The Married Man: A Life of D.H. Lawrence

Brenda Maddox
The Married Man: A Life of D.H. Lawrence (1994)
This was a library book I read twice and enjoyed so much that I ended up buying it when they had a clear out of old stock. More recently I've also read Jeffrey Meyers' biography of D.H. Lawrence - to which I felt well-disposed with all the critics having claimed this one to be the superior account, and having noticed that Brenda Maddox had also written biographies of Elizabeth Taylor and Margaret Thatcher - suggesting a bit of a production line. Having now read this one a third time, I conclude the comparison to Meyers' version isn't fair on either author; and The Married Man remains a nevertheless tremendous piece of work. It differs from Jeffrey Meyers' book in slightly shifting the focus from Lawrence's semi-autobiographical writings to his problematic marriage to Frieda Weekley, which Maddox views as essential to understanding his body of work. However, rather than being some cliched brilliant woman behind the mediocre but more successful man job, Maddox examines Lawrence through his relationships, which makes a lot of sense given their constituting the principal influence on what he wrote.

As a significant part of the equation, Frieda gets at least equal billing here, and thankfully with unflinching honesty. Whilst she was doubtless a force of nature, an inspiration, and ultimately essential to Lawrence's creative process, she was often extremely difficult to live with and, by her own admission, a general pain in the arse - not least in her refusal to be shackled by the convention of not shagging strangers whenever the opportunity arose, much to her husband's annoyance. Of course, he was himself an awkward, argumentative man who routinely alienated friends and acquaintances with bluntly unflattering portraits in his novels. Together, they seemed like a terrible combination, but at the same time it's difficult to imagine a couple better suited to one another, even with all the ranting, raving and dinner plates flying back and forth.

Of the two biographies, Jeffrey Meyers does a better job of communicating that there was more to both Dave and Frieda than just mayhem, and that there were often good reasons why they inspired such loyalty and such warm feelings among their friends - or at least among those they hadn't terminally pissed off. This one is probably marginally more thorough, and hence more depressing.

 

The Dr. Who Annual 1974

Edgar Hodges, Steve Livesey, Paul Crompton & others
The Dr. Who Annual 1974 (1973)
I am aware that nostalgia has informed a fair few of my recent reading choices, and here we are again. I was eight and I can still vividly remember tearing the wrapping from this one that Christmas morning; and of course I thought it was amazing, because television crossing over into the real world, or at least print, didn't seem that common at the time; and if you were obsessed with Who, as I was, there wasn't really much you could do about it when it wasn't actually on the box, aside from eating the choccy bars and impersonating various monsters in the playground. Inevitably my annuals went the way of all childish things, or at least some childish things, leaving me with just memories, and memories which have given me cause to wonder.

Had Listen - the Stars! been anything to do with John Brunner's novella of the same name, and was Menace of the Molags really just Childhood's End with the judicious insertion of Jon Pertwee?

Not quite, is probably the answer to both of those - not that it honestly matters either way - but I've very much enjoyed revisiting this thing, having nabbed a relatively cheap copy from eBay. That said, I'm not even sure I read any of the six text stories back when I was eight, although I definitely enjoyed looking at the pictures, and I read the comic strips over and over. That whole thing about how comic books get kids reading has often struck me as something of an overstatement, although it's doubtless true that it gets them to read more comic strips.

Naturally I found an online review of this annual wherein a man who has probably never had sexual intercourse sneers at stories lacking originality and our cover star repeatedly referred to as Doctor Who, concluding that the 1974 annual seems an unusually childish collection which is unlikely to appeal to mature older readers. Nevertheless, it worked for me when I was eight.

Now that I'm older and wiser, while I concede that it's a bit basic in places, its charm remains undiminished. I've no idea who wrote the stories beyond that it probably wasn't Arthur C. Clarke, but the art of Edgar Hodges and Steve Livesey is gorgeous - vivid and dynamic with just enough of an unsettling tone to match the telly version as it was at the time without giving anyone nightmares. The stories to which this wonderful art is pinned are, as I say, a little basic, mostly setting up weird encounters without quite knowing what to do with them. Old Father Saturn, for one example, introduces us to astronauts from one of the ringed planet's moons, newly revived from many millennia spent trapped in suspended animation at the bottom of our ocean. Unfortunately it turns out that they can't breath Earth's atmosphere, so they turn green and die, and that's the story; but as with most of what we have here, it pushes so many familiar Who buttons and pushes them so well that you don't really care about what shortcomings there may be. At least I didn't.

As with most annuals of the time, this one is padded with factual pieces, brain teasers, puzzles and the like, which is interesting because the spacey stuff and rocketry was offered with the then recent moon landing still very much lodged in the public imagination, and it's clear that readers of 1974 were committed to the idea of the future improving on the present, and that many of them would be living on Mars by the year 2000; and this breezy futurist optimism informs most of the stories too. The Dr. Who Annual was a product, a corporate tie-in, and a means of getting parents to cough up, but the 1974 edition nevertheless seems to have been a labour of some love and as such has more character than can be written off as only the glow of nostalgia.

Mornings in Mexico

D.H. Lawrence Mornings in Mexico (1927)
In which D.H. Loz indulges his penchant for observation, here in the form of travel writing, specifically a series of autobiographical pieces written presumably contemporaneous to The Plumed Serpent. Unfortunately, as with the novel, he demonstrates an infuriatingly perceptive understanding of how indigenous Mexican religion differs from Christianity whilst somehow simultaneously getting it completely fucking wrong, and getting it so wrong that you have to wonder if he actually had a conversation with anybody who wasn't serving him food or carrying his suitcase. Predictably enough, some Goodreads plum describes this garbage as a lovely little gem of a book meant to be read early on a summer morning on the porch with a cup of coffee at hand, having already opined that Lawrence describes the real Mexico - you know, the Mexico us chavs wouldn't understand. Poetic turns of phrase aside, I find this particular summary weird given that our man spends the first sixty pages metaphorically screaming egg and chips at bewildered Mexican waiters, then screaming it again, louder and slower until the dopey fuckers understand. Of course, they won't understand because they're too stupid, shiftless and uncivilised; apart from the few who get to be noble savages near the end of the book once we're back in New Mexico and among white people with the oogah-boogah dancing provided as entertainment rather than just as part of the daily routine.

I know the man suffered what with his lungs and his marriage to a committed monogamyphobe, but this one is miserable beyond description, and does Lawrence no favours given that the real Mexico isn't actually difficult to find.

