'But perhaps the most formally sophisticated rebuttal to fascists comes in the unlikely form of Chuck Tingle’s queer absurdist science fiction erotica'But perhaps the most formally sophisticated rebuttal to fascists comes in the unlikely form of Chuck Tingle’s queer absurdist science fiction erotica. Tingle has often parodied the far right: he created a fake version of Breitbart.com that included the “Top 5 Alt-Right Basements,” and after Trump was elected he went on a mission to reverse this “timeline mistake.”'
Wow, a really important eye-opener on how the alt-right has appropriated SF's 'licence to imagine' as an ideological and epistemological affirmation of 'white' technoscientific supremacy. Um, the Terminator as an ubermensch? Interstellar as promoting Aryan cultural superiority throughout TIME???
Carroll rightly points out that SF has always been vulnerable to being hacked by extremists and reactionary ideologues, simply because that's how the genre started out.
It’s how reasonable fans respond to such misguided incitement that will be the true test of the genre's continued relevance, readability, and appeal to a global audience.
Review to follow ... should have taken a star off for the many typos and sloppy editing in the first half. But this really wrongfooted me just when I Review to follow ... should have taken a star off for the many typos and sloppy editing in the first half. But this really wrongfooted me just when I thought I knew where it was headed. A 'modern' SF novel that riffs off Paul McAuley, Kim Stanley Robinson, and Frank Herbert in a phlegmatic manner quite typical of South African SF....more
I was reading this book while watching the Netflix docu series Trump: An American Dream. In the fourt'We need to talk about the elephant in the room.'
I was reading this book while watching the Netflix docu series Trump: An American Dream. In the fourth and final episode entitled ‘Politics’, it is suggested that Obama’s roasting of Trump at the 2011 White House Correspondents’ Dinner was the final trigger to make the Donald run for office, as this was the sort of humiliation and embarrassment that he could neither forget nor forgive.
Up to that point, Trump had been rather coy about his presidential ambitions. It is also notable that Trump first used the slogan ‘Make America Great Again’ on 7 Nov 2012, the day after Obama won against Romney. So was Obama inadvertently responsible for priming America’s greatest nemesis, akin to a superhero origin story where the good guy inadvertently gives rise to evil?
The great value of Mary Trump’s book is, indeed, the light it shines on Trump’s own origin story – not in the sense of his personal mythopoiesis, but in the broader sense of his family relations and personal life.
All the facts here are overly familiar to anyone with a passing interest in Trump, and these do read like filler sections of the book. The writing only really sparks or presents a real sense of urgency when his niece presents her psychological insights into her uncle’s behaviour – and what a withering gaze it is.
You can sense the anger simmering beneath the surface of the page, but it is a coolly controlled rage only allowed expression in a current of black humour and acerbic wit that runs throughout like a pulsing vein.
I honestly wish Mary Trump had been allowed more time to flesh out the book, and also to give us more insight into her own character and role in the family. Surely she is as much an ‘enabler’ as everyone else she slags off, especially as she is only ‘coming out’ now, as it were, in order to ‘save democracy’.
That is quite a burden to place on such a slim book, of which 30% of the Kindle version is an index that only the publisher’s lawyers could have derived any benefit from. I do think it is an important book in that it cogently summarises everything the world has suspected about Trump to date – his cognitive problems, his lack of empathy, his narcissism, etc. – as well as issuing a dire warning about the upcoming election.
It is highly unlikely that Trump will go gently into that good night, and there are already ominous signs that he intends to destabilise the US to the point where (a) an election cannot be held as per normal or (b) where the outcome is in danger of being contested.
This was certainly not a happy reading experience, and I found it hard to judge if Mary Trump indulges in too much ‘doom and gloom’ blues. The picture she paints of the Trump household is one so dysfunctional that it seems almost Dickensian.
While Mary Trump manages to control her feelings with steely determination throughout, which is perhaps why it is such a grim and pervasively dark read, her composure slips at a crucial point. Here she allows emotion to trump her own clinical distance:
I can only imagine the envy with which Donald watched Derek Chauvin’s casual cruelty and monstrous indifference as he murdered George Floyd; hands in his pockets, his insouciant gaze aimed at the camera. I can only imagine that Donald wishes it had been his knee on Floyd’s neck.
Merged review:
'We need to talk about the elephant in the room.'
I was reading this book while watching the Netflix docu series Trump: An American Dream. In the fourth and final episode entitled ‘Politics’, it is suggested that Obama’s roasting of Trump at the 2011 White House Correspondents’ Dinner was the final trigger to make the Donald run for office, as this was the sort of humiliation and embarrassment that he could neither forget nor forgive.
Up to that point, Trump had been rather coy about his presidential ambitions. It is also notable that Trump first used the slogan ‘Make America Great Again’ on 7 Nov 2012, the day after Obama won against Romney. So was Obama inadvertently responsible for priming America’s greatest nemesis, akin to a superhero origin story where the good guy inadvertently gives rise to evil?
The great value of Mary Trump’s book is, indeed, the light it shines on Trump’s own origin story – not in the sense of his personal mythopoiesis, but in the broader sense of his family relations and personal life.
All the facts here are overly familiar to anyone with a passing interest in Trump, and these do read like filler sections of the book. The writing only really sparks or presents a real sense of urgency when his niece presents her psychological insights into her uncle’s behaviour – and what a withering gaze it is.
You can sense the anger simmering beneath the surface of the page, but it is a coolly controlled rage only allowed expression in a current of black humour and acerbic wit that runs throughout like a pulsing vein.
I honestly wish Mary Trump had been allowed more time to flesh out the book, and also to give us more insight into her own character and role in the family. Surely she is as much an ‘enabler’ as everyone else she slags off, especially as she is only ‘coming out’ now, as it were, in order to ‘save democracy’.
