Dark Magic - Mike Ashley (ed)

 Another Mammoth anthology edited by the great Mike Ashley.   This one errs more towards fantasy than my usual horror preference, but there are nevertheless some cracking stories here.  There are examples from the genre greats like Clark Ashton Smith and Michael Moorcock - a particularly fine one by Ursula K Le Guin - and really interesting contributions from contemporary writers I'm unfamiliar with but who I am now interested in reading more from.   In this category I'm especially enthused by Peter Crowther, James Bibby and Esther M Friesner.   There are one two duds, but that's a matter of taste and inevitable in any big collection.   That said, there is no bad writing.

Paris in the Twentieth Century - Jules Verne

 "The Lost Novel" it says on the cover.   Abandoned, more like.   All authors have manuscripts like these tucked in a desk drawer.   They seemed like a good idea at the time, the authors spent time and effort on them, but at the back of their mind they always knew they were duds but couldn't get themselves to the point of binning them.

So what we have here is an early, unbinned work by Jules Verne.   The famous big ideas man, the writer of adventure stories set in a near future which the reader could accept and in many ways recognise.   Not here.   Paris in the Twentieth Century is a social satire with not very big ideas.   To be fair, pushed a bit further, the central concept of state-controlled everything could have turned into a breathtaking prophecy about globalisation, albeit without the child slavery aspect.

As it is, Verne made the mistake of setting satire above future-telling.   Like all satires it is overdone and over-wordy, full of in-the-know references to long-forgotten figures nobody outside France ever cared about.   There is no adventure, just a hapless lad finding out he can't buck the system.

It was a dud when Verne wrote it in 1863.   It remains so today.   For Verne specialists and collectors of literary curiosities only.

A Spy Alone - Charles Beaumont

 Charles Beaumont is a former MI6 operative.   This, his debut novel, set in 2022, after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, bristles with up-to-the-minute insider knowledge.   His protagonist, Simon Sharman, is also a former spy, in his case not with either of the MIs but with The Pole, the third service, the Joint Intelligence Directorate.   He was briefly celebrated for having recruited a prominent Russian operative back in the Nineties.   But these things pass.   It was decided by those further up the Pole, the number-crunchers, the typical Oxbridge graduates, that Simon's source was not producing anything worthwhile.   Simon resigned in a huff, his agent, codename COSSACK, retires covered with medals to become a minor oligarch.   Simon sets up a private sector agency which, by 2022, he is running from his flat.

Then, out of the blue, he is recruited to do due diligence on another oligarch, Georgy Sidorov, who wants to make a significant donation to Oxford University.   His recruitment is not accidental.   The client is also an ex-Pole man gone private.   And Simon, despite his humble origins, is also an Oxford grad.   He needs the money, everyone knows that, and he was a decent enough fieldman in his day.

A quarter-century ago, when Simon was an undergrad, he was vaguely in the circle of the notorious rightwing academic, Professor Peter Mackenzie.   It was understood that despite his borderline fascism Mackenzie had a lot of contacts in British Intelligence.   Indeed, lots of his former pupils went on to have distinguished careers in Intelligence.   Simon had rather hoped to get a recommendation from the Professor, until an unfortunate traumatic encounter meant he had to make his own way.

Early intelligence, mainly from the internet, suggests that Sidorov often visited Oxford but for no apparent reason.   Simon the fieldman who knows the territory retraces the Russian's route and finds that he always passed beneath the window of Mackenzie's rooms.   Simon knows all about burst transmissions - that's how he trapped COSSACK.   The great unaswered question of Twentieth Century spycraft has always been, why only a Cambridge Ring?   Who no Oxford Ring?   Has Simon unconvered one?   Is this his chance to salvage his reputation?

Beaumont writes really well.   He easily manages the transitions in time from the early Nineties to 2022.   Obviously his technical know-how convinces.   But he has quite a gift for characterisation - Simon, in particular, is someone we want to follow further, and Beaumont cleverly leaves the door open for more.   I especially enjoyed the scabrous take on politics of the Johnson era which must have been written as it all fell apart.   A fantastic debut, then.   I look forward to Beaumont's next.

Ancient Light - John Banville

 I've read Banville's Quirke novels, written under the name Benjamin Black.   I've read his Philip Marlowe take, again as Black.   I've read his other crime novel, Snow, written under his real name.   bBut Ancient Lights is my first proper Banville novel.

