The Bridge

Hi all,

Am currently in the heated midst of NaNoWriMo so have not had time to write anything this week. Instead, here's a really short thing I wrote a little while ago, before all the crap this year really took off, but seems relevant. Interpret it as you like, unless you take it that I am a Trump supporter, a professional athlete or a tap dancer...I am none of these things.

The Bridge 

Image copyright to https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photo-of-bridge-24495/

Though very early it was bright and clear, and the Inspector sat in his booth, staring down the long stretch of bridge upon which might appear at any moment some soul wishing to pass onto government land. He, of course, would take a moment or two to question them, see what sort of a person they were and what business they might be about, and then press the button to make the barrier rise and allow them entrance to his country.
It was not long before the first figure of the day appeared, and an odd customer they were too. One moment the bridge seemed clear, the next a faint voice said,
"Please will you raise the barrier that I may pass."
The Inspector peered through the glass and couldn't see anything, but he knew when he'd heard a voice all right, and he clambered out of the hut and leaned over the barrier. It was a very small person before him, almost a child, with very delicate features and skin white as a sheet. There was something distinctly strange about the figure; indeed the Inspector found he had to keep blinking and refocusing his eyes in order to see them at all, and he didn't like it one bit.
"And what may you be about?"
"Please," The voice seemed no louder close by than it had in the booth, and the Inspector at once found the quiet, pleading tone to be highly grating. "Please allow me entrance to your land."
"That's no answer to my question. What business do you have here?"
"I have travelled far, fleeing from my brother. Please allow me sanctuary in your land!"
Oh ho, the Inspector thought, so they admit to being trouble before I've even had to ask their history.
"That's no business of mine. I can see quite clearly you've no business here. We've enough troubles of our own without you adding to them!"
He turned away, and the quavering voice, desperate now, cried,
"Do not turn me away! It will be the end of me if my brother finds me!"
That did it, the Inspector thought.
"There's plenty of places you can hide from your brother without coming into our country. Be off with you."
He didn't look back, and by the time he was back in the booth, the odd figure had gone.
Good, he thought, and settled himself in his chair for a little snooze, content in a good morning's work.

The sun blazed in the sky, and the Inspector sat, cramming a grated cheese sandwich into his mouth. He reached for another crisp, but before his sweaty hand reached the salty bag, a double bass of a voice thundered,
"HELLO IN THERE!"
Grunting, nearly choking, the Inspector hauled himself from his seat and made his way out to lean on the barrier, stopping for a couple more crisps; when he saw the figure before him, one of these fell to the ground from his open mouth.
The man must have been seven feet tall, and broad with it. Long chestnut hair and beard framed the fat face, which beamed down at the Inspector in a way that irritated him at once.
"And who may you be? And what's your business?"
"I SEEK ENTRANCE TO YOUR LAND, FRIEND."
The giant smiled his stupid smile at him as if that would make everything all right.
"And why should I let you in?"
The smile slipped slightly, and the huge brow crinkled in surprise.
"I THOUGHT MY BROTHER HAD ALREADY COME THIS WAY. HE IS MY ELDER BROTHER, AND WE FLEE FROM OUR YOUNGEST-"
Ah, the Inspector thought, this is all starting to make a bit more sense: bad enough one weirdo trying it on, a whole family of them can be damned!
"Your brother was here all right, and I told him what I'm telling you: you're not coming over here!"
"YOU TURNED HIM AWAY?" The Inspector smiled to himself to see that stupid smirk properly wiped off the big man's face.
"Exactly. We don't want any of your lot around here. Clear off."
The giant looked crestfallen and the Inspector turned and stalked away to finish his lunch. Behind him, the oaf started,
"BUT, OUR YOUNGER BROTHER-"
"Your little brother can shove off too, and I'll tell it to him as well if he comes!" The Inspector didn't bother looking back, and simply re-entered the booth. He took a glance out of the window and frowned: the big man must have moved quickly for all his bulk as the bridge was deserted.

It was night, and the Inspector, having exhausted the possibilities of the little television provided, pulled himself out of his chair, and out into the night sky for a breath of air. He leaned on the barrier, looking out at the stillness and sighed, congratulating himself on another day's good work. Then he stopped, and looked a bit closer.
There seemed to be something moving in the still night, a deeper darkness swaying and shifting. He squinted at it, then started in alarm: it was moving towards him, a velvety, flowing blackness coming quickly upon him.
"Hey, stay right there, don't try and come through!"
But it was no good, for the shadow passed through the barrier and over him and on, beyond the body that now lay on the bridge.

Tiger! Tiger!

