Songs of a Dead Dreamer by Thomas Ligotti (1986)

 The date 1986 above reflects the volume's first publication. It seems to have had a very varied publishing history with different or augmented contents. I read the Penguin Classics recent reissue. First thing to say is that I loved the game I was invited to play as reader with these. Especially in the earlier ones, Ligotti set up an initial minimal scenario which gradually gathered elucidation - not overly unusual in essence, but there was a playfulness in only allowing certain key facets to emerge at preordained times so that the reader got wise to his intent only then. In a couple of this earlier group, 'Alice's Last Adventure' is a good example, there was an additional "meta" quality added which made the mixture even more tasty. Whether he has different modes according to moods, or whether these earlier ones were indeed written first and represent youthful work, I don't know. Because the later ones had less of this quality. One thing which unites them all is a delight in establishing a crepuscular tone. Shifting shadowiness, a sense of not knowing the intent of somewhat inscrutable, often eccentric, often near silent, characters. He alternates between relatively straightforward, though formal, prose and the high scintillations of Lovecraft and Poe, his main influences and most obvious predecessors. Like Lovecraft, this is occasionally vastly overegged. One thing here is a question: does this tendency veer some of this material into pastiche territory? There's definitely a feeling of "this is likely not his natural language" about it, like a striving for their effects. But I feel as though I can forgive him that, because the flavour of his inventions is so powerful. What droops the later stories a little for me at least is a sense sometimes of incompleteness - they are presumably efforts at establishing a mood and enjoying some (admittedly fascinating) plot elements, feeling that the necessity for rounding out can be dispensed with. The reader could feel a little cheated I think - I was disappointed at having to shrug at certain endings. There is an undeniable allegiance to dream-states here, which maybe explains some of this, although the completeness of the early stories would indicate that he's well able to smith this into richer metal. He's superb at that inchoate feeling which comes in the grey-bits-between-ness of dreaming, where locales are shadowy and loom with emotion and significance, and emotions become embodiments of locales, also where there is uncertainty of knowing why shifting events are unfolding as they are, and the place of the main character's emotions in either generating them, or responding to them. There is often concurrent philosophising about the unreal which I find less thrilling. The only other thing to mention is the fact that this is indeed a Penguin Classic (the black ones, not the Modern Classics). For an author who was very little known broadly before this publication, it is an odd step for Penguin - goodness knows what their rationale is for inclusion in this series, with Augie March and some Graham Greenes also in (that I know of). The Modern Classics would seem the right place for all. (But they agreed to Morrissey's autobiography entering the lists a few years ago - so who knows? Maybe he disrespects ideas of canon and insisted that if they were to have it, it would have to be there, as a satirical stab. And they were so desperate for his book, they agreed? Why?) But anyway, the window-dressing is not the story here; here's an intriguing writer.

Books and Islands in Ojibwe Country by Louise Erdrich (2014)

 This is my first Erdrich, though she's been present in my life through all its adult span. When I first became a bookseller in the mid 80s, she was one of the bright new things, and back then it was remarkable that she was Native American. This one is a rare non-fiction effort; a journey from Minneapolis, where she lives, to the key territory of her people, an enormous lake system in southern Ontario called the Lake of the Woods, which, on the map inside the book, is shown to be not a wide expanse of water in the sense of the Great Lakes, but instead a marsh-originated network of bays and islands with a broader expanse to the south. The journey there and elements of the stay are treated autobiographically, with discussion of her toddler daughter who accompanies her, her new partner (her daughter's father) and some soul-talk about nature and the wild world. She's very direct, simply interested in things for themselves, and only drawing out meanings when there is a cultural significance that she feels is important. The whole area of the lake used to be inhabited by Ojibwe people - it is largely not so now. The dispossession happened not so very long ago, so there are cabins and lodges gradually returning to nature on many of the islands - the atmosphere is one of quiet and greenery and slowness and removedness - another world. Islands are the core of the piece for most of its length, apart from a shortish mention of books very early on, and, at that time also, probably the one thing I don't care for in this piece - an attempt to conceptually rename the native artworks on rocks throughout the lake system as "books". Doesn't fly for me. That sort of gymnastics reminds me of recent academic papers I've read which attempt to claim all sorts of significances for the work being discussed on the weakest of physical premises. Anyway, grouch over, it's minor. Near to the end, books raise their presence in a visit to an island which had been the home of Ernest Oberholtzer, and which is preserved for very limited groups of people to visit, among them Ojibwe who are seeking retreat. "Ober" was a traveller, naturalist, friend of the Ojibwe and book-lover, and his island has cabins studded around it, each filled with his many thousands of books. Your classic dream-island to all extents and purposes. This, some splendid animal encounters, and some really interesting discussion of Ojibwemowin, the language of the people, are the tastiest parts of the piece. This book was first published in 2003 and then reissued in 2014 with an extra chapter of a return visit. I'm glad to have finally read her, and find her writing manner quietly comforting. It's also good to read something which has a different cultural background underlying it - the usual signposts slightly rearranged.

