If on a Winter's Night a Traveller... (Book Review)

Okay so promise kept, I am reviewing a book I just finished a few days ago, the postmodern novel from 1979 by Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveller. The book -unlike most I'd imagine- is notable for its desire to highlight the artificial nature of what it is. It breaks the fourth wall inherently from the first few lines and continues to do so with abandon: You are the protagonist and you have a story that lies within this story, and many after it. The book inspired the David Mitchell novel Cloud Atlas (which I have reviewed here) and is recognised as one of the greatest pieces of Italian literature of the previous century.

The novel takes us through the reading process, a process we're all familiar with I'm sure, but to see it written down for us at the start of a novel is quite a shell game to play. The narrative revolves around us buying Italo Calvino's new novel If on a winter's night a traveller, and commencing to read as readers often do, which provides a comical glimpse at the unconscious mind when performing such day-to-day tasks as reading. (Have you left the stove on? Sure the front door's locked? Need the toilet beforehand?) It allows us to see how writers write simultaneously as Calvino is able to use his omnipresent voice to highlight the difficulties that the author (himself) went through, in order to write the book we are about to read. He highlights the philosophical side of writing and the idea that the first-person "I" as used by writers is designed in part to include elements of the author's personality. He denotes the very functions of the fictional writing style as if he is telling us how the story has been constructed.

Jittery at first, the novel smooths out its learning curve and we find ourselves in the first of the unfinished stories within the work. In my Cloud Atlas review I included a list of the story halves so as to make the structure appear more accessible and I will do the same for this book, because it's only when seeing it pan out before you, do you really understand the structure:

Chapter 1
If on a winter's night a traveller
Chapter 2
Outside the town of Malbork
Chapter 3
Leaning from the steep slope
Chapter 4
Without fear of wind or vertigo
Chapter 5
Looks down in the gathering shadow
Chapter 6
In a network of lines that enlace
Chapter 7
In a network of lines that intersect
Chapter 8
On the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon
Chapter 9
Around an empty grave
Chapter 10
What story down there awaits its end?
Chapter 11
Chapter 12

I hope the list aids you, but if not allow me to explain. As you start to read the first story, you find it ceases mid-page, a printing error has occurred and so you set out in Chapter 2 to find the rest of the book. You meet a woman named Ludmilla, whom you find has also experienced the misfortune of an unfinished book. The publisher however has seen even bigger problems, the authors' names are getting mixed up, and the novel started was in fact not If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino, but instead was the text belonging to Outside the town of Malbork by a completely different author!

The puzzles increase and over time plot lines are abandoned in pursuit of the next unfinished prose, ravenous reader that you are, and so you seek and travel and hop and jump and explore all over the world until you reach the terminus having not finished a single novel. The point at which you realise that despite all of these stories and all of these grand heroes and heroines writ into the pages, in reality, there was only one protagonist and he was in all of them: He was you.

The book is many things and at the same time it is a single thing, the epicentre of a black hole almost. Is it a crime thriller? A dystopia? A love story? A mystery? Or is it the narrative that we all live and breathe in our lives, not the life of a reader, but of the characters we visualise and live within even for a short while, the books we enjoy and feel inspired by, that make us?

Reading the work provides two perspectives that I touched upon in my article on why writers write. The former is that of the reader, why you read and how we all read, the methods, the distractions, styles and motivations so vast. But more importantly is the latter I feel, not because I write myself, but rather because for all who read the book it will always spark lucidity with the process for those who haven't engaged with it seriously. The book truly makes you consider the writer at the other end of the metaphorical bridge that writing is and how they think, how they breathe life into narratives.

But the best thing about If on a winter's night a traveller... is not the style or even the philosophy behind it, but rather the sheer skill Calvino employs when switching to the stories embedded within the chapters. The voices chatter lifelike, the narratives are truly gripping (just a shame they're never finished!) and perhaps the greatest strength, the fact that you never feel remote when you go into the 'proper' tales; they're no different than any other novel you'd happen across on a shelf in the local bookshop, which makes this Inception-esque journey into stories within your story a perfect delight for a week's reading. A book to read at some point in your life, even if only to marvel at the impressive linguistic footwork- and what a performance it is!

If On a Winter's Night a Traveller (1979)

Hyperion & The Fall of Hyperion: An Omnibus Review

Hyperion (1989) and The Fall of Hyperion (1990) are the first two of four books that together form the Hyperion Cantos. A Science Fantasy work, Simmons through great talent has created a universe entirely believable, yet simultaneously ridiculous, epitomising the Arthur C Clarke law that "any piece of technology sufficiently far-future, is indistinguishable from magic." The influences here are astonishing, drawing influence from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales to Dante's Inferno, taking ideas from Gibson's Neuromancer and mixing it with Military SF akin to Heinlein, all while juggling the story lines that unfold to converge again some time later, in cleverly-constructed plot convolutions. Let's begin with Hyperion.

The first volume takes the structure of The Canterbury Tales and turns it into a sic fi bonanza. A Consul to the planet Hyperion is meeting the other pilgrims accompanying him to the planet's surface in what will be the final pilgrimage to the Time Tombs. The mysterious god-figure, the Shrike, is killing at will and danger looms in the form of the Ousters' force, seeking to control and eventually destroy Hyperion. Meanwhile, the AI political faction aka the TechnoCore, is warring within itself, three factions fighting over the next political step for the human population of the Web, a galaxy of worlds all connected via Farcasters, phased singularities that allow teleportation via wormholes. The pilgrims are: The Consul; a Poet; a Soldier; a Scholar; a Detective; a Templar and a Priest. Their stories are told in succession, the Consul already aware that one of them is an Ouster spy. But who? Is it the Priest, who has witnessed the power of God first-hand? The Soldier, hiding behind his tale of love? What about the Poet, and his ode to the arts, his times of hardship and ancient history a cloak for treachery? The Detective's brush with a dead man who lives once more too extraordinary? The Scholar's tragedy of loss and gravitas too much to suspect? Or is it even the Consul himself?

Science fiction, beautifully constructed, dithers into a personal journal, proceeding to tell tales as far-reaching as the flashing rainbows of the planet they travel towards, switching to voice, to recording, to flashback and flash-forward, to the journey at hand and the conflicts that brew between them as their distinctive personalities clash frequently, and often humorously. A whodunnit, a frame story, a space opera, a political thriller and ultimately, a story of humanity meld together into an enduring work of science fiction of the modern era.

 But the ending is merely the beginning of the end. And so we enter The Fall of Hyperion, a maze of frantic sub-plots that serve to provide a staggered perspective of each character seeing events through different eyes as us, the privileged spectator. We enter a countdown to the war as worlds start to experience it's deadly spread, while each of the pilgrims experiences their own passage through Hell with the Shrike, so akin to Dante's Inferno, while the poetic mythology of the Greek Titans as summed up by John Keats takes on whole new incarnations in the robotic delivery of cyberspace-dwelling AIs. This half of the duology is considerably longer, tying together the convolutions of the previous half so effortlessly that it leaves you breathless as characters who've perished on one page are revived on another, events seemingly certain not always so, making this two-part journey a ride I'll remember for a very long time.

Indeed, for a long time now, science fiction writers have often been scientists themselves: Asimov the roboticist, Niven the mathematician and Wells the biologist spring to mind. But here is an author whose primary expertise and interest lies not in science, but in literature, in philosophy and politics, combining them with a caution-free approach to technology and science, and swapping them for ideas and environments more fantasy than SF, taking components and even names of real people (you may spot the William Gibson references!) and using them at will to exemplify the vast story components in ways that even most accomplished writers would struggle with.

In closing you may think this summation short and sparse given the two books reviewed within; but I disagree, for the Hyperion Cantos is too complex a work to be explained in detail here in order to serve it justice. And in my closing remark on both these tomes I will say read them, and read them quickly, don't put them down and leave it to stew because you will lose the pace. But at the same time don't skim, because it does no such work as this the justice it truly deserves; one needs to see those flashing rainbows, to consider what a lack of magnetic field on a planet would be like to live under, and to sense a shift along the desert floor, a ripple in time itself as a malign God draws near. And finally -to paraphrase Stephen King- I will say that I am in awe of Dan Simmons, for producing a work as original and expertly-executed as this one: A Lord of the Rings of the Science Fiction genre!          

