“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
“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
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
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
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
“Although my brother, to whom I’m close, asked solicitously what was the matter, I couldn’t tell him. There may no longer be much stigma attached to mental illness, but no one has any time at all for the supernatural.”
Will Self, A Figure of Speech
This is a classic piece of detective fiction, but one that tackles some interesting and quite political issues along the way.
It’s the story of detective Jimmy Perez tracking down the killer of Emma Shearer, who is a live-in help to Robert and Belle Moncrieff and their four kids. She is found hanging in the home of new comers to the island, Helena and Daniel.
It transpires that they have a relationship with her; Daniel had fallen for Emma because Helena is busy with her career as a successful clothes designer, to whom Bella works as a publicist.
There are plenty of other characters – Emma’s sometimes boyfriend Magnie, his bitter Mum Margaret, Christopher the autistic son of Helena and Daniel.
It’s a satisfying page turner but must interestingly, at the heart of the book are some interesting themes:
– Parenting and its impact on children is most central. From Emma Shearer’s abuse as a child to [spoiler alert] the treatment of the teenage killers Charlie and Martha, there’s a moral theme that bad parenting has a clear and detrimental impact on kids. It’s made all the more poignant with the news that Willow is pregnant with Perez’s child, and he is racked with indecision about how to respond throughout the novel.
– The divide between locals and newcomers. Much of Cleeves’ Shetland series teases out the tensions – sometimes explicit, often implicit – between born Shetlanders and English or mainlanders moving in. In this case it’s really clear that local Margaret is resentful of the wealthy incomers who transform the croft of her old lover into a swanky home.
– And I think it’s reasonable to think that Cleeves is sympathetic to the locals’ antipathy, with both sets of incomers wealthy families who treat people with disdain, particularly the snobbish Robert Moncrieff. In many parts of Wild Fire she’s portraying the arrogance of the rich, in particular with Emma treated as a skivy and her death seen by the Moncrieffs as an inconvenience to their otherwise successful lives.
This is a bizarre and unsettling story, what you might call an amorality tale in the fine tradition of Grimm fairy tales.
A man and his wife are desperate for a child, the man saying he’d be happy even if it were a hedgehog. The wife gives birth to a half boy-half hedgehog and they wish it would die, treating him badly until after years they force it to leave on the back of a rooster with just a cow and pig for company.
Hans the hedgehog breeds his animals until he has farm running through the forest, which he eventually offers to the town to butcher where he came from.
He is visited by two lost kings in succession who promise him their daughter’s hand in marriage if he guides them back to their kingdoms – the first lies but the second is forced to honour the promise, and the princess is to marry Hans the hedgehog. But on their marriage he is transformed into a handsome man, no longer part animal, and is reacquainted with his family, bringing his farming success and fortune with him.
What the hell is this about? If there’s anything it’s about it’s being careful what you wish for. The father wanted a child even it if were a hedgehog and so… The first king lied and so missed out on the chance of a successful farmer and entrepreneur having his daughter’s hand in marriage…
It’s also perhaps about purity – that the absolutely pure is not possible. Hans’s parents want a perfect child and are disappointed with Hans, the kings want something better and find that, in fact, Hans is more than he seems.
And it’s about survival, the lengths that people might need to go to in order to survive if they are thrown into the world on their own. The farming, the butchering, the deals, the trades.
But it’s not a morality tale. It’s more complex and intriguing and far less simple than that. It’s amorality maybe.
This is a fantastic book. It’s beautifully written and, most importantly, is maybe the first psychogeography of a rural area that I’ve read.
The book reflects about a decade of exploring the woods, rocks and moors around the author’s West Yorkshire home, Mytholmroyd. It’s focused on a large piece of rock – Scout Rock – which looms above the author’s house, and that he explores every which way. But it covers more than that: wildlife, people, history, landmarks, events and issues of the local countryside.
My liking of it is probably helped by the fact that I live nearby and so know the places he’s talking about – but that said I’ve read similar explorations of particular places that I don’t know (like parts of east London by Ian Sinclair) and loved them too.
The writing style is poetic throughout, his descriptions of the landscape so accurate. He manages to encapsulate the wildness of the countryside at the same time as depicting its connectedness with the people.
What I love about this book most, though, is that it’s the first bit of rural psychogeography I’ve read. There are countless urban examples, especially in London – not surprising given its origins in Paris – but nature and rural writing tends to be very mono, tracing everything back to a history or naturalness, rather than roaming around a locale’s history, geography, philosophy and oral history, as psychogeographers like Ian Sinclair do.
This is a beautifully written tapestry of a novel with a host of characters‘ lives intersecting in the story of the end of modern civilisation and the beginning of a new one, after a flu epidemic wipes out almost the entire world’s population and everything we associate with modern life.
The core character that ties all the others together is Arthur, a famous actor who in fact dies on stage just hours before the ‘Georgian flu’ begins to affect people.
