Eulogy

It was agonisingly drawn out and brutally swift. I have already written about the onset of Maureen’s illness, but it didn’t progress the way we had hoped.

For a while, at home, things seemed to settle into a regime of slow improvement. Then, out of the blue, we both came down with covid. In both cases it was mild, though it was enough to cause Maureen to miss a chemotherapy session. But not long after recovering from that, she got pneumonia. That was bad. When, at 1am one morning, we decided that I had to call an ambulance, I used our new oxymeter and found her blood oxygen level was 62. She very nearly died then, but the ambulance arrived in time, with an oxygen bottle, and three strong firemen to help raise her into a carrychair to get out to the ambulance. The next few weeks helped to stabilise her, but the cancer was still there and she was no longer physically strong enough to get about. When the time came to discharge her, she wasn’t coming home but to a care home where she could be assessed for future needs.

The next six or seven weeks at Hawkinge House, she was in a comfortable environment and very caring hands, but things didn’t really get better. She caught a urinary tract infection, which knocked her back a bit, then she developed two allergic reactions, one was to the starch used in the bedclothes which was easily fixed, but the other, more worryingly, was to one of the cocktail of drugs that was part of her chemotherapy.

Then came the assessment for her future care needs, someone from the home (who was very much on our side), someone from the NHS, and someone from social services. It was a tick box exercise, and the questions were clearly designed to avoid paying out. I knew from very early on in the meeting what the result would be: she wasn’t ill enough to warrant continuing care, we would have to pay for any future care she received.

But she wasn’t getting better; she was getting worse, noticeably and rapidly. Exactly one week after that meeting had decided she wasn’t ill enough for continuing care, I sat in on a meeting with the care team at the home and her oncologist at the hospital. The cancer, that had for a while been in retreat, was now back worse than ever. But because of all the infections she had suffered over the summer she was too weak to undergo any further chemotherapy. All they could do was keep her as comfortable and as pain-free as possible. They put another bed in her room so I could move in permanently.

I am not sure how much she was aware of. She was already very confused because of the bone cancer, and she was on a high dose of morphine which left her dopey and asleep most of the time. That final meeting was on Thursday. On Sunday, at exactly 10pm, there was a loud, gurgling gasp of breath and she shuddered and fell silent. Some minutes later, there was another rattling gasp for breath and that was it.

That was Sunday 18th September, the day before the Queen’s funeral (which I very carefully did not watch). My own time, since then, has been taken up with organising her own funeral, which took place yesterday, Thursday 20th October, before a bigger and more varied crowd than I had anticipated.

Organising this was not as miserable a task as I had thought it might be. I had to choose music for the ceremony. At first I thought of finding something by Gerald Finzi, her favourite composer, but I don’t know his work well enough to think of something appropriate. So I reverted to the folk music she had always loved, and here there was almost an embarrassment of riches. I knew instantly that the exit music at the end was going to be “Farewell, Farewell” by Fairport Convention, the version from Liege and Lief because I wanted Sandy Denny singing rather than Simon Nicol. Then there had to be something by Nic Jones, who was probably her absolute favourite performer, and I settled on “Farewell to the Gold” from Penguin Eggs if only because of the word “farewell” in the title. The third choice was more difficult. One of the things that united us when we were first getting together was love of Mr. Fox (in fact I think I was the only other person Maureen had met at that time who even knew who Mr Fox were). But none of the Mr Fox tracks seemed quite right, so I looked to Bob Pegg’s later solo work, and settled on “Starchild” from Keeper of the Fire.

Photo by Leigh Kennedy

The other thing I had to do, which was even more of a pleasure, was choose photographs for a slideshow to be shown during the ceremony. There was so much to choose from, and I was struck by how many of them showed her laughing. I’ll be using a few of the ones I found to illustrate this post.

This is the order of the ceremony:

I used “Starchild” by Bob Pegg to accompany the entry of the coffin into the chapel. It was a wicker casket: she had seen one at Rob Holdstock’s funeral and declared there and then that was what she wanted for herself.

There were brief remarks by the Celebrant, Geoff Stephens. I had met him some weeks before, and I specified that I wanted this to celebrate Maureen, not mourn her, and that it was to be strictly non-religious since neither of us had any religious belief. And he tried, bless him.

Then it was my turn. After a lot of humming and haaing I decided I wanted to deliver the eulogy myself, because Maureen had been involved in so many different things and I wasn’t sure who else might be able to encompass it all. In the end, this is what I said:

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I wasn’t planning to do this. My original idea was to invite a bunch of people who knew Maureen in different contexts to come up and say a few words about her.

Then I started to think about how many different aspects there were to her life. If I missed out some, it wouldn’t give a true picture of who she was. But if I tried to find people to talk about everything from family and fandom to politics and cooking, we’d probably still be here tomorrow.

So in the end, you get me. And like that old Monty Python sketch about the Summarizing Proust Competition, I am going to try to – I don’t know – encapsulate that whole, glorious, multifarious woman who was Maureen Speller.

Maureen, Elaine and baby Derek

Or perhaps I should say the woman who became Maureen Speller. She began as Maureen Brown, and then, during a brief and rather disastrous first marriage, she was Maureen Porter, which was how I first knew her. At that time she had been, I suppose you’d say alienated, from her family for some years, largely because of her mother. But gradually she began to reconnect with her siblings, her brother Derek and then her sister, Elaine. When Maureen and Elaine began to get really close again in the last few months, you could close your eyes and not know which of them was talking. One of the things that made Maureen really happy towards the end was planning a big family get together, while this only child of an only child was beginning to wonder what on earth I’d got myself into.

Living in Oxford, as she did, Maureen found herself gravitating towards the university, which she worked for in several capacities, from serving at tables to being a librarian in the Bodleian. Here she made early but lifelong friends, like Sara Fletcher. And she also discovered OUSFG, the Oxford University Science Fiction Group. I have a feeling she was the only non-student who was a member of the group, and that led her into fandom. One of the things that really touched me among all the many tributes paid to her online after her death was the number of people who talked about how important she was as the person who introduced them to fandom, who welcomed them to fandom, who made it worthwhile getting involved in that very peculiar institution.

Fandom, like so much else associated with science fiction, has always placed a high value on writing, and on this score Maureen certainly did not disappoint. The early 80s was the high water mark of APAs in Britain, Amateur Publishing Associations as they were called. She was a mainstay of two of the best, the feminist Women’s Periodical (she was always emphatically feminist in her politics), and Greg Pickersgill’s Frank’s Apa. I remember one issue of Frank’s in which she and I both wrote about a Bruce Springsteen concert we had attended, then published them under each other’s names; the deception lasted about a second, one tends to forget how distinctive one’s own writing style can be. And it wasn’t long before she established her own APA, Acnestis, whose roster of contributors included such prestigious names as Chris Priest. Acnestis had a literary critical aspect, not quite where her critical writing started but a very good platform upon which to establish what she wanted to say.

Maureen in a Tiptree jacket, Madison

Also in fandom she produced her own fanzines, including Snufkin’s Bum which went on to win a Nova Award, and she won TAFF, the Trans-Atlantic Fan Fund, which took her to the Worldcon in Baltimore and then on a three-month trip that took in New York, Chicago, Madison, Minneapolis, San Francisco, and god knows how many other places. It was her first visit to America (practically her first flight in a plane) and it awakened a love of the country that took us back there several times in the years that followed.

That fanzine I mentioned, Snufkin’s Bum, was, of course, named for one of her cats at the time, Snufkin, a criminal mastermind who could open any fridge. From her first cat in childhood, Tomlin, I don’t think there was ever a time when she didn’t have at least one cat in her life. And she wrote about them consistently, with wit and sympathy, and an awareness that every cat has its own very distinctive personality. There was one famous example in which she described the ineffable Nicodemus leaping from a window ledge, sliding helplessly down a sloping roof, tumbling to the ground, then looking around at the other watching cats as if to say: “I do all my own stunts, you know.” I tried several times to persuade her to put together a collection of her writing on cats. There were several books on that topic around at the time and I’m sure she would have had a market. But she just said she didn’t want to be known for comic writing about cats. Which is, I have to say, our loss.

I was more successful earlier, not long after we first met, in fact, when I persuaded her to try her hand at reviewing. At the time I was Reviews Editor for Vector, the critical journal of the British Science Fiction Association, and in seemingly no time Maureen became one of my best and most reliable reviewers. She also became involved in the BSFA as an organisation, becoming first the editor of the newszine, Matrix, then taking on the administration of the organisation as a whole. This was typical of Maureen. She firmly believed in putting something back in to such bodies, even, perhaps especially, taking on the necessary, unsung, behind-the-scenes jobs that attract very little public notice or attention. It was an attitude that led her to other backroom jobs, Senior Reviews Editor at Strange Horizons, Assistant Editor at Foundation, and so on. She recognized, perhaps with a modicum of regret, that this approach was never going to win her plaudits or awards. Which is why it was such a shock, and of course a delight, when on what turned out to be the very last morning of her life, I opened Facebook and discovered that the British Fantasy Society had, just the evening before, awarded Maureen the Karl Edward Wagner Award for her services to the genre. I did tell her about this several times that morning, but at that stage I really have no idea how much she was taking in.

Anyway, this sense of working behind the scenes also led her to acquire formal qualifications in proof reading and copy editing, and then to set up her own freelance business, Speller Editorial Services. It never made us a fortune, but then again it never left us in debt. And it kept going from 1987 right up to the time of her death. What she learned doing that, of course, fed directly into the unsung work she did for various publishers, including Gollancz, for Writers’ Services, and for journals like Strange Horizons and Foundation. Again, going back to the online comments after her death, I saw so many saying things like: she edited my first book and made me a much better writer, or: I so valued her editorial input into my reviews. Writing is a very solitary business, but there are always others who interact with the writing. Maureen was one of those. And even living with her, I was unaware of quite how much her input was valued by the different writers she interacted with. Though I do know that my own writing from this point on will be immeasureably poorer because of her absence.

Then there was her own writing, a whole string of essays and reviews and blog posts and articles. She wrote about Alan Garner, Weird fiction, African science fiction, Shakespeare, Native American literature, and so much more. Whatever she wrote, she brought to it the clear-eyed critical attention of a first-rate academic combined with the wit and sympathy evident in her writing about cats. She was just very good at what she did, whenever she asked me to look over some work in progress I was left feeling there was nothing I could say, no improvement I might suggest. I just wish I was able to write as well as she did.