Hyperion (1989) & The Fall of Hyperion (1990)

My New Project

Hi all I hope your summers are going great! I start work in a couple of weeks and since I haven't updated on much in a while I thought I should put something up here. A short while ago I mentioned what my third attempt at a novel would be about and after overcoming a couple of false-starts and inertia-traps, I can say that I have begun this new project at last. As with the previous, the ending has already been written and I will progress towards the inevitable conclusion. I'll upload the Prologue and Chapter 1 here, just as a taster I guess and for something to compare later drafts to. I hope that you enjoy this introduction and I'll write again soon!

From London

The train juddered along the Victorian track and my eyes started to droop lazily. The sky swirled with a liquid slate overcast, ashen and shot through with bullets of sunlight. The evening drew close as the minutes bled from the touchscreen of my phone and the distant streets below burned at a thousand hells fahrenheit. I watched in a sort of numb anticipation from the bridge as a crude molotov sailed through the air a short distant before colliding with a police car and shattering brilliantly. The fire spread along the bonnet as riot police smacked at balaclava-wearing yobs in uncanny silence, none of the sound penetrating the carriage. I noted the probable time I had until the rain would fall again and sighed in a familiar apathy I’ve know since childhood; always raining, always dull. It didn’t help that the train was so crowded. I eyed the passengers to pass the time and tried to calculate the population density. Was it higher than Singapore’s? What about Monaco? I gave up after no more than fifteen seconds. Maths never was my forte. The train’s neon lights undulated as shadows came then went rhythmically through walls and trees, while in-between the flashes I played out the future in my mind like a film commentator. Let’s see now, brain said, the fires will be extinguished before dusk and the sides will retreat and the stalemate will continue till God knows when. I shook my head at the frivolity of it all. The army were due to be called in by the end of the day as the riots were beginning to spread beyond the capital city now; into Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and even into areas of Scotland would you believe it?

“The army’ll sort this lot out,” I turned to see an overweight, middle-aged man clutching a can of Foster’s and tried to ignore him. Always hated people trying to start conversations on a fucking train. What is he, a mate? “Bang ‘em up they will and then we can all get on with our lives again lad.” Probably an uneventful one in his case. I nodded absently in response -unable to resume my foreshadowing commentary- as another bottle exploded like a Chinese New Year and a rioter fell to his knees. Blood was pooling, so I looked away again. Wigan hadn’t been affected by this social plague yet but I knew it was coming; it was time to board the windows, lock the doors and flee for the tranquil hills, constantly being depleted as the fires of political fallout spread in a ravenous hurricane. Not long before it gets to me, I thought sardonically.

I took my eyes off the scene and surveyed the passengers more closely now, who chose to look through me with a kind of fear, cool and unrecognised, almost instinctive. I don’t bite and I haven’t killed anyone, haven’t even harmed so much as a fly but still I attract some funny looks when I walk down the street or into a bank. These people did the same now, but spared looks towards Hell every now and again. I got a feeling that they enjoyed watching the rioters and police collide on the ground while they watched from above, a spectator blood sport of sorts to justify the extortionate ticket cost. Or a new kind of reality TV. It hadn’t even been a week since the election and there was already trouble boiling violently. I didn’t vote for Adam Richardson but knew in my heart that he’d win. People always want change during a crisis, always want a new lot to replace the others so they can sleep soundly, knowing that they’ve done their bit to get things moving again. Disappointed was an understatement for most people in the country, with inflation nearing hyper-inflation, war without peace and politicians without scruples; can’t say I couldn’t blame them to be honest. I’d never really had much of a political mind, but surely during adversity it’d be a good idea to pull together to solve problems? But then accusing the new PM of cheating in an election because 50% of the country voted for him? For setting a new record for most votes gathered, half the country it seemed, reacted like a splitting atom. The explosion was still expanding beneath me.

Some kid tugged at his mum’s dress asking for a sweet. His mother refused harshly. An old man coughed and spluttered into a tissue and some schoolboys chucked crisps and debris at one another in a battle royale, which soon provoked the ire of the ticket collector. I blanked it all out and brought my wallet to eye level and searched for my rail card. I showed it to the man for a second before he left and bounced down the carriage, obviously nervous about not stopping fare-dodgers. Or maybe it was everything below that perturbed him the same way a gun startles an animal within the proximity of a hunting expedition. Cautioning another look down I stared from the window towards a field now level with the train as it disappeared into the distance. A solitary cow grazed, oblivious to the danger. The travellers became a little more lively as we approached a small-town train station and a chance to flex after being cramped like food in a tin. The trees stood tall and the grass rolled out like a carpet. I sat down in a vacated seat once we’d left the hustle behind, still warm from the arse parked there previously. I pulled out a book and began to read. I always found it helped keep me awake rather than send me to sleep and recently I’d taken out a book from the library, worn and loved. It was book by some professor or historian I’d never heard of called The Historical and Sociological Significance of the French Revolution to Class in Contemporary Europe. Don’t really know why I picked it, but the cover was beautiful with its gardens and a small village of quaint French architecture, a remote hiding place for the aristocrats-in-exile; quite appropriate as well, given the troubles. I read my current chapter sluggishly as my mind wandered and my eyes swayed across the words, not paying attention; a broken vacuum cleaner or a snail-pace computer. I put the book away after twenty minutes knowing that I’d just miss important details, cursing myself. I’d never had a good attention span and I was bored now, it didn’t take much. Drifting through life without purpose, and the riots just another chapter in my oh-so-brief existence. I knew from the starlight -I tried to spy it through the thick clouds circling- that galaxies span a million miles a second, even if I couldn’t see them thanks to all the light pollution around these day. The bottom line I suppose was that it all dwarfed my life as if I were a mote of dust riding the breeze until death or the dying of the wind came. We’re all waiting for nature to drop us like a careless mother would her child: It was only a matter of time before time eroded my matter. Good philosophy, I thought, it’s a keeper.

Leaving behind the train journey now, I came back home to a more picturesque location. Wigan’s a surprisingly good night out for most, but it’s also quiet enough for the less raucous amongst us. I didn’t have any friends as such and spent most of my time alone. I wasn’t depressed or crazy because I’ve since seen both those things and know now that I wasn’t it. As I made my way back home that night there were a few townsfolk still wandering the streets. I heard almost excited talk of riots and trouble brewing. They thought it was so far away, almost tantalising them; they all treated it as if it were a game of some kind or an episode of a soap opera. I suppose I did as well and didn’t really know what to think. More fires burned the next day and the army made things worse. The next day on the news I saw soldiers deployed and kitted for war. People in Wigan grew restless as the news showed the rioters spreading up to the midlands and towards the north the way a poison works it’s way to the brain. In light of this Parliament passed an ‘emergency bill’, creating a new Home Defence Act in less than a week. It gave the army what was essentially a shoot to kill order for by this point, Parliament itself was coming under fire. It was all very strange. Richardson wasn’t a dictator of any sort I was sure. Nor were there any of the other MPs on either side of the House, whom I would have suspected as being despots, yet here they were passing a Bill in the best interests of containing the spread of destruction wrought by conspiracy theorists and their equally-violent detractors. I think back now and fondly remember the early days. After the election a group of dissenters were founded and gained swift popularity. They called for a vote recount, but Richardson refused, saying of the protesters that they were making politics out of a serious set of issues requiring immediate attention. And he wasn’t wrong, because a second group emerged to counter-protest the first band. They wanted reconciliation and for everyone to simply quiet down and stop the rabble-rousing. It’s ironic when you consider that -if they didn’t counter-protest- then the riots would not have started in the first place: They gave the anger an enemy to drive at, and a divided nation was what it produced. Death tolls mounted as the army began to diverge from London to all areas of the country. Words like “collateral” became common as new targets such as hospitals and schools were chosen in the escalating panic. The army became an enemy and the streets became unsafe. By this point the original cause for distress had been lost. The rebels were now without, and others groups were starting to emerge: Racists, Nationalists, Libertarians, Communists, High-Tories you name it, came out in attempts to unite and/or divide further for whatever goal it was they had in mind. Richardson was nowhere to be seen any longer as the deaths mounted on his watch. I’d always romanticised the idea of him hiding in some complex labyrinth underground in the catacombs of Parliament, or jetting off to Barbados to enjoy himself and put it all out of mind like a bad dream he was going to wake up from any minute now. I don’t know what happened to him and didn’t care then either, because what else could he do? What could the rest of us do? I didn’t know then and I still don’t, but what I do know is that I want to get out of here, whether there’s a road out or not. So where am I now?   