Asimov's Science Fiction 429/430

Sheila Williams (editor) Asimov's Science Fiction 429/430 (2011)
Finding myself merely whelmed by the previous issue I tackled, this one has come as a very pleasant surprise. It's another double issue so there was a lot to get through here - two novellas, a couple of novelettes, and six short stories - and although not everything pushed the right buttons for me, there was nothing annoying, or that I failed to enjoy on some level. Kit Reed's The Outside Event skates close to being a bit too self-conscious for its own good in occurring at a writers' retreat, but nevertheless gets away with it. I'm not sure if this is a first for me and the digests, but it might be.

Taking a more positive view than competent and not actually annoying, the two novellas are, in particular, exceptional. Kristine Kathryn Rusch's Stealth is space opera which actually bothers to tell a story rather than fixating on either technology or weird physics, and succeeds possibly by virtue of an atmosphere created through posing more questions than it answers. I still didn't really understand what the stealth was supposed to be by the time I finished, but it didn't seem to matter. Even more impressive, and possibly ranking as the best thing I've read in a digest, is Kij Johnson's The Man Who Bridged the Mist. As with Stealth, we're left to fill in a few unexplained gaps without any harm to the integrity of the story, and it may even be this wiggle room which leaves us with such a plausible sense of scale, and by extension reality. The story inhabits a society at late seventeenth century levels of technology, but the mist across which our man must create a suspension bridge suggests a world other than Earth without anything being clearly stated, and we should also take into account that this mostly agrarian society additionally treats the sexes as equal - so at least we know it's not fucking steampunk, and nor does it read like the work of someone in love with flywheels and top hats. As with Ursula LeGuin's writing - of which I am favourably reminded - a lot is said without very much seeming to happen; and so The Man Who Bridged the Mist is about progress, psychological as well as technological, its cost and how it leaves us changed.

 

'We are not meant to cross this without passing through it. Kit—' Rasali said, as if starting a sentence, and then fell silent. After a moment she began to speak again, her voice low, as if she were speaking to herself. 'The soul often hangs in a balance of some sort: tonight, do I lie down in the high fields with Dirk Tanner or not? At the fair, do I buy ribbons or wine? For the new ferry's headboard, do I use camphor or pearwood? Small things, right? A kiss, a ribbon, a grain that coaxes the knife this way or that. They are not, Kit Meinem of Atyar. Our souls wait for our answer, because any answer changes us. This is why I wait to decide what I feel about your bridge. I'm waiting until I know how I will be changed.'

It's not often a digest features a story of such depth that I'm moved to pick quotes in illustration of its theme, but there were a few which could have served just as well as the above. I'm sure there was a time when a contribution to Asimov's failing to include either robots or spacecraft would have brought in a tidal wave of grumbling, but as a discussion of the consequences of progress The Man Who Bridged the Mist is exactly the sort of thing they should be publishing.

...and while we're here both Eleanor Arnason's My Husband Steinn and A Hundred Hundred Daisies by Nancy Kress are of equivalent excellence, so that's three new names on the list from just one issue.

The Star Beast

Robert Heinlein The Star Beast (1954)
Having got back into the habit of picking up second hand Heinlein if there's something interestingly weird on the cover, I continue to be surprised at how many of them turn out to be juvies. I suppose there might be an argument that most science-fiction is for kids, but it's not an argument I'm interested in having, and at least when Heinlein was writing for the kiddies, he mostly managed to keep the stories free of wife-swapping and the like.

Anyway, I've generally enjoyed his children's books - the only major variance from his regular work usually being the presence of at least one plucky yet studious schoolboy busily having an adventure. This is an odd one in that it's thicker than usual - about one-hundred and twenty pages worth of story expanded to more than twice that length. The Star Beast is a family pet, a sort of eight-legged dinosaur which talks in a voice resembling that of a little girl. His name is Lummox - although he later turns out to be approximately female - seems about as intelligent as a talking canine sidekick in a cartoon, but then turns out to be a stranded representative of an extremely alien and advanced race whose intelligence is of such development that we don't even recognise it. Lummox also eats metal, and gets into trouble as quirky pets tend to do in this sort of story, and all of those pages which we probably didn't need are thus occupied with droning legal conversations about who owns Lummox, how we negotiate with his race, and so on and so forth. Thus something which might have translated fairly well into animated Disney - at least back in the day when Disney had some charm - becomes something of a route march through page after page of barely consequential yacking with so little descriptive seasoning that much of it may as well have been written as a movie script.

Well, whatever you may say about Heinlein, he writes well in lively sentences and is conspicuously capable of spinning a yarn; so it's easier to appreciate what The Star Beast does well than it is to dwell on a few incidences of droning.

The Plumed Serpent

D.H. Lawrence The Plumed Serpent (1926)
In January 1925, responding to an article about him which had appeared in the Milanese Corriere della Sera written by Carlo Linati, Lawrence wrote:

Do you think that books should be sort of toys, nicely built up of observations and sensations, all finished and complete? - I don't. To me, even Synge, whom I admire very much indeed, is a bit too rounded off and, as it were, put on the shelf to be looked at. I can't bear art that you can walk around and admire. A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in a crowd. People should either run for their lives, or come under the colours, or say how do you do? I hate the actor-and-the-audience business. An author should be in among the crowd, kicking their shins or cheering on to some mischief or merriment. That rather cheap seat in the gods where one sits with fellows like Anatole France and benignly looks down on the foibles, follies, and frenzies of so-called fellow-men, just annoys me. After all the world is not a stage - not to me; nor a theatre: nor a show-house of any sort. And art, especially novels, are not little theatres where the reader sits aloft and watches - like a god with a twenty-lira ticket - and sighs, commiserates, condones and smiles. - That's what you want a book to be: because it leaves you so safe and so superior, with your two-dollar ticket to the show. And that's what my books are not and never will be. You need not complain that I don't subject the intensity of my vision - or whatever it is - to some vast and imposing rhythm - by which you mean, isolate it on a stage, so that you can look down on it like a god who has got a ticket to the show. I never will: and you will never have that satisfaction from me. Stick to Synge, Anatole France, Sophocles: they will never kick the footlights even. But whoever reads me will be in the thick of the scrimmage, and if he doesn't like it - if he wants a safe seat in the audience - let him read somebody else.

Dave was in Oaxaca, Mexico, writing The Plumed Serpent, a novel which resolutely refuses to deliver foibles, follies, or frenzies. It was the first Lawrence I read and I thought it was great, but then I was listening to quite a lot of Death In June at the time. I recalled it as being Lawrence's greatest, which was also claimed by its author; but we'll come back to that in a moment.

The Plumed Serpent is set in Mexico, in and around Mexico City in the twenties, with much of the detail drawn from Lawrence having stayed there and not really enjoyed it very much. It describes an uprising of the common man, a popular movement with martial overtones aiming to replace both church and state with the pre-Hispanic faith of Quetzalcoatl, Huitzilopochtli and all of those guys; and because the aims of this movement come to full fruition near the end of the book - although blink and you'll miss it - it could probably be argued that The Plumed Serpent counts as alternate history if not actually science-fiction.