Tiger! Tiger!, Alfred Bester – 1955

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of rape

It is one of the most oft-repeated and oft-invoked tropes of fiction that a protagonist does not have to be good, heroic, or likeable in order to be compelling. The anti-hero is an increasingly popular device, one need only look at the slew of recent media from The Sopranos to Game of Thrones, the focus on a broken, vengeful Batman in That-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named to Walter White in Breaking Bad, or the movie John Wick to the TV Narcos in order to see this. But, as many of these examples prove, there is a difference between a brooding, driven protagonist who may, Dirty Harry style, do unpleasant things in the pursuit of justice, and a creator actively choosing to make their central character a monster. This, as I noted in my review of Suicide Squad, comes with certain difficulties, and requires great skill on the artist's part in order to keep us engaged with the character, without glamorising or romanticising the awful actions they commit. And with that, I introduce an early S/F example, Mr Gully Foyle. 

In a universe where, centuries before, unassisted teleporting using only the power of the mind has become the normal way to travel thousands of miles instantly, mechanic Gully Foyle is trapped, floating alone through space on the spaceship Nomad, where he has been for half a year. No one can teleport (or jaunting, as it is named after the scientist Jaunte who first discovered the technique) through space and so, every couple of days, he makes the dangerous swim through airlessness to scavenge supplies from another section of the wrecked ship. He is a dull, slow, easy going man, capable, but utterly without ambition, until one day his salvation is at hand; the ship Vorga-T: 1339 notices his distress call, approaches the Nomad, and promptly turns and leaves Foyle alone. At this moment, Foyle is re-born into a ruthless, violent and unstoppable man whose only goal is to find and kill whoever gave the order to abandon him. From a colony of hermits where he gains some very distinctive tattoos, to the inescapable space prison that Foyle soon breaks free from, to the glittering heights of the galaxy's high society, Foyle hunts his quarry, blackmailing, raping and killing as he pleases, while being pursued by secret service, business conglomerates and armies, who search for a secret he doesn't even know he possesses. The only thing that perturbs Foyle, however, is the man on fire, a terrifying apparition who keeps appearing to him, burning bright…

Bester's vision of the future is very much of its time. A civil war rages between the outer and inner planets of the solar system, and the military intelligence of both sides are searching for a weapon of unbelievable power, the use of which would immediately determine the victor. The Macguffin here is called PyrE (as ominous an acronym between pyronic alloy and “E, the energy symbol”1 as you could wish for) rather than 'nuclear power' but the comparison seems obvious. Indeed, as with all the greatest SF/F, Bester uses the genre to comment on human nature. Bester's point is simple, no matter how far the future and no matter how extraordinary the advancements, such as teleportation through sheer will power, a new weapon will always be being sought, and the rich will always dominate.

Indeed, one of the best elements of the novel is Bester's depiction of the power and affluence of the rich of the galaxy, all of which is embodied in Presteign of Presteign. The idea that, in a world where everyone can teleport, it becomes a status symbol not to do so, is a wonderful one. Presteign's house is suffused with 'elevators, housephones, dumb-waiters and all the other labour saving devices which jaunting had made obsolete', while the arrivals at his social event are made by 'band wagon', 'glass-topped Greyhound Bus' and 'Esso-fuelled gasoline buggy'. The satire is complete when Geoffrey Fourmyle, Foyle's foppish alias, arrives by slow moving, private train, with men running before him to lay the track.

But burning at the heart of Tiger! Tiger! is the tiger himself, Gully Foyle. Entering the novel as a man of only “physical strength and intellectual potential stunted by lack of ambition”2, his desertion by Vorga prompts a sea-change within the man, reducing him to such savagery that even his lover describes him as 'Liar...Lecher...Tiger...Ghoul. The walking cancer...Guly Foyle'3, a phrase that is contrasted in the text with the line from Hamlet, 'remorseless, lecherous, treacherous, kindless villain'4. Foyle is a monster of the highest calibre, manipulating and brutalising anyone he wants to, especially Robin Wednesbury, whom he first rapes, then later recruits to act as his confederate. However, as stated, Bester's concern is human nature, so Foyle, having undergone extensive surgery to rid himself of distinctive facial tattoos, finds himself with severe nerve damage, so that under stress 'he saw the old tattoo marks flaming blood-red under the skin, turning his face into a scarlet and white tiger mask'5. Therefore as Jiz, his then lover remarks to him, 'You'll have to learn control now, Gully'6. An even greater change occurs for Foyle when, mid-way through the novel, he encounters the cold and beautiful Olivia Presteign, and discovers in her contempt for him that which he initially believes to be love, but is really the beginnings of self-awareness. From here he continues to grow, faced with impossible moral decisions that only he can make, as well as the overwhelming remorse for his previous behaviour. Bester uses Foyle to trace humanity's rise from savagery to awareness, and, with the mystery of the Burning Man who haunts Foyle finally solved, perhaps beyond, as Foyle is able to utter this exchange with himself, in the final pages:

“I believe,” he thought. “I have faith.”
He jaunted again and failed again.
“Faith in what?” he asked himself, adrift in limbo.
“Faith in faith,” he answered himself. It isn't necessary to have something to believe in. It's only necessary to believe that somewhere there's something worthy of belief.'