Ancient Lights is the third in his third trilogy, the concluding part of the story of Alexander Cleave and his only daughter Cass.   This only features Alexander, Cass having committed suicide in Italy.   Cleave is a stage actor, called out of semi-retirement to play the part of the notorious fraud 'Axel Vander' who assumed the identity of the real Vander who died during World War II.   This will be Alex's first film role.   He is drawn into the project because it seems the fake Vander was the same village in Italy as Cass when she killed herself.   Alex's co-star in the movie is the fragile star Dawn Devonport (again, not her real name) who suffers a breakdown during filming, then accompanies Alex to Italy to see if he can find anything that might explain Cass's death.   This is not a later-life affair with the much younger Dawn.   Alex somewhat takes on the part of her recently deceased father, and she, in turn, becomes a daughter he can protect from her demons.

All the while he is reliving his first affair, as a fifteen year old in Ireland, with the mother of his best friend, Billy Gray.   He uses his movie fee to pay the film's scout, a woman called Billie Stryker, to try and track down Mrs Gray, only to discover his memories have been playing him false.

There's a fascinating interconnectedness to the twin storylines, which Banville plays like the master he is.   His prose is brilliantly crafted, the main characters drawn in profound depth.   The only character I thought I didn't get enough information on is Alex's wife Lydia, but I guess she plays a bigger part in the earlier novels, Eclipse and Shroud.   I certainly intend to find out.   I shall be reading a lot more Banville this coming year.

The Island Pharisees - John Galsworthy

 Galsworthy is best known for his Forsyte Saga.   It is often forgotten that he won the Nobel Prize for Literature and was also a very successful, sometimes controversial dramatist.   The Island Pharisees is a novel from 1904, two years before The Man of Property began the saga.   It is a gentle satire of middle class Edwardian English pride and hypocrisy.   Dick Shelton, a half-hearted, well-off trainee barrister, has become engaged to the beautiful daughter of wealthy landowner Algernon Dennant.   Her mother comes from the aristocracy and Antonia is regarded as a fine catch.

Antonia's parents insist on a period of separation, to make sure the young people really love each other.   During this time Dick knocks about town country, visiting old friends and society contacts.   His journey is dogged by a young French bohemian he meets in Chapter One.   Ferrand is something of an anarchist, on the tramp around Europe.   Dick casually gives him a few pounds to help out.   They keep meeting through the novel.   They correspond and Dick writes to Antonia about his odd acquaintance.   Ultimately, of course, they come together at Holm Oaks near Oxford, the family seat of the Dennants.   Ferrand does his level best to behave but ultimately he has to go.   Antonia recognises that something has changed in Dick since he fell under the influence of Ferrand.   He seems to question the norms of society...

It is beautifully done, Galsworthy showing the better qualities of his characters as well as the worst.   The broadest satire is reserved for the most pompous and opinionated - a bunch of Oxford dons at Shelton's old college.   I was particularly struck by the way the Dennant family are more tolerant of Ferrand, who is of course not one of them, than their neighbouring landowner who is shacked up with a married woman.   Many excellent writers do not win the Nobel Prize.   What makes an excellent writer into a great one, worthy of the Prize, is humanity, which Galsworthy dispenses here in spades. 

Marthe - J K Huysmans

 Marthe is the debut novel of Huysmans, the ultimate novelist of French decadence at the end of the nineteenth century, so bad, so obscene that no British publisher dared issue a translation.   Actually, one publisher, Kegan Paul, did dare, but only the late 'Catholic' novels and only when he was at death's door and it didn't matter any more.

Pompous bluestockings are always on the lookout for something to ban.   The fact is Huysmans was a realist.   He was enthused by Zola's pseudo-scientific theories of experimental realism but he, in practice, led the way with Marthe.   Zola blatantly copies Marthe in Nana but does not dare to go as far as Huysmans.   Zola's heroine starts off in the theatre and rises from there.   Marthe is first seen in the theatre but that is the highpoint of her career.   She is and remains a whore.   Her young lover finds normalcy after leaving her.   Her elderly actor lover ends up on the mortuary table after she dumps him.   Inbetween Marthe is the kept mistress of a married man she cares so little about that his name is never mentioned.

Huysmans had to self-publish Marthe in Belgium.   Imports were banned in France, any copies seized and destroyed as obscene.   The truth is, the characters are immoral but there is no obscenity.   We are given reality, sordid, sad, but ultra real, even down to the details.  The actor beats Marthe, showing off to his drunken mates.   The married man who keeps her wears pink silk tights.