1: Church: (08:25)

I’m in a church, one that’s dilapidated and dusty. The air chokes me like an invisible throttle, but most of it’s dehydration while my eyes water as best they can in the darkness. I don’t think we’ve got much time left, but time’s almost began to dilate since the destruction reached its crescendo. The walls are decorated with arcane tapestry and a battle rages around the room. It’s the Battle of Maldon (991 AD) I think. 

Aethelred’s men are being scattered by Viking sea-gods in cavalier strikes and sweeps at the battlefield as destruction rains down in storms, of arrow and blade, the hammer of war forging victory for the invaders with every pass. The Anglo-Saxons fire back over the clear, crystal liquid of the River Blackwater to the Viking ranks. Next wall: Men fall to the ground as red hot blood stains the cool green plain and speckles the tiniest grass-plates. Commander Byrhtnoth of the Saxons roars in cries of morale as I feel myself gravitating towards him, across the rippling water and the docked longboats, their occupants massing on the land. Short-swords are splintered and shields are shattered, while blades lacerate and arrows penetrate. Blood, blood… so much blood; I’ve never liked the stuff I realise belatedly, as my head begins to whip around in a maelstrom in my heavy skull:

I imagine dialogue, “Dux Byrhtnoth,” cries a scraggly-haired man, “we’re losing ground.”

He responds a gargled utterance I can’t hear as my eyes flick across the tapestry and silver piles high before the Vikings in opulent hills. A deep voice erupts in my head in a chatter, becoming a row soon after. They talk in what sounds like Old Norse, becoming Old English before turning into a rioting chatter and grumble that I can understand: They’re arguing about taxation. I shake my head, then slap myself lightly; imagining things again- I chastise myself.

It’s quiet in here, which is strange because there’s normally distant gunshots echoing round these parts- gangs and soldiers at war. I’m truly surprised at the general incompetence of the army to be honest. I’d have thought they’d be able to contain everything, but unfortunately they managed to lose a few cities and areas to other groups. Some soldiers -I remember hearing- even went rogue, trying to set up a military dictatorship, can you believe it? They always come out of the woodwork when the time’s right, bigots, despots; the politically dubious in other words. I sigh and kick a piece of stone, it barely budges as the sun glistens on the motes of dust that cascade in the air through stained glass windows. We’ve tried our best to block the broken ones using benches and other bits of furniture, that’s myself and an old fella called Marcus Fish. He’s an elderly guy, never told me his true age, and the vicar of this church; we barely spoke when I arrived last night, damp from the shower of insidiously light rain and dirty from a week of living the slum life under bridges, dunes, in destroyed cars; whatever I can find- I’ve adapted better than I thought I would. He’s been trying to gather survivors for the last three days he’s been living here he said. Only a week ago I was going back home on the tube, and now this- shattered windows and upturned cars; gunshots, screams and even silence rings in my ears at all times of the day horribly, forever anticipating the next bullet that might put a hole through me. The timeline of the destruction’s bafflingly short, as if I’m on holiday to a third-world country in the backwaters of Island Dystopia, or living out an overnight stay in Silent Hill. I piece together the chronology of events, some of it hazy and jarring, feeling like a splinter in my brain: Only two weeks ago- Adam Richardson is elected Prime Minister; One Week ago- riots erupt and quickly spread throughout London; Five Days ago- other groups start to emerge and some coordinated riots are planned throughout the midlands; Three Days ago- train stations such down while the riots spread throughout the rest of Great Britain; Two Days ago- the news stations stop broadcasting as Media City, aka Salford, becomes a war-zone. I don’t know about the other utilities, but I doubt their ability to function at present. Fucking hopeless. 

I sigh again and think about things, stuff, anything I can to pass the time that crawls now that my phone’s battery is exhausted and my charger’s broken. So much tech and so much wealth, meaningless when it’s all wielded by barbarians who’d take us back to the dark ages in a heartbeat. Sigh: I guess they’ve succeeded. 

I flare to life when the large door creaks open and a beam of light cuts through the room like plasma. The wood clanks against the stone walls and a silhouette emerges in my squinting eyes.

“Marcus.”

He coughs. “John, how’ve you been?”

“Fine thanks fine. Any luck?” My question is answered when another two people emerge behind him. Marcus turns and smiles at me, the wrinkles creasing slightly like paper:

“Yes John, we’ve been very fortunate; I found some more people on my travels, don’t suppose you saw them last night?”

I want to wave to them but decide against it as the two arch their heads inwards, a man and a woman- they obviously know one another.

“Can’t say I do Marcus.”

“Well John, these are our new guests. I always think it’s better to share problems with as many as possible, don’t you agree?” He’s got a soft manner of speaking that I’ve found quite relaxing.

“I suppose so.” Not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever given and I’m not even really looking at Marcus, unable to concentrate for some reason; my head feels thick with anticipation as the shadow clears from their figures.

The man stands with unkempt, greasy brown hair, mild stubble and a small nose as sharp as a cliff-face. The woman’s long blonde hair to his left isn’t looking much better, but then again, we’re hardly all going out to buy shampoo these days. A bad hair day pales when you compare it to one of those days when you get shot and your brain falls out in bloody chunks. Her face is smooth and pale-skinned, both are thinner than I am and I’d say she was only early twenties. He was about the same age as me, thirties. Their clothes were dirty like mine and their skinny jeans were holding up well against the concrete and gravel they’d obviously come into contact with. They each had satchels that had seen better days, a water bottle poking out from the man’s like a limb.

“Hi.” My voice is grating today.

They respond in kind while Marcus stands between us. Awkward start.

“So, erm,” I’ve always been lousy at intros, “How’ve you been holding out? You been out there long?”

The man’s eyes are serious. “I’ve looked after myself. Tried looking out for some others too.” The grin that follows creeps me out a little. Unthinkingly I turn to the woman who says:

“I’ve been wandering around Wigan for the past couple of days.” She smiles that smile that boasts a casual denial of what’s going on. We all do it now I think. “Thanks for inviting us in, I would have come around here sooner but the soldiers hadn’t moved yet.”

“Yes I see what you mean,” Marcus replies, “I had to get in here the back way.”

“So what are you called?” The man asks me; a strange way to ask.

“My name’s John. John Yates.” I hold out a hand, he takes it in an iron grip, I’m afraid my fingers might get crushed. “And your’s?”

“I’m Williams, Nick Williams; used to work in a petrol station around here, I’m from Stoke-on-Trent originally.”

“Well,” I trip through my sentence, “It’s great to finally meet some more people that aren’t probably going to kill me.” I smile and turn to the young woman.

“And you are?”

“I’m Holly Yates.” Her voice is softer than wool, of a perfect pitch and her eyes gleam with a depth that hasn’t faltered during the last perilous week, as if harbouring double the personality of any average human, because let’s face it, I think, this Nick’s got the one of a brick. “I’m from Luton, a student living in Manchester. Or was.” She seems a little shy and I find myself taking interest. I examine her hands and see the fingers writhe as the nails click and tap hypnotically. I speak as if tired and drunk:

“What do you study?”

She’s obviously surprised by the question. Way to go John! You’ve probably just freaked her out big time, wanting to get to know her so well-

“I study History.” She isn’t angry with me. “I came here for a night out a few days ago, but the riots started here on the day the trains stopped and I guess I just, watched everything fall apart.”

I nod. “I’m sorry you had to be here.”

She smiles again. “Yeah, same goes for everyone I suppose.”

“But at least you’re safe now.” I look from man to woman and back, settling on Marcus who smiles widely.

“Yes. I’m glad that you both arrived unharmed and hopefully everything will blow over as soon as possible.”

