It took me almost 10 minutes to even get that much of an evaluation worked out. None of my standard adjectives even come close. It wasn't freaky. It wasn't funky. It wasn't even a little bit wacky.

It was called On the Beach by Neville Shute. The whole northern hemisphere has nuclear blasted itself out of existence. All that's really left is Australia, and they all know they've only got maybe six months before the radiation reaches them and they'll be dead too.

It was hardcore in so many different ways at once. There was the boozy old uncle, determined to finish off his club's wine cellar. There was the young wife, planting her garden. It's going to be so nice, next spring. There was the American naval officer, buying presents for his wife and kids. He's going to see them real soon.

Some people responded by living their dreams. The nerdy scientist bought a Ferrari and raced the hell out of it. Some people responded by living their own lives. You have to do something with the time, so you might as well do what you know, and do it well. It would have been inspiring, except that they all ended up dead.

I kept hoping that maybe there was a mistake. Wouldn't it be great if the world didn't end, now that everyone has finally figured out what's important and who they need to be? I knew it wasn't going to happen. You just can't write an apocalyptic novel with a shiny happy ending. But it would have been nice.

I read a book. I don't think I liked it. I'm probably not going to read it again. But I think I'm going to have to give On the Beach mad props anyway. It's a damn powerful little book. I may not sleep tonight. There aren't a lot of books that have that much of an effect on me.

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