It is a measure of the ability and the intelligence that she brought to her writing that when she was at last persuaded to go to the University of Kent at Canterbury as a mature student she came away with the highest first class degree of the entire year. She went on to do a Masters degree, and had started a PhD in Native American literature when I was made redundant and financial realities forced her to withdraw.

And what does all of this amount to? Maybe at best a quarter or a third of the Maureen Speller I’m trying to tell you about here, trying to memorialize. I hope you all remembered to bring a packed lunch and a sleeping bag.

I’ll try to be a little quicker. Back when we went on the big march against the Iraq War, she very carefully noted all that was going on around the protest. She spotted, for instance, that the political party that had most got its act together for the march was the Liberal Democrats. So she joined the LibDems, going on to be an officer in the local association, active in the regional party, and an occasional candidate in elections she was certain she would not win. Though what I remember most were the party dinners she produced alongside our friend Darren Briddock. Representatives from LibDems in neighbouring constituencies would often complement us on the quality of our dinners, which anyone who ever came for a meal will, I’m sure, readily agree with. One other memory from that time: I recall travelling with Maureen and Darren in his van, going, I think, to set up one of those party dinners, in which our entire conversation the whole way was made up of quotations from The Beiderbecke Connection. Those years in local politics were fun, and even after we left the party Maureen loved to catch up on gossip and natter about the idiocy of local politics of whatever party.

So politics, yes, cooking, yes. She even catered our wedding (which was on 26^th June 1993, not 23^rd as I mistyped on the slide show captions coming up). One of the things I’m going to miss is the barbecue, something I have never mastered, but which she took to like a duck to water. Of course, the garden in which these barbecues took place remained a work in progress, never quite reaching the state she dreamed of (and circumstances in the last couple of years have meant that the garden is currently in worse state than ever: Maureen would not approve). But the garden was what led her to take a part time job at Victoriana, where she started mostly looking after the website and ended mostly sorting out seeds. But an awful lot of Victoriana seemed to find its way to our garden, and Maureen left behind, as she did everywhere she went, yet more lasting friendships, notably with Tracey Fagg.

And there is so much more. I haven’t mentioned her love of Wales, and the friends we made there, Stu and Ady and Teddy the Welsh Terrier; I haven’t mentioned her delight in watching ospreys. But I’ve been going on long enough. Still there is one key aspect of Maureen I haven’t really mentioned yet. I’ve alluded to her gift for friendship, but what I will always miss is something even more. We met in 1984 at a party in Leeds. I was in the kitchen talking to an Australian visitor, Justin Ackroyd, who was at least partly an excuse for the party. Suddenly he said, there’s somebody you have to meet, and then he disappeared into the rest of the house. A few moments later, Maureen wandered into the kitchen. I’ve always assumed that she was the person Justin had gone to find; she always insisted not. But we said hello and, in that moment, we both experienced something that neither of us believed in: love at first sight. And it is love that has endured, undimmed, through all the years since that meeting. I love you, Maureen. I always have. I always will. And since she always claimed that I first seduced her by reading Eliot’s “The Waste Land”, it seems appropriate to end:

Data Dayadhvam Damyata

Shantih Shantih Shantih

Farewell!

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[Apparently, Justin Ackroyd was watching the ceremony online, and I learned at the pub afterwards that he had confirmed that it was, indeed, Maureen he had gone to fine. So it was a wonderful coincidence.]

Next came the slideshow of photographs from Maureen’s life, accompanied by “Farewell to the Gold” by Nic Jones.

Then there was the committal, which, to be honest and for reasons I’m not sure I can explain, would have made me very uncomfortable if not for the cat. The cat belongs to a nearby house, but it often comes to the crematorium because it gets a fuss there. Normally the cat is not allowed into the chapel. But I was the last person to enter, following the casket, and the cat was already inside. It had first gone to Derek, Maureen’s brother, then it came to me, then it moved past me to see Elaine, Maureen’s sister. When it came to the committal, the cat went to sit beside the coffin staring out at the audience, and stayed there without moving until the committal was over. It was both spooky and wonderful, and I know Maureen would have appreciated it.

Finally came “Farewell, Farewell” by Fairport Convention, and after a few moments of not quite knowing what to do, we all trooped outside, where I solemnly shook the hand or hugged everyone who had turned up, before we all set off for the pub.

It was only as I entered the pub that I learned that Liz Truss had resigned. Oh frabjous day! I came close to ordering champagne all round. If I’d known in advance, I’d have added something into my eulogy, because Maureen would have been delighted by this turn of events. There is still a bottle of champagne in the cellar which we got ready to celebrate Boris’s departure, only Maureen was not in a state to have any when that joyous day actually arrived. I suspect that champagne might get drunk up this weekend.

And at the wake I talked to as many people as I could, I drank too much wine, and I felt so much better. So thank you to everyone who turned up. Thank you to everyone who watched the ceremony online and left so many welcome comments. And now, I suppose, I start learning how to think of the future once more.

Six weeks, four weeks, two weeks …

Tags

Maureen Kincaid Speller

It didn’t begin then. In fact we have no idea when it began. But when we became aware that things were wrong happened on a Thursday in March. Maureen was feeling a little stiff. She turned her head sharply in an effort to relieve the ache and there was a loud crack. Instantly, her neck seemed to lock in place. She could still move her hands and feet (the first thing we checked), but she could barely move her head left or right, up or down.

The stiffness in her neck began to ease over the next few days, only to be replaced with pain in the lower back and in the leg. Movement, just getting out of bed, became difficult. “Bones,” the doctor said helpfully when we got to see her, and Maureen was prescribed painkillers. The painkillers didn’t make much difference, and over time stronger and stronger painkillers were prescribed. I assumed it was the effect of these ever stronger painkillers that left Maureen increasingly dazed and confused. She became unable to tell the difference between dreams and reality, and her speech became slurred. She also lost her appetite. In the week before things came to a head she ate, in total, two teaspoons of jelly.

I was becoming ever more worried. I knew Maureen’s mother had had alzheimer’s, and it was something Maureen was afraid of, and this increasing confusion was beginning to look alarmingly like alzheimer’s. So, six weeks to the day after that crack in the neck, I phoned the doctor yet again and described Maureen’s symptoms. The response was not what I expected: “Get her to A&E straight away, she could be having a stroke.” To this day, Maureen is convinced that my phone call, and my rush in getting her to hospital, probably saved her life.

I called 999, the first time I have ever done so. I was told an ambulance would be here in 20 minutes, it was actually sitting outside our house just five minutes later. That was the first of a string of interactions with ambulance drivers and hospital transport that have been almost unfailingly positive. But then, everyone we met after this point was wonderful.

We spent that afternoon sitting in A&E at the William Harvey Hospital, Maureen getting increasingly restless in a wheelchair, me just wondering what on earth was happening. Periodically, Maureen would be wheeled away for some test or other. After a while, we got to talk with a doctor, who asked her some simple questions: spell your name backwards, she couldn’t. Was it alzheimer’s? No. Was it a stroke? No. But he was going to keep her in overnight. This seemed like good news, but I wasn’t sure I felt reassured.

Late that afternoon we were taken to a small ward where Maureen got out of the wheelchair to sit in a comfortable chair while we waited for her to be admitted. At this point she was offered, and ate, a cheese sandwich, the first solid food she had eaten in a week. Also at this point the fire alarm went off. None of the people in the ward was in a position to move easily or quickly, so we sat looking at each other wondering what to do. By the time someone appeared with a trolley to move Maureen, the alarm was over and we all returned to our seats.

Then Maureen was wheeled away to start receiving treatment. When I was able to join her, briefly, a little later, I was told that her blood salts were way out of alignment. The potassium was too low, the calcium way, way too high, and this would cause confusion. They would need to sort this out before they could begin to find out what else was wrong with her.

The next day, when I went in to visit her, not knowing if she would be coming home or staying in or anything else come to that, I found she had been moved to the Richard Stevens Ward. Go right down that corridor to the end, turn left then keep on right down that corridor to the end, then left again and immediately right, then down the stairs and turn right. I found it. But Richard Stevens was a closed ward and they were reluctant to let me in. Visiting was strictly limited and had to be booked in advance. But because she had only just arrived on the ward (less than an hour before I turned up) they decided to bend the rules. Over the next few weeks they would bend the rules many times in our favour.

That first day I’m not sure she knew I was there, or who I was. A young man, who I would only see again once just before Maureen came home, was trying to get her to eat and at the same time fighting to stop her pulling out her catheter. A doctor spoke to me, but he couldn’t give me a prognosis because as yet they didn’t even have a diagnosis. But he did say they were going to put mittens on her to stop her pulling out the various lines plugged into her body.

Over the next few visits, there were slow signs of improvement, but she was still confused. I heard stories of strange nighttime escapades, of all the nursing staff walking out on strike, of an unlikely expedition to Greenwich, and once, when her brother was visiting with me, I received detailed instructions about a book she wanted me to find for her, a romantic novel set during the early days of aerial mapping in British archaeology. I looked, believe me. She was aware of me, aware of her surroundings, aware that she was ill but not exactly sure what that illness might be. There were glimmers of the old Maureen emerging, but not yet consistently or for long.

It was during this period that one of her doctors, a very nice woman of Iraqi origin, took me to one side. “You know it’s cancer,” she told me. I didn’t know. The calcium that was in her blood causing the confusion had been leeched from her bones by the cancer. The cancer was widespread, it was in her liver and in her breast. It was too widespread to be eradicated. The condition was terminal.

That night, and for a couple of days that followed, I did my mourning before Maureen even knew what was wrong with her. And yet at precisely this time the old Maureen was returning, and she seemed better every day I visited. And yet, I wasn’t really seeing any improvement, only an end.

All this time the confusion was in retreat. A few days after I heard the news, I was there when Maureen was compos mentis enough to be told about the cancer. She took it better than I had. But then, the news as it was related to her, seemed somewhat less cataclysmic than I had heard. She was very positive, talked determinedly of seeing my 70th birthday this autumn, our 30th wedding anniversary next summer, her 65th birthday the following spring. But there was inevitably an emotional toll that she mostly kept secret. It was around this time that I received a phone call from her one morning, she felt bad, she was convinced she was on the point of death, I must come and see her now. I called the ward: yes, do come in; she’s fine, but your presence will help. I got there mid-morning and spent three hours, I think, talking calmly and feeding her very thin slices of apple. That, I think, was the turning point. From that moment on the improvement in her condition came rapidly. The confusion disappeared more or less completely. She began demanding clothes so that she could get out of bed and sit in an arm chair during the day. And she wanted me to bring food in (the catering staff were generous and helpful and did their best to find the sorts of things she could enjoy, but hospital food is hospital food, so she wanted egg mayo sandwiches and chocolate and fruit and so on). And she wanted books and newspapers and other stuff.