“I don’t see that happening all too soon.” Nick piped up again like a robot calculating outcomes from complex algorithms. He reminds me of some kind of daily nuisance, like a vending machine that won’t take your coin, even if it is the same as the others you’ve just put in. I jump in to stop this drain, he’s a enema sucking life out of the room:

“We don’t know that, and foreign aid’ll come eventually. The world won’t let us just sit here, it’s the twenty-first century!” That’ll show him.

“They’ve no obligation to, especially when all Europe’s like, in money trouble and the Asian nations might take ages to respond.” Shit! He’s got a point.

Marcus restores balance. “But we can survive if we keep out of harm’s way. We’ve got food, defence in this church with its strong stone walls and most importantly, there’s no war zone around here any longer.”

“I agree.” I say.

“But isn’t there a danger that they’ll return?” Asks Holly.

“I doubt it.” I say, but I know I can’t form an argument for it.

“John’s got a point,” Marcus stretches slowly, “They’ve apparently moved beyond here, indicating -I hope- that any reason has gone with them too. Maybe they’ve found another group of thugs to round up.”

My voice becomes a near-whisper. “Or maybe they don’t know we’re here.”

“Yeah, or that I guess.”

As Marcus starts to talk to Holly in hazy utterances my limbs start to unravel. My eyes settle on the vapid Nick, hands in pockets, silent and observant, and the sunlight seeping through cracks takes me back into the tapestry, whirling down a rabbit hole to Wonderland at light speed and-

And I walk along the grass, cool and smooth with morning dew as I ascend the slight bend in the plain only to go downhill again. There’s commotion. There’s a language being spoken but I understand none of it. A dirt road leads into a forest. A horse-drawn cart rolls down it leisurely, the passengers singing in the alien tongue. Water laps against rocks, a fly buzzes in my ear and soon after my heart rate quickens and my balls shrink in terror for a silly moment, so I allow a short chuckle. The sun’s calm and I’m pretty sure that this place isn’t Maldon over a millennia ago. In the dislocation I follow the road back only to see the cart travel into a village, complete with stone architecture in places and a lovely little river snaking outwards through undergrowth and downhill towards the nearest lake or sea. I want to go in. Want to see what’s there and to look inside this village of masterful craftsmanship, what are the residents like? Are they like me? Does Holly live there, writhing her fingers, tapperty-tap-tapping her long, slender nails against beautifully-cut stone? I want to walk to the front entrance and boldly introduce myself before crashing back to reality and realising that I, John Yates, wouldn’t be fitting company to such… What? Have I seen this place before; been here… Brain responds by bringing up an image from the old memory bank, an identical village and soon I remember where this is. It’s in France somewhere and given the time when that book was written (still haven’t returned the damn thing) I doubt that it’s an accurate representation. Still, make-belief’s as good as any right? I’ve imagined sleeping in hotel rooms I can’t afford before; sleeping with women unattainable to me, usually while in the company of my long-term friend Kleenex. I try to run, but my feet weigh me down, lead and concrete, it’s been injected into me. I’m sinking through soil. I’m going to need a little help here, please. Guys? Residents? Nice French aristo types? Please? Hey I’m talking to you! Help me you bastards! The village feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. It’s growing smaller and smaller, running away from me, rejecting me like an exclusive club open only to an extravagant few. The sunlight turns itself off like a lamp and a screen fills my vision:

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IF YOU WISH TO RECTIFY THIS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE LIBRARY STAFF AT THE FRONT DESK TO PAY ALL FINES AND RETURN ALL ITEMS.

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By the time 8:50 rolls around, my contribution rate probably racks up to about 5 words a minute. There’s a makeshift conversation area at the altar of the crucifix, made from a rough circle of benches that Marcus and I dragged out last night. I’ve still not left the village alone, but the others sense none of my disturbance as they discuss their last few days in this Mad Max world of ours. Holly told us about the club she had been to only three days ago, looted along with all the other shops and bars. I remember the trains stopping. Some conductors wanted to disobey, but the army prevented them from doing so. That was a pretty big trigger for the riots around these parts.

“…And so I came out of this cellar and found Holly running, away from something I thought.” Nick turned to Holly as he recounted his tale. Marcus was listening intently.

“Yeah, I was running from a militarised area.” She smiles. “Nearly took a wrong turn.”

“Hmmm, yes it presents some difficulty.” Marcus props his chin up with a philosopher’s fist. “There’s surely a way out of this place, back onto the motorways, out into the open where there’s few people, ability to move between places.”

“Do we have a map?” Heads turn towards me. I don’t realise that I have spoken at first. “Or a phone that actually works, connected to the Internet?”

“No’s” resound, but Marcus’ eyes shine brightly with the glare of a wolf amongst sheep:

“We’ve no working technology?” He glances around to make certain we don’t. “But I think I do have an old map book.”

“Where is it?” Nick wipes dust absently, tracing alien lines on arcane furniture.

“It’s in my old suitcase I hope.” Marcus strains to his feet, “Bear with me.”

The old man rifles through his old, greying case with a meticulous consideration, opening flaps and closing them again methodically. The old thing has tears at its seams and stains from long-forgotten travels mark the fabric, oil and powder like chalk or makeup; a rainbow of history. He pulls out a torch, flicks it on then off again, and pockets it in his old duffle coat. It takes less than minute for him to return, flicking through the ancient pages, creased and stained with coffee rings. He runs his fingers along the roads and eventually comes to the foldout section at the back. He tears it loudly from the card back page, a thinly-veiled shock flashing on all our faces before we realise that the map is unharmed. He thrusts it into my hands:

“Excuse me for a sec.” He walks off again and grabs a small table to put between us all. I look at the mass of colour, the veins of society since run dry, blue for motorways, red train lines snaking through cities written in bold black print. I scan from the northwest downwards to London.

“So this’ll help us?” Nick looks puzzled at the page. Holly joins over his shoulder.

“Might help us plan a general route, but it’s a little too broad to plot journeys.”

“That’s why we’ll take smaller maps, so we can see specifics for each region, as specific as we can find.” Marcus calls over.

I’m transfixed on the roads and don’t look up. “Aren’t we forgetting something?” Although I can’t see them, I know their eyes are pinpointing me like a missile targeting system. There’s nothing new there then. “How do we plot a journey if we’ve no destination? Where would we go?”

A sigh erupts from all of us. The news channels were cut two days ago, just static on TVs now. Ours sits blankly in the corner. An old clock hangs near the altar, a minute to nine ticking away loudly on the clock face. Holly gets up and presses the old ON switch on the set and we all turn to watch, like children being told a story. Springs bounce back and forth and a cracking sound emanates from the plastic.

Static crackles for a few seconds like a snowy mountain explosion before being replaced by a beleaguered newsreader broadcasting from a studio that’s seen better days. His balding head drips beads of sweat as we lean closer, his heavy breathing echoing throughout the cavernous room. It’s 9:00 exactly:

“This is an emergency channel and I carry major instruction from the Prime Minister himself. We are painfully aware that you sit in fear for your lives as we speak.” He scratches his head absently, stress ravaging him like rabid dogs. “But these instructions are of the utmost importance for all citizens across this nation. We urge that you take serious note. Firstly, the past week’s unprecedented events are being contained as best they can by the international community. You may be wondering about foreign aid and wide-scale mitigation of these troubles. Sadly, negotiations between nations have taken days longer than expected and they may take days to come. We understand your plights and our hearts go out to you all. This is why France have agreed to send a single ferry -all they can spare at present they assure us- to dock at Dover. They stress that it will dock for a day only and will have to leave at nine am tomorrow morning. I will repeat: A French ferry will dock within the next hour at Dover, and remain until 9:00 hours tomorrow morning. We hope and pray that you can all make your way there over the next 24 hours, wherever you may be in the country. There will be no official transport to the coast, we are sorry to report. I have been Rob Hornby of the BBC, bringing you this vital message. We urge safety at all times and so have prepared a card detailing the recommended provisions to take with you and instructions to follow. It will remain broadcasted on this channel for the next 24 hours. There will be no further updates during this time. Thank you for listening and I wish you all the best of luck.” The screen flashes off to show a black card with white writing, a male automated voice reading through the items, which include pretty no-brainer stuff; water, food, maps and the like. 