The first fifty or so pages are, I would argue, among Lawrence's greatest - and possibly also his most unpleasant - after which, we settle into three hundred or so pages of Kate Leslie having conversations about blood in a variety of different settings which may as well be the same place. Lawrence had developed a fairly complex philosophy utilising blood as a metaphor for either the human will or possibly a sort of Platonic ideal humanity from which we seem to have strayed - which is why the world is knackered - and The Plumed Serpent was his most intensely rendered expression of this philosophy to date, which I suspect may be why he regarded it as his greatest, being so close to the enterprise as to be unable to tell the difference between what he wanted it to do and what it actually did. In April, 1925 he wrote to Mollie Skinner:

I got my Quetzalcoatl novel done in Mexico: at a tremendous cost to myself. Feel I don't want ever to see it again. Loathe the thought of having to go over it and prune and correct, in typescript.

See! Even without raging malaria having struck him down as he finished the thing, I suspect he knew but had worked so hard on the fucking thing that he was never going to admit the existence of a gap between what he'd tried to write and what he'd actually written. What he'd actually written was, in part, a sort of plea for spiritual honesty, a suggestion that modern man might perhaps shut the fuck up and listen to the eternal truths of his blood; or as Cipriano puts it:

'Man is a column of blood, with a voice in it... And when the voice is still, and he is only a column of blood, he is better.'

So here we have one-hundred-and seventy thousand words on the subject of trusting some instinct more primal than a bunch of men yapping on about nothing. I can forgive the endless frowning and the complete absence of humour, but the lack of self-awareness becomes overpowering.

That said, once we're past the astonishing opening chapters and have accustomed ourselves to the drone, flashes of observational brilliance occur with reasonable frequency - enough so to have kept me reading back in 1997; but very little of the vague philosophical model to which these observations refer connects with what happens in The Plumed Serpent in any meaningful way. Lawrence has essentially decorated his own philosophical aspirations with a few names and places for the sake of local colour, and without any reference to the composition or tradition of that local colour. His desire to hurl the Catholic establishment down the cathedral steps and bring in the lads with the feather headresses is more than a little ridiculous, being based on an assumption of Catholicism and indigenous Mexican belief being at odds with one another. The inconvenient reality which Lawrence either missed or chose to ignore is that, for the most part, Mexico accepted Catholicism on its own terms, and the further you venture from the city, the more difficult it is to identify where one ends and the other begins; so borrowing Mexico for the sake of revising the rise of the mystically inclined far right across Europe as a variation on his own ideas about our relation to the land and its people was always going to be a bit of a non-starter.

The Plumed Serpent has been accused of racism, which seems a little strong, but then it is condescending, and you should maybe ask Mexicans what they think rather than me. Lawrence certainly captures the raging distrust of anything different which white people sometimes experience when surrounded entirely by brown people, and sure - maybe this is the character of Kate Leslie rather than Lawrence himself, but I'm not convinced. The Plumed Serpent aims high, if nothing else, and aims high with approximately noble intentions, but what little it gets right is too easily eclipsed by one own goal after another whilst the manager jumps up and down on the sideline screaming about how this is actually his strategy, and it's working, and if you don't see that then you're an idiot.

Brave New World Revisited

Aldous Huxley Brave New World Revisited (1958)
Orwell's 1984 has frequently been cited as an instruction manual for the present with alarming frequency in recent times, but Huxley's Brave New World seems much closer to the mark with its totalitarian state reinforced by distraction and bullshit rather than brute force. We're living in a world where people have ceased caring about books rather than one in which they're banned, generally speaking.

Here Huxley revisits his Brave New World nearly three decades later to explain his way of thinking and take stock of whether or not he actually predicted anything, at least as of the late fifties, which he did; and were he around today I'd say he'd be ticking off even more boxes. By coincidence, I watched Jen Senko's The Brainwashing of My Dad a few nights ago, a 2015 documentary on the influence of Fox News and other right-wing media outlets which distort the truth or even flat out lie so as to encourage the sort of thinking which translates into money and power for its financial backers; and it was disconcerting to find many of the same arguments made in Brave New World Revisited which, it should be remembered, refers to a world wherein the dissemination of information occurred at a snail's pace compared to today.

Of course, Huxley - by his own admission - didn't manage to predict everything, and before any of the usual suspects feel like chiming in, I don't include his observations on population growth among his oversights. He foresaw it as a major problem, or a major contribution to the problems of life on this planet. Having expressed this view on a previous occasion, I was informed that population growth is not problem, and that the planet has sufficient resources for all of us, so the problem is in the distribution of the same; and in failing to realise this I was exactly like Hitler. I gather this assertion may or may not have derived from something suggested by Karl Marx. I have no strong opinion on Marx, but have grown sceptical of the accusation that to disagree with something he wrote is to agree with everything for which his opponents stand, particularly the ones in the uniforms who have a problem with Judaism. Whilst certain proposals as to what might be done about there being too many humans on our planet may indeed be termed fascist, the same cannot be said of the mere acknowledgement of it being a problem, or even just a potential problem. Diminishing every point with which you disagree as fascist suggests a reactionary devotion to an opposing ideology more than a nuanced understanding of the situation, whatever it may be, just as a pro-choice stance hardly renders one an advocate of eugenics.

So Huxley makes observations which some of us won't want to hear, now that we know fucking everything - not least that unlimited population growth isn't great and that some people, for whatever reason, are a bit thick - but he's essentially a humanist and this is a wonderful and methodically reasoned, if slightly depressing, argument.

The Naked Lunch

 

William S. Burroughs The Naked Lunch (1959)
This was probably the third or fourth Burroughs I read, back in the first flourish of youth when I was reading everything I could find by the man. I therefore suspect I may not have read it since the early eighties, which would at least explain the deficit between what I've read just now and what I vaguely remember.

I'm sure you all know what Naked Lunch does and I don't see much point going over it yet again; but for what it may be worth, it's essentially a written equivalent to one of those Heironymous Bosch paintings commenting on the questionable state of his society by showing a thousand tiny figures with foreign objects projecting painfully from their bumholes. I'd somehow forgotten that it slightly predates Burroughs' use of cut-ups, so although we have random narrative swerves and streams of consciousness implied by Céline's three little dots, it's muted compared to the impersonal onslaught of undifferentiated meaning we find in subsequent books. Mostly we have routines and dialogue, essentially similar to what we read in Junky and Queer but without the linearity.

