“This premonition of violence made little rational sense, and yet it came to me too easily, almost as if placed in my mind by outside forces.”

Jeff Vander Meer, Annihilation

The Gallows Pole – Benjamin Myers

A vivid and gritty fictionalised account of the hardness of rural life and a band of criminals that were fighting authority and causing misery in equal parts. Absorbing reading.

This is the true story, with some grounded but fantastic fictional embellishments, of the Cragg Vale Coiners, a group of farm workers and rural labours in eighteenth century northern England who made money clipping coins and forging them into counterfeits.

Led by David Hartley, they made money, fought the law and the coming industrialisation, made some people better off and others less so. They were a gang whose activities threatened the authority of the king and the law.

For this reason local lawman William Deighton and wealthy solicitor Robert Parker, with the aid of James Broadbent, a dim and unlikable mole in the Coiners gang, go after them. It doesn’t end well for Deighton, but Hartley is arrested, sent to prison and hung in York, and the Coiners are disbanded.

It’s a gripping story, but perhaps the most remarkable feature of this book is the writing style. Vividly written, the descriptions of the wildness, the untamed, nature of rural life make this book stand apart. I wonder if Myers’ writing is one of a new approach to writing about the countryside, one which focuses on the hardness and wildness of the land, rather than it’s beauty. I’m thinking, too, of others writers, most notably Fiona Mozley, author of Elmet. For them the countryside isn’t twee or privileged but rough and lawless and hard.

Unlike historical fiction, the book’s written in a very modern tone, in the way that farm folk might speak then and now. This is interweaved regularly with extracts from David Hartley’s prison dairies, which are written in a phonetic English dialect, with words that are spelled as they sound, something which is initially off-putting but soon becomes accessible and amusing. His semi-poetic ramblings offer a different perspective to that of the narrator too, which raises questions of reliability – of narrators and of historical records.

David Hartley himself is presented as an ambiguous character: occasionally Robin Hood like, occasionally someone to admire for their enterprise, but often mean and greedy and crude and dangerous, rather like a modern day gang boss might be portrayed. In fact, he comes across not unlike the kind of man that Nietzsche praises in his work – someone beyond conventional morals, who is unconstrained by norms and laws, who strives to live a remarkable life, who isn’t resentful even after being caught. As Hartley puts it in one of his diary entries:

“These are not the werds of a man turned sower with regret and if I had another chance id do it all the same again but bigger and better.”

“James Broadbent said this and then began to chuckle quietly to himself. But it was laughter without a smile… it disguised something ugly and damaged; a harlequin’s mask worn askance.”

Ben Myers, The Gallows Pole

Marshland – Gareth E Rees

This book is many things – it’s place writing, its memoir, it’s local history, it’s weird fiction, it’s psychogeography, it’s political. It’s the kind of book I’d like to write.

It begins on a personal note (though whether this is a fiction I’m not sure about now) with the author wanting some space away from his family, and so he explores the marshes near Hackney and Walthamstow with his dog. He walks, he occasionally talks to people, and gets inspired and starts to learn more about the area, digging out local stories and histories.

There’s no set pattern, but what Rees does often in this book is give us a chapter of walking mixed in with history, followed by a piece of fiction, often of a weird or speculative nature, that has come from that bit of history.

There’s a brilliant bit about a couple of nineteenth century industrialists based in the marshes, Hazlehust and Whipple, which he then takes forward in time to the twenty first century marshes where they are confused and then confronted by a group of east London teenagers who are amused at these anachronistic dandies in front of them.

In another section, Rees talks about how during the Second World War people would, contrary to the popular myth of bravery, run from their houses to the marshes to evade German bombing raids, and then follows his imagination to a story about a whole class of people living out in the marshes, rebelling against a technology-run London, to whom people would come to touch and see tangible, non-electronic items from the not-too-distant past.

There are some strong political themes to the book – land ownership and the commons, the city and its edges, technology and nature, dystopia and the always unfinished nature of the world. But there’s so much more than this too.

It’s in the tradition of JG Ballard interspersed with John Gray and Ian Sinclair and Benjamin Myers and so many others. I can’t speak highly enough of this original, fun and thought-provoking book.

“This is the way of the city. London is a palimpsest. Industrial sites overlay agricultural ones. Sites of commerce replace those of industry. Private regency gardens become public parks. Public spaces become privatised. Abandoned factories, power plants and sewerage systems are transformed into museums, galleries and recreation zones. Schools become mezzanine apartment blocks. High street banks become betting shops. Pubs become flats. Churches become pubs. Everything is overwritten, eventually. There is no final draft of London.”

Marshland, Gareth E Rees

The Call of Cthulhu – H P Lovecraft

Brilliant supernatural horror that evokes an unnamable darkness at the heart of human being.

It’s written as an excerpt from the journals of Francis Thurston who himself is learning of a terrifying revelation through the papers and journals of his recently deceased uncle. The uncle had come across reports of an unsettling incident and set out to uncover what was going on.

Through information from an artist, Wilcox, he had discovered that for a period of three weeks or so artists all over were tormented by twisted dreams and visions. And from information from other sources, a police inspector, Legrasse, who reports of a cult who worship unnamed beings and a sea voyage at the same time as the artists lost their minds that resulted in the death of nearly all the crew members after stumbling across unspeakable and indescribable creatures on a hidden island.

Through his investigations, Thurston finds that these unconnected incidents may have been caused by the emergence of The Great Old Ones , powerful supernatural beings that appear to have been been worshipped by cults for millennia and were in the world long before humans. They are dangerous, shapeless, only part matter; they are monsters that have been largely buried, but through shifts in the earth re-emerged causing torment to some.

The tense and formalistic style is incredibly powerful in this story; it makes it all the more compelling because it implies the narrator is straight, educated, that everything in him wills not to believe, and yet be begins to.

Interestingly, I’ve done it the wrong way round and read Thomas Ligotti before Lovecraft, but the similarity is so strong: the formal writing style, the focus on description, the gradual and subtle unravelling of a truth that is worse than gore.

Whet stands out most, though, is the idea of the Cthulhu that animates this – a dark, unnamable, unspeakable, monstrous power that has been hidden from most humans save a few cults for most of our existence. It’s perfect supernatural horror.

There is in fact a long tradition in European philosophical thought of an unspeakable and horrifying other inside, that Lovecraft’s Cthulhu might be said to embody. From the fear and trembling that Kierkegaard documents when confronted with life to the Real in Lacan, an indescribable part of our psyche beyond our comprehension and language which occasionally bubbles up and affects us.

On a societal level thinkers like Arendt and Freud have pointed to the founding violence on which civilisation and modern states are built, with the remainders that didn’t fit made invisible and unnamable, but with their presence occasionally making itself felt in surprising and uncontrollable ways. One way to interpret the Cthulhu is precisely this – the hidden partially suppressed other on which human civilisation depends.

“Mayakovsky could never have retired to the country to write poetry about raising cucumbers… he needed literature to be a form of action or work, just like fighting in a war or building a railroad.”

Elif Batuman, The Possessed. Adventures with Russian books and the people whole read them