I turn away from the screen and examine slowly three speechless looks, the dronevoice the only noise in the background.

Thank you for reading!

Neuromancer (Book Review)

I have recently finished William Gibson's pre-eminent Cyberpunk novel Neuromancer and can say that it was a brilliant ride. Published in 1984, the novel was critically acclaimed and went on to win all three of the major SF awards (Nebula, Hugo and the Phillip K Dick Award) and became immortalised in the 1990s as computers and the Internet began to take off. With a whole section of the dictionary invented right here, the novel is truly the founder of what would come to be known as Cyberpunk. With neologisms and concepts such as "Cyberspace," "ICE (Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics)" and "the Matrix" used for the first time, such terms became the common go-to words used to identify anything associated with the World Wide Web, leading to a host of "cyber-" prefixed words since then.

The story is extremely fast-paced and involves a great deal of post-modern writing styles, relatable to either Ray Bradbury or Phillip K Dick. The use of rather inventive and sometimes lyrical metaphors latches onto traditions of the 1950s dystopia for Bradbury's case, yet the story never steps into extended metaphors that leaves the reader wondering whether or not something is happening, a la Fahrenheit 451. Barrages of short sentences and rushed dialogue gives us a simulacrum of the hustle of Japan, with Gibson himself once alluding to the idea that "Japan is cyberpunk." The story is noteworthy because of the rather paradoxical protagonist: Case, a "computer cowboy," is an intriguing primary character and once again influenced the entire direction of the sub-genre. Suicidal, drug-dependent and wasting his time brooding over the past, he is yanked into action once again by a rather shifty new employer, yet despite his strong persona in terms of strength of mind etc., he is not -for the most part- like a typical action hero character in the same vein as many other SF heroes (in the novels of Iain M Banks and Alastair Reynolds for example.) It all sounds familiar to the classic 1999 film The Matrix, which Gibson enjoyed by the way, in the sense of Neo being yanked into the world as he doesn't know it, and likewise is living on the fringe of society; unappreciated, lonesome and a petty criminal. Character names also ring similar, with simple nouns used to identify hackers and other computer criminals, who all seem to be dressed in leather (Wage, Zone, Finn and Case to name only a few.) The relations that can be drawn between this book and films since then (even 2009's Inception bares some similarity) are absolutely stunning. That such prescience came inside a book that wasn't the best received by the community upon initial publication is mind-blowing.

The story progresses as one might expect, with Case in a drug-dependent state and -as a result of mycotoxins in his blood- is unable to access the Matrix, a cyberspace environment of constant virtual reality in the Sprawl. The world created is dark and dystopian as hackers and biologically-augmented criminals dwell in clubs and bars in the Chiba City nightlife, beneath the edifices of megacorporations who practically control the world. The sky is described as one of "television static" because in the megacity of The Sprawl, (also the name of the trilogy of books of which Neuromancer is the first,) there is no day/night cycle. His life however is turned around after meeting Molly, whose employer needs his skills as a hacker. From here the story progresses through Case's experiences and conflicts within the group as his drug addiction is cured, but for a price. In order to get rid of the mycotoxins, he must complete the job, but if he doesn't, then the drug addiction will be reversed via biodegradable sacs, and his pitiful life will resume. We slowly learn about the past of Armitage, the employer and of the past of a multinational corporation, whose databanks they are trying to hack. But within the confines of data and between the lattices of information, there awaits an unexpected threat behind the ICE and across the cold nothingness of the Matrix. Given all of this I have proposed two questions:

Is the book primitive? By comparison to today's works, yes.
Has this diluted how interesting it is? Definitely not!

Yes, Neuromancer deserves its place alongside the greats and should be read by anyone who either likes A) Science Fiction B) Dystopian Fiction and finally C) Computers and computing, though I stress that this is not necessarily a hard SF work, it's much more on the soft side and focuses on social implications and character development, as opposed to intrinsic technologies.

In closing Neuromancer is a skilfully-written tale of crime and betrayal, alluding to Orwellian tendencies to such an extent that the press of day hailed it as the next giant leap forward for dystopian literature, even saying that it was a modern day Nineteen Eighty-Four or Brave New World. The dialogue defines the characters, the descriptions stretch the imagination like elastic, and the world is a foreshadowing of what we in the present have now come to experience and realise. A masterful novel written with versatility and aplomb.

Neuromancer (1984) 

Paperback Edition

Updates

Acting as a sort of kick-starter for summer now that my exams are finally over, I thought I'd use this opportunity to hopefully try and get back into the swing of writing. In my last update I explained a plot line for a new novel and so far I have completed the exhaustive plan for the project (the most in-depth plan I have ever written!) in addition to about 800 words of the ending. I've tried writing it in first-person present tense in order to follow in the style of David Mitchell and so far I've liked adapting to the new technique.

My second novel however has also seen some changes. I printed out the entire thing on the university printers (which cost me an arm and a leg) and I have analysed and annotated the prologue and first two chapters. I have rewritten the prologue and chapter 1 and I can honestly say that it looks A LOT better. It's still a little squiffy in places I'll admit and I suppose it does cross my mind every now and then that nothing will ever seem to have improved when I revisit the redraft. But I did spot a Facebook update from someone using a Creative Writing group that I follow, which basically went along the lines of having a specific purpose for every redraft that you do and to know when nothing will ever get better; when "redrafting" becomes merely "tinkering" in other words. So this inspired me to actually attach a meaning to why I am doing what I am doing; what am I looking for in this redraft? Well, the main two goals of this redraft is to get rid of BAD writing, not writing that's necessarily wrong or a grammatical dog's dinner, but writing that's just way too flat and lifeless: There's cringeworthy dialogue in some areas, unsexy sex scenes in others and just awfully written descriptions elsewhere. So far, from what I've read and altered in the first couple of chapters, I think most of the bad description tends to come right at the beginning of the chapters or towards the very end, while around the middle, the dialogue and description seem to flow and weave into one another rather well. Of course it isn't for me to decide, which is why I'll get someone else proofreading for me once I've waded my way through it a couple of times. The second main reason for the redraft is to highlight and consider the major plot points, to make sure that everything links together or that little pieces of dialogue designed to be prescient in some way in fact are.

This leaves me with a bit of a predicament because I've essentially got two projects on the go at once and one of the things about my second novel that was beneficial to me- why I made it through draft 1 so quick, was the fact that I could focus on that and nothing else. I'll be going back home later today and so over the coming weeks (I start my placement in mid-July- more updates on that to come!) I can continue to rise early and write, possibly do alternating days so that I can get most of the third novel written before then (fingers crossed!) while simultaneously keep a firm eye on my second project.

As far as this blog is concerned I will continue to update on things I deem important in the news etc. and I will most likely be documenting my internship on a week-by-week basis. Largely it will follow -I suspect- a professional development tone, less direct than the Carat writing style and one that's much more formal etc., though I don't know the parameters yet regarding the pro dev component of the industry year, so who knows? In any case thanks for reading this update and I will hopefully continue writing in the future and ideally, I'll be uploading shorter works at some stage in the near future.

The Caves of Steel (Book Review)

The Caves of Steel (1954) is a robot detective novel by robotics pioneer Isaac Asimov, focusing on life in a womb-city New York, where everyone lives in populous underground "Cities," with staggering populations into the millions. Political turmoil ripples throughout the metropolis, especially since a man from Spacetown (an off-worlder) has been murdered. Elijah Baley, C-5 Detective, is hot on the case, and he's got a partner who's unconventional, to say the least.

The novel is quite short and spans eighteen chapters, following the exploits of Baley and R Daneel (that's Robot Daneel to us,) on their quest to unravel the conspiracy. A world where the population lives on yeast substitutes; a planet overpopulated to the tune of billions and a galaxy that has seen only limited colonisation provides a dark, rich overtone, filled with possibility and a surprisingly inventive cast of characters. The dystopia of population excess is brought forward with unrelenting skill on Asimov's part, the high technology levels contrasted by the problems it is unable to solve with an irritation that feeds into one's own mind, subconsciously. The problem is ultimately a sociological one, with the society effectively one comprised of luddites, who treat robots as second-class 'citizens' (called the Mediaevalist Movement.) Through this series of political problems, he creates a brilliantly told soft SF narrative, yet nevertheless, thanks to his scientific training, he still manages to offer explanations for the technologies, providing a realistic, hard SF finish to make his world completely believable and -considering that fact that the novel was written over 50 years ago- completely accurate, in the problems that we as a planet are facing currently (food shortage etc.)