She was undergoing all sorts of tests throughout this period. She was taken away for scans (I visited once when she had just returned from such a scan and she slept throughout the entire hour we were allotted), PET and MRI and whatever else they had. Blood was being taken every day. She developed a massive bruise probably a couple of inches across just below the elbow on her left arm, which took nearly four weeks to fade away. And occupational therapy were taking her away to walk a few steps along the corridor or climb a set of stairs. It was becoming routine for people who had seen her when she first arrived on the ward to turn up and tell her how much better she was looking. She was looking very well.

By now, oncology had mostly taken over her case. They were concerned that the cancer in her bones might have weakened the spine, so they took her to be fitted with a back brace, which she called her exo-skeleton, and later, more prosaically, her jacket. Also, because of how advanced the cancer was in her liver, they wanted to start chemotherapy right away, before they even had full results from the biopsy they had taken.

At the same time, they were now starting to talk about her coming home. I had a visit from one of the occupational therapy team. Yes, the house was fine. They could set up a bed in the dining room. Everything we needed would be provided. They could arrange for grab rails to be set up along the steps up to the front door. This was where I could go to get a wheelchair. The only sticking point was the care package. The initial thinking was for three home visits a day, but that could take several weeks to arrange. Over the next week the care package requirements went steadily down. Oh she probably only needs someone to come in first thing to help her get up in the morning. Oh, we’re impressed with how well she’s doing, so we can get away without a care package.

Meanwhile, at home, I had people come in to quote for a stairlift. It was all possible, but we would need to demolish a cupboard at the top of the stairs. And so, one day short of four weeks after we rushed Maureen in to A&E, our mate Gareth was busy knocking down the cupboard when I got a phone call. “This is William Harvey. Have the guys been yet about the bed?” Some men had been in first thing that morning to take our dining table apart and move it, and the carpet, upstairs. But there had been no word about the bed. “Er, no. Why?” “Oh, we’re sending Maureen home this afternoon.” Maureen, I knew, was having her second session of chemotherapy that morning. I would need to go in to be with her, because if nothing else I would need to take a case in order to bring home all her stuff, including what the rest of the ward had taken to calling her library. To allow time for the chemo session to end, I would need to be there around 2pm, which would mean getting a train around 12.30. But first I had to be there for the bed to arrive and be set up. It came just before 12. It came complete with armchair, foot stool, commode that doubles as a wheelchair, waterproof stool for showering and a couple of other things. It was all set up very efficiently, but I was beginning to fret about time. Then Gareth said, “Don’t worry, I’ll drive you there in the van.” He checked with Shaun, the builder who has overseen all the work we’ve had done in the house over the last few years, and all the work we’re planning to have over the rest of this year. But there was never any question, Shaun just said drop everything and go. So I rode up to William Harvey Hospital in a slightly ricketty builder’s van.

I reached Richard Stevens ward dead on two o’clock, left a couple of big boxes of chocolate with the nurses who have all been marvellous, and went to see Maureen. She had just got back from chemo, had a belated lunch, and was contemplating a nap before I was due for my usual visit at 3. When I walked in with a suitcase she looked at me as if she had no idea what was going on. Then two people from occupational therapy bustled up behind me. They had not been able to find her all day while she was in chemo, so they hadn’t yet told her she was going home. Then they hurried her away to do one last set of exercises climbing stairs while I got on with packing. We managed to say goodbye to only a few of the staff Maureen wanted to thank, then she was put into a wheelchair and we started away. At the last moment one of the occupational therapy people asked if they had left a walker along with the bed. I said no. “Oh you must have one. Here, take this,” grabbing a walking frame seemingly at random.

At first it seemed like we were being taken to the oncology unit, but at the last minute we veered off into what was called the Discharge Lounge, though I found myself unable to stop thinking about it as the Departure Lounge. And here we sat and waited, and sat and waited. It took something like two and a half hours for Maureen’s cornucopia of medications to arrive from the pharmacy, and another hour after that, with the Discharge Lounge almost emptied out and getting ready to close for the evening, before our transport home arrive. The two guys on the transport, along with just about every other member of their species we have encountered, were chatty, funny, and incredibly helpful. I’m not sure Maureen would have been able to climb the steps into our house without them. She was exhausted by now, spent a couple of hours in the armchair before finally managing to lever herself up onto the bed, and I was beginning to wonder whether we should have insisted on that care package after all, and whether I would be strong enough to cope.

The next couple of days were really stressful for both of us, as I spent my time worrying that I had taken on far more than I could manage. I was moving furniture around, cooking meals while slowly trying to take on board the fact that chemotherapy had changed Maureen’s tastes, and unpacking all the things that we had bought to make our lives easier while the hall filled up with cardboard. Perhaps the best purchase I made was a selection of Amazon Echo Dots and Echo Flexes, which gave us Alexa throughout the house. The fact that we could talk to each other even when we were in different rooms made a massive difference. And by that first weekend we were starting to get to grips with our new daily routine. Things were very different, and always would be, but at least we were fitting in with the new necessities and starting to find time to relax together again.

Then, on that first Monday, we both went back to William Harvey for a meeting with Maureen’s oncologist, which turned out to be the most positive event since this whole mess started. We learned that, even after only two chemo sessions, the cancer in the liver was responding well. We found out that a bone specialist had looked at Maureen’s scans and decided that the spine was nowhere near as fragile as had been thought, indeed it was pretty near normal, so she no longer had to wear the back brace. And, perhaps best of all, they had identified the breast cancer that started all this as the most common type, and that is one that responds well to hormone treatment. What this might mean in the long term we don’t know, but at least we can start thinking about a long term.

And so it goes on. It is now just over two weeks since Maureen came home, and just over twelve weeks since that click in the neck that started it all. We are still learning how to cope, we are still experimenting with what food and drink works best for her. We have had issues. One of the tablets that Maureen has to take twice a day ran out. Our GP is supposed to renew the prescriptions, but hadn’t bothered (no surprise there: our GP surgery is one of the worst rated in the country, but provision of GPs in Folkestone is so bad that there is no chance of changing to a better surgery). So I contacted the oncology department at William Harvey, who in turn found a doctor at Kent and Canterbury hospital who would write a prescription for us. So yesterday, I had to go over to Canterbury to collect the prescription, then I went to get it filled. Except it was a bank holiday, so our usual pharmacy was closed. One of the pharmacies that was open in town was at Sainsbury’s, so when I went shopping I called in there: but they didn’t have the drug in question in stock. So I had to make yet another expedition to find that Boots in town was open and, after a lot of waiting around (the drug in question is a morphine derivative so there was a lot of checking involved), I finally came away with the necessary drug. But there have been good times also. We are tentatively starting to have visitors. On Tuesday our friend Tracey (who was a godsend while Maureen was in hospital) came to visit; and on Wednesday Maureen’s brother and sister-in-law spent the afternoon here. Two visits on consecutive days was probably a bad idea, Maureen was tired out most of yesterday, but they were also invigorating. We’re hoping to have one or two more visitors over the coming weeks.

Meanwhile the transformation of the house by Shaun and Gareth is starting. Most of this is stuff we planned long before Maureen fell ill, but surprisingly the plans work really well at future-proofing the house to accommodate Maureen’s new circumstances (and perhaps also my increasing age). It seems odd to say it, given the situation, but life is good.

Cloak and Dagger

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Eric Ambler, Helen MacInnes

There is a line that has appeared on the cover of just about every Helen MacInnes novel I have ever seen. It comes from a Newsweek review:

Helen MacInnes can hang her cloak and dagger right up there with Eric Ambler and Graham Greene.

I’m not so sure about Greene, I’ve not really read enough of his “entertainments” to know how valid the comparison might be. But Ambler!

There is a pattern that recurs in most, though not all, of the spy stories by both Ambler and MacInnes. The central character is an amateur, often a journalist or a writer of some sort, caught up unexpectedly in events way outside their normal experience. These events are usually triggered by a chance encounter, escalate at a rate that does not allow the protagonist time to get away, and despite being an amateur the protagonist proves to have reserves of ingenuity that makes him (always him) an effective player in a dangerous game. The drama plays out far from the protagonist’s familiar home territory, and there is usually a journey of some sort central to the action that keeps everyone off balance.

Let us take, for example, one novel by each that I happen to have read recently. Neither is among the best known examples of their work, but they are both typical of their author’s storytelling.

Eric Ambler’s Uncommon Danger (1937) was his second published novel (Ambler’s own preferred title, Background to Danger, is, I think, better). It is the story of Kenton, a freelance journalist, travelling around Europe in 1936. In Nuremberg he loses all his money playing poker dice and has to get a train to Vienna where he hopes to find an old acquaintance who might be persuaded to lend him more cash. But on the train he runs into Herr Sachs who claims to be a Jew escaping the Nazis, and persuades Kenton to smuggle an envelope of what he claims are bonds across the Austrian border in exchange for cash. But before Kenton can return the envelope Sachs is killed, and Kenton is framed for the murder. Kenton then finds himself caught in a spy game between a wily Russian agent and a ruthless representative of a British oil company.

Snare of the Hunter (1974) is, on the other hand, a relatively late work by Helen MacInnes (her first novel had appeared in 1941, so she was a pretty close contemporary of Ambler). This is the story of David Mennery, an American music journalist, who, years before, had briefly befriended a Czech girl, Irina. Now Irina has escaped to the West, and because he once knew her David is recruited to help her on her journey across Austria and into Switzerland where she can be reunited with her father, a famous author in exile. But Irina’s escape has been facilitated by her ex-husband, a powerful figure in the Czech secret service who wants to use Irina as a way of getting to her father.

Though separated by nearly 40 years, there are familiar patterns in both works: David and Kenton play much the same role, with similar competence, and the drama is largely played out in the course of a journey. (There is no journey in another Ambler from the same time, Epitaph for a Spy, but the setting is a small hotel in the south of France and all of the characters are there at the mid-point of a journey.)

Of course there are differences between Ambler and MacInnes. For MacInnes the protagonist is always a hero figure, noble, bold, in the right; though she practically always includes a traitor among those close to the protagonist upon whom he must depend. For Ambler, on the other hand, the protagonist is not morally pure, he is an ambiguous figure who learns resolution only in the face of the danger he encounters. On the other hand, once he has worked out who he can trust, those characters remain trustworthy throughout the novel.