That is quite a burden to place on such a slim book, of which 30% of the Kindle version is an index that only the publisher’s lawyers could have derived any benefit from. I do think it is an important book in that it cogently summarises everything the world has suspected about Trump to date – his cognitive problems, his lack of empathy, his narcissism, etc. – as well as issuing a dire warning about the upcoming election.
It is highly unlikely that Trump will go gently into that good night, and there are already ominous signs that he intends to destabilise the US to the point where (a) an election cannot be held as per normal or (b) where the outcome is in danger of being contested.
This was certainly not a happy reading experience, and I found it hard to judge if Mary Trump indulges in too much ‘doom and gloom’ blues. The picture she paints of the Trump household is one so dysfunctional that it seems almost Dickensian.
While Mary Trump manages to control her feelings with steely determination throughout, which is perhaps why it is such a grim and pervasively dark read, her composure slips at a crucial point. Here she allows emotion to trump her own clinical distance:
I can only imagine the envy with which Donald watched Derek Chauvin’s casual cruelty and monstrous indifference as he murdered George Floyd; hands in his pockets, his insouciant gaze aimed at the camera. I can only imagine that Donald wishes it had been his knee on Floyd’s neck....more
I loved this book. It is one of those novels that transcend their subject matter to become a universal statement, in this case about death and loss. BI loved this book. It is one of those novels that transcend their subject matter to become a universal statement, in this case about death and loss. But it is about so much more: regret, the inexorable march of age, the power of memory.
There is a wonderful scene towards the end where Barry Grooms undresses before a mirror for a merciless (re)appraisal of his mid-forties physiognomy. At this stage he is involved in a rather torrid but sexually satisfying (and, needless to say, short-lived) affair with a 24-year-old. “I stare at the beauty that comes automatically bundled and unappreciated with youth. I can’t be this anymore.”
What a brave and beautiful thing to say. It is probably a revelation as fraught with self-discovery as coming-out is in the first place. Sadly, it is also an epiphany that a lot of older gay men fail to experience.
There is another evocative scene towards the end when Barry discovers that his older friend Shorty is gay, from a generation where “men couldn’t always live openly together”. By the time the gay 90s arrives to sprinkle everyone liberally with fairy dust, people like Barry are already in their 60s. “An old man who likes other old men just makes people nervous.”
The book begins with Barry’s long-term partner being crushed to death in his parked car when a crane collapses at a nearby construction site. At the time he has their two pugs with him in the car. It is a macabre touch that allows Rodney Ross to explore the random, often baroque ordinariness of lived experience.
It is also the lead-in to a key scene at the end – just why was his partner parked there at that particular time? The (older gay) reader automatically thinks he was there for some kind of lurid pet-friendly assignation, and Ross certainly plays on this stereotypical perception. The truth, however, is far more prosaic and shattering. It is a delicate, pitch-perfect scene that had me crying like a baby.
You have to be careful when you write about sadness and loss: too much, and it quickly becomes maudlin; if the author is too flippant, it can become equally grating. Ross strikes a perfect balance, detailing Barry’s painful journey towards acceptance of his irrevocably altered life. There is one particular event that shapes this journey: when his mother becomes ill, and Barry realises she was already sick when he himself was grieving, but had wanted to spare him this additional worry.
Tender and painful at times, but always heartfelt and brimming over with the sheer unalloyed joy of being alive, this is a truly special book.
Merged review:
I loved this book. It is one of those novels that transcend their subject matter to become a universal statement, in this case about death and loss. But it is about so much more: regret, the inexorable march of age, the power of memory.
There is a wonderful scene towards the end where Barry Grooms undresses before a mirror for a merciless (re)appraisal of his mid-forties physiognomy. At this stage he is involved in a rather torrid but sexually satisfying (and, needless to say, short-lived) affair with a 24-year-old. “I stare at the beauty that comes automatically bundled and unappreciated with youth. I can’t be this anymore.”
What a brave and beautiful thing to say. It is probably a revelation as fraught with self-discovery as coming-out is in the first place. Sadly, it is also an epiphany that a lot of older gay men fail to experience.
There is another evocative scene towards the end when Barry discovers that his older friend Shorty is gay, from a generation where “men couldn’t always live openly together”. By the time the gay 90s arrives to sprinkle everyone liberally with fairy dust, people like Barry are already in their 60s. “An old man who likes other old men just makes people nervous.”
The book begins with Barry’s long-term partner being crushed to death in his parked car when a crane collapses at a nearby construction site. At the time he has their two pugs with him in the car. It is a macabre touch that allows Rodney Ross to explore the random, often baroque ordinariness of lived experience.
It is also the lead-in to a key scene at the end – just why was his partner parked there at that particular time? The (older gay) reader automatically thinks he was there for some kind of lurid pet-friendly assignation, and Ross certainly plays on this stereotypical perception. The truth, however, is far more prosaic and shattering. It is a delicate, pitch-perfect scene that had me crying like a baby.
You have to be careful when you write about sadness and loss: too much, and it quickly becomes maudlin; if the author is too flippant, it can become equally grating. Ross strikes a perfect balance, detailing Barry’s painful journey towards acceptance of his irrevocably altered life. There is one particular event that shapes this journey: when his mother becomes ill, and Barry realises she was already sick when he himself was grieving, but had wanted to spare him this additional worry.
Tender and painful at times, but always heartfelt and brimming over with the sheer unalloyed joy of being alive, this is a truly special book....more
Wow, another stellar tor.com novella by the author of Autonomous. Subtle, character-driven world-building in a brief tale that immerses you in its strWow, another stellar tor.com novella by the author of Autonomous. Subtle, character-driven world-building in a brief tale that immerses you in its strangeness and sexiness. Wonderful.