Tiger! Tiger! Is an extraordinary novel, if not without flaws. The rape of Robin Wednesbury occurs only to demonstrate Foyle's savagery, and although she does reappear as an interesting and fully developed character in her own right, there are some uncomfortable overtones of her now being obsessed with her attacker. Using rape as a plot device, particularly when the narrative is not centred around the victim, is best avoided, and, though the book was obviously written over half-a-century ago, to a modern reader it's inclusion feels unnecessary. Overall, however it is an excellent book, brilliantly invoking William Blake's poem, and crafting with it a SF tale that is at once haunting and uplifting.

P.S. If you're from England, the names are great fun, as he used an English telephone directory for them, hence Dagenham, Yeovil, Sheffield and others.

I am reading from an old Penguin edition, but a newer version will be available in any good bookshop!


1 Bester, Alfred Tiger! Tiger!, Penguin Books, 1974.p. 209
2 pp. 15
3 pp. 99
4 pp. 104

5 pp. 108

6 pp. 107

Sex Criminals vol. 2

Sex Criminals vol. 2: Two Worlds, One Cop, Matt Fraction (writer) Chip Zdarsky (artist) - 2015

(Once again, though I am now even more aware that Fraction and Zdarsky work collaboratively, as I will never know whose idea was whose, I am still attributing the layout and artwork to Zdarsky and all writing and characterisation to Fraction) (Also, not bothering with referencing, as the volume doesn't have page numbers!)

For those just joining us now, when Suzie and Jon have sex, time stops. Literally. When either orgasm they enter a state (The Quiet to Suzy, Cumworld to Jon) of neon swirls and JJ Abrams style lens-flares, where time stands still and which lasts until they are ready to go again. And Suzie, desperate to save her local library from foreclosure, and Jon, desperate to get back at the soul crushing bank he works at, decide to use the Quiet to steal the money needed from the bank. When they do so, however, they are interrupted by the white-clad Sex Police, led by a woman dubbed 'Kegalface' by Suzie, from whom they barely manage to get away. More details: https://takeareadonthedark-side.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/sexcriminals-volume-1-2014-matt.html

Back with Jon and Suzie, as Jon succinctly states, 'honeymoon's over'. Having been deeply shaken by their encounter with the mysterious Sex Police during their disastrous burglary of the bank, Suzie and Jon are laying low. However, Jon's mental health issues begin to cause problems as he develops hypochondria and paranoia, specifically that they are being continually monitored by the Sex Police, and though Suzie attempts to support him, eventually he uses the Quiet to break into the leader of the Sex Police's home. They take a break, and begin to recover, Jon through meeting a new therapist and Suzie by visiting her new gynaecologist Robert Rainbow (yup…) who asks her out for coffee. Robert is also, it turns out, one of Jon's childhood friends, and when the three, along with Suzie's friend Rachael, all collide by accident, what could have been an awkward and ugly encounter actually helps to heal everything. That is, until they turn the corner, and see the library being demolished by order of the Sex Police, of whom the owner of the bank is a member. After a furious and much-needed second argument, Suzie and Jon, reunited at last, decide it's time to 'fuck with the Sex Police for fucking with us'. And, using the files that Jon stole from Kegalface about other people like them who are being monitored by Sex Police, they start recruiting Nick Fury-style, starting with a Dr Ana Kincaid, aka Rae Anne Toots, aka Jazmine St. Cocaine, former porn star and leading light of Jon's teenage years… 

All rights to Matt Fraction, Chip Zdarsky and Image Comics

If all of this sounds considerably heavier than the previous volume, that's because it is. For the whole first issue of the anthology Jon is coloured only in monochrome, a perfect visual representation of his disconnect and growing depression, and his mental health is one of the most keenly explored elements of the book. In giving Jon's problems the spotlight, Fraction and Zdarsky not only present someone dealing with their mental health, and often in a mildly unhealthy way, such as self-medicating with the drugs he used before, but do so in a warm and non-judgemental manner. Indeed, they subtly demonstrate several important factors in managing mental health issues, such as the benefits of exercise (without suggesting it is a magical cure-all) and that if therapy is not working, chances are that a different therapist is needed. Fraction and Zdarksy also poignantly show how it can be to live with such issues, and how difficult it is for Suzie trying to deal with her own problems, as well as support Jon. Even as Jon recovers, he struggles both with the idea of loving Suzie and of telling her that he does, stating to his therapist that 'I'm in no shape for something like that…A few months ago I was off my meds, freecycling all over the goddamn place between mania and full-bore panic attacks'.

Having said this, though poignancy rather than joy may be the dominant emotion throughout most of Volume 2, this is still Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarksy. From the dick-pics that Rachael has received that horrify Robert, to the multiple awful parodies of porn, to the note stuck on Dr Kincaid's door, each issue in the volume has at least one laugh out loud moment, and dozens of sniggers interwoven with the darker elements. Even during the massive shouting match that will either end, or reconcile, Suzie and Jon, Fraction himself keeps chipping in with increasingly frantic comments like 'Really, Jon?' or 'Ooph. C'mon, Suzie', which his characters are obviously unable to hear.

