What do you think?
Rate this book


It’s okay if you don’t believe in the afterlife. The people who live there don’t believe in you, either.
What if you went to heaven and no one there believed in Earth? This is the question at the heart of Beforelife, a satirical novel that follows the post-mortem adventures of widower Ian Brown, a man who dies on the book’s first page and finds himself in an afterlife where no one else believes in “pre-incarnation.” The other residents of the afterlife have mysteriously forgotten their pre-mortem lives and think that anyone who remembers a mortal life is suffering from a mental disorder called the “Beforelife Delusion.”
None of that really matters to Ian. All he wants to do is reunite with Penelope, his wife. Scouring the afterlife for any sign of her, Ian accidentally winds up on a quest to prove that the beforelife is real. This puts him squarely into the crosshairs of some of history’s greatest heroes and villains, all of whom seem unhealthily obsessed with erasing Ian’s memories and preventing him from reminding anyone of their pre-mortem lives. Only by staying a step ahead of his enemies can Ian hope to keep his much-needed marbles, find Penelope, and restore the public’s memories of the beforelife.
538 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 5, 2017
Up-to-the-minute polling reveals that 86 per cent of readers who've reached this point in the narrative happily accept that Ian died when struck by a train, that he awoke in an afterlife that failed to correspond to popular expectations, and that he spent an unspecified period of time in a netherworldly mental institution. They also accept that he was accompanied by an Indian guide named Tonto while occasionally pursued by an undead philospher-assassin armed with an impressive array of lethal, high-tech gadgets. In short, these readers believe what they've been told. These readers are straight-shooting, early-rising, salt-of-the-earth types who like to take things at face value, trust their neighbours, pay their taxes, go to bed early, and never, ever, skip to the last page of the book.
They were agog. Or rather, Tonto was agog. Ian was merely puzzled, which I found shabby. I mean to say, I hadn't expected the man to clap his hands and leap about, as these excesses are beyond him, and I'll admit the chap had suffered a bit of a blow: he'd heard it suggested, moments earlier, that his wires had been crossed and marbles scrambled by malefactors unknown, and that his much-loved better half – one Penelope-Something-or-Other – might be somewhere in Detroit, still imperilled by the very parties who'd meddled with Ian's mind. A nasty jar, I'd imagine, and one that smote this Ian Brown like a tee-shot to the navel. It was for this reason, I perceived, that the above-named Brown, rather than receiving my revelations with excited yips and other demonstrations of the enthusiastic spirit, just sat quietly and goggled in that baffled way of his.
Their trip down the spiralling ledge didn't technically count as spelunking, but it was close enough cousins to spelunking that any marriage between the two would have violated consanguinity laws in any state whose anthem wasn't scored for banjo and jug.