Merged review:
Wow, another stellar tor.com novella by the author of Autonomous. Subtle, character-driven world-building in a brief tale that immerses you in its strangeness and sexiness. Wonderful....more
If you like short-form genre fiction, tor.com now has a fantastic option whereupon you can subscribe and receive a bimonthly ebook containing everythiIf you like short-form genre fiction, tor.com now has a fantastic option whereupon you can subscribe and receive a bimonthly ebook containing everything published on its website for that period. The website has quickly established itself as a leading publisher of genre fiction that pushes boundaries, and which also gives up-and-coming writers a fantastic platform to reach a wider audience. I looked for this compilation on Goodreads, but I see that all of the tor.com novellas are listed as standalone titles. Ah well, at least that is going to boost my reading target … I love the fact that SF/fantasy still actively promotes short-form fiction, to the extent that if you want a good barometer of the state of these genres, you just have to read Lightspeed, Asimov’s, and tor.com, among others. ‘The Book of El’ by John Chu continues in the vein of excellence that has distinguished the tor.com line-up for so long: delicate, bittersweet, with just a hint of otherworldliness, and such a deft grasp of those quotidian details that make characters pop off the page.
Merged review:
If you like short-form genre fiction, tor.com now has a fantastic option whereupon you can subscribe and receive a bimonthly ebook containing everything published on its website for that period. The website has quickly established itself as a leading publisher of genre fiction that pushes boundaries, and which also gives up-and-coming writers a fantastic platform to reach a wider audience. I looked for this compilation on Goodreads, but I see that all of the tor.com novellas are listed as standalone titles. Ah well, at least that is going to boost my reading target … I love the fact that SF/fantasy still actively promotes short-form fiction, to the extent that if you want a good barometer of the state of these genres, you just have to read Lightspeed, Asimov’s, and tor.com, among others. ‘The Book of El’ by John Chu continues in the vein of excellence that has distinguished the tor.com line-up for so long: delicate, bittersweet, with just a hint of otherworldliness, and such a deft grasp of those quotidian details that make characters pop off the page....more
The second story in the tor.com Jan-Feb ebook collection. It takes a particular kind of chutzpah for a writer to turn a common-day occurrence like somThe second story in the tor.com Jan-Feb ebook collection. It takes a particular kind of chutzpah for a writer to turn a common-day occurrence like someone dying from cancer into the subject matter of a speculative piece.
There is perhaps nothing less speculative than a lingering death from an aggressive form of cancer. A friend of mine’s mother has Stage 4 cancer, so when I began reading this, I almost stopped, as it was too close to home.
But then I thought: what is the purpose of fiction if not to take the ephemeral thread of both life and death, and to weave it into the magic of Story, so that we may live forever in each other’s thoughts and memories?
At first glance, the idea of an alien host that metastasises with its human host, in order to create a symbiont that guarantees extended life for both, appears appallingly horrific. Bear applies surgical precision to this idea to pick out the repercussions and consequences, some obvious, others banal, others shattering in their transgressive redefinition of love and grief, in a complex story about the nature of relationships.
Another hugely impressive entry in the tor.com fiction line-up, which seems to raise the bar with everything it publishes.
Merged review:
The second story in the tor.com Jan-Feb ebook collection. It takes a particular kind of chutzpah for a writer to turn a common-day occurrence like someone dying from cancer into the subject matter of a speculative piece.
There is perhaps nothing less speculative than a lingering death from an aggressive form of cancer. A friend of mine’s mother has Stage 4 cancer, so when I began reading this, I almost stopped, as it was too close to home.
But then I thought: what is the purpose of fiction if not to take the ephemeral thread of both life and death, and to weave it into the magic of Story, so that we may live forever in each other’s thoughts and memories?
At first glance, the idea of an alien host that metastasises with its human host, in order to create a symbiont that guarantees extended life for both, appears appallingly horrific. Bear applies surgical precision to this idea to pick out the repercussions and consequences, some obvious, others banal, others shattering in their transgressive redefinition of love and grief, in a complex story about the nature of relationships.
Another hugely impressive entry in the tor.com fiction line-up, which seems to raise the bar with everything it publishes....more
Turns out that goodness is often light-sensitive. Turns out that darkness leaves all of its windows open and makes lullaby out of everything. Turns ouTurns out that goodness is often light-sensitive. Turns out that darkness leaves all of its windows open and makes lullaby out of everything. Turns out there’s a duality in everything
I would definitely recommend reading the ‘Author’s Note’ first, as Brandon O’Brien gives a very moving and well-considered account of how he came to ‘embrace’ the work of generally-not-a-nice person HP Lovecraft, whose numerous endearing qualities included having a cat named ‘Nigger-Man’ (catnip for meme makers on social media, of course).
Still, O’Brien notes that Lovecraft is “one of science fiction’s most well-known authors”, “an otherwise talented and creative hand in the genre, and we credit him on the expansion of an entire subgenre mythos that science fiction and horror still reveres to this day.” He points out: “The conversation is a challenging, bitter thing.”
Instead of erasing Lovecraft from the genre’s collective memory, O’Brien points to the highly potent “deliberate reimaginings” of Victor LaValle (‘The Ballad of Black Tom’) and Matt Ruff (‘Lovecraft Country’). It is clear that ‘Can You Sign My Tentacle?’ falls into this category of contemporarising and re-energising Lovecraft for the ‘new world’.
But just as we have monuments like the Yad Vashem World Holocaust Remembrance Centre in Jerusalem as a cautionary reminder of the depravity of humanity, O’Brien’s poems also indicate that Lovecraft should be both a reminder and a warning.