It sounds grubby and depressing.   It might be a shortcoming on my part, but I found it fascinating, thrilling and restorative.   I enjoyed it more than the better known Down There (reviewed here in 2021) because the core subject (unsuitable passion, the degradation of poverty, and indeed debased theatricals) are themes I have encountered and witnessed.   I bought the book for a research project, started reading as a chore, only to be swept away by Huysman's brilliant technique.   I have become a Zola fan over recent years but Huysmans intrigues me more.

Downriver - Iain Sinclair

 I emerge from another protracted read.   Downriver is in some ways future fiction.   Sinclair envisages London dominated by the Widow (obviously Margaret Thatcher), whose rule is absolute and who "accepts the advice" of those who suggest she builds an enormous memorial to her late husband in Docklands.   Sinclair and his mates decide to investigate.   Meanwhile, some of them are pitching a project to the BBC's late night arts programme (under the absolute rule of Yentob) about David Rodinsky, a real-life Whitechapel mystery who was thought at the time to have disappeared, leaving behind a room above the synagogue devoted to his studies in various languages and the Kabbalah.   Sinclair himself had written a book about him with Rachel Lichtenstein, who first uncovered the story.   It later transpired (and is reported in Downriver) that Rodinsky had actually been sectioned in a mental hospital where he died.

The story, such as it ever is with Sinclair, is told in twelve instalments, as Sinclair gets further and further away from his usual East End stamping ground.   The style varies between instalments.   Sinclair is at the centre of each until we come to the last, which he asks his friend the sculptor Joblard to write because he, Sinclair, has somehow lost his voice.   It is still Joblard and Sinclair, however, as they both come to end of the line, the Isle of Sheppey, where the Thames joins the North Sea.

It is all thoroughly enjoyable but I didn't find it as intriguing as Landor's Tower or White Chappell, partly because the Thatcher trope has dated so badly since the novel came out in 1991.   Also, I am really not interested in the wastelands of Essex which I have seen for myself, thanks (I largely share Sinclair's view of it).   Because the two main premises don't grab my interest I found the book too long, though Sinclair is never boring.   As I say, I enjoyed the Rodinsky section and the Joblard switch at the end.

I Was Jack Mortimer - Alexander Lernet-Holenia

 I cannot fathom why the prolific Lernet-Holenia hasn't been translated into English more often.   It seems to me only Baron Blagge (reviewed below), Count Luna and this are available.   He wrote a novel about the Count St Germain - that's obviously of wide interest, so what are we waiting for?

Anyway, I Was Jack Mortimer is very different to Blagge and Luna.   It is a contemporary (1933) satirical take on US gangster thrillers.   In that sense it shares the fantastical tone of Blagge.   Lernet-Holenia gives us a dark farce in which old school mores clash with modern mobsterism.

Cab driver Ferdinand Sponer picks up a fare at the station in Vienna.   The passenger asks to be taken to the Bristol Hotel.   Sponer heads across town.    He hears what he assumes is a truck backfiring.   It occurs to Sponer to ask which Bristol Hotel the man wants, the New Bristol or---   The man doesn't answer.   Because he's been shot dead by someone who must have hopped onto the cab's running board, done the dirty deed, and hopped off again - something only really possible with interwar cars.

Sponer does the decent thing.   He tries to interet the police in the murder, but can't manage to grab their attention.   He therefore decides to dispose of the body and get on with life.   He drives aimlessly around the city, even finds time to pop into a coin-op bar (what happened to those?) and chat up a couple of girls.   Before dropping his passenger into the Danube he has the sense to go through the dead man's papers.   Turns out he's Jack Mortimer, a banker from Chicago.   We subsequently learn more: Mortimer's bank specialises in laundering Mob money; he is or rather was a notorious lady's man.

It occurs to Sponer that he should go on the run, start a more interesting life somewhere else.   Meanwhile, why not make the most of the opportunity to enjoy the high life of Vienna?   He assumes Mortimer's identity and takes Mortimer's room at the right Bristol Hotel.   Also in town are Mortimer's latest conquest and her affronted husband...   The night doesn't turn out anything like Sponer anticipated.

It's all great fun.   The style is certainly modern for the time.   I like the way Sponer's imaginary police interrogations are handled.   I'm not 100% convinced by the translation but I don't speak or read German, so can't really criticise.   The proof reading was astonishingly bad - bloopers on the first page!!?  Get a bloody grip, Pushkin Press!