We meet a woman who acted with him as a girl, Kirsten, who two decades later travels the devastated world in a travelling symphony playing Shakespeare and classical music to the scattered townships that have emerged.
We meet Clarke, his friend, who finds himself trapped with a couple of hundred others in an airport on the way to Arthur’s funeral, and makes his post-apocalypse home there, eventually setting up the Museum of Civilisation that collects objects from the old world – iPhones, laptops, medicines, magazines etc.
We meet his ex-wife Elizabeth and son Tyler who are initially at the airport but leave, with Tyler becoming part of a religious cult, one of many, which claim they have answers, that the flu happened for a purpose, and attempt to wrestle control or at least take power, wherever they can.
And we meet Miranda, Arthur’s ex-wife too, who dies early on in the flu epidemic but whose hobby is creating a comic, Station Eleven, which Kirsten has a copy of and which finds its way to the Museum of Civilisation.
What’s the book about? Mostly, I think, the distinction between the contingent and the vital. What we think of as essential are really just the trappings of modern civilisation – air travel, nations, technology, healthcare… yes, no doubt they make life more comfortable – mostly anyway – but they can disappear, and when they’ve gone life is stripped to back to what is vital: human relationships, co-operation, selfishness and selflessness, art, and of course the flourishing of non-human life like animals and flora and fauna. It’s complex and difficult, and the book offers no simple solutions about what matters in our existing civilisation or afterwards, but it’s thought-provoking and haunting in equal measure – and, it’s worth saying, a highly readable if exploratory plot, with characters that you want to know more about even whilst you might not fully like them. Ambiguous and interesting to the last.
“Since I was young I have always wanted to be in the landscape. Not passing through, skirting over or observing it from a distance, but in it. A part of it. Immersed so totally that it scratches the skin and stains the pores. Fills the lungs, the veins, the bowels.”
Benjamin Myers, Under the Rock
“Most writers lead double lives. They earn good money at legitimate professions and carve out time for their writing as best they can: early in the morning, late at night, weekends, vacations…
“My problem was that I had no interest in leading a double life. It’s not that I wasn’t willing to work, but the idea of punching a clock at some nine-to-five job left me cold, utterly devoid of enthusiasm. I was in my early twenties, too young to settle down, too full of other plans to waste my time earning more money than I either wanted or needed.”
Paul Auster, Hand to Mouth
“Fat Charlie was thirsty.
Fat Charlie was thirsty and his head hurt.
Fat Charlie was thirsty and his head hurt and his mouth tasted evil and his eyes were too tight in his head and all his teeth twinged and his stomach burned and his back was aching in a way that started around his knees and went up to his forehead and his brains had been removed and replaced with cotton balls and needles and pins which was why it hurt to try and think, and his eyes were not just too tight in his head but they must have rolled out in the night and been reattached with roofing nails; and now he noticed that anything louder than the gentle Brownian motion of air molecules drifting softly past each other was above his pain threshold. Also, he wished he were dead.”
Neil Gaiman’s brilliant hangover description in Anansi Boys
It’s hard to put your finger on what makes Neil Gaiman’s writing so good – it’s something to do with a gripping plot, shifts between the real and the magical, the likeable characters and, in this book anyway, the fact that things frequently work out for the best in the end.
Fat Charlie is the main protagonist, and it turns out is the son of the trickster god Anansi, which he learns only on his father’s death. He also learns he has a brother, Spider, who is a magical hedonist able to bend people to his will. And what he later learns, after visiting the realm of gods, is that Spider is in fact half of himself, his magical self, separated from him by the gods.
The plot develops after Spider visits Fat Charlie in London and takes over his life, sleeping with his girlfriend, Rosie, and causing problems at his work, with Charlie’s boss implicating him in fraud and money laundering that his boss has been committing for years. It culminates with Fat Charlie, Spider, Rosie, the boss and Daisy, an off-duty policewoman that Charlie has fallen for, all on a Caribbean island for the denouement.
It’s a beautifully plotted and written book, that makes you smile because it’s so good natured, relying on the power of the story and the characters, without stooping to grizzly deaths or sex to keep you hooked. At times it feels a little too nice, a little forced – like the bad things that happen wouldn’t be taken so lightly by the characters, that they would leave their mark more fully – but the sense of otherworldliness allows you to skip over them, just like the characters themselves do.
And there are some great scenes – not least Spider dining in a quiet restaurant with Rosie when suddenly Rosie transforms into a flock of black birds that peck and thrash and attack him, with the apparition of Rosie conjured by a bird woman-god that Fat Charlie has enlisted to get Spider out of his life…
After reading Sarah Hall’s Electric Michelangelo and finding it one of the best and most memorable novels I’ve read, I had high expectations for this.
In some aspects it met them, but in other ways it was less fulfilling as a book.