Much to my surprise, and regardless of whatever I thought first time round, Naked Lunch is a transitional novel wherein the author is still very much finding his feet; and it feels as though those feet were mostly trudging. Of course, it throws up plenty of interesting ideas, but nothing which wasn't better expressed to greater dramatic effect in the novels which followed, most of which additionally benefit from a greater variety of narrative techniques. While Naked Lunch is arguably important, its reputation refers mostly to it having been unlike anything published at the time. This particular edition commemorates this by reproducing three or four months worth of sniffy editorials and related correspondence from the Times Literary Supplement on the subject of how Naked Lunch was either disgraceful or the bestest best thing ever. Both Michael Moorcock and Anthony Burgess chip in for the defense but no conclusion is reached, and the strangest realisation is how closely this lengthy exchange - beginning in November, 1963 - resembles the incoherent slanging matches seen on Twitter whenever someone points out that women don't usually have cocks. The language may be elevated and the sentences constructed as though by Renaissance architects according to the golden section, but the arguments still amount to burrows is shit LOL #cantfuckinwrite followed by a string of those horrible crying with laughter emoticons, which I feel sort of proves Billy's point about one or two things.

Analog September 2008

Stanley Schmidt (editor) Analog September 2008 (2008)
This was the first issue of Analog I ever bought, and it probably wasn't a great place to start. I've long held The Last Temptation of Katerina Savitskaya by Henry G. Stratmann to be the worst short story I've ever read. Coming back to it fifteen years later, I realise it's not quite so painfully didactic as I recall, and online research reveals the author to be an almost certainly above average decent guy whom I find difficult to square with this particular example of his writing. Last Temptation reads like fundamentalist Christian science-fiction written by someone who prefers movies to books and who might be more at home churning out romance novels. The story is that mysterious and powerful aliens have moved Mars into a lower orbit around the sun, somehow rendering it habitable, but only two people are allowed to visit - a man and a woman, and maybe you can see where this is heading. She's deeply religious. He comes from a more scientific background and is portrayed as cynical - although it seems he's simply a realist to me. The two of them discover a giant pyramid within which they are subjected to a number of spiritual and moral trials seemingly to determine whether or not humanity will be allowed to colonise. On this, my second reading, the story isn't quite so simplistic as I've made it sound, but as with much fiction driven by religious ideology, it feels as though we're playing with a stacked deck, are perhaps even subject to a certain level of condescension, and the symbolism seems at least as heavy-handed as painfully allegorical episodes of sixties Star Trek - although I sort of enjoyed Stratmann replacing the apple in the Garden of Eden with a radish, for what it may be worth.

That being said, it's better than I remember and, I would guess, is more likely a philosophical tale which suffers from the necessary fine balance having eluded its author, rather than the Bible-thumping sermon for which I took it in 2008. It doesn't help that a couple of deferential references to romantic fiction do nothing to prevent it reading like the same, or the number of times Stratmann invokes a specific TV show or movie.

He looked up at the towering structure and growled, 'A pyramid on Mars. With our luck, we'll find Sutekh waiting for us inside.'

'Who?'

Martin smiled mischievously. 'That's right.'

I'm sure that works for most of those who would get the reference, and who would then go on to declare the author a genius in the tradition of literary giants such as Terrance Dicks, but it didn't do a lot for me. I still find The Last Temptation of Katerina Savitskaya vaguely annoying, but after this second reading I've warmed to the idea that Stratmann has probably written better.

Elsewhere in the magazine we find an article about nanotechnology which I didn't really understand and three further short stories which, if not terrible, mostly had me hoping the next one would be better, which it wasn't. We close with one of those review columns which simply relates a detailed plot outline of each title under discussion, then part two of the presumably novel length Tracking by David R. Palmer. Tracking is written in an experimental first person narrative shorthand which tends to eschew pronouns and articles so as to presumably mimic the sensation of experience, so it reads like Chris Claremont's thought bubbles from eighties issues of X-Men. It sort of works once you're used to it, but forty pages seems like a lot and I gave up after about twenty.

The best thing about this were Stanley Schmidt's editorial and his memorial to Arthur C. Clarke. In fact, even his response to some letters page dingus accusing him of expressing eugenicist sympathies in a previous issue is more interesting than the rest of it. I guess this explains why I never became a regular reader.

The Cursed Earth

Pat Mills, John Wagner, Mick McMahon etc. The Cursed Earth (1978)
Being twelve or thirteen at the time, it didn't really occur to me that there might be a problem in Judge Dredd waging war on either Ronald McDonald or the Jolly Green Giant. All my progs went to the local comic shop for something pitiful like a tenner back in the early nineties, and by the time I came to consider revisiting Dredd's trip across the Cursed Earth, the thing had been reprinted following the relaxation of some copyright law or other, so here I am. I have good memories of the Cursed Earth, Dredd's first true saga given that the robot revolution can't have been more than ten issues; and happily it still rocks, so this hasn't been anything like revisiting a once beloved Rupert annual, as sometimes turns out to be the case. Being Dredd, and being aimed at young lads of the age at which I found myself in 1978, there's a lot of narrative shorthand, an explosion on nearly every page, and an astonishing degree of violence, but it works and additionally stands the test of time because McMahon's war torn art is gorgeous, and neither Mills nor Wagner assumed their readership to be fucking idiots. There's not much breathing space as Dredd and Spikes rampage across their post-nuclear wasteland, but just enough to allow for a degree of pathos, even in these primary colours, and to the point that I almost couldn't read the fourth page of Tweak's Story.

I never found Dredd that interesting a character, but this was where the strip really took off for me in revealing a little more of the terrible reality he inhabited. This was the golden age, with Joe as more or less an agent of karma in a brutal but realist world rather than the monotone vessel of fascist slapstick he seems to have become. It always struck me as odd that 2000AD, an English weekly, should run a strip set in a future America in keeping with the prevalent obsession with the romance of the formerly wild west; but with hindsight I see that Judge Dredd offered commentary on America and its seeping cultural infection, complete with jokes, and with a wit that would have been mostly beyond mainstream America itself, this being a far more pragmatic take on truth, justice, and the rest than you would have had from Clark or Bruce back in '78; and it beat Michael Crichton to the genetically engineered dinosaur thing, should anyone be interested, and probably did it better. It really is a masterpiece.

Spook Country

William Gibson Spook Country (2007)
I burned out on Gibson a while back when ploughing through all of those cyberpunk novels and noticing how they're all the same book, give or take some small change. This observation isn't intended to be quite so dismissive as it will seem, but for all the man's astonishing prose, he seems to have wrung a lot of mileage out of punky types hunting down some crucial piece of either technology or information in a dystopian setting spattered with brand names. On a bad day, it reads as though he's just getting off on describing designer labels and gadgets, which is a shame because although it could be argued that his narratives tend to be all surface, it isn't like he doesn't have anything to say - and usually something which is best expressed through his seemingly obsessive attention to superficial detail.

