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It has been said--possibly by the sort of homily-peddling guru that Ferguson attacks so masterfully in his debut novel--that there are many routes to happiness. The general effect of reading this razor-sharp satire on the self-help industry is to understand that these routes lead us nowhere, except perhaps to a cul-de-sac called Hell. This would be depressing to realize, except that Happiness clubs its readers into submission with the sort of zany, almost otherworldly wit that makes us profoundly glad to be alive. --Matthew Baylis, Amazon.co.uk
339 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published April 17, 2001

He suddenly felt weary, weary beyond words. This morning he had been happy. Cranky, bitter and weighed down with life, but otherwise generally happy. He had been in a groove, or at least a very comfortable rut. His life, such as it was, fit together. But ever since this morning, ever since that manuscript landed on his desk, it was as though everything had begun to unravel. The end of the wharf and the deep waters beckoned…
We need our vices. We need our cotton-candy fluff, because life is sad and short and over far too soon. Why do we spend so much time tinkering with our identities? Why are we so captivated with trivialities? Because these small, petty things are so important.
Human nature, at its best, had always been based on a deep heroic restlessness, on wanting something - something else, something more, whether it be true love or a glimpse just beyond the horizon. It was the promise of happiness, not the attainment of it, that had driven the entire engine, the folly and the glory of who we are. The folly and the glory: the two were not mutually exclusive. Far from it.
Hellraisers don't meddle. They rage and roar, and they celebrate life and they mourn its shortness. Hellraisers destroy only themselves, and they do it because they love life too much to fall asleep.