Both writers set their work in relatively exotic European locations; Ambler tending towards Eastern Europe and Turkey, MacInnes preferring glamorous places such as Paris, Saltzburg, Malaga and the Greek Islands. But the location was intimately tied to the romance of MacInnes’s work and she included lots of confident local knowledge in her often extensive scenic descriptions. Ambler didn’t really care that much for landscape, and his  scene setting could often be quite perfunctory. There is, for instance, no sense of France in Epitaph for a Spy.

The biggest difference between the two, though, is philosophical, or at least political. For MacInnes her early novels, written during and just after World War II, invariably featured Nazis as villains; but once the Cold War got started her villains were always of the left: any communist was bad, any fellow traveller was bad, anyone whose politics were left of centre was a fool who unwittingly aided bad people. Ambler was considerably less clear-cut in his choice of villains. In novels like The Mask of Dimitrios or Uncommon Danger the villain acts as an agent for big business, because it is business that shapes European politics more than anything else. Because international business is more corrupt and villainous even than the Nazis, the good guys tend to be on the left. I suspect that Uncommon Danger is one of very few British spy novels in which the Soviet spy is a hero. By the mid-Fifties, Ambler had become less comfortable with communism, and the Russians started to become the villains, but he was never as vehemently anti-left as MacInnes always was.

Ambler’s novels are shorter and tighter: he tends to get down to plot as quickly as possible, and spends little time on extraneous details that might decorate that plot. MacInnes is more expansive, her novels tend to be considerably longer than Ambler’s. She likes to take time setting the scene and situating her characters very precisely in their landscape, she also tells a romance as much as a drama. Nevertheless, MacInnes owes a clear debt to Ambler, both are exploring a common model of the cloak and dagger tale.

Barry Unsworth, Mooncranker’s Gift

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Barry Unsworth

I first encountered the work of Barry Unsworth when I read Stone Virgin. I cannot now remember why I picked it up, perhaps a review, but I loved the book. Something about the mood, the tone of voice, the atmosphere, captivated me. I went back and picked up his earlier, Booker-shortlisted Pascali’s Island, and then bought most (though I have recently learned, not all) of the books he published subsequently. These include his Booker Prize winner, Sacred Hunger, The Ruby in her Navel, which I happen to think is the very best thing he wrote, and, of course, his last novel, a sort-of sequel to Sacred Hunger, The Quality of Mercy. When he died, less that a year after that novel came out (on the same day that Ray Bradbury died, as it happens, prompting one American commentator to say that Bradbury invented the future, and Unsworth invented the past), I made a promise to myself that I would read, or in most cases re-read, all of his novels and write about them. Circumstances get in the way, but as we were preparing for our holiday this year, Maureen asked me to recommend something for her to read. I thought she would really enjoy The Ruby in her Navel, and while I was taking that off the shelf for her I thought that it was maybe time to pick up one of the Unsworth’s I’ve not previously read for myself. Which is how I came to read Mooncranker’s Gift.

Mooncranker’s Gift was his fourth novel, which makes it the earliest of his books I have yet read, it was also a book or two before he turned to the historical novel, which is where he was at his absolute best. The contemporary novels of his that I have read have never quite hit the spot in the way that his historical writing did. On the other hand, Mooncranker’s Gift is largely set in Turkey, as is Pascali’s Island, and he is at least as good at evoking a foreign setting as he is at evoking an historical setting. If this suggests a certain ambivalence about the book, well that’s fair enough: there are moments of beauty and moments of dazzling writing that clearly herald his finest work; but at the same time there are clumsy moments that suggest a writer still awkwardly learning his craft.

There is also an uncertainty about what he is doing with the novel. It is, in part, a rather crude 1960s sex comedy (the novel was first published in 1973), and both the sex and the comedy require a sprightliness that is not really Unsworth’s natural style. But intimately interweaved with this is a meditative work on guilt, corruption, and the distinction between love and desire. This is something that Unsworth is considerably better at, and it is in these passages that you get a glimpse of the writer he would become. The trouble is that this thematic heart of the novel requires a much better story to bear it up.

Mooncranker is a one-time academic turned television personality who is now an alcoholic has-been making a living touring obscure parts of the world to deliver lectures on his past glories. He is a pathetic, self-obsessed figure who has practically no awareness of what is going on around him in the world. He is in Istanbul when young Farnaby encounters him. Farnaby is someone who has never quite worked out what he wants to do with his life and is currently living in Istanbul to research aspects of Turkish history in which he has no interest whatsoever. Farnaby had met Mooncranker ten years before, when Farnaby was just 13 years old and living with his aunt and uncle while his parents divorced. He had, at more or less the same time and with the same excessive enthusiasm, discovered religion and masturbation. 

He had also discovered Miranda, a friend of the family who was a year or two older than he was. They partnered each other successfully at tennis, explored the grounds, and started hesitantly developing a relationship. Then Mooncranker appeared on the scene. Mooncranker also has his eye on Miranda, and for him young Farnaby is just a nuisance who is in the way. At one point Mooncranker gives Farnaby a crucifix, which turns out to be composed of sausage meat wrapped in white bandages, and which quickly begins to decay in the summer heat. I was, I confess, never entirely convinced of either the gift, which seemed particularly ludicrous, or of Mooncranker’s exact motives at this point. It is a significant moment that shapes Farnaby’s future, it is the moment that the entire plot hinges upon, and it made no sense to me. 

Be that as it may, the stinking, rotting crucifix is apparently enough to destroy Farnaby’s religious belief and allow Mooncranker to walk off with Miranda.

Now, ten years later, when Farnaby reluctantly meets Mooncranker at his uncle’s behest, he finds a broken figure so far gone with alcoholism that his memory has been largely destroyed. He has no notion who Farnaby is. He clearly needs hospital treatment, and Farnaby finds himself in the unwelcome position of having to get him into a hospital and keep him company there. In one of his more cogent moments, Mooncranker begs Farnaby to go and find his secretary who has recently left him. Farnaby is minded to turn the request down, until he learns that the secretary is Miranda.

She, it turns out, has gone to a spa hotel in the mountains of Anatolia. Farnaby follows her there, and a little later Mooncranker discharges himself from hospital and travels there also. What follows, pretty much the whole of the second half of the novel, is also the best part of the book. There is some bravura comic writing when the various residents of the hotel take to the pool in the twilight and snatches of disconnected conversations twist in and around each other for page after page. There’s a remarkable sense of place as various characters explore the mountains behind the hotel with their ruins of former civilisations. There is rather crude sex comedy as the various guests try to get laid with varying degrees of success. And there is a complex examination of belief and trust that suggests something of what Unsworth would become.

It is not, I suppose, a bad book; but it is not a place to start one’s reading of Barry Unsworth.

Theological Gothic

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Charles Maturin, Sarah Perry

I read and enjoyed Sarah Perry’s The Essex Serpent when it came out a couple of years ago. But I’ve now had the chance to read her other two novels: After Me Comes the Flood, her first novel which came out in 2014; and Melmoth, the most recent novel, which came out in 2018. And as a result, I think I was maybe looking at the wrong things in The Essex Serpent.

No, not the wrong things; but there was an awful lot of stuff going on in that book, and I was distracted by the surface story of an independent woman just at that point when Victorian society was starting to see the modern coming at it. That is a good and important part of the book, but it disguised the underpinning that ties it to these other two novels.

Yes, she is recreating the Gothic, and yes, her own upbringing makes the religious aspects stand out. But it is the way these two things are put together that is what I find interesting, and that ties these three otherwise very different novels together.

Take After Me Comes the Flood, a journeyman effort with a structure that isn’t entirely successful. It is the story of a lonely, middle-aged man who, in the depth of a heat wave, shuts up his shop and drives away to visit his brother. But along the way his car breaks down and he approaches an isolated country house only to find that the disparate group of people staying there seem to be expecting him. It turns out to be a coincidence (Perry likes coincidences in her plotting, Melmoth is full of them), they are waiting for someone with a very similar name that none of them have met before, but for a week the protagonist assumes a different personality. I have often said that first novels can often display, crudely and obviously, themes that will be developed more subtly in later works, and that is the case here. People going somewhere they are unknown in order to be someone else, even if only temporarily, crops up in both of Perry’s later novels.

The inhabitants of the house turn out to be people displaced from a local asylum when it closed down, and the family members and friends who look after them. In true Gothic mode, it is not always clear which is which. But the setting and the people turn out to be healing, at least for the protagonist.

But the most interesting character in the house is Elijah, a one-time priest who lost his faith. Now he is unable to go outside: because there is no God, there is no one to hold up the sky, and therefore if he ever ventures out he is terrified that the sky will fall on him. This is not madness so much as an extreme doubt, and despite this he is the most humane and sensible person in the house. He is also a complete innocent, who sees instantly that the visitor is not who everyone else takes him to be, but doesn’t see the need to say anything about it. He is, in other words, the most charming and engaging character in the book.

He also seems to me to be pivotal to what Perry is doing here. Despite what we know of her biography, it is not religion per se that matters in these books: it is belief. It does not matter what Elijah’s religion was before he lost his faith, what matters is the way that belief shapes his world regardless of where those beliefs came from. He stands helpless in the middle of a world that is only partly physical, and it is the other part, the unseen and unseeable that most affects his behaviour. Belief is crippling; religion is just a framework we construct to restrain those beliefs, but do away with the framework and belief floods back in its raw form. Read The Essex Serpent with this pattern in mind, and the figure of the rural vicar and the intrusion of the supernatural acquires a different aspect. Belief is the darkness that makes these novels Gothic.

Similarly, in Melmoth, the idea of the witness, the lonely, black-clad woman always there at the edge of your sight who knows your sins and is waiting to take you away on her immortal journey, is a part of the unseeable that has a greater effect on behaviour than anything physical. She is a belief system cut loose from any religious affiliation: she is there among the people of Manila, among the Turks and Armenians at the time of the massacres, among the Jews of Nazi Europe, among the scientific rationalists of modern day Prague. She is a mental disease (more properly, a dis-ease) whose vector is childhood stories and faded documents; she is guilt personified as a shadow on a chair, a shape in the distance, a bird at the window.

The central character is Helen, an English translator living in Prague. Twenty years before she committed a crime and ever since then she has tormented herself with guilt, denying herself pleasures, friendships and ease. She lives an austere, hair-shirt existence. Inevitably, the structure of the novel demands that the revelation of this crime should come at the climax of the book; but Perry ignores that structural demand, so we find out what Helen did at about the three-quarter mark. Unsurprisingly, the guilt is worse than the crime.