The technology is still far future in some areas e.g. speed ramps to increase walking pace instead of a teleport system, whereas in others it is very much contemporary (book-films, for example, akin to tablet computers.) The scenes are often tense and unnerving, the dialogue unbroken and clean-flowing, like a rapid stream undulating with the freshness of spring. As Baley meets dead-end after dead-end we grow anxious as to his ability to solve the murder, and as more and more suspects begin to pile onto the list only to be struck off via a rock-solid alibi, Baley grows furious. The suspects all have their own quirks and traits that make each of them unique in some way or another, which is another strong point to Asimov's writing: His creating characters that share and embody his own personal knowledge of physics and robotics is captivating, to the extent that their explaining the workings of the positronic brain is as compelling as it would be if Asimov had told us himself. The Caves of Steel is a fantastically fast-paced detective thriller, of an almost disturbing prescience.

Thank you for reading this review, but before I leave it here, please also read iRobot because (for those of you who have seen the film,) the original book is very different, to the extent that Smith's character (Detective Spooner) is not even present. That's all for now so thanks again and next week I will most likely be reviewing the book Neuromancer by William Gibson (1984) because, having just started it, I've just realised that I can't put it down!

The Caves of Steel (1997 Pocketbook Edition)

Flatland (Book Review)

The 1884 novella by Edwin A. Abbot is a very popular tome used to demonstrate the laws of mathematics in schools, such is its enduring influence. It has also proven to be a rather pre-emptive piece of fiction, seeing a resurgence in popularity since the SF 'modern era', particularly when concerning more metaphysical forms of SF, such as Cyberpunk in the 1980s-90s.

Yes, a world in which a mundane Square is our protagonist, where class is derived from one's number of sides and where one's woman is but a flat line, perceived simply as a mere dot near invisible; Flatland is not just an account of the perceptibility of dimensionality, but a satire of the inequality that pervaded Victorian England. Featuring a visit from and to other dimensions, our Square learns the nature of the very sinews of reality, to the point at which the sky is the limit of his imagination . . . To the point of imagining a Fourth, Fifth or even a Sixth dimension, he refuses to be dissuaded in his upward geometric spiral, whatever the consequences. This piece of Math-Fi is a very entertaining -if a little primitive read- that is sure to bring new perspectives and make maths fun again. I only wish I'd read it when studying the subject at school!

The book is set in a two-dimensional world of Flatland, a place where ones social status is inferred from their shape, from a lowly Isosceles Triangle through to the Perfect Circle, whose 'sides' are so small as to be imperceptible. In the first half of the novella, the Square demonstrates the geography and compass of the world via wind direction and how their society operates in terms of the government, (controlled by circular priestly beings) and the histories of the land, (such as their brief use of colour and how the Bill allowing its use was quashed.) Flatland rings with a discord of Fascism in this respect, which feeds into the ideologies of the society, particularly in how it views women, which ultimately resonates eerily with the contemporary society during which the book was written. The first half essentially reads like an academic paper akin to the writing seen in H. G. Wells' The War of The Worlds, which is written in the style of a journalist.

The second half sees the book enter the more personal story of Square, who dreams of Lineland (a place of only one dimension,) frustrated by the inhabitant's incredulity at the notion of there being two dimensions to Space. In this sense, the novel is very philosophical and focuses on Solipsism (where one believes reality to exist only in the mind- meaning you are the universe) to a small extent: Within the Square's descriptions rings a visual description, very similar to the writings of philosopher Bertrand Russell, whose Problems of Philosophy I read a short while ago. The book is short overall at less than 85 pages, but contained within is an interesting read as educational as it is entertaining. I'd certainly recommend it to anyone who struggles with maths (particularly shape and space) and to anyone who has trouble with direction; it really helps you to visualise what life would be like without the third dimension and brings back fond memories, of when I played Paper Mario.

The only real problem is the writing style which -being over a century old- has naturally been surpassed several times over by the far more intimate writings of contemporary authors. There are also times when Flatland -excuse the pun- appears flat, especially within the dialogue where a heated argument might take place and someone -rather than go for the snappy 'fuck off'- will of course take us through a rather impotent-sounding squeal of "'...no more will I endure thy mockeries'... And saying these words I precipitated myself upon him." It doesn't really work does it? But it's forgivable given the time period and the maths is interesting (something I never thought I'd hear myself say!)

Overall, Flatland is an insightful read of great prescience and will be sure to entertain even the most resilient 'mathsophobe.' And for those of you SF fans into Cyberpunk, Flatland will be a highly-informative progenitor read, bringing the metaphysical into SF probably for the first time. I hope this review's been useful to you and before I go, please check below to see the link to the Dover-Thrift website (also on Amazon, where I bought the book) because their copy is unbelievably cheap and of a pretty high-quality as well, I might add!

Thanks for reading!

Dover-Thrift Edition

Another Writing Update

As the blog reaches 8000 views since January 2013, I think it's about time I updated on my recent endeavours. Last week I attended the first ever meeting of our university Creative Writing Society. It was very enjoyable with some diverse and interesting pieces written by the founders across multiple genres, from comedy to post-modernism. When participating in these gatherings it really does open your eyes up to many new experiences. For example, given that pretty much every other society member is a student of English or Creative Writing, they of course have a great deal more experience than I do, since they are learning the art of writing through a rigorous system of analysis of classic texts and implementation of such techniques. All is aided I might add by professional texts on the craft, which of course are also available to me via the library, which I guess is where the next step in my professional development as a writer will be. Regardless, we reconvene after Easter over which I am planning a new project! Yes, I have finished a draft 2 of my second novel and -when I return- I'll get some feedback on it. Until then I'm not going to fret over it.

The new project is one I would describe as being a little more ambitious in terms of size and complexity than my previous works. I have been planning it for the past week or so now and I have written a basic outline as well as a mind-map and in addition to these, I felt it appropriate to also write a chapter-by-chapter summary of the story, so that every scene is detailed in some way. The reason for this is because firstly there are four main characters and secondly, because I want the story to be brimming with realism.

The narrative, set in a fairly contemporary England, follows the aftermath of a political fallout. Inspired in part by the riots that erupted across England in 2011, a similar event happens in the story and leaves the country completely destroyed. With hospitals closed, schools destroyed, whole towns razed and soldiers under shoot-to-kill orders, a small group of ordinary citizens wait for a certain doom. Beginning in Wigan, the four strangers become dependent upon one another as they mount a dangerous road to Dover, where a final ship is due to leave for France in 24 hours. In the race against the clock they pass through their former home towns and recount their individual traumas while ordinary problems -such as Type-1 Diabetes- threaten their lives in the dystopia that was once a powerful nation. The story was partly inspired also by the David Mitchell books Cloud Atlas, (which I have reviewed) and number9dream. The influences here surround the secondary narrative set in 1794 during "The Terror" of the French Revolution, where a French Aristocrat attempts to resist the peasants' movement, but learns that they too have a place in society via his loyal Valet.

I hope that this explanation isn't too long-winded, but it is a story I tried to write a few months ago. Sadly I found that it was too ambitious a tale to tell; I simply hadn't read widely enough at that point. But in any case I'm glad to be off for the next three weeks and -once the summer has started- I will write more. Of course I'll hopefully have a year in industry set up by then, so I will accommodate my time to continue reading and writing as much as possible while I am at work.

Thanks for reading guys!

25 Days Later . . .

Twenty-five days ago I wrote a post about a novel-length project I was undertaking and how I was planning to stick to a new writing strategy, detailed in a post before that. This post focused on writing quotas and the optimum time of the day during which one should write, in order to generate the most creativity. The image from the first post is below, showing how many words I had written of the novel thus far (in about 3 weeks.)

Before . . .

I gave myself -as you can see from the image- 25 days to complete a first draft, which I estimated to be at 70,000 words in length (sadly I overestimated this, but plan on fleshing out areas that I feel require such treatment) by writing 2200 words each and every day, as well as reading for at least one hour every day, a hobby that I am sustaining in the quite limited time that I have. Below is a new image that shows my progress.