Conversely, when he gets the balance right, the books are amazing even with those punky types hunting down some crucial piece of either technology or information in a dystopian setting spattered with brand names. Idoru was pretty great, and Pattern Recognition probably qualifies as a masterpiece. Spook Country has been praised to the hilt. It's not quite Pattern Recognition, from which it follows on in a loose sense, but it gets there in the end.

As usual, the narrative is slightly bewildering, requiring that the reader keep track of a wide range of characters driven by ambiguous motives; but the point emerges like a signal from the proverbial noise, meaning it may not actually have mattered whether you can still remember who was who by the end because the message is fairly clear, despite pertaining to the absence of clarity from the world it describes - which is more or less our world, by the way. Spook Country is about a world which has ceased to make sense in conventional terms, somewhat foreshadowing the rise of the game show host as president and the mess we find ourselves in. It answers the question of how to do satire when that which is satirised is more ridiculous than any fictionalised version could ordinarily manage to be. Spook Country seems to promise the usual narrative of the last minute save as everyone meets up in the town square, the nuclear spectacle averted, the dark forces defeated but - as it is in our world - we don't get that, nor anything which really makes sense.

'I've just seen someone, some people,' she told him, 'tonight, do the single strangest thing I imagine I'll ever see.'

'Really?' He was suddenly grave. 'I envy you.'

'I thought it was going to be terrorism, or crime in some more traditional sense, but it wasn't. I think that it was actually…'

'What?'

'A prank. A prank you'd have to be crazy to be able to afford.'

I have no idea whether Gibson refers to anything which actually happened when referencing funding for the rebuilding of Iraq after the deposition of Saddam Hussein, but given what he describes in this novel, I'm not sure this even counts as fiction.

Mosquito Blood Diaries

I wasnae gunna share this one, but fuck it...

Adam Gill Mosquito Blood Diaries (2011)
Well, it isn't the worst book I've ever read but is probably somewhere in the top two; although to be fair, as with Randy Henderson's Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free, I'm basing this assessment on the first fifty pages. I couldn't manage any more than that.

It was one of those out of the blue things, turning up in the mail without warning or explanation. Then a week later I heard from Peter Jones, with whom I briefly shared a house back in 1985, who said it had been written by his class mate at Dundee - presumably from some video post-production course or something of the kind. It was a nice gesture, possibly undertaken because I'd written a book which was likewise set in Mexico; but I have to say, the thing didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

The back cover promises something about the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan calendar for 2012, which is unfortunate because everything written about the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan calendar for 2012 has been complete bollocks*. Similarly depressing is that I find I have a signed copy, and that it has been embellished thus:

 

Aside from my experiencing a possibly irrational and classist disgust at the thought of anyone being named Jonty, this cheery message somewhat suggests the author would have preferred to have made a movie, and that's coincidentally what the fucker reads like - or at least the first fifty pages do - begging the question, if you didn't want to write a book, why do I have to read it?

Never mind.

Anyway, I tried. It didn't seem too horrible at first, although it felt a little as though boxes were being ticked as part of something learned during a writing class - here's the character, here's what they look like, where they are, followed by some routinely sardonic observation just so we know we're not reading Enid Blyton. After a little while I noticed how each female character is introduced in terms of how cute she is, but she's also fiesty so it's not sexist; and we meet Herbert Tidy, one of the main protagonists.

So, let's see. His Christian name is Herbert and his surname is Tidy, which seems ingeniously Dickensian, wouldn't you say? What sort of person might that be, do you think?

But generally such charitable thoughts occupied only a fraction of his consciousness, the rest of his introspective ponderings were taken up entirely by work and his growing collection of graphic novels, not comics mind you, graphic novels. They were perhaps the only thing that he was passionate about and organising and reorganising them took up most of his spare time.

Nerds! Ha ha!

Later we learn that Herbert has been spending most of his time cataloguing and cross referencing the characters in his graphic novels, which no-one in human history has ever done, no matter how sad, possibly excepting characters from the Big Bang Theory which is - as is hopefully fucking obvious - the sports meathead's idea of what people who read comics are like. Many years ago I tried to read a Ben Elton novel, and this thing reminds me why I failed.

Amazingly, it doesn't get better. I didn't make it so far as the chapters which I presume wheel out various Mayan supernaturals as yet another pantheon of blood hungry monsters jumping up and down whilst chanting oogah-boogah, and this was because the writing began to get in the way. More and more I felt as though I might be watching some wearyingly edgy BBC thriller with a fast car every five minutes and no question denied its due sardonic response, one eyebrow raised so we can see that gosh she really is a fiesty filly!

Naturally Gill succumbs to that thing they all do with the clipped inactive sentences impersonating a brooding voice-over, which people who can't write tend to do in hope of building so powerful a mood as to distract from their being otherwise unable to string a sentence together. Full-stops everywhere. Willy nilly. Like this. You're not. Fooling anybody. Sunshine.

Finally we come to this, whatever the fuck it's supposed to be.

'But that was beyond butchery. That was sacrificial slaughter.' Exclaimed the scientist.

Exclaimed the scientist, doesn't work as a sentence by itself, and yet there it is; and speech is attributed by this same peculiar grammatical tic throughout the book, hence a shitload of sentences beginning with a capitalised Said. Whilst I dispute that there's such a thing as a definitively correct way to write English, it helps to understand at least some of the rules before you start flushing them down the crapper; and persons such as myself who read more than three books a fucking year can nevertheless tell when you don't know what the hell you're doing, no matter. Where you put the fucking. Full-stop.

I looked at the guy's facebook page and felt sorry for him because he's almost certainly a lovely guy. I assume this was his only novel, presumably composed in the belief that writing a novel is simply a matter of method - just like constructing a cabinet - so anyone can do it. It gives me no pleasure to describe Mosquito Blood Diaries as garbage, just as it gave me no pleasure to struggle though the first fifty pages; but garbage is indeed what it would appear to be.

*: Even assuming the Maya indicated the termination of their calendar to be anything apocalyptic - which they didn't so far as I'm aware - the correlation of the big day with the Gregorian 21st of December, 2012 seems to depend upon which elements of the Mayan calendar one takes into account, particularly those details which allowed said calendar to compensate for its falling slightly short of the true solar year. Clearly the Maya employed a system equivalent to that of our own leap year, one which was not formally acknowledged as part of their calendar, yet which must have existed because otherwise their calendar would not have been so accurate as has demonstrably been the case. What this system could have been remains open to debate, and four different Gregorian dates can be seen to correspond with the termination point of the Mayan calendar depending upon what assumptions are made about this mysterious mechanism.