Then someone hands her a file of documents about Melmoth (the novel references Charles Maturin, but changing the sex of the wanderer is the least of Perry’s changes in the character). Helen is ready to believe, and suddenly she conjures the woman in black and her attendant jackdaws wherever she turns, though she fails to notice that those who have passed on the documents have emerged undamaged from their own awareness of Melmoth. She is a story, but you don’t have to listen to stories; she is a belief, but you don’t have to believe. Melmoth is what is seen, not necessarily what is there.

Perry is an interesting writer. I think Melmoth goes as far beyond The Essex Serpent as that novel went beyond After Me Comes the Flood. So I wonder what she will do next. Though I also wonder how far she can follow this particular Gothic belief system.

2018: A Year in Books

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books of the year

It has been a stressful year. Stressful on a national level – watching your own government wilfully commit national suicide with Brexit is something that gets to you in a surprisingly visceral way; and stressful on a personal level – we had builders in to completely remake the kitchen, and though they were wonderfully considerate and did a brilliant job it still meant four months of being constantly on call, constantly aware of other people in the house, constantly living in a building site. Stressful, also, in that the book I’m currently writing on Christopher Priest is proving much more complex than anticipated, so I’m well behind schedule on it. So by Christmas I was exhausted, and looking back it was hard to think if anything good had actually happened during the year.

But of course it had. For a start, my monograph on Iain M. Banks won the BSFA Award, and was shortlisted for the Hugo and Locus Awards. And I signed a contract for a new book on Brian Aldiss, which I will be starting the moment that the Priest book is out of the way. And while the Priest book is proving more recalcitrant than I expected (or at least hoped), it is also proving very satisfying.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, I still managed to read more books than has been my norm of late. As is always the case when I list my reading at the end of each year, I’m only including those books I read carefully all the way through. Those I skimmed or dipped into or started and could not finish, for award reading or research or what have you, don’t make it onto the list. The titles in bold are those that particularly stood out for me, though I haven’t put any of the Priest titles in bold because, well, that would be redundant, wouldn’t it.

Anyway, this is my reading from 2018:

1: Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes, which I wrote about here.

2: Indoctrinaire by Christopher Priest – the research begins …

3: Journey into Fear by Eric Ambler, which I wrote about here.

4: Fugue for a Darkening Island by Christopher Priest

5: Heartstone by C.J. Sansom, another of the excellent Shardlake novels.

6: The Space Machine by Christopher Priest

7: The Dreams of Bethany Melmoth by William Boyd; I wrote here about why I tend to find Boyd’s short stories so disappointing.

8: Loose Canon by Ian Shircore; not a particularly good book, but it’s about the ever-wonderful songwriting partnership of Pete Atkin and Clive James, and I wrote about it here.

9: The Wrong Stars by Tim Pratt: a rather old-fashioned action-adventure story that still rather caught my attention. There are some nice little touches, the casual way it deals with issues of gender and what is normal, the aliens who are liars and tell no consistent story about anything, the “goldilocks” ship that suddenly turns up 500 years later on the edge of the solar system and with only one crew member in place. But too much else is formulaic for the book to really work as well as it should have done.

10: The Stargazer’s Embassy by Eleanor Lerman, which I reviewed at Strange Horizons.

11: Future Home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich: I was enchanted by the novel. It really is beautifully written and vivid in the way it describes pregnancy being made progressively more horrible by means of government interference. A satire on the Republican interference on the (literal) female body politic, of course, but then an awful lot of the best sf is satire.

12: The Genius Plague by David Walton. This was the novel that won the Campbell Award this year. It wasn’t my top choice, though it did make my shortlist. I found it a slick, smooth thriller that goes down easily. The characters are attractive, the writing is unexceptional, the story is well-paced. The central conceit, about an Amazonian fungi forming a symbiotic relationship with the human brain, is maybe not totally convincing, but it provides for a vivid enough story. Though I must confess that I found the bits about the workings of the NSA more interesting than the science fictional bits.

13: Luna: Wolf Moon by Ian McDonald. A much better novel than its predecessor, but for me it’s still not McDonald at his absolute best.

14: Tropic of Kansas by Christopher Brown. It is a wonderfully detailed portrait of America in the grip of a dictatorship. Indeed, in some ways it feels like a companion piece to the Louise Erdrich. And yes, we’ve seen this sort of near-future political sf many times before, but it is written with a freshness and an attention to detail that I find both refreshing and convincing. The downside is that it is probably 100 pages longer than it needs to be, as if he is trying to put too much into the novel. And the central character, Sig, does seem to have an ability to get out of the tightest situation with the greatest of ease, which isn’t always convincing. But the sorts of situations he finds himself in, and in particular the way that there are not two sides but many sides in the conflict, and the different alliances are often uneasy and unwelcome, is something that I do find convincing.

15: The Smoke by Simon Ings. I didn’t think this was quite as good as Wolves, which is a pity. I reviewed it for Vector.

16: Grant by Ron Chernow: a massive biography that I wrote about here.

17: Science Fiction Rebels by Mike Ashley. The latest in his seemingly interminable and unfailingly pedestrian history of science fiction magazines, which I reviewed for Science Fiction Studies.

18: Inverted World by Christopher Priest: back to the research …

19: Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders. I came late to this, but boy is it good!

20: An Infinite Summer by Christopher Priest

21: A Far Cry from Kensington by Muriel Spark. I continue my efforts to read at least one of Spark’s novels every year, and I wrote about this one here.

22: A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest

23: The Glamour by Christopher Priest

24: Shelter by Dave Hutchinson, which I reviewed for Locus.

25: Ghika Craxton Leigh Fermor edited by Evita Arapoglou. A catalogue to accompany a most wonderful exhibition of paintings by Nikos Ghika and John Craxton, along with bits and pieces by the inevitable Patrick Leigh Fermor. Craxton’s work in particular, most of which I’d never seen before, absolutely blew me away. I wrote about the exhibition here, and this is a model of how a good catalogue should be, detailed, informative and discursive.

26: The Quiet Woman by Christopher Priest

27: Cargo of Eagles by Margery Allingham, which I wrote about here.

28: The Prestige by Christopher Priest

29: The Mind Readers by Margery Allingham

30: The Beckoning Lady by Margery Allingham. More of her satisfying crime stories set in her fascinatingly contained little world.

31: The Extremes by Christopher Priest

32: The Book on the Edge of Forever by Christopher Priest

33: The Photographs of Joan Leigh Fermor edited by Ian Collins and Olivia Stewart, which I wrote about here.

34: Victorious Century by David Cannadine, which I wrote about here.

35: “IT” Came from Outer Space by Christopher Priest

36: Why Do Birds Suddenly Disappear? By Lev Parikian. Maureen pressed this book on me, and I’m glad she did. A funny, self-deprecating, revealing and at times moving account of a year spent bird watching, if only all nature writing could be this engaging.

37: Case Histories by Kate Atkinson. Much as I like Kate Atkinson’s writing, I’d never tried any of her Jackson Brodie novels. I think I was put off by catching a bit of one of the TV adaptations once, and not liking it. But on the page, this one at least if every bit as good, and as convoluted, as you’d expect.

38: The Separation by Christopher Priest

39: Haven by Adam Roberts, a companion to Hutchinson’s Shelter, which I reviewed for Locus.

40: The Real-Town Murders by Adam Roberts, a better book, though I always think Roberts is at his very best when he lets his literary interests take flight (see later).

41: North From Rome by Helen MacInnes. One of her twisted little spy thrillers is perfect holiday reading.

42: Lamentation by C.J. Sansom, the last Shardlake until I can get hold of the one that has just been published; such good historical writing.

43: Austral by Paul McAuley. Better than his last couple of novels, but I still didn’t enjoy it as much as most people seem to have done, mostly because I found the back story far far more interesting than the plot being played out in the foreground.

44: The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan. Another book I seem to have caught up with long after everyone else. The story of a peculiar home for children told in a crude and vivacious demotic, the sort of book you feel you need to read aloud just to capture the flavour of the words.

45: Unicorns, Almost by Owen Sheers. I love the work of the Welsh poet, novelist and playwright, and I wrote about this one-man play here.

46: White Tears by Hari Kunzru. All the time I was reading this I kept thinking that I’ve encountered the basic plot somewhere before: a couple of young white kids manufacture a blues record from something they taped in the street, ascribe it to a made-up name then find that name and their fictional recording are actually real. I still don’t know if I have met it before, and if so, where, but it nagged away. Meanwhile the white kids venturing into the segregated south is great stuff.

47: An American Story by Christopher Priest, which I reviewed for Locus.

48: Europe at Dawn by Dave Hutchinson. Is there anyone writing more politically relevant science fiction in Britain at the moment? I reviewed this for Locus.

49: Ravilious & Co: The Pattern of Friendship by Andy Friend, which I wrote about here, and I do wish there was an exhibition to accompany the book.

50: Literary Criticism: A Concise Political History by Joseph North, which I complained about here.

51: The Dream Archipelago by Christopher Priest

52: Christopher Priest by Nicholas Ruddick, more research.

53: Electric Eden by Rob Young, which I wrote about here.

54: The Affirmation by Christopher Priest

55: Holy Disorders by Edmund Crispin, I don’t think any of Crispin’s delicious little crime stories ever bear any connection with real life, but they always feel as if they should.

56: The Islanders by Christopher Priest

57: The Adjacent by Christopher Priest

58: Transcription by Kate Atkinson, which I wrote about here.

59: eXistenZ by John Luther Novak, more Priestly research.

60: The Gradual by Cristopher Priest

61: Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes, one of her later novels, that I’d not previously encountered.

62: The Written World by Martin Puchner. I’d meant to write about this here, but didn’t because I was so dissatisfied. It should be an interesting book, studies in the way that changes in writing and print technology and so forth have led to real-world changes. And there are, indeed, fascinating chapters on, for instance, “Ezra and the Creation of Holy Scripture” and on “Gutenberg, Luther, and the New Public of Print”. But other chapters have a flaccid journalistic style, he intrudes personally into too many of the stories (why does he need to go travelling around Sicily in order to write about Goethe?), and the chapter on Derek Walcott is embarrassingly self-indulgent.

63: Episodes by Christopher Priest. Priest let me see the manuscript of this forthcoming short story collection due, I suspect, sometime late in 2019.

64: Love is Blind by William Boyd. This is the sort of thing that Boyd does best, a story of a consumptive piano tuner at the start of the 20th century that takes us from Edinburgh to Paris to Russia and the Pacific. Confident storytelling, vivid characterization, and a remarkably solid sense of place, what more could you want.