Indeed, though the tone is more serious and mournful this time around, Fraction's deft touch never wavers. The depiction of Ana Kincaid's life from Rae Anne Toots, by way of Jazmine St. Cocaine to university professor, which contains an injury that killed much of her genital sensitivity (making it difficult for her to orgasm), porn performing and drug addiction – as well as an uproariously funny nod to another excellent comic, the Wicked and the Divine – is handled excellently by Fraction. One element of this is allowing her to narrate her own story, in her own terms, and Fraction manages to pitch her voice, intelligent, practical and only slightly bitter, exactly right. In a superb touch, he also allows a far more educational element into the text, as when Suzie speaks to Robert regarding the unfortunate effects the pill is having on her, he responds with an entire page of advice on contraception taken straight from Planned Parenthood. It is made interesting and engaging, and wonderfully shows Fraction's socially responsible (to sound very grown-up about it!) attitude to writing about sex superpowers. Alongside this, is Robert's own backstory, in which we are reminded that everyone, no matter how nice or normal, has their own sexual hangups and baggage.

Zdarsky's contribution is also magnificent, and never more so than in the quiet moments. Although once again he creates some beautiful images and colours for the set-pieces, particularly the final pages, it is his drawing of the space, literal and metaphorical, between Jon and Suzie as they grow apart and closer again, that gives these moments such power. Also, once again the man's phenomenal talent for facial expressions is on full display, most of all on the beautiful two pages of the pair sitting on a park bench, where Jon concludes 'It's hard, but it's probably worth it'. Zdarsky is also responsible for the image of Jon, having broken into Kegalface's house and facing off against her husband, wielding a double-ended dildo like Darth Maul's lightsabre, which is, I hope you'll agree, a thing to be cherished.

Sex Criminals Vol. 2 is a beautiful, poignant and utterly life-affirming read, and, as with the first volume, the overwhelming urge is simply to scream 'BUY IT! READ IT!' at the top of my lungs.

And of course, on the penultimate page, we have what is probably the greatest sentence it is possible to leave your protagonists faced with: 'Wait, you aren't weird sex ghosts too? Huh.'


Link to Image Comics page where this magnificent book is available: https://imagecomics.com/comics/releases/sex-criminals-vol.-2-two-worlds-one-cop-tp

A Night in the Lonesome October

A Night in the Lonesome October – Roger Zelazny, 1993

Having dealt with the immensity of The Book of the New Sun last week, and with this being the last post before Halloween, I thought it was a perfect time to look at perhaps the best Halloween book ever written: Roger Zelazny's A Night in the Lonesome October. 

Snuff is watchdog and faithful companion to Jack, who wields a knife, and they have come, in the last days of September, to a small village outside London. Others too, soon take up residence. There is the cackling Jill, who flies through the night on her broomstick, and her cat Greymalk. There are Morris and MacCab, bodysnatchers, and Larry Talbot, who becomes a good deal more lupine at the full moon. There is the Mad Monk Rastov and Owen, the Welsh druid. The Good Doctor, along with his hunchbacked associate and a third man, a huge, hulking figure, arrive at an old farm house, while the sinister Count prefers a disused crypt. All these varied persons have an animal associate with them, and all are come to take part in the Game. Some are openers, and will, at the full moon on All Hallows Eve, attempt to open the doorway, that the eldritch elder gods may return, while the closers work to ensure this never happens, but, for much of the story, no one knows who is on their side, and who is against them. And all the while, the Great Detective and his trusted companion dog their heels, determined to solve the mystery of what will happen on a night in the lonesome October. 

All rights Gahan Wilson

As I stated in my review of Zelazny's Lord of Light, his trademark as a writer, along with some sparkling prose, is his way of taking established mythologies, sifting them through his own imagination and crafting superlative tales. This time he delves into far more modern legends, those of the quintessential horror stories and classic monster movies, grisly Victoriana, the Cthulhu Mythos and the Sherlock Holmes canon. His spin is to give centre stage to the player's animal comrades, making their interactions, their alliances and enmities the focus of the book and relegating the icons of book and film to supporting characters and cameos, referred to, but only appearing intermittently. It is therefore, Snuff, Jack's dog, who is our narrator-protagonist and Zelazny's writing of the canine is a delight throughout as Snuff's voice walks a perfect line between wry and satirical. The book can be uproariously funny at times, particularly when Zelazny lampshades horror tropes: 'The master's blade flashed, the woman screamed and there was a rending of garments...Why his list of materials required the edge of a green cloak worn by a red-haired lady on this date at midnight and removed while still on her person, I am uncertain. Magical rotas sometimes strike me as instructions for lunatic scavenger hunts.'1. As the novel goes on, however, and the situation becomes more critical, Snuff's relaxed, deadpan narration means that we understand immediately how dire things are without Zelazny needing to force a sudden, dramatic change in tone: we take it seriously because our wry, understated narrator is taking it seriously. 