Mussolini: His Part in My Downfall

Spike Milligan Mussolini: His Part in My Downfall (1978)
The fourth of Spike's war journals opens with a slightly testy rebuttal to Clive James having described a previous volume as an unreliable history of the war. Whilst I'm sure it's true that, as Spike claims, he spent a lot of time getting his dates and facts right, Monty was erratic even by Spike's standards with those doubtless correct dates and facts speckled by jokes, comic asides, and absurdist sketches to the point of giving the impression of it having been edited by shoving everything loose into a carrier bag. Mussolini accordingly feels a bit more substantial, striking a fine balance between what happened and how stupid it seemed at the time.

Having read this one before, I recalled it as a harrowing volume concluding with a shell-shocked Spike gibbering away to himself in a secure facility; but my memory is off-kilter here. It's mostly light, or as light as one might reasonably expect under the circumstances, with shell-shock bleaching only the last twenty or so pages of humour.

As is probably obvious from the title, this volume records Spike's posting to Italy in 1943, and the eschewing of comic illustrations in favour of a higher, more thorough word count does well to capture the grinding misery and mundanity of warfare - in this instance, mostly waiting around in the pissing rain, terrible food, not enough sleep, and not much idea what the bigger picture looks like - contrasting wonderfully with the sublime experience of a few days leave in Amalfi, for one example.

Spike gives good account of how it looked from ground level, even expressing genuine sympathy for the occasional deceased German. As with anyone who ever had to get their hands dirty, he doesn't have much time for the bullshit of those higher up; and to hilarious effect when reporting a fire in the officers' mess, with the hated and officious Major Jenkins scrabbling to rescue his possessions from the conflagration, oblivious to a resentful Gunner throwing it all back on again.

There are a few later volumes of these war memoirs that I've never read, but this one seems to have been the best of those published at the time, reading as a proper autobiography beyond it being the work of someone more at home penning radio plays about hurlers of batter pudding. There was always a certain pathos to Spike's humour, even if it wasn't always obvious, and Mussolini is a powerful account in that respect.

The Eyes of the Overworld

Jack Vance The Eyes of the Overworld (1966)
Excepting Moorcock on the grounds of him being pretty much his own genre, Jack Vance is the first author of unambiguous fantasy to whom I've truly warmed, and by unambiguous fantasy I mean sagas of wizards in pointy hats inspiring quests across hill and dale, and so on and so forth. Actually, he's the second come to think of it, the first being Matthew Hughes whose tales of Raffalon are set against the backdrop of Jack Vance's Dying Earth, and this is one of Vance's Dying Earth novels - so I'm sure the sense of whatever I was trying to say can be found somewhere in that lot.

The Dying Earth is host to a post-technological society vaguely resembling our Renaissance but with magic, all occurring in the improbably distant future, at which point the sun routinely blinks out like aging strip lighting, hence the name. It was a significant influence on Moorcock's Dancers at the End of Time. I could probably leave the review there, but I won't.

Cugel the Clever is discovered attempting to steal certain valuable mystic items from Iucounu the Laughing Magician. Iucounu wraps an extraterrestrial squid around the thief's liver and obliges him to travel to the far north to procure the eyes of the overworld. The eyes of the overworld allow one to see the higher reality, transforming conventional perception of our world of rancid paupers screwing and pooing in stinking hovels into a reality of Disney princesses daintily wafting from one sparkling palace to another. The novel is a quest with a spell or enchantment resolving pretty much every scrape and episodic dilemma strung along its familiar path - and with no greater sense of consequence than in any other magically driven narrative - and yet Vance proves that it really is all in the telling. His fiction is heavily stylised, erudite almost to the point of shameless ostentation, and feels fresh and lively - more so than anything involving wizards surely has the right to be. I'd be surprised if he hadn't influenced Pratchett to some extent - although his wit is possibly sharper and less obviously satirical - and he assails the reader with a disorientating barrage of peculiar ideas and images to incredibly surreal effect - somewhat like Cordwainer Smith, but - frankly, better done. I don't know if The Eyes of the Overworld exactly says anything, but then it doesn't have to. Sometimes the mood, spectacle, and delightful confusion can be enough by itself.

Studies in Classic American Literature

D.H. Lawrence Studies in Classic American Literature (1924)
I approached this with some trepidation assuming it would be fairly dry, being Dave's thoughts on a stack of novels I've never read - excepting Moby Dick - and which I can't see me reading at any point in the near future. Happily, at least for me, Studies reads almost like a dry run for Apocalypse, or at least limbering up in preparation for The Plumed Serpent. It was begun in 1917, then revised and completed after the Lawrences moved to the States in 1922, and D.H. naturally had a few things to say on the subject of the country in which he'd made his home.

Studies in Classic American Literature gets the last couple of centuries worth of American society up onto the psychiatrist's couch and pulls them apart to see what's happening under the hood - if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor - an inspection made through the medium of its writing, what the land of the hypothetically free has had to say about itself.

This is something I've pondered myself, having moved here back in 2011 and been struck by the contradictions, and how it really isn't just Europe with different stuff. America makes a big deal out of having thrown off the yoke of hereditary monarchy, and so being a country where no-one is held back through having been born to the wrong parents - which is patently false. It's all about freedom, liberty, and other intangibles; and yet America's dedication to tradition, ceremony, speechifying, awards, more ceremonies, ionic columns, tradition, marble statues, medals for everyone, capes, salutes, honour, proclamations, ceremonies commemorating the previous ceremonies, pomp, circumstance, processions, and so on, is such as to make your average Euro-coronation seem like a fund raising piss-up at an anarchist collective. It's the messy divorce wherein one of those formerly wed spends the rest of his or her life telling you how great it is being divorced.

They came largely to get away - that most simple of motives. To get away. Away from what? In the long run, away from themselves. Away from everything. That's why most people have come to America, and still do come. To get away from everything they are and have been.

'Henceforth be masterless.'

Which is all very well, but it isn't freedom. Rather the reverse. A hopeless sort of constraint. It is never freedom till you find something you really positively want to be. And people in America have always been shouting about the things they are not. Unless of course, they are millionaires, made or in the making.

Lawrence being Lawrence, much of the argument strays into philosophical, even pseudo-mystical territory, although not without  justification so it's never entirely self-indulgent; and pretty much everything he's said remains approximately true today, a full century later.