The Door by Magda Szabó (1987)

 I'm not sure I have the full measure of this, so will have to follow my nose, and see. It has become in recent years by far her most known and respected novel. Sadly a good amount of its uptick, and the concomitant raising of her other works, has come about after her death in 2007. It's a very concentrated story of the people of a street in Budapest, centred around a "writer lady" who seems like she would be similar to Szabó herself, and another local woman, Emerence Szeredás, who is an older powerhouse who manages a great many things in the neighbourhood, like sweeping the streets and snow clearance, as well as providing home help either to those in need or those who hire her formally. Emerence is the clear centre of the piece, with a character built up of toughness, not-to-be-fooledness, decided opinions, fearless speaking, love of animals, enormous capabilities, and intense secrecy regarding her own private life and home. The writer lady would like to hire her early on, but, to all extents and purposes, has to pass the "Emerence-examination" in order to be allowed to! Thankfully from a practical point of view for her, she benefits enormously from this arrangement, and her life runs somewhat smoothly. Any rumples in the fabric come from the two women slowly getting to know each other: the writer lady's ego, assumptions and pretensions and Emerence's harsh criticisms, differing tastes and wish to control. The slow knowing also reveals quite a bit of Emerence's story in bursts: she comes from the country, had a horrifying family experience in childhood which included the death of very young twin siblings, was engaged to be married but it never eventuated, never got along with her wider family, was governess-assistant to a wealthy Jewish family just before the war, ended up looking after their youngest daughter when everything went haywire during it, lost her faith. In the time of the story, she's become both a proud woman and a secretive one, making sure, in speech or by unopposable action, that people know what she thinks, and don't know anything she doesn't want them to. The writer lady tells us that she's furious with Emerence at points all throughout the early part of the book, but somehow Emerence always wins, is right, knows best, and makes sure she knows it. The writer lady is really the only other character we get to know at all fully, but there're quite a few gaps in that story. There are several other people of the street and area who play smaller parts with occasional quirks. All of them meet both Emerence and each other at various times on Emerence's porch - she's very clear that no-one comes inside. There are seats there, and drinks and food served, and jobs done - it's actually quite a welcoming place where some of the gears of the neighbourhood are engaged and decisions made. This house/apartment becomes the focus of the latter part of the novel. Emerence is getting older, and finally relents at a particular juncture, bringing the writer lady into the house when no-one else is about. She sees how ordinary everything is, apart from the sealed room behind a cabinet - and nine cats! Emerence has always a sense of domineering commonality with animals, and these she has rescued from the streets. She becomes ill, tries to continue her obsessive levels of work in the area, out in all weathers sweeping and clearing. Eventually she retires to her home, unable to continue and wanting to be left alone to get well again. By this time the writer lady is strongly associated with her by the community, and there is acknowledgement by her that there is a bond of love between them, despite the spits and sours of the relationship. But Emerence rebuffs not only all other comers, but also the writer lady, yelling through the door to leave her alone. The community grows increasingly worried. Emerence's speech seems slurred. There's a strange smell coming from under the door. Having promised on her single visit inside to look after Emerence's affairs and the cats if anything happens, the writer lady feels responsible. At an impossible point, where it's clear something needs to happen, but not able to get in, she has to "betray" Emerence by enlisting the local authority to break down the door. Inside is a horrible stinking mess of rotting food which had been brought over prior weeks to succour Emerence, the mess of eight cats and the body of the ninth, also rotting. Emerence has clearly had a stroke, has soiled herself continually, and is in a dreadful state, barely conscious. It's like a nightmare. She is taken off to hospital and not expected to survive. Her astonishing strength wells up under care and her mind clears. Given her pride and privacy, it is thought better for the writer lady to tell her lies, saying that the apartment is all tidied up, and back to its usual hyper-clean state, the cats all well and cared for there - everything waiting for her return. The reality is very