He states that “Science fiction is a radical genre, but that fact is a neutral one.” One just has to recall the Rose Tico backlash sparked by The Last Jedi and the Sad Puppies right-wing anti-diversity voting campaign at the Hugos to realise how the spirit of Lovecraft, unrepentant and unreformed, is very much alive in our supposedly enlightened genre and world. Live long and prosper my ass, especially if you’re black or gay in the wrong part of the planet.
The wonderful title and cover art made me think that this would be some Rocky Horror Picture Show ‘Monster Mash’, but this is a surprisingly diverse, quite dark and often really lovely collection of poems that will stay with you for a long time. I suspect not all of them will speak to everybody’s lived experience, but anything that manages to combine Cthulhu with hip hop has to be pretty fucking fantastic in my book.
My personal favourites:
because who she is matters more than words The Metaphysics of a Wine, in Theory and Practice time, and time again drop some amens
Merged review:
Turns out that goodness is often light-sensitive. Turns out that darkness leaves all of its windows open and makes lullaby out of everything. Turns out there’s a duality in everything
I would definitely recommend reading the ‘Author’s Note’ first, as Brandon O’Brien gives a very moving and well-considered account of how he came to ‘embrace’ the work of generally-not-a-nice person HP Lovecraft, whose numerous endearing qualities included having a cat named ‘Nigger-Man’ (catnip for meme makers on social media, of course).
Still, O’Brien notes that Lovecraft is “one of science fiction’s most well-known authors”, “an otherwise talented and creative hand in the genre, and we credit him on the expansion of an entire subgenre mythos that science fiction and horror still reveres to this day.” He points out: “The conversation is a challenging, bitter thing.”
Instead of erasing Lovecraft from the genre’s collective memory, O’Brien points to the highly potent “deliberate reimaginings” of Victor LaValle (‘The Ballad of Black Tom’) and Matt Ruff (‘Lovecraft Country’). It is clear that ‘Can You Sign My Tentacle?’ falls into this category of contemporarising and re-energising Lovecraft for the ‘new world’.
But just as we have monuments like the Yad Vashem World Holocaust Remembrance Centre in Jerusalem as a cautionary reminder of the depravity of humanity, O’Brien’s poems also indicate that Lovecraft should be both a reminder and a warning.
He states that “Science fiction is a radical genre, but that fact is a neutral one.” One just has to recall the Rose Tico backlash sparked by The Last Jedi and the Sad Puppies right-wing anti-diversity voting campaign at the Hugos to realise how the spirit of Lovecraft, unrepentant and unreformed, is very much alive in our supposedly enlightened genre and world. Live long and prosper my ass, especially if you’re black or gay in the wrong part of the planet.
The wonderful title and cover art made me think that this would be some Rocky Horror Picture Show ‘Monster Mash’, but this is a surprisingly diverse, quite dark and often really lovely collection of poems that will stay with you for a long time. I suspect not all of them will speak to everybody’s lived experience, but anything that manages to combine Cthulhu with hip hop has to be pretty fucking fantastic in my book.
My personal favourites:
because who she is matters more than words The Metaphysics of a Wine, in Theory and Practice time, and time again drop some amens...more
What a wonderful surprise this book turned out to be. I have never read Steven Erikson before, and was blissfully unaware of his credentials in the HiWhat a wonderful surprise this book turned out to be. I have never read Steven Erikson before, and was blissfully unaware of his credentials in the High Fantasy genre (the Malazan Book of the Fallen series, which I might actually give a whirl if Erikson’s world-building is as good as it is here).
This book reminded me immediately of Longer by Michael Blumlein, in that it represents certain facets about SF that I love, and which repel other readers. Both of these are novels of ideas, and in Erikson’s case, it is also a novel of talking heads.
There really is no way around this one. Yes, writing teachers always say ‘show, don’t tell’, and there is a remarkable array of secondary characters in Erikson’s book that viscerally illustrate the impact of the First Contact event on the planet and its already highly-fractured society.
A lot of these characters are evoked wonderfully, with just the right quirky detail to make them jump from the page. Others are painted with broader strokes, such as the US and Russian presidents, who are clearly based on their real-life counterparts (I think this book was published originally last year). Erikson has a ball here, and lays into these titular political figures with a real vengeance.
His US president, in particular, is foul-mouthed and dim-witted, and inadvertently quite funny. The venture capitalists and other representatives of the ruling world order do not fair well either. It is clear that Erikson is (kind of) paying homage to the more political-type SF of Ken McLeod and Iain M. Banks.
The latter is referenced quite often (the first instance is quite a heart-breaking reference to Banksie’s untimely death from cancer). His Culture series was based on the economic concept of post-scarcity, which is the idea that goods can be produced in abundance with minimal human labour required, which means they become available to all and sundry either very cheaply or even freely.
Back to the talking heads. In the first few pages, an infamous Canadian SF writer (who is also a highly-opinionated vlogger, and famously staged a slanging match with Margaret Atwood at a convention) is abducted by aliens while walking down the main street of town. Literally, a UFO appears, and a beam of white light zaps her into the beyond, much to the consternation of her doctor husband.
She spends the bulk of this nearly 500-page book in a little white room in space, debating the human condition with an omniscient AI, and whether or not she will agree to be the aliens’ spokesperson and address the planet about what is termed the Intervention. The latter has five stages, and so the book itself has five parts.
While this sounds like the worst kind of McGuffin on which to base a book of this size, Samantha August is such a compelling character that her verbal jousts with the AI are truly fascinating and quite on the money. (This is SF, after all, a genre often unafraid to tackle contemporary socio-political issues with the clarity and incisiveness they deserve, particularly given the obfuscation and downright mendacity of both politics and big business).