As discourse, Studies tends to freewheel, to follow a train of thought like a dog sniffing its way around an unfamiliar field; so it's a monologue which makes coherent observations in an order which mostly makes sense, as distinct from a rigorously mathematical  analysis - a form which would, in any case, contradict Lawrence's most fundamental arguments. It hasn't left me with the desire to read Hawthorne, Fenimore Cooper or Poe - whose writing I already know I dislike in the latter case - but then that isn't really the point, and for a title which may look somewhat peripheral next to the others, it's one of the breezier and more clearly expressed introductions to Lawrence's view of the universe and our place therein.

Starshine

Theodore Sturgeon Starshine (1966)
This collection of six short stories is possibly the first Sturgeon I've read since having noticed that Kurt Vonnegut's recurring Kilgore Trout character was based on Sturgeon. Given that Vonnegut tended to write Trout as cranky at best, and otherwise something of a loser, I've found it hard to avoid this notion tainting my impression of Sturgeon's fiction, although in this case, the parallels seem to exist independent of my imagination. However, it should probably be remembered that Vonnegut and Sturgeon were friends, and that the genesis of Trout was as much to do with Kurt being amused by the idea of someone having a fish for a surname. I really don't think Kilgore Trout was intended as a criticism of Sturgeon, even though it's difficult to get away from the possibility.

Kilgore Trout was more or less invented by a friend of mine, Knox Burger, who was my editor in the early days. He did not suggest that I do this, but he said, you know, the problem with science-fiction? It's much more fun to hear someone tell the story of the book than to read the story itself. And it's true: If you paraphrase a science-fiction story, it comes out as a very elegant joke, and it's over in a minute or so. It's a tedious business to read all the surrounding material. So I started summarizing, and I suppose I've now summarized fifty novels I will never have to write, and spared people the reading of them.

While I recall Sturgeon's More Than Human as astonishing, nothing since has done much to sustain that impression. Apparently I thought The Synthetic Man was great too, and yet I don't even remember reading it.

Anyway, the six stories collected as Starshine mostly represent sparky, original ideas, and Sturgeon's prose is jazzy and engaging, or should be engaging, bespeckled as it is with unexpected and often startling images; and yet I kept finding myself thinking that Vonnegut had a point, even though Vonnegut's point was never anything to do with the quality of what his friend wrote. The energetic style isn't really a problem and never quite becomes as irritating or yappy as Kornbluth could occasionally be after a major Sunny D jag, but the ideas at the heart of these tales somehow feel convoluted and unlikely for the sake of convoluted and unlikely, as though Sturgeon wrote to see whether he could pull it off, imposing what might at least seem like internal logic on this stuff; and I found it hard to care. For all that Sturgeon wrote well, I was left without any idea as to why he wrote these.

William and the Space Animal

 

Richmal Crompton William and the Space Animal (1956)
This is yet another book I had as a kid, and I'm pretty sure it had been one of my dad's books from when he was a kid which eventually found its way into my possession along with a stack of Eagle annuals; and yet I never actually read it, the words to illustrations ratio being incompatible with my attention span at the time even though it looked kind of interesting and I remember wondering what happened in the story - or the main story, William and the Space Animal being one of the five assembled herein. Remember kids, next time some shiny-eyed arsehole tells you how such and such a piece of garbage at least gets kids reading, this usually means the kids in question will try to read as much Doctor Who, Harry Potter, or Clifford the Big Red Dog as they can get their hands on. It doesn't inevitably lead to Crime and Punishment.

Anyway, I sought out a new copy because I felt I owed it to my five-year old self, the illiterate little bollix; and because the other William book I read was fucking great.

I don't do spoilers - as the youngsters call them - because if the pleasure you take in reading a book can be diminished by the revelation of its ending, then books probably aren't for you; so I'll reveal that the space animal is nothing of the sort. Nevertheless the narrative path leading to its discovery and ultimate explanation is a thing of ludicrous beauty and masterful wit, as I've come to expect from Crompton. The other stories are of equivalent standard, but the greatest is probably William the Tree-Dweller wherein our man returns to the wild, turning his back on civilisation through it having responded so poorly to his experiments with rocketry. The experiments in question, undertaken in hope of aiding the space program as was, entail lit fireworks launched by means of bow and arrow.

'Well, what I thought was that if we could get a specially strong firework an' fix it to the end of this new arrow of mine an' let it off—the firework, I mean—jus' when I'm shootin' off the arrow, it'd go up jolly high an' then when we'd got into the way of it we'd put another firework on an' then another an' then another an' so on till we'd got it strong enough to get there.'

German fireworks maker Johann Schmidlap invented the two-stage rocket back in 1591, proposing a system wherein a first stage projectile carries a smaller rocket to the heavens, so unfortunately we can't credit Crompton with that one; but as for rocketry in works of fiction, I'm pretty sure everyone else writing in 1956 was still thinking of rockets as boats which land on the moon then fly back, all in one piece - and this is merely the preliminary set-up to William the Tree-Dweller.

William comes fairly close to being a work of genius - improbable and riotously funny stories grounded firmly in a reality I just about recall from my own childhood, no button pushing, no condescension or assuming the reader is an idiot - even though I may well have been - and sharp as a razor blade. Had I managed to read this when I was a kid, I've a feeling my life would have been very different, and certainly not worse.

Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Charles Bukowski Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1969)
This fell into the shopping trolley not through some burning need to read it, but more because I knew I'd eventually wonder why I hadn't picked it up when I had the chance. The posthumous Mathematics of the Breath and the Way from 2018 was likewise an assemblage of odds and ends, newspaper columns and so on, and while there was much to recommend it, as a collection it felt a bit of a slog where a Bukowski usually passes through the reader like curry at the end of a night on the sauce, at least in my experience. Notes, on the other hand, was compiled back when Chuck was still mostly in the land of the living, deriving from weekly columns in Open City, an underground Los Angeles newspaper. I gather Open City were happy with Bukowski submitting whatever the hell he liked in a general spirit of literary freedom; so if there's an occasionally topical observation to remind us this was a newspaper column, it's otherwise a principally autobiographical novel, albeit one with column length chapters written in whatever order he felt like writing them. There's quite a lot of booze, gambling, a fair bit of screwing, general grumbling about writing and writers, and even a few amusing pot shots taken at perceived literary golden boys of the day, Burroughs and Ginsberg. Chuck didn't really do sacred cows, or indeed anything which he saw as getting in the way of the truth. I quote the following in full understanding of some readers being too fucking stupid to understand.

I laugh. he's comfortable and he's human. every man is afraid of being a queer. I get a little tired of it. maybe we should all become queers and relax. not belting Jack. he's good for a change. there are too many people afraid to speak against queers - intellectually, just as there are too many people afraid to speak against the left-wing - intellectually. I don't care which way it goes - I only know: there are too many people afraid.

