it hadn't already had a lot of success across the pond. The main character's a guy. There's no romance to speak of, thus no beautiful couple (mysterious, sensuous beauty; muscled, dangerous dude) on the cover. No fantasy. No "chosen one" theme (unless you count being conked on the head by a meteorite). And there's no editing (self or institutional) to "cleanse" the story from its viewpoints on various sacred cows that could have publishers and some members of the book-reading (or book-burning) public flogging themselves in dismay.

Mr. Extence and his characters aren't afraid to discuss the futility rather than the glory of war, the hypocrisy of religion or at least those who practice it, the shortcomings of not only George W Bush, who was (and is) a favorite whipping boy, but also Ronald Reagan, a minor saint in the eyes of some Americans who went through much of his presidency in a fog. Also mentioned, and not in unfavorable terms: single parenthood, homosexuality, agnosticism, atheism, suicide, assisted suicide. Did I mention generalized swearing and the use of the word fuck and its variations and a one-time appearance of "the worst word in the world?" But American publishers and audiences seem to be okay with swearing (and violence, and war, and infantile, starry-eyed romance, and mediocre writing, even. It's those other things, sacred or in their eyes the opposite--profane--that give them the chilly-willies.

My overwhelming feeling is that in the end, the author was true to his story. He included what he felt had to be included to tell the tale well and completely, and his editors not only let him keep it in, but embraced it. Over there, that was simply being, like Alex himself, true to your beliefs. Here it would be brave, and unlikely.

You should get to know Alex. You won't forget him.