Indeed, what I loved about the book is that it is also a love letter to the SF genre itself, not to mention bad Hollywood movies about first contact. These always seem to equate this momentous event with alien invasion. Hence they are often set in the US, depicted as the only nation with the necessary backbone and military might to kick alien ass.
Erikson has great fun with the idea that SF writers are the heroes of the moment, feted by the high and mighty to give their advice on the aliens’ inscrutable tactics. Robert J. Sawyer appears as himself, giving politicians hell. The much-loved Prime Directive from Star Trek is also grilled.
(Star Trek makes quite a critical appearance towards the end in a way that is genuinely laugh-out loud funny). Savvy genre readers will spot a lot of additional references and nods to famous works and people.
I enjoyed this book so much that I was even prepared to forgive the cliffhanger ending, with Erikson clearly relishing stopping his story literally in the middle of the action (yes, there is action towards the end, when the talking is finally done).
Genre fans seem to think that only SF writers can write SF. When literary writers like Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro or Margaret Atwood dabble in SF or fantasy, it is somehow seen to be non-genre (with the mainstream writers often dissing the genres anyway, to much hand-wringing from the fans).
Erikson clearly comes into the SF fold as an outsider, as he is mainly seen as a fantasy writer. Then again, there are lots of examples of SF writers turning to fantasy – Richard K. Morgan and Kameron Hurley spring to mind.
Genre fans are surprisingly parochial. Given such distressing recent events as the Sad Puppies right-wing anti-diversity voting campaign at the Hugos, not to mention the toxic fandom impact on The Last Jedi, they can also be quite narrow-minded.
It takes a great writer like Erikson to jump into the SF sandbox with wild abandon, and produce something so wonderful and unexpected that it reminds us, both forcefully and gratefully, of the true saving grace of genre.
Merged review:
What a wonderful surprise this book turned out to be. I have never read Steven Erikson before, and was blissfully unaware of his credentials in the High Fantasy genre (the Malazan Book of the Fallen series, which I might actually give a whirl if Erikson’s world-building is as good as it is here).
This book reminded me immediately of Longer by Michael Blumlein, in that it represents certain facets about SF that I love, and which repel other readers. Both of these are novels of ideas, and in Erikson’s case, it is also a novel of talking heads.
There really is no way around this one. Yes, writing teachers always say ‘show, don’t tell’, and there is a remarkable array of secondary characters in Erikson’s book that viscerally illustrate the impact of the First Contact event on the planet and its already highly-fractured society.
A lot of these characters are evoked wonderfully, with just the right quirky detail to make them jump from the page. Others are painted with broader strokes, such as the US and Russian presidents, who are clearly based on their real-life counterparts (I think this book was published originally last year). Erikson has a ball here, and lays into these titular political figures with a real vengeance.
His US president, in particular, is foul-mouthed and dim-witted, and inadvertently quite funny. The venture capitalists and other representatives of the ruling world order do not fair well either. It is clear that Erikson is (kind of) paying homage to the more political-type SF of Ken McLeod and Iain M. Banks.
The latter is referenced quite often (the first instance is quite a heart-breaking reference to Banksie’s untimely death from cancer). His Culture series was based on the economic concept of post-scarcity, which is the idea that goods can be produced in abundance with minimal human labour required, which means they become available to all and sundry either very cheaply or even freely.
Back to the talking heads. In the first few pages, an infamous Canadian SF writer (who is also a highly-opinionated vlogger, and famously staged a slanging match with Margaret Atwood at a convention) is abducted by aliens while walking down the main street of town. Literally, a UFO appears, and a beam of white light zaps her into the beyond, much to the consternation of her doctor husband.
She spends the bulk of this nearly 500-page book in a little white room in space, debating the human condition with an omniscient AI, and whether or not she will agree to be the aliens’ spokesperson and address the planet about what is termed the Intervention. The latter has five stages, and so the book itself has five parts.
While this sounds like the worst kind of McGuffin on which to base a book of this size, Samantha August is such a compelling character that her verbal jousts with the AI are truly fascinating and quite on the money. (This is SF, after all, a genre often unafraid to tackle contemporary socio-political issues with the clarity and incisiveness they deserve, particularly given the obfuscation and downright mendacity of both politics and big business).
Indeed, what I loved about the book is that it is also a love letter to the SF genre itself, not to mention bad Hollywood movies about first contact. These always seem to equate this momentous event with alien invasion. Hence they are often set in the US, depicted as the only nation with the necessary backbone and military might to kick alien ass.
Erikson has great fun with the idea that SF writers are the heroes of the moment, feted by the high and mighty to give their advice on the aliens’ inscrutable tactics. Robert J. Sawyer appears as himself, giving politicians hell. The much-loved Prime Directive from Star Trek is also grilled.
(Star Trek makes quite a critical appearance towards the end in a way that is genuinely laugh-out loud funny). Savvy genre readers will spot a lot of additional references and nods to famous works and people.
I enjoyed this book so much that I was even prepared to forgive the cliffhanger ending, with Erikson clearly relishing stopping his story literally in the middle of the action (yes, there is action towards the end, when the talking is finally done).
Genre fans seem to think that only SF writers can write SF. When literary writers like Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro or Margaret Atwood dabble in SF or fantasy, it is somehow seen to be non-genre (with the mainstream writers often dissing the genres anyway, to much hand-wringing from the fans).
Erikson clearly comes into the SF fold as an outsider, as he is mainly seen as a fantasy writer. Then again, there are lots of examples of SF writers turning to fantasy – Richard K. Morgan and Kameron Hurley spring to mind.