After!

 I reached the ending -which I had already written- two nights ago, improving some areas and adding some scenes that provided a connection to the rest of the novel, given that when I had written the ending I had began right in the middle of the action, to keep myself interested and then wrote a plan around that before writing forward. I've found this a very useful strategy because when I wrote my first novel (currently in second-drafting stage) I hit walls constantly, and usually found myself subject to Writer's Block. in the entire course of this novel, I'm glad to report that only ONCE did I find myself staring at a blank screen unable to write anything in an evening. To give some context to the great progress this is for me, the post that I wrote announcing the completion of my first novel was entitled "700 Days Later . . ." which just highlights how slow I was, writing from August 2011 to July 2013, when the post was published. I'm also glad to say that as far as writing quality is concerned and plotting, this was a much better first-time effort! Time to improve!

PS. I'm also working on planning long-length ideas so that I don't end up forgetting them as soon as I go to sleep. Some are SF works whereas others are more mainstream (like this one.) I'll update on my work more in the future but until then, thanks for reading!

The Bridge (Book Review)

Iain Banks' third book, published in 1986 (a year before his first Culture novel,) is an interesting journey to say the least, but a vortex of pure artistry at best. A witty, clever read that is genuinely funny and enthrallingly original, fun yet serious and vibrant yet inert. The story follows that of an amnesiac man, trapped in a coma as he tries to discover the hidden secrets of the Bridge, a world that rests on a perpetual suspension bridge between two locations, the full purpose and meaning of which he is unaware of. The story could be described as a comedy, a thriller or a love story all at once, with each part of the novel broken into four chapters, preceded by a 'stage' of sorts such as "Metamorphosis" or "Metamorpheus," charting the journey of three protagonists who represent traditional Freudian psychological concepts, including the ID, Ego and Superego with astounding skill.

The story is not what I'd describe as complex necessarily, but rather grand and encapsulating, fitting together neatly with immense satisfaction. His prose is crisp and the overlap with his Culture novels is quite a treat for anyone who has read his SF stuff, (a barbarian with a knife-missile, now that's original!) with references made to literature and poetry which, to those familiar, also evokes a few laughs along the way. The novel is strange, exciting and the dialogue -as one comes to expect from Banks- is lifelike and seamless and it's from these aspects that I -as a budding writer- have learnt so much. His ability to take the first-person and make him unique and -simultaneously- completely disparate from Banks as the writer is top-notch, which is why I imagine Iain considered the novel to be his best, describing it as "...the intellectual of the family... the one that went to university and got a first."

The protagonists are very different people and their mannerisms reflect this, but some of the best narration comes from the character of the Barbarian, whose Glaswegian voice and dialect is rendered with perfect skill, enunciated with every purposeful mis-spelling and solidified by every utterance, underpinned by ID typicalities found within Psychoanalysis. These chapters chart an unforgettable journey of delightful oddities, brim-filled with humour and socio-political commentary that one can match with Banks' own rather easily, summing up his personal dislike of the Thatcher government of the 1980s, without it taking the centre stage but more to the point summing up anti-Tory sentiments in Scotland generally, both back in those days and still to extents, today.

An exuberant, fantastical ride of the greatest imagination, The Bridge is Banks' ode to the memory and what it feels like to simply forget, and whether or not the dream is in fact better than reality.

The Bridge: 2013 Edition

Cloud Atlas (Book Review)

It's been a while since I reviewed a book but this one deserves such treatment, if for nothing else than the fact that it is truly epic in almost every sense of the word. David Mitchell's 2004 Booker Prize nomination (his second, including number9dream in 2001,) is a collection of six unique novelettes, split up and thrown together in weaving halves, to create a humorous, painful, joyous, light and indeed at times, dark boomerang through time and space, to present to us a magnificent opus, summing up everything good about the written word under the sun. Such plaudits from the press as "A magnificent feast" (The Times) and "An extraordinary narrative" (The Spectator) do not even begin to describe the diversity of Mitchell's stellar writing here, so much so that -as one reviewer pointed out in The New York Times, I think- there's just too much to talk about; but for what I hope will be your pleasure, I will try.

So where do we begin? Well first of all I'll break the story down into its separate chunks so that you can visualise the 'boomerang' of a narrative that takes us to the future and back again:

1- The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing (set in the 1800s)

2- Letters from Zedelghem (set in the 1930s Belgium) 

3- Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery (set in the US 1975)

4- The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish (set in contemporary England)

5- An Orison of Somni-451 (set in a Corpocracy in North Korea some time in the near future)

6- Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After (A far-future dying Earth narrative)

5- An Orison of Somni-451 (Conclusion)

4- The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish (Conclusion)

3- Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery (Conclusion)

2- Letters from Zedelghem (Conclusion)

1- The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing (Conclusion)

And ss you can see, the narratives offer something of a variety in their titles alone, but within each is a rich language, crafted and broken apart by Mitchell's talented hand and it is in the tranquility of the Pacific that we begin this awesome journey. The story here focuses on a man of the not-so-long-ago-formed United States, a man of letters writing of his experiences living amongst the tribes constantly at war with one another. His voice in the diary -almost a series of letters sent to us- carries with it a truly encapsulating tone and idiolect that reflects the time period in which is was supposedly written, so much so, that Mitchell has managed to create a very authentic account that, if it were not a work of fiction, could find itself in a museum as a historical artefact. What makes this narrative portion particularly interesting is that whenever swearing is presented in reported speech, Mitchell cleverly makes use of dashes to convey the fictitious author's opposition to what was at the time seen as much greater taboo than is the case today, with this idiosyncrasy also present when reporting statements that take the Lord's name in vain, again reflecting the time period with a consistent and unrelenting skill. This is the first microcosm of what the novel attempts to convey, that firstly, man tries to gather too much power over others to the extent that it consumes him and secondly, that history is connected and will repeat itself again and again.

We see the first example of the latter moral of the tale in the second story, set in the 1930s Belgium. An aspiring musician from Cambridge by the name of Robert Frobisher is seeking to work with a famed composer in the chateau of Zedelghem. This story is similar to the last, written not as a series of journal entries but rather a series of letters sent to an enigma named simply as "Sixsmith." He tells us of his life and times within the family of the composer, the feud with his spoiled daughter of the aristocracy and his affair with her mother, trying to keep himself scarce as he struggles and triumphs over the music he is creating, while at the same time is requesting of Sixsmith (we never see his letters of response) a rare book of historical significance named The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing. This story is one of conflict, feud, class, struggle and ultimately romance and it's effects on trust, which is again another cleverly-constructed example of how humanity is consumed by the power it seeks. An amazing feat that had already taken us forward in time and across the globe, we move on from the drama of Frobisher's musical life towards the political turmoil of nuclear power in the 1970s America.

This is the first real shift in the narrative where the writing is more orthodox, written like any other thriller, with short chapters and fast-paced scenes that rarely stop to give us a pretty picture of the world through the eyes of the protagonist, a journalist by the name of Luisa Rey. Half-Lives is probably one of my least-favourite sections of the novel, not because of any particular gripe but rather down to my personal taste for the other areas (my personal favourite being Zedelghem.) But nevertheless, the genre writing here is equally compelling as it had been previously, with the whole novel almost being written in quite short chapters, but those chapters taking different forms that make the whole work utterly unique, whether they be the short book-like chapters as seen here or letters sent to and from parties as seen previously. But above all else, this section is where the true meat of the end-game of the narrative, (chronologically ending mid-way through the work) comes into play: The rise to power of the corporation, which leads us to the next section of the novel where the cliff-hanger leaves us gasping for more as the air of suspense is whipped away from us at the last minute and instead is replaced by . . .