different - the apartment has had to be decontaminated, all the furniture and belongings burnt in the yard, the cats darted out the door when it was broken in and have never been seen again. But, most importantly, all this has happened in the full view of the community. If these details were known by her, the sense of betrayal and shame could very well kill Emerence. Contrary to expectations, she continues to improve mentally, experiencing some forms of physical paralysis. Eventually, the doctor of the hospital explains that he can no longer justify keeping Emerence in their care. She needs to be found a home. Of course, Emerence is thinking that she'll return to her treasured original home with extra help. It is decided that, as she is now at her healthiest since the disaster, she must be told the truth. This happens, against the writer lady's best instincts; she is dismissed by a local controller as not understanding how strong and reasonable Emerence is. The effect is much as the writer lady has feared. Emerence's feeling of collapse of pride and betrayal drives a knife between them, and another of their angry scenes develops, but in an atmosphere of resignation for the writer lady, the expectation softening the blow a little. By this time she is exhausted. Having parted in anger, it seems they may never patch things up. Then Emerence has another stroke and dies. The writer lady has circled back to the first page - where she explained that she feels that she, in some senses, was responsible for Emerence's death. There follow a few short chapters speaking, almost hollowly, about the consequences and last efforts resulting from her end. The funeral is held; much against Emerence's wishes, it is a religious one. The writer lady is named in Emerence's will as the inheritor of the contents of her locked room - this is finally opened and revealed to be, as expected, part of the gorgeous furniture of Emerence's Jewish employers before the war, saved from destruction by her. Once the dust has settled, one of the close company of characters is chosen as Emerence's replacement in the community and her building. Another, who had "disgraced" herself in making an offer for this position while Emerence was still in hospital, is, in a last twist, taken on by the writer lady as her new help, despite initial loathing, because of her practical hard-working similarity to Emerence, but also her lack of secrets and "temperament". The anticipation/fear of death works strongly in this - in an emotional range from the personal, gritty here and now back to the political maelstrom and uncertainty engendered by the war. The concentration on key characters means that all life outside their orbit is necessarily a blur. Both the main characters are very flawed, and seen only in their relation to each other and a small set around them - parts of their lives where they might be more relaxed, softly smiling, in a state of greater inner peace, are largely absent. There are moments in the last few short chapters where things seem to take on almost a fabular flavour: a beloved dog "never barks again" after Emerence's death; the furniture in the locked room is absolutely beautiful, but "crumbled into nothing", "turning to powder before our eyes" due to woodworm; the funeral is attended by an enormous number of people, despite Emerence's circle being highly restricted. I'm not sure what Szabó intended by these slips into fantasy - is the accentuation in some way meant to signify the heightened state of emotion following a death? The creative mind of the writer lady dramatising the strung-out atmosphere? In its scene, its concentration, its intense preoccupation with very distinct, proud and flawed, characters in certain aspects of their lives, this is completely engrossing, and very unusual. It exerts a strange fascination.

Essays about Men, Women and Books by Augustine Birrell (1894)

 What a pleasure. That rare feeling when you sink into something knowing you'll be entertained, learn a bit, and are in safe hands. There are nineteen essays here, all of which were journal-published originally. They read almost like book reviews, but in a sense are review-extensions, where the advent of his reading a particular title brings up a discussion about something broader. His allowing of this opening out also allows philosophically inspired wit to creep in, and the nature and foibles of humanity and its pretensions, elisions and perhaps lazy misapprehensions to be discussed. His is an acerbic tongue. The subjects range between the long ago of Swift, Sterne and Johnson to the recency of Marie Bashkirtseff. His treatments cover not only literary critical interpretation, but also deep forays into previous editions, consequences of various edits, celebration and deprecation of the vices of both authors, compilers and editors, and, subsequently, all the outflow of what any given point might mean as applied to our societal norms and prejudices. He's great company.