Genre fans are surprisingly parochial. Given such distressing recent events as the Sad Puppies right-wing anti-diversity voting campaign at the Hugos, not to mention the toxic fandom impact on The Last Jedi, they can also be quite narrow-minded.
It takes a great writer like Erikson to jump into the SF sandbox with wild abandon, and produce something so wonderful and unexpected that it reminds us, both forcefully and gratefully, of the true saving grace of genre....more
Transcendent, gore-soaked third volume in Glen Duncan’s werewolf/vampire series is a magnificent conclusion, but also takes the series to a whole new Transcendent, gore-soaked third volume in Glen Duncan’s werewolf/vampire series is a magnificent conclusion, but also takes the series to a whole new level. Duncan takes a bit of a risk here in that he slows his breakneck plot down with the introduction of the 20 000-year on-again, off-again love affair between Remshi and Vali, and the couple’s mysterious link to Talulla.
However, it is a risk that pays off handsomely, with Duncan pouring some of his most incandescent writing into the tale of these star-crossed lovers. Twilight, True Blood, Anne Rice, all take note: this is how you do inter-species romance properly, with sufficient gravitas and eroticism, but also a healthy meta-appreciation of the absurdity of the genre’s constraints, so you are able to transcend them.
We also have the successor to the World Organisation for the Control of Occult Phenomena (WOCOP), the Catholic Church’s Militi Christi vigilante hit squad thrown into the heady brew of the plot, plus the mysterious Olek secreted away in a converted ashram in India, convinced he has found the ultimate cure for what ails a fallen world.
If you have not read Duncan before, this is definitely not the place to start – best begin with The Last Werewolf. For the up-to-date reader, Duncan does subtly reiterate some plot arcs of the preceding two novels at crucial points. Given the gonzo, Grand Guignol way the plot erupted in Talulla Rising, I left scratching my head as to how Duncan would resolve the mess in the third volume. Suffice it to say, he is in total control of his material here.
Technically, Duncan is a master of both splatter and psychological horror. There are jaw-dropping set pieces here of quite stunning depravity, and then long lyrical stretches of painful beauty. I especially loved the way he works Robert Browning into the plot, which of course will be familiar to fans of Stephen King, but Duncan’s take on the Childe Roland story is much deeper that what King attempted with his Dark Tower series.
Merged review:
Transcendent, gore-soaked third volume in Glen Duncan’s werewolf/vampire series is a magnificent conclusion, but also takes the series to a whole new level. Duncan takes a bit of a risk here in that he slows his breakneck plot down with the introduction of the 20 000-year on-again, off-again love affair between Remshi and Vali, and the couple’s mysterious link to Talulla.
However, it is a risk that pays off handsomely, with Duncan pouring some of his most incandescent writing into the tale of these star-crossed lovers. Twilight, True Blood, Anne Rice, all take note: this is how you do inter-species romance properly, with sufficient gravitas and eroticism, but also a healthy meta-appreciation of the absurdity of the genre’s constraints, so you are able to transcend them.
We also have the successor to the World Organisation for the Control of Occult Phenomena (WOCOP), the Catholic Church’s Militi Christi vigilante hit squad thrown into the heady brew of the plot, plus the mysterious Olek secreted away in a converted ashram in India, convinced he has found the ultimate cure for what ails a fallen world.
If you have not read Duncan before, this is definitely not the place to start – best begin with The Last Werewolf. For the up-to-date reader, Duncan does subtly reiterate some plot arcs of the preceding two novels at crucial points. Given the gonzo, Grand Guignol way the plot erupted in Talulla Rising, I left scratching my head as to how Duncan would resolve the mess in the third volume. Suffice it to say, he is in total control of his material here.
Technically, Duncan is a master of both splatter and psychological horror. There are jaw-dropping set pieces here of quite stunning depravity, and then long lyrical stretches of painful beauty. I especially loved the way he works Robert Browning into the plot, which of course will be familiar to fans of Stephen King, but Duncan’s take on the Childe Roland story is much deeper that what King attempted with his Dark Tower series....more
The first thing that captures your attention is that rather brash title, How Quini the Squid Misplaced His Klobučar, which apart from being intriguingThe first thing that captures your attention is that rather brash title, How Quini the Squid Misplaced His Klobučar, which apart from being intriguing contains quite a bit of information. Perhaps the keyword is ‘misplaced’, which seems odd, as this is a heist story about liberating the last-mentioned work-of-art from the tentacles of Quini, an underworld-type figure modelled on a stereotypical African-South American druglord-cum-arms-smuggler.
If you think I have given too much of the plot away, fear not … The surface gloss of this hugely entertaining, fast-paced caper hides a lot of sly misdirection and subversion. This includes a lovely twist on gender involving one of the heist members – and if you’re one of those hidebound readers who feel that SF is selling out to political correctness, do not worry your pretty head, for this is not a PC sop but is instead integral to the ending.
Prior to reading this I had not heard of Rich Larson, but was so impressed that I have his short collection Tomorrow Factory and his first novel Annex lined up to read as a result. Apart from the flashy, hip cyberpunk and neat twists and turns, there is a really nasty, seedy streak that runs like a fault line through the middle. And all of that in a mere 40-odd pages?
I read online that Rich Larson was born in Galmi, Niger, has lived in Canada and Spain, and is now based in Prague. Which kind of explains why his SF feels like a European art movie that subverts the tropes of a traditional Hollywood blockbuster, while celebrating these tropes at the same time.
It is a difficult balance to pull off, and can backfire spectacularly in the wrong hands, but Larson knows the nuts-and-bolts of SF and how to bend its structure to his own anarchic vision. He is one of those firecracker writers likely to go off in any direction, but who demands to be followed for the light he throws in the darkness.