65: The Black Prince by Adam Roberts. This is, by far and without doubt, the best book of the year. An unconventional and yet somehow true picture of the middle ages, a prismatic narrative structure stolen wholesale from John Dos Passos, a restless shifting between the real and the fantastic. This is the sort of literary pizzazz that shows Roberts at his absolute best!

66: Cloak of Darkness by Helen MacInnes, another of her late novels.

67: Astounding by Alec Nevala-Lee. Reviewed for Science Fiction Studies. Everyone seems to be adoring this book because of the way it takes us back to the Golden Age of SF; what nobody seems to take on board is that it is all about how the so-called Golden Age was built on lies, and led by a bunch of deeply unpleasant men. It’s a great book, but it’s not what so many people seem to think they are reading.

68: Tell them of Battles, Kings and Elephants by Mathias Enard. An exquisite little alternate history in which Michelangelo visits Constantinople during one of his periodic spats with the Pope, and is commissioned by the Sultan to design a bridge to cross the Golden Horn. The clash of cultures, in particular Michelangelo’s growing fascination with a sexually ambiguous singer while failing to notice that the poet who is his companion is falling in love with him, is all handled with wonderful delicacy.

69: The Mask of Dimitrios by Eric Ambler. How did it take me so long to discover Ambler? This is just about perfect as a tight little meditation on the crime story and real crime.

70: Arkady by Patrick Langley, which I’ll be reviewing for Strange Horizons.

71: Hell by Alasdair Gray. The first part of his “Englishing” of Dante’s Divine Comedy; typically robust, crude and engaging.

72: Murmur by Will Eaves. This is based on the final days of Alan Turing, but there are significant differences between Turing and the novel’s hero. The whole thing shifts constantly in a dreamlike way, so that the story recalls the protagonist’s schooldays or career or private life without ever distinguishing between what is real, what is misremembered, and what is pure dream. There is a spellbinding moment in which a visit to see his mother and brother turns imperceptibly into a variation on Snow White that is a masterclass in how to handle such ambiguous storytelling.

73: Science Fiction: A Literary History edited by Roger Luckhurst. The chapters by Arthur Evans on early science fiction and by Sheryl Vint on sf between the New Wave and the new century are particularly good. Others tend to vary in quality, one or two had me arguing vehemently with them.

A Question of Time

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Christopher Priest, Claire North, Dave Langford, Eric M. Bosarge, Gary Wolfe, Gregory Benford, H.G. Wells, Harry Turtledove, Ian Watson, Jack McDevitt, James Gunn, Jenny Erpenbeck, John Brunner, John Kessel, Kate Atkinson, Mark Twain, Paul Auster, Philip K. Dick, Robert Heinlein, Robert Silverberg, Washington Irving, Wolfgang Jeschke

Some time ago, I was invited to write an essay for a Chinese anthology of time travel stories. I was happy to do so, not least because the 2,000 words I wrote earned more than any other piece of writing I have ever done, more even than my Iain Banks book. Today a copy of the anthology, with a title that seems to translate as Time Non-Exist, arrived. I cannot read any of it, though I have found my article because my name is printed in roman letters after it. Because of that, I know I’m in there with Dave Langford, Gary Wolfe, James Gunn, Robert Silverberg and others. For those of you, like me, who cannot read Chinese, this is what I wrote.

It began with a question from the editor: Is it difficult to write about time in science fiction? Which time-themed science fiction story(s) impressed you most lately? Ever since The Time Machine in 1895, countless writers have touched upon time or time travel in their writing. Do you feel the ideas about time have been exhausted? In other words, is ‘time’ done as a long-lasting theme in science fiction narrative?

This is what I answered:

Let me start with a question you haven’t asked: why do people write about time?

Practically all fiction revolves around two fundamental issues: identity and death. Who are we? What are we doing here? How do we make sense of life given the overwhelming fact of death? And so on. You can understand everything, from a murder mystery to a love story, as nibbling away at the edges of these big questions.

The machinery that links these two issues is time. It is time that brought us to this point, and time that hurries us on towards death. Time provides the context within which all fiction happens, within which all fiction must be understood.

What is unique and exciting about science fiction is that it provides a variety of mechanisms for taking us outside time, for providing perspectives on the fundamental issues of fiction that are not available to other fiction writers. These mechanisms include, among others, setting stories in the future (whether it is the day after tomorrow or unimaginable millennia from now), immortality (which undercuts the notion of death, but then rewrites our relationship with time), alternate histories (which question the fixity of time), and of course time travel. With time travel, those two basic questions of all fiction – how did we get to this point? and what happens next? – both become answerable.

Time, therefore, is the foundation upon which all science fiction is built. So, to answer your last question first, is ‘time’ done as a long lasting theme in science fiction? No. Because if time were done, then science fiction would necessarily be done also.

Is it difficult to write about time? Yes, and it should be. Partly because worthwhile fiction is not something to be carelessly dashed off. But mostly because the author is required to externalise something that for most of us is subjective. We are aware of the passage of time when we cross off a date on a calendar, but in truth Wednesday does not feel that much different from Tuesday; on the day I turn 65 and begin to draw a pension I feel no different from the day before when I was only 64 and not a pensioner. We notice time in retrospect, the sudden awareness of how our children have grown or how our partner’s hair has turned grey, but in our ordinary day-to-day lives, time is something that impinges only slowly, obliquely. But in fiction, the changes wrought by time have to become immediate and visible.

Writing about time, in other words, requires attention to detail, and an awareness of the processes of change. If you are setting a story 500 years in the future, it might help to consider how much the world has changed over the last 500 years, and then work out how such change might manifest going forward. If you are sending your heroine back to an earlier age, then it is incumbent upon you to know what foods she might eat, what clothes she might wear, what buildings would or would not be standing, and even how the language would have changed in the interim. A modern day Englishman transported to Shakespeare’s London would have great difficulty making himself understood; a modern day American transported to the time of the Civil War would find that religious attitudes and transcendentalist philosophy had engendered a very different attitude towards everyday occurrences like death. Movement in time entails far more than simply slotting in a different highly coloured backdrop and leaving everything else the same. The difference is everything, and everything is different.

When Washington Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle” sleeps through just 20 years, he awakes to find a world that is changed utterly. It is worth noting that when H.G. Wells invented a machine for travelling at will through time, he spent no time on the mechanism itself, we don’t even have any clear idea what the time machine looked like, and other than a brief lecture on the then novel idea of time as a dimension, the philosophy behind it all doesn’t get much of a mention either. The story of The Time Machine is not about travelling through time, but about the changes wrought by time. The Victorian upper class, the 1% if you like, have descended into the feeble, childlike Eloi; the Victorian underclass have descended into the brutal, chthonic Morlocks; while over and above these petty human concerns, entropy sweeps all before it towards the desolate terminal beach.

Naturally, when science fiction writers took up the time machine that Wells had invented for them, the vast majority chose to send their protagonists into the past rather than the future. After all, it can be fun to take a different look at what the history books have told us, and those same history books give us enough research material to get at least the basics right. Not that such colourful adventures in time needed a time machine; well before Wells’s novel, Mark Twain had already given us A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court, which set the tone for a certain kind of romp in the more imaginative portions of the past. But these are less stories about time than ways of separating a character from their familiar environment, whether in the past or the future, and then mining this situation for comic or dramatic effect. In truth, the history in such stories is usually no more accurate than the science, but they are generally entertaining and continue to be popular. Just in the last few years, for instance, we’ve seen such variations on a theme as Time Travelers Never Die by Jack McDevitt, The Cusanus Game by Wolfgang Jeschke, and The Time Train by Eric M. Bosarge. These are not necessarily great works of literature, or even great time travel stories (though I would recommend the Jeschke), but at the very least they indicate a continuing vitality in the most familiar strand of time travel narrative.

Speaking personally, however, I feel that simply depositing someone in a different time, past or future, and then seeing what the culture clash will produce, is hardly the most satisfying way of exploring the possibilities and peculiarities of time. I find it far more interesting when authors use the freedom to move in time as a way of exploring more technical and philosophical questions. Though these tend to come in waves and then fade from view, perhaps because there are only so many ways you can ask the same question. Thus there was a time when the most interesting time travel stories revolved around paradoxes, most familiarly the grandfather paradox (what would happen if you went back in time and killed your grandfather before your father was born?). Probably the most complex and interesting such story was “By His Bootstraps” by Robert Heinlein, but after that what more is there to say? You do occasionally come across a story of time travel paradox even today, but they mostly feel overly familiar and derivative. After that there was a vogue for stories that examined the morality of changing the past, often introducing the idea of a time police (as in, for example, Times Without Number by John Brunner) whose role is to preserve the true timeline. Before long the idea of the time police was dropped and writers became more cavalier about changing the past, as in Harry Turtledove’s Guns of the South or John Kessel’s Corrupting Dr Nice, but even these have become less common.

During the 1960s and 70s, when alienation became one of the dominant moods of new wave science fiction, we started to get stories in which time travel cut people off from their society and their sense of identity, as in Philip K. Dick’s “A Little Something for Us Tempunauts” or Christopher Priest’s “Palely Loitering”. Avoid time travel, Ian Watson told us in what may be his masterpiece, “The Very Slow Time Machine”, because that way lies madness. Watson’s story also points us to another brief fashion in time travel, which located it in the laboratory just as we started to pay attention to some of the interesting properties displayed by tachyons. The best such story is undoubtedly Timescape by Gregory Benford.

More recently the aspect of time that seems to be inspiring the most interesting work, particularly and curiously among writers not normally associated with science fiction, is a variation on alternate history in which the central character relives their life repeatedly, sometimes learning from the experience, sometimes not. This has resulted in extravagant works such as The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North, or in more restrained but psychologically acute works like Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, The End of Days by Jenny Erpenbeck, and 4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster. It is hard to imagine that time could be exhausted as a subject for fiction when it can produce work as astute and as satisfying as Life After Life.

It may be, because Auster’s novel is rather more pedestrian than Atkinson’s, that this particular strand of time narrative has run its course. But that doesn’t mean that there won’t be other forms of literary experimentation with time coming our way in the future. And, of course, there are still some of the other approaches to time that still have life and novelty in them.