Fifty Forgotten Books by R. B. Russell (2022)

 I'm beginning to develop a shorthand for a recent change in literature. At the moment, it's LITE21C. When I was young, "lite" literature was what was called 'the beach read'. These were typified by things like lurid covers, foiling of the cover-text and, most importantly, being in A-format (which is those smallest paperbacks, usually 18cm high and 11 across). Bookstands in airports were full of them, yes, which was part of what led to the beach read appellation, but they had a broader cultural signifier of light reading, and were widely available throughout the trade. Nowadays, the threads have changed, most works are not in that format, but we still have the need for light reading, of course. So light reads, deceptively but I don't think altogether intentionally so, are in the same format as the weightier ones. In fact, the level of intention is probably the important thing to investigate. It often appears to lead to confusion, at the least. This is a LITE21C read. I enjoy light reading on occasion, like many. But I do inevitably end up thinking, in these days of can't-tell-one-thing-from-another-ness, that I hope people are still registering the difference. These are mini-essays on the author's favourite 'lost' books, and contain genial stories of discovering them in secondhand bookshops, of characters met whilst doing so, also of a bit of personal history alongside: joining literary societies, starting his own publishing business with a partner, and again the characters encountered in doing so. He is part of a set who are very influenced by writers of the supernatural, like Arthur Machen and H. P. Lovecraft, and who work on producing new editions of them. I really enjoy all the stuff about collecting interesting old books, as it's a passion of mine, and always get pleasure from hearing about the deeper background of authors who are known to me in only a limited way. The classic terms of appealing light reading really. The designation is recognisable not because of any strict determination of content, I think at least, but rather because of the feeling it gives of being a congenial wander through a subject. Perfectly pleasant, and completely unchallenging. Very different to "weighty" reading.

Descents of Memory by Morine Krissdóttir (2007)

 This is, as far as I am aware, the only substantial biography of John Cowper Powys. There have been pieces dedicated to all three writer brothers, there have been works of literary criticism with strong biographical content, but this is the first attempt to cover him solo from a biographical standpoint. Of course, the Powyses being what they were, there is no avoiding Theodore and Llewelyn, as they were critical in their brother's imaginative and practical life, makeup and exigencies. All the other children of the family are here in reasonable detail also, as are the parents, who were equally influential. Krissdóttir's angle is psychological, an extremely fruitful one when it comes to this subject. Not only was he fascinated by it, allowing it to leak into all his works to varying degrees, he was also subject to great swathes of manias, conceits and theorisings in his personal life, as far as those two things can be separated in such a Herculean being. The picture that is built up is an extraordinary one, of a character seething with ego and not necessarily recognising it, of the eldest of the clannish family running amok with the respect with which he was accorded by them, of early beginnings of somewhat curdled sexuality and decadence, of what became typical brazen selfishness covered over with childlike manipulation, of the eventual development of incredible levels of complexity and vision in novels which have the quality of being both folie de grandeurs and inspiringly magnificent. This piece also releases another vital story, although in a slightly muted fashion - that of Phyllis Playter, his second partner. Records of her in the form of letters or diaries are a lot less common, which explains the partial quality of the portrait. I would have liked to see a little more decision in the analysis of their connection, a plumping for reasons - it seems to me that this has happened in the case of Powys himself, but Krissdóttir has declined to do the same for Playter. There are surely conclusions to which a biographer could come regarding the deeper contexts of their relationship - what we get is a "maybe-ing" instead. The one thing which I think the book is fully missing also relates to Playter, though it may be something to do with length. It's already a very long book, quite appropriately, with somewhat spidery text on 44-line pages with slim margins - it really should have been two volumes, and falls in half very readily. But, having grown familiar to a significant extent with Playter, having had her hard life exposed from both a strictly biographical standpoint and a feminist one, and grown to care about these things, we should, I feel, have had an epilogue about her life between Powys' death in 1963 and hers in 1982. The lack feels like a missing last figure in the pattern. But what is here is an extraordinary and serious revelation, the result of a titanic amount of work, and to be celebrated with not exactly joy, but a feeling of enlightenment.