As well as the obvious homage to the horror genre, there are more nuanced overtones of the spy and detective story, as Snuff carefully manoeuvres his way through the Game, swapping information and forging temporary alliances while trying to solve the central mystery – where the ceremony will need to take place. An even subtler nod comes in his relationship with Graymalk, which has all the frisson and wit of Bogart and Bacall at their finest, albeit in a rather more understated, English manner. Zelazny also uses their growing respect and understanding as a stand-in for the one that develops between Jack and Crazy Jill, and therefore he only needs to allude to several shared carriage rides and meals, and, with Snuff and Graymalk's repartee in mind, we already have a full picture of their relationship. 

All rights Gahan Wilson

The interactions between the animals is also heightened by the fact that when the legends do appear, Zelazny writes them as just that: legends. Indeed, the way that I refer to them in my summary is how they are referred to throughout: the names 'Frankenstein', 'Dracula' or 'Sherlock Holmes' are never mentioned. Zelazny is uninterested in delving into their psyches or presenting a new interpretation; they are there to be excellently written archetypes. When Snuff first encounters Holmes, he remarks 'As a watchdog, I could appreciate the mode of total attentiveness he assumed. It was not a normal human attitude. It was as if his entire being was concentrated in the moment, sensitive to every scrap of intelligence our encounter furnished'2, which is such a unique way of exactly representing Holmes' abilities. Likewise, Dracula, who appears most infrequently of all, carries with him more than the required menace, as Zelazny makes it clear that even Snuff is intimidated by the Count, though he prefers to use the word 'impressed'3. Indeed, the only established figure who receives much characterisation is Larry Talbot, whom Zelazny develops from the ever-helpless victim of his lycanthropic curse into a more capable figure and worthwhile ally to Snuff. 

All rights Gahan Wilson

Zelazny's writing is more restrained here, allowing his dryness and wit to come to the fore, though the pared-down style does not limit the ingenuity at work. Snuff's backstory is alluded to in a single sentence, 'I like being a watchdog better than what I was before he summoned me and gave me this job'4, and an entire article at Tor.com has been rightly devoted to the economy and wit of that sentence.

There are also illustrations by Gahan Wilson, which are odd to say the least, but do contribute to the overall eccentricity of the book. Plus he draws an excellent Lon Chaney Jr.: 

All rights Gahan Wilson

Though it may have less substance than some of Zelazny's other work, this light-hearted homage to a far more modern pantheon is also much more fun to read. The structure helps; thirty-one chapters, plus a prologue, one for each day of October, slowly building from brief, two-to-three page chapters, through the artful politics and drawing of battle lines to the fateful confrontation. I am aware that some fans will try to re-read the book every October, only reading the relevant chapter each day, and I applaud their restraint, as once I begin, I find it is such a glorious read that it's very difficult to stop.


Criminally, this wonderful book is out of print, so if you want a copy, Amazon's your best bet!


1 Zelazny, Roger. A Night in the Lonesome October, Orbit, 1994. pp. 31
2 pp. 46
3 pp. 145
4 pp. 2

The Review Hub: Night Must Fall

So, a couple of weeks ago, an opportunity came up to be a critic for The Reviews Hub, reviewing professional theatrical productions in my area. Needless to say, I leapt, and this morning, my first review - of the classic thriller Night Must Fall - was published online. I will not be reproducing my reviews here, but will provide links to their site, and hopefully, some of you will check them out!

Please do take a look: http://www.thereviewshub.com/night-must-fall-exeter-northcott-theatre/ 

The Book of the New Sun

The Book of the New Sun, Gene Wolfe – Book 1: Shadow of the Torturer 1980, Book 2: Claw of the Conciliator 1981, Book 3: Sword of the Lictor 1982, Book 4: Citadel of the Autarch 1983

So a couple of times now, I have alluded to a mighty SF/F text that I have slowly been making my way through, and now, here we are at last: Gene Wolfe's The Book of the New Sun, one of the most extraordinary, mind-spinning epics I have ever encountered. Less well known than other SF/F writers, he has the distinction of being what one might call an author's author: Michael Swanwick has stated that Gene Wolfe is 'the finest writer in the English language alive today'1 and Ursula le Guin, Neil Gaiman, Patton Oswalt and George R.R. Martin have all showered praise upon Wolfe. The New Yorker itself described Wolfe as a 'genuis' and perfectly summed up New Sun's prestigious status: 'For science-fiction readers, “The Book of the New Sun” is roughly what “Ulysses” is to fans of the modern novel: far more people own a copy than have read it all the way through'2. Having actually finished both Ulysses (no, I'm bloody well not reviewing it!) and now The Book of the New Sun, the comparison is apt. Both are extraordinary pieces of writing that pushed the envelope in terms of their respective genre and left an indelible mark on the canon that followed them.