Thus, when you ask which time-themed sf story has impressed me most recently, the novel that immediately sprang to mind is The Gradual  by Christopher Priest, which in many ways returns to the equation of time travel with alienation that we saw in post-new wave science fiction. In fact it is not immediately obvious that The Gradual is a time travel story. It returns us, as so much of Priest’s recent work has done, to the Dream Archipelago, a world of islands that encapsulate nightmare and desire. To one musician living in a repressive northern society, the sun-blessed islands embody everything he desires, and when he has a chance to tour the islands everything seems to live up to his dreams. Until he returns home and finds, like Rip Van Winkle before him, that a stay of a few weeks among the islands has meant the passage of years on the mainland. Time moves differently in dreams, and to recover his equilibrium, to reconnect with his sense of self and with his family (in the person of his long-missing brother), he must follow a complex sequence of spiralling movements dictated by the wooden stave that he carries and that perhaps resemble the stave markers on the music he writes.

There is nothing conventional in The Gradual as a time travel story (though it is worth noting that time, in one form or another, has been a key element in everything that Priest has written this century). But then, time travel shouldn’t be conventional. Time is what shapes our lives, what carries us to our deaths, what provides the context for our understanding of each day that passes and each story that we read. There are as many ways of approaching time as there are lives on this planet, and we all constantly make anew our understanding of time. So there will always be new time narratives. The subject will be exhausted only when science fiction itself is exhausted.

Transcription

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Kate Atkinson

I finished Kate Atkinson’s new novel, Transcription, last night, and I’m trying to work out why I like her work so much. I only discovered her work with Life After Life, and that and its sequel, A God in Ruins, feel as though they belong to one side of the trajectory of her career. But that’s not really the case, because the Jackson Brodie detective novels like Case Histories don’t really feel as though they belong on the same trajectory as, for instance, Human Croquet. Except they do, and the sudden shift into spy fiction with Transcription is part of the same pattern. It’s not a case of trying to make every novel different from the last; there were, after all, four Jackson Brodie novels, and Life After Life and A God in Ruins form an intricate and intriguing dyptych. I think the thing that makes her work so interesting is that she goes where the story takes her, but where it takes her isn’t all about story.

Let me try and explain. Case Histories is a crime story, how could it not be with a detective as the central character; multiple crimes form the thread from which the novel depends, and the progression towards a resolution of these stories is what keeps us turning the page. But crime and detection are not central to the novel, but rather stands at an oblique angle to the intersecting lives and fascinating characters caught in the drama. It is a novel that steps willingly and knowingly into genre (she does not cheat, she does not belittle, she does not treat genre disdainfully as something that she doesn’t have to treat seriously), but it is also a novel of character, a novel of social satire, a mainstream novel. Both the genre story and the mainstream perspectives are complex and satisfying, but in different ways; it treads the divide between the two with a confidence that gives full measure to both.

Life After Life is not science fiction. But the demands of story mean that she can only tell the story using a science fictional device, which she does with the same confidence and seriousness that she treated the crime genre in the Jackson Brodie novels.

And the same is true of Transcription. It is a spy story, that is the line upon which everything in the novel hangs. And it gives full worth as a spy story, with secrets and betrayals, and half-understood hints, and a twist at the end that I did not see coming but that is perfectly in keeping with everything we have read to that point. And yet our attention is firmly upon characters who are deftly and vividly drawn, and glimpses of life in wartime London and at the postwar BBC that are startlingly effective. You read for the spy story and get social realism as a bonus, or you read for the social realism and get a gripping spy story to hold your attention. It is the way her fiction operates as both genre and non-genre writing at exactly the same time that is the central joy in reading her work.

There’s a lovely moment in Kate Atkinson’s “Author’s Note” at the end of the novel which illustrates what I mean about going where the story takes her. She describes how the idea for the novel was generated by the release of MI5 documents to the National Archives concerning a World War II agent known as “Jack King” who posed as a Gestapo agent in order to infiltrate fascist circles in Britain and as a result neutralized virtually every fifth columnist in the country. “Jack King” was later revealed to be an apparently insignificant bank clerk called Eric Roberts. That, and Atkinson’s fellow feeling for the “girl” who would have typed out the hundreds of pages of transcriptions of Jack King’s meetings with would-be German spies, was the core of the novel. Then Atkinson adds: “I hadn’t intended to have the BBC in the novel at all, least of all Schools Broadcasting, but … somehow the ‘two great monoliths’ seemed to belong shoulder to shoulder on the same pages.” (331-32) This actually signals a profound shift in the story, because the incidents that drive the novel are all within the wartime MI5; but the focus and the revelations are all within the postwar BBC.

Transcription is the story of Juliet Armstrong, a seemingly naive young woman who is recruited by the security services at the start of World War II and finds herself transcribing the meetings with unknowing fascist sympathizers conducted by “Godfrey Toby”. She has a crush on her immediate boss, Perry Gibbons, without realizing he’s homosexual; she has doubts about “Mr Toby” when she sees him meeting with a sinister-looking figure; she is given the additional task of infiltrating a fascist group around a socialite called Mrs Scaife which results in mass arrests but causes the death of Mrs Scaife’s maid who had helped her; and the machiavellian figure at the top of the MI5 section she works for proves to be a Kim Philby figure. After the war, she is working as a producer for BBC Schools Programmes when she runs into Mr Toby again, only he doesn’t seem to recognize her. Then she starts to receive threatening letters, MI5 puts pressure on her to use her flat as a safe house, and the Czech refugee she houses goes missing. And as things start to fall apart, her wartime experiences are suddenly cast in a very different light.

Okay, that’s enough. There’s a good story here whose twists and turns deserve to be unravelled at the slow pace Kate Atkinson employs. Besides, the real pleasure of the novel stems from the rich array of characters whose lives intersect with Juliet’s, both in MI5 and at the BBC.

folk rock

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Al Stewart, Aleister Crowley, Amazing Blondel, Beatles, Bert Jansch, Bob Dylan, Cecil Sharp, Danny Thompson, Davy Graham, Donovan, Ewan McColl, Fairfield Parlour, Fairport Convention, Ghost Box, Jackson C. Frank, Jacqui McShee, John Renbourn, Magna Carta, Maureen Kincaid Speller, Mr Fox, Paul Simon, Pentangle, Planxty, Ralph McTell, Ralph Vaughan Williams, Rob Young, Sandy Denny, Simon Nicol, Steeleye Span, Terry Cox, The Dubliners, The Spinners, Vashti Bunyan, William Blake

I grew up with folk-rock, that curious hybrid which took (so-called) traditional tunes and added rock instrumentation. For a decade or more throughout the 1970s, the most-played record I owned was Basket of Light by Pentangle, one of the first folk-rock outfits (though I’ve never been convinced that the term rightly applies to them, Bert Jansch, John Renbourn and Jacqui McShee certainly came from the folk tradition, but what Danny Thompson and Terry Cox brought to the mix was more a jazz infusion than a rock sound). And then there was Leige and Lief by Fairport Convention, which certainly was folk rock, and Below the Salt by Steeleye Span, which always sounded to me like an outfit that wasn’t really convinced by what they were doing and thought the rock stuff was a little infra dig. Anyway, by the time they got to All Around My Hat and the abysmal Rocket Cottage, they had pretty much given up on being anything but a pop group.

There were others, of course. One of the things that first drew Maureen and I together was that I was the only other person she’d met who knew who Mr Fox were. But those three, Pentangle and Fairport in their pomp, with a little bit of Steeleye on the side, were the great triumvirate of folk rock. There were a couple of live albums by Fairport, Live at the LA Troubadour and Full House, that you don’t seem to get any more. There’s a version of Full House that has been released, but it’s not quite the same as the original; Simon Nicol’s version of “Matty Groves” is different, and the original was superior (in the original, Nicols sang: “Lord Arnold struck the very next blow, and Matty struck the floor”; the other version, more familiar but less dramatic, goes “Lord Arnold struck the very next blow, and Matty struck no more”). But those albums were ones I always listened to with amazement, even though it would be many years before I ever saw a Fairport line-up on stage.

I had grown up on the Beatles, (I was 11 when I watched their first ever appearance on British television), and my musical taste continued to be informed by what were then known as beat groups. So I never had any particular interest in or liking for the old finger-in-the-ear traditional singer, but when the folk song and the rock music merged, suddenly my ears pricked up. For a while my record collection held some real oddities (anyone remember Magna Carta, Fairfield Parlour, Amazing Blondel? No, me neither, not any longer.) but as the folk-rock wave of the 70s began to recede, my tastes began to shift back to the rockier side of things. Though with some variations: the astonishing and idiosyncratic songs on Sandy Denny’s The North Star Grassman and the Ravens and Sandy, certainly had a folk heritage, but they were hardly what I’d call folk songs, and the new direction they were opening up was one I was very interested in pursuing.

All of which is a long-winded way of getting around to talking about Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music by Rob Young. I was drawn to the book because it is largely a history of British folk rock, and in so far as that is what the book is, it’s a good book. Unfortunately, Young tries to cast his net wider than that, and that bit is problematic.

He starts with a chapter about Vashti Bunyan, which is a mark against him right from the beginning. Really! Surely, she had the most anaemic singing voice ever recorded, and her album, Just Another Diamond Day, justifiably sold about 20 copies. But in the decades since then, she has somehow been transformed into an iconic figure in the history of British folk music. I don’t understand this, but Young is far from the only person to put her up on that pillar. This chapter does tell us some things about Young’s book. In the first place, when it comes to actually writing about music, Young is crap. But then, there are very few people who are able to write well about music, though not many of them reach for the sort of extravagant and laboured metaphors that Young employs. In the second place, Young is largely uncritical: if the song or album or group can be squeezed into his history, then it is by default good. Okay, as the book goes on there are a couple of albums which he doesn’t greet with unalloyed praise (Rocket Cottage, of course, being one), but this is not exactly a work of criticism. Thirdly, the book is only accidentally about folk music; the clue is in the sub-title, “Visionary Music”, though he never actually explains what visionary music is, and for much of the book he blurs the boundaries so that folk rock is inevitably equated with visionary music. So Vashti, setting off in her gypsy caravan for Donovan’s Scottish island, which he has already left, is of interest because she is visionary rather than because she is a folk singer.

