I read Cat Valente’s books slowly, in large part because they often seem like they demand to be read out loud. Valente’s prose is sumptuous and sensual, and in Palimpsest she tosses in some surreal visions that might come out of a Bosch painting or the back street surgeries of New Crobuzon. Probably, however, you won’t read it out loud, because Palimpsest is steeped in sex, and people might stare.

Imagine a city that you can reach only in your dreams. Imagine a city where life is vivid and wonderful. Imagine a city that seems more real than the world you wake up to. But there’s just one snag – the only way you can get there is by having sex with other people who have part of the map of the city tattooed on their body. It is a drug; you are addicted; you’ll do anything, with anyone, of any gender to find your way back.

Valente’s characters, however, don’t have that much more to lose. Each one is scarred in some way. Each one is sufficiently unhappy with their lives to want to spend all of their time in Palimpsest, despite everything they have to go through to get there. Unfortunately for them, even in Palimpsest there are people who don’t like immigrants.

There are times when you will wonder whether Palimpsest has a plot, but it does. Most of the time, however, you’ll simply sit back and enjoy Valente’s exquisite prose and fevered imagination. Give yourself up to it.