Right off the bat, I must state that in my limited experience of Gene Wolfe I have learnt one thing: Gene Wolfe does not write to be read. He writes to be re-read. Indeed, the Ulysess comparison is also highly accurate in that they are both difficult, often baffling, texts, far easier to start than to finish and if you do finish, you are left with a feeling that you've read something very good and very clever, but that will require rigorous re-reading before you work out just how good or clever it was. Gerald Jones, writing for the New York Times, declared that The Book of the New Sun 'does not make for easy reading'3, while Neil Gaiman, another Wolfe super-fan, has even produced a wryly written list entitled How to Read Gene Wolfe, of which number three is 'Reread. It's better the second time. It will be even better the third time'4. Indeed, a mere two pages from the end of The Book of the New Sun, Wolfe himself writes through Severian: 'Have I told you all I promised?...Before you assume that I have cheated you, read again'5. This, I have not done, mostly because, taken as one huge story, The Book of the New Sun is almost exactly 1200 pages in my editions, so my apologies if I obviously did not pick up on some key information, or have misunderstood something that should have been clear. When I re-read, and I certainly will, I may post subsequent thoughts (or I might spare you those!). 

All rights to Orion/Millennium publishing

The Book of the New Sun concerns Severian, a young apprentice in the Guild of Torturers, who lives in the Citadel, a vast construct of towers rising above the city of Nessus, the largest settlement in the Commonwealth, a land upon Urth, our own planet many millions of years in the future, long after humanity has risen to colonise the stars and fallen again, so much so that the great deeds of the species are little more than legends. In Shadow of the Torturer, Severian is banished from the Guild after he falls in love with one of their 'clients', a young woman called Thecla. Thecla is imprisoned in the Torturer's oubliette by order of the Autarch, ruler of the Commonwealth who is regarded by the people as somewhere between king and god because she is believed to have information about Vodalus, the leader of a force rebelling against the Autarch. Severian has, unbeknownst to any but them, already saved Vodalus' life, and provides Thecla with a knife to commit suicide with, rather than be submitted to the further ministrations of his guild. For this he is banished, and sent out to become the jailor/executioner of a distant city called Thrax, wearing only his black robes and armed with the sword Terminus Est, a parting gift from the master of the guild. In the course of his travels he falls in with a troupe of actors, meets and is betrayed by, a woman called Agia, is forced to fight a duel, encounters Dorcas, a woman who it appears has risen from the dead, and most importantly, gains, by seeming accident, a mystical jewel called the Claw of the Conciliator. In the second book of the series, The Claw of the Conciliator, he finally reunites with Vodalus, who, by use of drugs and unwitting cannibalism on Severian's part, inserts what remains of Thecla's consciousness into Severian's mind. Severian rejoins the acting troupe to perform at the House Absolute, the underground residence of the Autarch himself. In The Sword of the Lictor, Severian finally arrives at Thrax, but it is not long before his mercy once again makes him an outcast; this time fleeing into the mountains, he encounters a young boy who bears the same name as himself, and a two-headed man who claims to have once been king of the surrounding area, before leading a force of island dwellers against a giant who lives in a castle. And finally, in The Citadel of the Autarch, Severian experiences the war being fought on the Commonwealth's borders, re-encounters Vodalus and Agia, before coming face-to-face with the Autarch, ultimately succeeding him. Each book is followed by a short appendix by Wolfe, explaining his attempts at 'translating' Severian's manuscript, adding another layer of complexity to the shifting, dreamlike text that is The Book of the New Sun.

If the story of a figure walking over the snowy peaks and through dense forests, underneath an old, red sun, clad in a black cloak that leaves his chest bare, armed with a mighty sword and a mystical jewel, fighting monsters and two-headed men, bedding beautiful women and meeting aliens, and finally becoming the ruler of the land, sounds an awful lot like an appalling pulp novel of the Robert E Howard or Edgar Rice variety, then this is entirely deliberate. Just as Tolkien reached back into earlier narrative traditions, that of Norse mythology and Old English poetry, and reshaped them to his own needs, Wolfe does the same, borrowing tropes and aesthetic details from the pulp fantasy magazines of the twenties and applying them to an infinitely complex narrative. This is done mainly through weaving a densely layered labyrinthine narrative, but also by his vivid world building and extraordinary diction. Wolfe places us within the world, and leaves us to intuit for ourselves the fact that their sun is red, the ins and outs of the rigid hierarchical social systems and that the decaying civilisation is millennia after, or possibly before our own, only providing details once you are already brain deep in the mire. This intuition is made considerably harder by Wolfe's eclectic language, digging deep into the complete English lexicon, using words such as 'fuligin' for the colour of Severian's black robes, 'destrier' for the huge and impossibly swift horses of the world, and 'exultant', 'armiger' and 'cacogen' to name various social strata.