Merged review:
The first thing that captures your attention is that rather brash title, How Quini the Squid Misplaced His Klobučar, which apart from being intriguing contains quite a bit of information. Perhaps the keyword is ‘misplaced’, which seems odd, as this is a heist story about liberating the last-mentioned work-of-art from the tentacles of Quini, an underworld-type figure modelled on a stereotypical African-South American druglord-cum-arms-smuggler.
If you think I have given too much of the plot away, fear not … The surface gloss of this hugely entertaining, fast-paced caper hides a lot of sly misdirection and subversion. This includes a lovely twist on gender involving one of the heist members – and if you’re one of those hidebound readers who feel that SF is selling out to political correctness, do not worry your pretty head, for this is not a PC sop but is instead integral to the ending.
Prior to reading this I had not heard of Rich Larson, but was so impressed that I have his short collection Tomorrow Factory and his first novel Annex lined up to read as a result. Apart from the flashy, hip cyberpunk and neat twists and turns, there is a really nasty, seedy streak that runs like a fault line through the middle. And all of that in a mere 40-odd pages?
I read online that Rich Larson was born in Galmi, Niger, has lived in Canada and Spain, and is now based in Prague. Which kind of explains why his SF feels like a European art movie that subverts the tropes of a traditional Hollywood blockbuster, while celebrating these tropes at the same time.
It is a difficult balance to pull off, and can backfire spectacularly in the wrong hands, but Larson knows the nuts-and-bolts of SF and how to bend its structure to his own anarchic vision. He is one of those firecracker writers likely to go off in any direction, but who demands to be followed for the light he throws in the darkness....more
Coming to terms with being gay, and the death of an estranged brother, and the impact of both on family dynamics, all set in a series of homophobic, pComing to terms with being gay, and the death of an estranged brother, and the impact of both on family dynamics, all set in a series of homophobic, patriarchal, and violent US-Mexico border towns, might seem too much for a slim volume like this to bear. But these poems are exquisite, hefting their weight of grief and sensuality with tenderness, beauty, love, and rage (often all combined). [If you are interested in the technicalities of poetry, check out the Poetry Foundation review, which explores Amparán's syllabics, delicate imagery, and use of the imploded villanelle, which 'accelerates traditional refrains through the use of vertical line breaks.']...more
Laugh-out-loud funny take on an apartheid era South Africa secret space programme to colonise a habitable moon with the Volk. However, the addition ofLaugh-out-loud funny take on an apartheid era South Africa secret space programme to colonise a habitable moon with the Volk. However, the addition of the Angolan War 'bossies' character Stefan also makes this a probing look at generational trauma and its impact on Afrikaner identity and ideology up to today. Latimer pokes a lot of fun at the lofty pretensions of space (de)colonisation and Afrofuturism. These are 'Afrinauts' (with black Springbok on their spacesuits) ... not 'Afronauts'. Of course, 'The Space Race' is a double entendre....more
I was looking for information about Jamie Uys, in particular ‘The Gods Must Be Crazy’ (1980), and stumbled across this remarkable treasure trove by MaI was looking for information about Jamie Uys, in particular ‘The Gods Must Be Crazy’ (1980), and stumbled across this remarkable treasure trove by Martin Botha. He states that the book is the outcome of 30 years of personal research. South Africa’s great documentary film tradition dates back to 1896 and the Anglo-Boer War. Botha laments: “Only a few books have been published regarding the history of one of the oldest film industries in the world and one of the largest in the African continent.” Between 1910 and 2008, as many as 1 434 features were made in South Africa, of which 944 were shot from 1978 to 1992. “South African film history is captured in a mere 13 books,” adds Botha. This is one of them. Let’s hope Botha updates this volume by including the impact of digital cinema, streaming models, and changing finance models....more
Exquisite. Every Joburger needs to read this, and experience the beauty and brutality of this incredible city through Ivan and Minky's eyes, as well aExquisite. Every Joburger needs to read this, and experience the beauty and brutality of this incredible city through Ivan and Minky's eyes, as well as its vibrant spirit of community and resilience....more
‘I can label my uncertainty about the future and my shifting sense of self as symptoms of the democratic transition, or decolonisation, but that doesn‘I can label my uncertainty about the future and my shifting sense of self as symptoms of the democratic transition, or decolonisation, but that doesn’t make it feel any less painful to let go of a dream, to think maybe all my idealism only gets in the way. Why does it matter so much to me how this country fares, how my generation contributes? I am not the story of white South Africa or childhood trauma or homophobia. I am not a symbol or a microcosm or a sociological experiment. This is my life. It is particular and individual. It’s the only one I’ll ever get.’
This is a magnificent, ‘relentlessly gay’ novel, as John Updike said of Alan Hollinghurst, a criticism which Alistair Mackay references. Updike added that Hollinghurst was ‘boring’ to boot, which is certainly not the case with ‘The Child’, a fast-paced Bildungsroman where forgotten, or hidden, childhood memories emerge in flashes during therapy sessions, while the main protagonist (first person, unnamed(view spoiler)[Until literally a blink-if-you-miss-it instant on the final page, which is Mackay’s way of saying to the reader: ‘Have you been paying attention?’, as well as an indication of how much of a close reading this relatively straightforward text requires to tease out all its nuances, ambiguities, and epiphanies. (hide spoiler)]) watches his carefully constructed gay marriage and adult life collapse around him like a hokkie during a storm in Philippi.
Ask any two South African readers about J.M. Coetzee and you are bound to end up with an argument. So, having a Coetzee quote as your epigraph is likely to signpost this as yet another ‘depressing’ post-apartheid South African novel, akin to that other (Booker-winning) ‘depressing’ apartheid novel, ‘The Promise’ (Mackay thanks Damon Galgut in his Acknowledgements for ‘advice on the manuscript’.)
