Iain Sinclair is not a writer to be taken lightly. So, brace yourself before taking a crack at Ghost Milk, which in random turns reveals smatterings of a memoir, travelogue, historical account and psychogeographical study. Perhaps a healthy amount of appreciation for architectural legacies in the west would come in handy, too.
Sinclair's enthusiasm for expressing his disdain for the rampant commercialisation seeping into modern-day construction is plain to see. Quite literally, in fact, given the great chunks of elegiac prose elaborating on his surroundings, from the docks of Hull to the crumbling monuments in Greece. Moreover, his literary eye always ensures there are layer upon layer of buried intimations between men and their creations, waiting to be discovered, then examined closely from a poet's vantage.
Sinclair's central views on present times can be summed up in the following extract: "The long march towards a theme park without a theme."
Throughout his documentation of the rise and decay of architectural marvels, it is the spectre of desolate money-milking that casts a shadow over the cool gleam of progression.