Of huge importance in discussing the novels is that they are told entirely in the first person, narrated by Severian – and it is important to note that this is not Severian the torturer's apprentice narrating events as they happen to him, but Severian the Autarch looking back, and telling the story of his ascension. We are assured time and time again that Severian never forgets anything, that indeed 'From my earliest memory I remember all'6,yet we also quickly learn 'I realised for the first time that I am in some degree insane'7. which immediately puts the reader on their guard. We are kept acutely aware that we are being told by a ruler the story of his rise to power, only ever being told what he wants us to know – the details of his guild are always kept suspiciously secret for instance – and that even if he is being as honest with us as he is capable of being, his may still be a very warped version of events. The gap between Severian's account and any supposed 'truth' widens when we discover the extent to which Thecla is still a conscious part of his mind, to the point of occasionally breaking into the narration, changing who the 'I' being referred to is, without Wolfe giving us any immediate notification. This effect is exacerbated towards the end of the final book, when Severian becomes the Autarch by absorbing the consciousnesses of all the previous Autarchs, as he did Thecla’s. As Peter Wright states, 'The gulf between plot and story, between the apparent and the real, alerts the reader to the fact that Wolfe is playing a complex and contrived textual game that facilitates a number of methods of interpretation.'8

 

All rights to Orion/Millennium publishing

If this is sounding unbearably heavy, there is also a fair smattering of humour, sometimes due to witty dialogue – Jonas in particular tends to use phrases like 'I'm going to tell you what all housewives sooner or later tell their husbands: 'Before you ask more questions, think about whether you really want to know the answers''9. More often, however, there is a wryness to the narrative itself that counterbalances Severian's earnestness; the two-headed titan Typhon, who, after being accidentally resurrected by Severian, captures the torturer and boasts how he 'was autarch on many worlds. I shall be autarch again, and this time on many more'10 is easily dispatched by Severian within pages. Deeper still, there is the growing feeling that our unreliable narrator himself is even more clueless than the reader, which makes Severian's philosophic diversions awkwardly entertaining for the reader, as we begin to realise he knows less about what is happening than we do.

As I have stated, these are only some of my first impressions. There is so much, so densely packed into 1200 pages, that it will probably only be on a third or fourth reading that I can get anywhere close to understanding The Book of the New Sun. There are things that, having read more about the novels since finishing, I will appreciate the second time, such as the photo of the moon-landing that Severian sees at one point. There are also references that I will almost certainly never fully understand, particularly Wolfe's use of his Catholic faith, although even I recognise the messianic flavour of the Conciliator's legend and the parallels between the torturers' festival of Holy Katherine's feast and real-life celebrations surrounding saints. Perhaps Alison Flood, writing in the Guardian, describes The Book of the New Sun the best: that the 'whole thing is dreamlike in quality, unfathomably large in scope, deliciously, slyly puzzling'. For myself, reading Gene Wolfe's masterpiece has made me understand far more Neil Gaiman's fifth piece of advice for reading Wolfe: 'It's a knife-throwing act, and like all good knife-throwing acts, you may lose fingers, toes, earlobes or eyes in the process. Gene doesn't mind. Gene is throwing the knives.'11

Link to Orion Books page where the SF Masterworks The Book of the New Sun is available: https://www.orionbooks.co.uk/books/detail.page?isbn=9781473211971

1 http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/nonfiction/intms.htm
2  http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/sci-fis-difficult-genius
3  http://www.nytimes.com/1983/05/22/books/inside-elsewhere.html?pagewanted=all
4  Gaiman, Neil. How to Read Gene Wolfe in The View from the Cheap Seats, Headline Publishing Group, 2016. pp 118
5 Wolfe, Gene. The Book of the New Sun Volume 2: Sword and Citadel, Millennium, 2000. pp. 608
6 Wolfe, Gene. The Book of the New Sun Volume 1: Shadow and Claw, Millennium, 2000 pp. 20
7 Vol 1. pp. 36

8 http://ultan.org.uk/review-botns/

9 Vol 1. pp. 370

10  Vol 2. pp. 212

11 Gaiman, N. How to Read Gene Wolfe. pp. 118

A Monster Calls

A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness (From an original idea by Siobhan Dowd) – 2011

Copyright Jim Kay & Walker Books, 2011

TRIGGER WARNING: References to cancer treatment, death from cancer and grief.

Our second Carnegie Medal winning book in two weeks, A Monster Calls is in itself the product of two previous Carnegie Medal winners; Patrick Ness, who wrote the book, and Siobhan Dowd, who had the initial idea, and had been planning to write it, before her death from breast cancer in 2007, at the age of 43. Her death, and more importantly, her knowledge of her impending death lie at the deepest heart of this book, a book that is all about hiding, withdrawing and denial.

Conor is having nightmares, and when he wakes from them, the old yew tree outside his window comes alive and becomes a monster, that says it has come to get him. Conor however is unafraid. He has seen worse and cannot be frightened by so simple a threat as a monster. The monster, bemused, states that it shall return four times; on the first three occasions it will tell him a story, and on the last, he must tell it one. The next morning, we see Conor suffer through school and return home, to find his grandma there again, talking with his mother about Conor coming to live with her, and, to Conor, intruding on the fragile world he and his mum have together. Fragile, because, thanks to references to medication and chemo, we realise very quickly that Conor's mum is seriously ill. The monster returns that night, and tells Connor a fairy-tale in which nothing is as it seems at first. During his stay with his grandma in her pristine house, while his mum goes back into hospital, the monster appears again with a second slippery tale, which ends in the monster, with Conor's assistance, destroying a bad man's house, and when the vision of the monster fades, he has destroyed his grandma's sitting room. The last story comes at school, as Conor's feelings of isolation and invisibility peak and he, with the help of the monster behind him, violently confronts his playground tormentor. Finally, however, the last medicine his mum was to be tried on fails, and the monster appears demanding Conor's own story, his own, deeply buried truth: not just that his mum is dying, but his own, conflicted reactions to it and the far more terrible monster that his denial has formed in his nightmares.