Yes, there are comparisons to be made, but I think it is much more a case of Mackay engaging in a dialogue with Galgut, especially regarding the character of the domestic servant Sibs, who is central to the unfolding narrative, yet marginal at the same time. At one point the narrator says Sibs is so intimately intertwined with their personal lives, down to knowing which underwear belongs to him and his husband Adrian, but he doesn’t even know her surname or exactly where she lives.
It is a kind of colonial myopia that makes marginal areas like Philippi invisible to white people in particular, mitigating the cognitive dissonance so they can continue with their sheltered lives, propped up by capitalism and racial privilege. I love the line where the narrator says: “I squandered the symbolism of my life by falling in love with a white guy…”
Indeed, he is still of that generation that firmly believes in the “perfect post-apartheid ideal of the rainbow-nation family.” So, when a breakdown in New York results in the couple returning to their old home in Cape Town, the narrator decides to do exactly that: start a family.
If you are wondering about the ‘relentlessly gay’ part, this is an unflinching look at a young gay couple, very different in temperament, but anchored and made whole by their differences, who grapple daily with the contradictions of being intersectional (white, gay, and privileged) in contemporary South Africa.
Even a walk to the corner shop, presided over by your friendly neighbourhood Muslim proprietor, and locking eyes with the beggars and homeless en route, poses an existential dilemma in this country that we deal with every day.
Part of the problem is “our ignored continent, where no one cares what happens, where tragedy is supposed to be part of the brand.” What is striking about ‘The Child’ is how much of a character Cape Town is, but far shabbier and divided than the Wakanda-like idyll that the ruling Democratic Alliance has always made the Mother City out to be – the kind of functional, progressive metropolis where everyone wants to live, as long as you ignore the Cape Flats and the indigent out on the streets.
There is a wonderful scene where the narrator travels to the city of gold and parties it up at Ratz (I believe) in the glory days of Melville, remarking on the startling whiteness of Cape Town compared to the inter-racial energy and vibe of Jozi. It is a startling contrast between the two cities that is certainly not conveyed in our media.
This makes ‘The Child’, for better or worse, a very political novel in the runup to a general election that has been touted as being as significant a turning point for our maturing multi-party democracy as 1994 was for the country’s liberation.
Certainly, we cannot consider our constitutionally enshrined gay rights as a passport to freedom and hedonism, given the outspoken anti-gay stance of cretins like Zuma, or the fact that, on our very doorstep, Ghana and Uganda have passed some of the most draconian anti-gay legislation in the world.
Then we have the far-right uprising from France to Russia and the USA. It is easy to tune this out as background geopolitical ‘white noise’ (unsure if that is a joke or not) but being white and gay in South Africa is not a walk in the park, despite what the constitution solemnly declares, and the platitudes that the politicians entice the tourists with.
And being part of a committed white male gay relationship is even more complex, as it adds so much additional baggage to the simple, undeniable problem of being white in the first place: the male gaze, the saviour complex, etc.
How on earth do you decolonise being gay, especially when you cannot separate your very ‘whiteness’ from your innate identity? These are all difficult issues to grapple with, and Mackay does so in an unsparing manner that makes parts of this very necessary book difficult to read.
I was worried in the beginning that Adrian, the supportive and rational partner of a gay man in his thirties so burdened with white guilt he is ready to disown his entire ancestry, would be so overshadowed that he remained in the background, a tiller steering the narrative.
But Adrian comes into sharp focus during one of the book’s crucial sex scenes, when he and his husband return from the fertility clinic, and that flash of horniness like helium in a star that young couples take so for granted suddenly strikes its fire.
However, it is not business as usual, as the two spontaneously engage in a daddy / bad girl roleplay that is as discomforting as it is a turn-on. Writing believable sex scenes is difficult enough, but a gay sex scene like this, balanced on a razor edge of perversion, desperation, lust, and love, with so much subtext swirling around like hormones, is breathtaking to read. I can only think of one other equally accomplished writer who does uncomfortable, vaguely transgressive, but extremely hot sex scenes, and that is Garth Greenwell.
I paused at this point, wondering how Mackay would continue the story. The next chapter begins quietly, with a description of a Cape Town winter rainstorm that is but a temporary balm in the aftermath of Day Zero. “This fragile ecosystem at the tip of Africa, the smallest and most diverse floral kingdom in the world, is drying out.” Mackay’s joy and wonder at the incredible natural heritage that enfolds Cape Town shines gloriously in such passages (heritage, both human and nature, is an important theme.)
And ultimately what sustains this couple and makes their tiny struggle in the bigger picture so significant is their love, decency, and humanity. That is what the rainbow nation means, and it is an ideal we have fallen far from, not to mention lacking the grace to achieve – certainly in my lifetime, and my generation, as a lot of readers will feel, I think.
Oh fuck, it is another Coetzee paean to the pain of South Africa, I hear you say. Definitely not. I was pleased that Mackay boasts cover blurbs from C.A. Davids and S.J. Naude (his debut novel, ‘It Doesn’t Have To Be This Way’, had Mia Ardenne and Siya Khumalo.) Along with Mackay, these represent some of the most exciting authors at work in South Africa today.
Mackay is one of these great writers who ground us in our humanity, our Yeatsian ‘tattered cloak’, and makes us feel wondrous about the gift of life, and being able to share that love. He takes a fairly prosaic idea – being a white gay couple in Cape Town – and turns our conventional thinking about cities, nature, love, sacrifice, gender, sex, our ancestors, and history, completely on its head. Oh, and pugs as well....more