It interweaves four stories: a woman whose twin has died and throws herself into an affair with a friend’s husband. Her Dad, a famous landscape artist and hedonist, who we learn about while he is stuck on the hills after an accident. An aged Italian artist who is close to death. And a young woman who has lost her sight and finding her way in the world.
There are links between them all, and Hall’s interest is in delving beneath the art, which is what animates much of their lives, to the relationships that make them – the Italian artist to his housekeeper, the woman to her sister, and so on.
At times it’s a little meandering, though the artist and his daughter are well developed characters and gripping to read about, especially as the daughter deals with the death of her sibling and the unexpected emptiness she feels and the chaos that ensues.
But what makes this book is the incredible language. Hall’s style is poetic but without any pretension, her descriptions vivid and ability to connect the reader to the people outstanding.
Compared to the long and thorough story of one person’s life of Electric Michelangelo, I found this less engaging, but it was nevertheless a book with language and style and characters to savour.
This is a book full of life but so much despair and sadness and horror that it’s at times both impossible to put down and hard to keep on reading.
It tells the story of four close friends who meet at university – JB, Malcolm, Willem and Jude. All of them become successful, unrealistically so in some ways (artist, architect, actor, lawyer respectively), but what the book focuses on is Jude’s life.
In his adult life a hugely successful lawyer, as a child he was subjected the most horrific upbringing and abuse – first in an orphanage, then at the hands of Brother Luke, then by Dr Traylor and finally in a children’s home.
He manages to present himself as a success, but beneath it is constant self-loathing, cutting and self-harm and an inability to connect properly with others because he is always holding back what he views as his real – and, he feels, depraved – self.
Eventually, in his forties, he establishes a relationship with Willem that, though hard for him, is the closest he comes to contentment, but which is then ripped apart by Willem’s death. At this point he lets himself go entirely, unable to control his core drives, with self-harm and starvation escalating, and his relationships with JB, his adoptive parents Harold and Julia and friend / doctor Andy falling apart.
This book is so so sad. The length of the book means we get deep into Jude’s psyche and history, neither of which are nice to read, but both of which explain his behaviour, his life. And his life is both, as the book title says, little as he is so self-limiting, but also big because he has experienced more than anyone ever should.
For me, this book made me reflect on two things.
That people of all sorts, even the most apparently successful or brilliant, might be hiding brutal personal truths or emotions or even physical scars beneath the surface of their personality or clothes. It’s obvious but the brilliant, brutal exploration in this book really makes it so apparent.
And second, that despite everything, therapy and time and love will not always allow people to overcome or come to terms with their past and live happily or lightly; sometimes the experience is so horrific that a person’s life is so badly damaged that they can never live without despair, pain or suicidal thoughts hijacking their every moment.
Philosophy of the weird: Life and beyond according to Lovecraft, Ligotti and co
Are we always acting at the will of something beyond our understanding? Are humans an insignificant part of an indifferent world? Is there always an unnamable, uncontrollable part of us ready to emerge at any time?
In this book that I’ll never write I’d explore the philosophical ideas in the work of weird fiction writers, especially Thomas Ligotti and his predecessor Lovecraft.
What we find, in the end, is a philosophy for our times: a pessimistic one for sure, but also one that recognises that far from the lies of democracy and liberalism and secularism, life is often hard, sometimes pointless and mostly out of your control.
Topics and chapters:
– Freedom, determinism and mannequins
– The nature of power and the political
– The unknown, the Real and beyond
– Anti-humanism and existentialism
– The Nietchzean super human and dark power
– Slipping off life’s margins beyond reality
This is the closest thing to traditional writing that I’ve read by Ligotti, but it doesn’t disappoint in its dose of supernatural horror and, in fact, humour.
Frank Dominio is a supervisor at a large corporate; he tolerates the mundane work but despises his colleagues, especially, six supervisors of other departments and their boss Richard, which he dubs ‘The Seven.’
After making a proposal for a new product to The Seven, they conspire against him and he is sacked. Frank plans revenge by visiting a gun shop and ordering seven guns. All very Falling Down. But then, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear, but entail a large black fog and, it seems, a mystical deal, he finds himself in his apartment in possession of supernatural powers.
He uses these to take revenge on each of The Seven, through some bizarre, macabre and disturbing acts. One of the seven finds herself sucked into an oozing substance in a door, for example, while another is trapped inside the body of one of Ligotti’s trademark motifs, a mannequin.
Frank only comes unstuck when it transpires that Richard himself has some supernatural links and that his earlier deal allowed him to kill only seven people; a problem because he had to deal with another office worker during his activities (trapping him in a never-ending series of doors.) To be honest, this results in a slightly weaker ending than I’d have expected, but nevertheless the book remains great regardless.
I love Ligotti’s work – his writing, his ideas, his weirdness – and this book is no exception. In fact, it’s got everything you’d want from a Ligotti story but puts it into a scenario it’s easy to relate to – dissatisfaction with all the bullshit of work – making it in many ways a stronger and perhaps more disturbing read.