9/11 has been responsible for more rubbish, at both ends of the political spectrum, than anything since [you fill in the gap] but this one is just impenetrable. 'An egg is its own enclosure.. it cannot be accused of anything.. The opening pages of [Malraux's novel] Man's Estate, however, are a vibrant antidote to eggness.' The reviewers were remarkably kind - though I suppose they have their deadlines - but a Stephen Poole non-fiction pick of the year? Of the many 9/11-infused tracts I have dipped into in hopes of a way forward, this self-indulgent olla podrida is by some way the worst. The author's hubris irresistably brings to mind America's own, while his magpie free association is the contestataire cousin to right-wing rabble-rousing. Philosophy (with anecdotes and divagations) by a Professor of International Relations, on his day off presumably - who's the target audience here, Zed? I really can't convey the sheer horror, the unjoined-upness of this work, but Foucault on page 44 will give you the flavour. [This review is of the hardback, lacking the afterword]