The narrator of Thomas Keneally's Passenger hasn't been born yet and at certain points in the course of the story it begins to look doubtful whether he ever will be….

The tone, suitable to an unborn narrator, is one of innocent cynicism. The foetus, absorbing human knowledge with one pulsation of the umbilicus, finds it all acceptable but for the squalid fact of birth and views the antics of those unlucky enough to have left the womb with a high-flown pity tempered by the horrid knowledge that he must soon join them. There is a taste of syrup in the prose, as in the premise, which might deter some readers and the plot meanders with no apparent purpose other than that of giving the foetus lots to talk about. But Keneally carries it off beautifully. Archaic words and elaborately convoluted clauses abound but they don't snag up the sentences, only twist them in smoothly attractive eddies. His writing has a lovely lilt to it that carried me through his disjointed story as unprotesting as the narrator placidly swimming in the amniotic fluid.