Of Human Bondage - W Somerset Maugham

 It's been three weeks since my last post, three weeks very well spent as I've been reading Maugham's first indisputable masterpiece, Of Human Bondage, published in 1915 but written on the eve of World War I.   It's a coming of age story written by a man of forty.   It ends with Philip's marriage as he is coming up to thirty; Maugham turned forty in January 1914 and was not yet married, though he was in a relationship with the woman he would marry (Syrie, daughter of Dr Barnardo, no less, and until 1916 still married to the US pharmaceutical millionaire Henry Wellcome); in September 1915 Syrie gave birth to Maugham's daughter, Liza.

Philip Carey is Maugham in all but name.   Orphaned at an early age, he is brought up in Kent by his eldery uncle and aunt.   He is educated at the thinly disguised Canterbury School, and later in Heidelberg.   After a dismal apprenticeship in accountancy he trains as a doctor in London.   There is a period as a would-be artist in Paris which Maugham did not do.   Maugham, however, was born in Paris and spent his first ten years there.   

Maugham, today, is claimed as a forerunner of gay emancipation.   In 1915 England that was totally illegal.   Maugham deals with the tendency in Philip masterfully.   Philip has a crush on boys at school and is reluctant to get involved with women as a young man.   He feels, as Maugham clearly did, that he ought to marry.   The first woman he falls for is a waitress in a teashop called Mildred.   She is pretty but dull.   She only tolerates Philip because he is a gentleman and is willing to spend money on her.   She treats him appallingly and runs off with another man.   She turns up pregnant and abandoned.   Philip takes her in on a platonic basis and bonds with the child, a baby girl.   Then he discovers that Mildred is getting an income as a prostitute.   Later, as a trainee medic at a hospital in one of the poorer parts of Victorian London, Philip diagnoses a terrible disease in Mildred.   He abandons her, loses money on a share deal because of a slump caused by the Boer War, and is reduced to working as a shopwalker until his uncle dies and his small inheritance enables him to complete his medical studies.

So far as we know, none of this happened to Maugham.   The emotional backbone of the novel is entirely him coming into his own as a master of his craft.   The other difference with Philip is that he has a club foot.   Maugham was bullied because he had a bad stammer.   Some critics say that Philip's foot is a metaphor for Maugham's sexuality.   I say that's wishful thinking.   Maugham gives his hero a visible physical defect because reiterating a stammer bad enough to be a serious problem would be tedious to do in a modern novel with lots of dialogue and because most people, then and now, do not appreciate how restrictive a speech problem can be.

Of Human Bondage is a long novel with 600 pages and a hundred-and-something chapters.   It was a transitional work for Maugham and is a transitional novel from Victorian literature to a Modern Englsh form.   It really is a masterpiece, well worth a couple of weeks of anyone's time.

Little Siberia - Antti Tuomainen

 I picked up Palm Beach Finland earlier this year and quite enjoyed it.   So I picked up Little Siberia and found it slightly less enjoyable.   Tuomainen sees himself as a Finnish Hiaissen but he simply hasn't thought it through with this one.

The start is promising.   A meteorite falls to earth on the Finnish border with Russia, smashing through the car roof of an alcoholic ex-rally driver who was aiming to smash into the cliff-face and kill himself.   It turns out to be a meteorite of special interest, its composition unusual.   They say it's worth a million euros.   It will have to be taken to Helsinki, then on to London for further study.   In the meantime it is lodged in the War Museum in Hurmevaara and guarded for the next four days by volunteers from the villagers.

The first night the young pastor is on guard duty when unknown criminal try to steal the meteorite.   Unfortunately they raid the wrong cabinet in the darkness and steal the wrong item, with fatal consequences.

So far, so good, we think.   Cracking premise, nice set-up.   Our protagonist, Joel, is no ordinary pastor.   He is a veteran of the Afghan war in which he was seriously injured.   He has a beautiful, clever wife who he adores.   She tells him she is pregnant.   He should be thrilled - but the pipe bomb he stepped on in Afghanistan left him permanently infertile.   Somehow he hasn't told Krista about his problem - and that's where ther shortcomings of Little Siberia begin.

Joel presents as an honest man.   He doesn't pretend that he believes absolutely in God.   He just wants to use compasssion and his listening skills to help the villagers.  So why would he not tell the wife he adores?   The resolution of this plotline is cursory in the extreme and I didn't believe it for a moment.

Likewise, the cosmic pebble which drops in the stagnant pond that is Hurmevaara is rather mechancially worked out.   A bunch of suspects is put in front of us and eliminated in turn.   A couple of interfering Russian gangsters offer promise but end up going nowhere much.

Little Siberia is pacey but perfunctory.   Worse, it is not as funny as it thinks it us.   I won't be picking up the next Tuomainen I come across.