Notes of a Dirty Old Man turns out to be the collection I was hoping for when I picked up The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way. Bukowski's observations regarding all which continues to render life such an uphill and often joyless slog are on point and sadly timeless. It's ugly, uncomfortable and it smells bad, but truth is always more beautiful than the alternative, and that's what we have here.

Your Dreams

Thomas Moore Your Dreams (2023)
Thomas Moore further explores his own seemingly insubstantial existence as he's driven forward by desires which he doesn't quite seem to trust, and which he regards with a certain emotional detachment - which I find quite refreshing and a welcome variation on the usual invitations to spend time rolling around in some stranger's inscrutable fantasy.

 

I think about the idea of community and about how weird it is now that everyone wants to be part of one community or another. Growing up, being part of "the gay scene" seemed too repulsive to me. It represented exclusion, it represented consumerism, body fascism, shit music, assimilation, and the idea of shared community was such a reductionist way of thinking - a sexual preference didn't make me share anything else. The mainstream gays would scowl at me.

Regardless of my own sexual preferences, I feel like I've been waiting half a century for someone to express this. Moore goes places I wouldn't want to go, but for reasons other than customarily waving an assortment of cocks and fannies in your face, thus leaving the somewhat redundant transgressive tag looking ever more like the cliché that it is. Your Dreams concludes on a surprisingly post-modern note involving the author, potential reactions to his work - specifically that which we've just read - then his reactions to our reactions and whether any of it means anything. It could have been a bit too self-conscious for its own good, and yet it works and makes sense as part of the whole.

As with his previous books, what Moore does is so nuanced as to reduce most attempts at description to hopeless generalisation, and I'm not sure that anyone else is doing it. That's a recommendation.

Asimov's Science Fiction 393/4

Sheila Williams (editor) Asimov's Science Fiction 393/4 (2008)
The lesson here was don't rush out and snap up the next issue before you've read the rest of the one you've just bought, which no-one told me. It seemed like a safe bet because Stephen Baxter's Ice War had been terrific in the September issue; and it's probably significant that it's taken me fifteen fucking years to get around to reading this one. I guess I knew on some level.

Actually, it's not a bad issue - just a bit underwhelming without the virtue of being a pleasantly slender volume through which one may breeze over the course of an afternoon. Specifically, it's a fat double helping of 240 pages comprising two novellas, two novelettes (which are shorter), and five short stories. The short stories vary, but are mostly decent and there's nothing which feels like a waste of time; although by the same token there's nothing I felt worth singling out as specifically noteworthy, possibly excepting Peter Higgins' Listening for Submarines which at least works up a powerful sense of atmosphere.

Of the novelettes, I gave up on Brandon Sanderson's Defending Elysium because the word holo-vid turns up in the third paragraph and after a couple of pages I felt I was reading something inspired by Gerry Anderson's Godawful Space Precinct TV series; and I couldn't generate the enthusiasm to read Ian R. MacLeod's The English Mutiny past the first couple of pages - an alternate history wherein the English rebel against the forces of the Colonial Indian Empire or something. It seemed well written but felt like homework. So I gave Defending Elysium another shot, made it all the way to the end, and concluded that my first impression had been about right.

On a more positive note, The Erdmann Nexus by Nancy Kress was great, and I felt could have been expanded to novel length, although the end didn't quite work for me. Likewise, the final page of Robert Reed's Truth seemed a bit unnecessary given how well it had been doing up to that point. Much of its extended page count comprises a conversation between a prisoner and his interrogator, and it does well to hold the attention in the absence of any other dynamic, building a mood so pensive and ultimately depressing as to become quite harrowing, given how much of the world of Truth is clearly the one we see outside our windows.

 

Some years ago, I had carelessly stepped off my earth, entering a realm that only resembled what was home. I was lost, and it was the worst kind of lost. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn't decipher which day and which hour had transformed everything familiar and happy.

And just like the one outside our window, it gets worse:

 

'About a thousand nukes went off, and wildfires are still burning, and the entire continent is poisonous dead. The field office is abandoned. We aren't getting any messages from anybody. Not a squeak. We've got some security cameras working, our only connection to the surface, and they're only working on battery power. It's the middle of August, but there isn't any sun, and judging by what we can see and what we can guess, it isn't even reaching forty below at noon.'

Anyway, Truth justifies my having this one on the shelf, as does the novella from Nancy Kress. It's a respectable issue, just nothing life-changing.

The Green Death

Malcolm Hulke The Green Death (1975)
I'd rather not describe what set me thinking about maggots, but it was fucking horrible and put me in mind of this, a novelisation of a TV serial which I hadn't thought about in a long time. There was a point at which just about everyone seemed to remember the one with the maggots, and with good reason. I was seven at the time and it was fucking terrifying, now hanging in my memory as one example of why certain parties wanted Who pulled from the schedule - because it was a kid's programme and it scared the living shit out of us.

The only way for any of us to relive episodes back then was by purchase of the inevitable Target novelisation, and so here we are, a full half century later hoping this thing still packs some sort of punch.

It kind of does for the most part, at least with allowances made for my being older and presumably wiser. It's a children's book based on a children's show, regardless of what the kidults will tell you - because occasionally there's a kid's show which grown-ups can enjoy without feeling entirely ridiculous, so the goalposts can stay where they are, thank you very much. The story wherein corporate interests inadvertently bring a swarm of giant maggots into being through their casual attitude to the environment is faintly ludicrous in terms of hard science - not significantly more plausible than whatever was running in the pages of TV Comic at the time - but is pretty solid as an allegory and massively entertaining. Hulke did a great job of communicating this in prose so peculiarly breezy that it would probably take longer to watch the thing on the telly. I don't think he left anything out, or there surely can't be much, but he does well with the grey areas even while reducing the basics of plot to primary colours.

'I recall a time, Dr. Stevens, when Great Britain could regard itself as a sovereign state, answering to no-one but its elected Parliament and its monarch,' the Brigadier said. 'Now, it seems, we can be told what to do by international business companies.'

The problem with Who in a general sense has been that it was never as amazing as its most delusional enthusiasts would claim, because nothing is that amazing; but at times it has been pretty decent in spite of its many, many limitations - none of which have anything to do with a special effects budget, I hasten to add. When everything blessed with the logo is the most brilliantly brilliant thing ever, it sort of means that none of it is, so taketh ye not thine cultural recommendations from persons without critical faculties.

The Green Death was pretty fucking great, all things considered, because it did what it set out to do without any of the focus group box ticking to which subsequent reincarnations became subject. Witness Pertwee's single devastating tear as he parts ways with his faithful companion in comparison to the gushing boo-hoofest which flooded from the screen when we thought we were finally getting shot of Billie fucking Piper.