LIGHTHOUSEKEEPING IS AN intensely Wintersonian artefact. It has the usual had physical dimensions, being, in fact, not much more than a 40,000-word novella bulked out to routine length by judicious use of blank pages and double-spaced type. It contains the customary and, to this reviewer at least, somewhat obvious reflections on the nature of ‘stories’ (sample: ‘The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative. There are lit-up bits and the rest is dark.’ Well, yes indeed). And above all it has the usual moist-eyed exhalations about ‘love’, how love wins the day, walks in the straightest line, gets right to the front of the queue and so on.