Like The Amazing Maurice last week, A Monster Calls is deeply concerned with the importance of story. Unlike The Amazing Maurice, A Monster Calls also bears the burden, though it wears it as lightly as it can, that it may be functioning in children's lives in a similar way to the monster's stories in Conor's. Although the stories that the monster tells contain parallels to Conor's life, when, after the first story featuring a not-so-wicked stepmother, in whom Conor sees a link to his grandma, Conor angrily questions 'Is that supposed to be the lesson of all this? That I should be nice to her'1, he monster laughs at him and demands 'You think I tell you stories to teach you lessons?'2. It is a brilliant touch on Ness' part, and an important point to make, particularly for all those children reading the book who may be in a similar situation to Conor: this book is not an instruction manual on how to cope with grief. However, just because the monster's stories, and indeed A Monster Calls itself, are not in any way didactic, does not mean that nothing can be learned from them, and the basic, underlying message, as within all great stories, is that life is, by its very nature, complicated. In telling simple stories that highlight the difficulty and the complexity of life, what the monster does is make Conor, who is withdrawing and beginning to shut down emotionally, think more empathetically, to care and to feel again. In giving Conor a way to grasp the complexity, it allows him to question all the things he has assumed and internalised; his anger, his grief and his guilt.

Of course, there is the question of whether the monster is really there. There is, obviously, the interpretation that the monster is Conor's subconscious externalising the part of him that allows him to work though what is happening with his mum, although one wonders how a young child would know all of the references to furnish his subconscious with when the monster claims 'I have as many names as there are years to time itself! I am Herne the Hunter! I am Cernunnos! I am the eternal Green Man!'3. It is to Patrick Ness' credit that he walks a line perfectly between making it almost obvious that the monster is Conor's way of processing what is happening and injecting the text with just enough other-worldliness to suggest that just maybe, something ancient and powerful really is there to help Conor. However, his greatest achievement in A Monster Calls, is to ensure that we very quickly become uninterested in the monster's origins, and aware that they do not matter; what matters is Conor's path from denial to acceptance. A book so directly about powerful, primal emotions could easily slip into sentimentality, and it is to Ness' credit that he keeps all of the character's emotions and interactions achingly raw and believable. Take, for instance, the moment where, having fought for most of the story, Conor and his grandma agree to make peace. It, like much of the book, is awkward and uncomfortable, and we are left in no doubt that there will be many more clashes in the future, but it is finally acknowledged that although they are 'not the most natural fit'4 'we are going to have to learn'5. Whether the monster is real or not is ultimately unimportant, because what overwhelms the book is the reality of Conor's emotions.

Copyright Jim Kay & Walker Books, 2011

The other element of the book that must be mentioned is Jim Kay's phenomenal artwork. Jim Kay won the Greenway Medal, the companion to the Carnegie Medal which is awarded for illustration, for A Monster Calls, the very first time that both awards have been won by the same book, and Kay's win is as richly deserved as Ness'. These are not simple illustrations, adding some nice, but unessential, emphasis to the text, and done away with in later editions. No, these are the soul of the book, establishing and maintaining the raw, gut-wrenching tone in a far more instant, visceral way than even the best writer can. Over half the pages have some detailing on them, and there are nearly fifteen double page drawings, where Jim Kay's magnificent work can take centre stage. I could not imagine the story without them, and I really wouldn't want to try.

Copyright Jim Kay & Walker Books, 2011

A Monster Calls is a superb example of what happens when a simple idea is perfectly executed, and is every bit as deserving of it's Carnegie Medal as The Amazing Maurice. It is a devastatingly powerful work, and one that works best when consumed by total immersion: I read the entire thing in a single, three hour long sitting, and would recommend doing likewise. There is now a soon-to-be-released film (Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMgm20Di9Wg) but so many of the harsh, uncomfortable edges seem sanded down, till what we are left with appears to be a fiery Ent and sentimentalism. This condemnation may prove to be uncalled for, but even an excellent film would have difficulty measuring up to the bleak intensity of Kay's art, the harrowing poetry of Ness' words, and above all, the baton that Siobhan Dowd – to use Ness' metaphor – gave them to run with.


Link to Walker Books where the book can be purchased: http://www.walker.co.uk/A-Monster-Calls-9781406339345.aspx

1 Ness, Patrick. A Monster Calls, Walker Books Ltd. 2011. pp. 73
2 pp. 73
3 pp. 44
4 pp. 209
5 pp.209