Now it is when we come to that term, “folk singer”, that things become interesting. Leaving Vashti to wander off stage, never to return, Young now goes back in time to the early collectors, Cecil Sharp, the Child Ballads, Ralph Vaughan Williams, and so on. This is where the book becomes interesting, because you start to realize how problematic the whole thing is. The whole collecting thing was tied up with a strand of late-19th century nationalism that echoed similar movements in Europe, and therefore inevitably has a rather dubious right-wing vibe. It was also rather indiscriminate, the collectors picked up on anything that grizzled country folk liked to sing, whether traditional ballads or music hall songs or something they had extemporized themselves, but because of where they came from they were all deemed authentic. “Authentic” became a nonce-word that plagued folk music for decades after, everything was geared to digging back to find the most ancient and therefore most authentic version of every song. The truth is that there is nothing authentic about folk music: tunes are remembered and forgotten, lyrics get changed constantly, lines are misremembered and new lines are cobbled together, and one set of words could be put to a different tune then the words would be changed to fit the tune. But for the panjandrums of Cecil Sharp House, the songs were set in stone, their authenticity an earnest of their importance. By the 1950s, Ewan McColl (or Jimmy Miller from Salford, as he was originally) was so insistent on authenticity that singers at his folk club had to employ the accent of whichever region the song had been collected from. Folk music was associated with various popular, left-wing causes, the Kinder Scout Mass Trespass in the 1930s, the Aldermaston Marches in the 1960s, and yet the traditionalists were extraordinarily authoritarian.

The guitar, for example, was not an authentic instrument, and so it didn’t start to creep into the folk music scene until the late-50s and 60s. But the young masters of the guitar who came on the scene around this time, Renbourn and Jansch, Davy Graham, and so forth, began to change the scene. They brought a more fluid, fluent style to the traditional songs they played; they began writing their own pieces in the style of their vamped-up traditional songs; and they were listening to other popular music around at the time. After all, if guitars aren’t common in your chosen area of music, who do you listen to for techniques and ideas? The folk guitarists who came on the scene in the early-60s brought influences from jazz, from classical music, and from rock ‘n’ roll; and in time they brought in electric guitars.

One of the things that comes across in the longest and best part of the book is how eclectic folk music became between the mid-60s and the mid-70s. Failing rock groups reinvented themselves as folk groups; most of the drummers who played in folk groups had originally started in rock bands. The folk musicians were listening to jazz and classical and rock; rock musicians were listening to folk; and from all of this new hybrids emerged. And thus were born Fairport and Pentangle and their ilk.

So far, so good. This is, of course, a partial account of British folk music during the period. There is no mention, for instance, of groups like The Spinners, The Dubliners or Planxty, though they were all very successful (The Spinners never seemed to be off British television screens throughout the 60s). No mention, either, of other performers who arose on the folk scene, like Al Stewart or Ralph McTell, even though these would go on to have very successful careers in ways that played very adroitly with the borders between folk and rock. And though there are nods to Bob Dylan and Paul Simon and Jackson C. Frank, the ways that the British folk scene interwove with the American folk revival of the 50s and 60s isn’t really developed. Nor, given the whole issue of authenticity that plagued folk music, is there any real discussion of whether folk musicians who wrote their own songs (which is the case with practically all of the performers I’ve mentioned so far, including the austere Ewan McColl) could be said to be part of the folk tradition. Can things like “Pentangling” by Pentangle or “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by Sandy Denny really be considered folk songs? And if so, what is it that makes them folk?

But we come back, yet again, to that subtitle: “Visionary Music”. It is undefined; sometimes it means a songwriter who read William Blake, sometimes a song that refers to the landscape, sometimes a piece that pays homage to Aleister Crowley, sometimes it seems to be just a band that Rob Young happens to like. And over the course of the book, it transmutes into something called “acid folk” (don’t ask, I’ve no idea), or psychedelic folk (ditto); and by the end of the book he’s talking about obscure experimental musicians whose work, so far as I can see, bears no relationship to folk in any way. Which is another problem with the book, it is unfocussed, the subject drifts. It may be that those who like Ghost Box will find the final chapters of the book enthralling, but for me they have moved away from the area I was particularly interested in. Which to my mind makes the book over-long (660-odd pages) and rather bitty.

But the bits that I was interested in are very good indeed.

The Moon and the Other

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Ian McDonald, John Kessel

I wrote this review sometime last year, but so far as I am able to tell it was never published. So I’ve decided to put it here:

We begin with the title. John Kessel has already written several stories featuring the matriarchal Society of Cousins on the moon, one of which, “Stories for Men”, went on to win the James Tiptree Award. That story took its title from a book that played a significant part within the story. It is perhaps no coincidence, therefore, that this novel-length work in the same setting (though some years later) also takes its title from a book featured within the story.

In this instance, the book within a book is something that was written after a mysterious youthful episode by one of the novel’s central characters. That book was called Lune et l’autre, and Kessel’s title here is a literal translation. But in the original French, Lune et l’autre is a pun, L’une et l’autre, which we might colloquially render as “one or the other”. In English, the pun is lost, but the spirit of the pun, the issue of choice that it represents, informs the whole book.

(Parenthetically, it is also worth noting that Lune et l’autre was the title given to a French collection of Kessel’s four previous stories of the Society of Cousins, so the repurposing of that title here has yet more layers to it: homage, wordplay, not to mention a nightmare for future bibliographers.)

But let us consider more carefully what the title tells us about this book. The moon, yes, has been a familiar setting for science fiction since the days of Johannes Kepler and Francis Godwin, but for practically all of that time the moon we have seen has been a single place, a unified polity; if there is a moonbase, a lunar society, then it is all under one central government. But of late, where we see the moon presented declaratively in a title, in Ian McDonald’s Luna, for example, the moon is far from unified. And that is also the case here. Aside from the Society of Cousins, at least half a dozen other independent, self-governing communities on the moon are mentioned. And though there is an over-arching Organization of Lunar States, these polities are far from unified in their background, beliefs or governance. The moon here in the title, as in McDonald’s diptych, signifies a place of division rather than unity.

If the moon provides the setting, however, it is the second element in the title that provides the plot. Because throughout the novel we are confronted with different understandings of what the other might be. In the quietus of the novel’s coda, the one and the other are seen to come together in a marriage, but that is a rare show of understanding and commonality in a novel in which the one and the other are perpetually at odds with each other. Indeed, one of the issues that confronts the reader is deciding what, in this context, the other might be. The other is, of course, the outsider, the rival, the threat, the one who is not like us, and the novel is crowded with contenders for that role. Indeed, one of the things that the novel insists upon is that everyone is the other to someone.

Thus, on one level, the Society of Cousins is the other. The Society started in California as a utopian movement, but has now been established on the moon for many decades. It is a society in which women, specifically a Council of Matrons, rule, while men are denied the vote. Sex is liberally available and men are valued members of society, they just have no say in its governance. But this social structure is anathema to the other lunar states, where men are in the ascendant, and which are dismissed by the Cousins as the patriarchy. So, to the other communities on the moon the Society of Cousins is looked on as the other, a curiosity, a disturbance in the status quo, perhaps a threat. The other states are not exactly uniform; the one we see most of, for instance, Persepolis, is a liberal Islamic democracy modelled on pre-Revolutionary Iran, but that religious strain is not found elsewhere. Nevertheless, these states are united in their dis-ease in the face of institutionalized female rule, and so one of the novel’s plot strands involves the establishment of a commission by the Organization of Lunar States ostensibly to examine the position of men in the Society of Cousins, really to provide an excuse for the OLS to take over the Society, and secretively to act as a cover under which enemies of the Cousins might smuggle in the means to launch an attack.

All of which might provide the most dramatic moments in the novel, but it is hardly the most important plot element. The Society of Cousins is, inevitably, far less utopian than it might have set out to be. It may be more peaceful than other states, but not by much, and at a cost of resentments and dissension that are now coming to the surface, and incidentally playing into the hands of the OLS. For instance, the distrust that the Cousins feel for everyone outside their literal bubble (the Society of Cousins is established within a dome, unlike some of the other lunar communities which are established underground) leads at one point to them removing every scientific paper published within the Society from all public channels, which in turn fuels the OLS suspicion that the Cousins have developed a secret weapon. There are reform movements that are becoming ever more radical in their rhetoric, causing the Matrons to become more determinedly conservative, while an extremist Spartacist movement is turning towards sabotage. The cross-currents of these political tensions produce a variety of others. The reformers demanding votes for men are largely women, who thus put themselves at odds with their own society. Men are automatically others within this society, but en masse they are divided between those who demand equality and those who are happy with the way things are.

These political tensions are personified on the individual level by the novel’s three central characters. Carey, the author of Lune et l’autre, is a one-time sports hero and a member of the leading families in the Society of Cousins (despite its self-image, this is still a society of hierarchies). In most respects he is happy with his place in society, except when it comes to his son. Social practice among the Cousins is for girls to leave the family home early to learn independence and authority, while boys are retained within the family and in a sense infantilised by continued mothering. Any child of a liaison is automatically the responsibility of the mother, fatherhood has no legal status. But Carey wants to be a father to his son, wants to take on the rights and responsibilities of that role, and his legal challenge over the issue becomes a catalyst for the reform movement, even though he resists all attempts to recruit him into the campaign.

Mira is another at odds with her own society, in her case her rather formless resentments have their origin in her sense of guilt over the death of her younger brother some years before. She makes angry, polemical videos, issued under the nom de guerre of Looker, which are appropriated by the reform movement even though she herself resists any active engagement with the movement. She is an on-again, off-again lover of Carey, but testifies against him in his fatherhood hearing. None of the characters in the novel are one-dimensional mouthpieces for a singly position or perception, but even in these terms Mira is a mass of contradictions. She is other to those closest to her, and other to herself, but this does make her far and away the most interesting character in the book.

The final member of the triumvirate is Erno. Once a member of a radical movement in the Society of Cousins, he was involved in a terrorist act that unwittingly killed his own mother, and as a consequence he was exiled. Since then he has drifted from state to state, taking on a variety of menial roles, living hand to mouth, and moving on usually just one step ahead of the law. Then, in Persephone, an accident that severs his hand also gives him an opportunity to marry into the richest family on the moon, and to establish his own successful biotechnology business. As an outcast he is perpetually the other, and his experience of the patriarchy from the bottom has made him increasingly sympathetic to the Cousins. When he unexpectedly finds himself on the OLS commission to investigate the Society of Cousins, he is in an awkward position somewhere between his fellow commissioners who have made their minds up even before they arrive at the Society, and the Cousins who still regard him with hostility because of his earlier crimes.

This is an extraordinarily subtle novel. Characters act wrong-headedly for the best of reasons, or act sensibly for the worst of reasons. Our sympathies are directed towards the Society of Cousins only because its innumerable faults and flaws are clearly displayed. No individual or group acts according to a simple, straightforward motivation. Those whose desires and actions place them most firmly on one side or another, actually want nothing to do with either side. Violence does not work, except that violence may be the only way to end an impasse. It is a novel filled with contradictions, because it is a novel about the other, and everyone is the other.