The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish. Tim's story focuses on a more lighthearted narrative that pokes quite tame fun at the grumpy old man stereotype, whilst taking us through a surreal story of a very strange kind of prison, which I will not spoil for you. The interesting thing about this is that -like how we met the character of Sixsmith in Half-Lives as an old man, we see the story of Luisa Rey in manuscript format, as our character thinks about it lying around amongst his possessions, casting a critical eye over the writing, wondering whether or not he should publish it. The character of Cavendish is revealed within his speech, with his dialect crisp and attitudes life-like, which makes him a marked contrast to Luisa and the characters before her, which begin to make this growing ensemble an interesting lot indeed. But the main selling point within this story is the humour. Humour at the stereotype conforming and then dismantling, humour at the predicaments of the characters and humour at the characters he meets on his journey, which came under fire by some critics with some arguing from a perspective of inconsistency. Me, well, I think personally the story was helped a great deal by this portion, because nobody wants to read a novel with such bleakness throughout every passage, which is why the comic relief was almost a signpost for me, an encouraging spark of light at the end of the tunnel, which forced me to carry on and in doing so I wound up in-

An Orison of Somni-451. While I feel as though I should point out that there is no connection other than the number to Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit-451, there is indeed a genre overlap. The story is the first of two to be set in the future, a place known as 'Nea So Corpos' where clones are used in fast-food restaurants to serve the ignorant 'pureblood' populace. The story is told via a series of interview questions about a revolution asked by an archivist and directed at Somni herself, who was shown the light and as a result became sentient. This story is very interesting due to its use of almost Orwellian prose, with brand names becoming nouns for the very things in which they are dominant -an extreme form of brand eponyms: Brands used include fords (cars,) nikes (shoes) and exxon (oil or fuel,) which really heightens the sense of where power lies within this society, with suggestive cues such as describing the logo of the fast-food restaurant (known as 'Papa Sans') as golden arches, an obvious jab at the ubiquity of McDonalds. As a marketer this particular story was interesting for those reasons, though as a piece of the puzzle, the story interestingly relates to Cavendish's story via Somni seeing a film of his predicament, which takes us (mid-way through the interview and a sentence being formed!) to a land in the unfathomable future, where the world has descended into barbarism and primitivism: Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After.

This final story is the only one not to be broken mid-way through and focuses on a tribe of mountain-folk. The story is told in retrospect and is written in the dialect of the speaker both in his own reported speech and in the narrator's voice, occasionally broken when he asks for a drink of water etc., making everything seem so much more real. This is where the novel became somewhat tedious however, since the dialect of our narrator here speaks akin to Cletus from The Simpsons, his speech littered with apostrophes marking the purged letters and rendering this read a little difficult. However, I urge you to press on, because the story leads us through to Somni again, and through her, we arrive at Tim, carrying us back further to Luisa who throws us back even further until we wind up back at where the sentence was broken mid-way in the first story, that of Adam, who tells us of his final exploits and while at the end of each of our characters' lives, we come across death, humour and despair in equal measure, Cloud Atlas leaves us not with a burdened heart, or bored mind, but with hopeful eyes for the future. With Adam's final ponderings laid bare in his cataclysmic diary, contemplating the bright future that mankind might have, he sums up the great need for solidarity so that we learn to trust in our fellow companions through life, no matter what their denomination of us, making this time-spanning journey all the more beautiful; in all a brilliant read that contains something for everyone, and even more for those who can clearly see that the whole of this Atlas, is a book that is much greater than the mere sum of its pages. As the Times' review said, the book is a masterful feast, a banquet of literary cuisine and all I can say is that I'm sorry for arriving late.

Cloud Atlas (First Edition)

February Update

Just a short post to provide an update on my writings, namely a novel that I began only 2-3 weeks ago. My last post on this stated that I was some 15,000 words into the first draft and that I had a 2000 word-a-day quota in order to get it finished. Well, it is currently some 30,500 words in length at present, which puts me at just over a third of the way through, nearing the halfway mark. It is in light of this that I have set myself -taking my daily quota into account- until February 28th to complete the work. I will update on this when that time arrives!

Can I do it?

My Latest Endeavours

A week ago today I uploaded the prologue to a novel yet to be completed. Since then I have written a general outline and a plan for that novel, and since then I have written the first 2 chapters, the project currently clocking in at around 14,700 words, which is quite impressive given that I only started writing this project 7 days ago. Although back in November/December 2013 I wrote the ending to this particular project, I didn't re-start it from the beginning until a week ago now, which is what brings me to the crux of this post. I've often wondered how novelists are able to write a full book, edited and shelved, within a single year (of course they already have a publisher and agent most likely, plus experience etc.,) which is when I thought about an experiment.

Writing Order

You see, when I wrote SKYSCARR (began August 2011, finished the first draft July 2013,) I already had an idea for the ending in mind and had also sketched out the entire storyline just as I've done with this new project, but this time I made a slight twist that I think has made a great difference: To write the ending first! Now this of course is only mildly different to what I had previously done with sketching the outline and therefore describing the progress of the narrative, but alas, this is not very effective for me and I will tell you why. The reason, I believe, is not so much to do with story progression, but rather character development, because when you write that final chapter there is the final product right in front of you, the character living and breathing as I want to see him in the end, his responses to the situations as I wanted to see him and everything that I would otherwise look forward to, over and done with.

Yes, I know, I've squashed the primary anticipation of when the story ends -I hope- rather poignantly, but this is but a small price to pay for keeping a clear head as I make my way through the novel, which I think makes one stay on track, to keeps one's wits about the story so as to not make shortcuts that might otherwise ruin the story and crush the excitement as a result of lazy, sloppy writing, because the writer was focusing too much on the endgame. Always remember folks that if you write badly to begin with and the novel's dry and stale, then why should a dear reader stay with you from chapter 1 through 20. Just a thought.

Writing Quotas

Yes, yes, all great writers have 'em: Stephen King writes at least 2000 words a day, and doesn't leave his computer till it's done. Iain Banks did a similar thing, writing on average for about 3 months max to get a first draft finished and many other writers all do similar things, following day orders and to-do lists almost, shuffling down the road to a novel's completion. When writing my first novel I didn't use any such things, which lead to me hitting a wall from time to time, periods where I'd not write anything for a month! This problem has been addressed as well because I've set myself a quota of 2000 words per day and have been keeping to it, in addition to my new year resolution of reading for at least an hour per day. This is why I've managed to write over 10,000 words in next to no time; it doesn't take a genius after all to note that 2,000 words every day in a 7-day week equals 14,000 words. That's pretty much a short story completed, two weeks later (28,000) we're talking novelettes and the week after that of course taking us over 40,000 words, which is technically where a novel-length work begins. Given these simple mathematical sums, we can therefore deduce where exactly a novel will end if we keep to that quota. To apply that to my new novel would mean that -given a target draft length of 70,000 words- it woulds in theory take a little over a month to write on this schedule, which is a hell of a lot shorter than doing the same in 2 years.

Writing Time

Of course I realise that writing big amounts is foolish unless it's any good, which is what second drafts are for, but it's good to think that the first draft can be over and done with very quickly because the clock is always ticking after all. But the final point that I will address is time; when are creative juices flowing optimally? When should one put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and bash out that quota. Well several months ago I spied an article on this (in either the Mail or Guardian I think) where the thesis was to write during the morning when the creative juices are -apparently- flowing optimally, citing George Orwell as an example, who -according the article as I remember it- often wrote first thing in the morning, sat in bed with his typewriter upon his lap. I've been trying this as of late, going to bed at 12:30am and rising at 6:30-7:00 am and I have found it a great help; in fact, I think has become my favoured strategy. What I do is quite simple. Write 1000 words, at least, first thing in the morning, taking time to read what I wrote yesterday to tidy up any superficialities like spelling etc. Then what I do is go about my daily routine and when I'm fully awake -in the afternoon or evening for example- I tidy up what I wrote in the morning -apparently writing when still half-asleep leaves you with quite a few typing mistakes to correct- and move on to complete my second 1000 words. This is soon followed by my reading for the night (currently Cloud Atlas & i-Robot) which totals into at least one hour.

Now of course one has to remember that I am but a lowly student whose life is inundated with work and textbooks to read and assignments to complete, which is partly the reason why I write in the morning so early, because it still leaves me ample time to print, write and read things associated with my course, which can itself offer some inspiration from time to time. Ultimately I thought that I should share this change in tactics and use it as an addendum to my post on writing uploaded on January 13th. I hope that both serve you well!

Thanks for reading.