Five T'ang Poets (Wang Wei, Li Po, Tu Fu, Li Ho, Li Shang-yin) translated by David Young (1990)

 This followed on from a 1980 original which had only the first four poets. It's a fascinating thing. The first major question which arose for me surrounded the position of these writers in the Chinese society of the eighth and ninth centuries. Young provides piercing introductions to each, as well as an overall one. I didn't get the impression they were courtiers of the type we can possibly imagine. They seemed independent of at least some of that, though I'm sure there were influences, preferment, pensions and so on which arose from that centre of power. What I was after in thinking about that was a definition of the word "poet" in this circumstance. They seemed glimpsers, still-pensive-moment recorders, rather than prolix commentators. The job of poetry was a little different. Is it poetry at all? Or is it even more concentratedly so? (Don't like the idea of the "it's just different" dull-minded imagined reply.) The "what is poetry?" discussion, especially across cultures, is an interesting one. These things went through my head. The major revelations in the introduction were quite how much leeway there was in terms of translation on the one hand, because of the mechanics of the Chinese language, and complementarily the fact that these works in their original could exude meaning not only horizontally but vertically - the characters as they were written influencing each other multi-directionally. This element is no doubt often, or even always, lost in translation, along with the highly specific cultural references which underlie parts of the expression. All of which has the corollary of congratulation to Young for a book so pleasurable to read. These poems are surprisingly corporeal, but I guess that surprise emanates from too little knowledge. They use very tight images of things, juxtapose them with one another, and extract highly distilled direct meaning - there's nothing particularly identifiable as diffuse here. Or hard to fathom in essence, though in line with the above we may well be missing tangents. There is a definite feeling of looking out at a landscape, the seasons, birds, in many cases, careful feeling of the way through to significance in few words. There is also a slight smile in some, mention of drunkenness and self-pity, loneliness and yearning, again sparely. And sensuality has its part, particularly in some works of the last poet, Li Shang-yin, where images feel as though they could be (highly civilised!) double-entendre. As one perhaps imagines, green is the signal colour throughout. Goodness knows how many times it is mentioned in this book: suits me very well.

H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life by Michel Houellebecq (1991)

 I've read quite a few essays which were published before the Second World War, and I haven't yet come across one which valorises overstatement as though it were passion. I don't quite get the genesis of this recent peculiarity, particularly among the French. It seems a superficial understanding, to be frank, of the terms of passion, like a little kid's idea of love. One can imagine the child, having seen some films, emoting like hell, waving their arms about, and saying something hilariously smoochy and over the top. This feels a little like that, but with an academic carapace. The further astonishment is that academia has seriously taken this attitude of "passion" on board, as though it's a new language, a development into subtlety and deeper understanding. I've read a little bit of Lovecraft, and have absorbed whatever that's given me of his way with things, have a sense of how he goes about telling his tale. So when I read things like "a supreme antidote against all forms of realism" as describing Lovecraft's modus, I feel I'm at sea (already, as this is on the first page). Lovecraft seems to use all manner of realistic tropes, for one. One might say it was this situating realism that made more of his fantastic exertions. So, a dubious claim contentually, and then put in this "all forms", "supreme"-ly excessive way, evocative of French academia's worst. But, if one can mentally filter out the noise from all this stuff, there's a load of interesting detail here. Biographical notes filling in a picture of this worried, harassed, bitter, socially limited man in particular. Again filtering like mad, one can build up one's own picture of who he was, how he functioned. Another observation: I can't put this down to Houellebecq alone, because it's more universal than that, but there is the "usual" commentary here about how, in Lovecraft's stories, we come face to face with (definitively and classically) absolute terror, complete horror, etc. It seems to me that, in the stories I've read at least, the impact is not that. It's much more of a hinting. I don't get creeps up my spine, I get a feeling of fascination tempered with the author's love of queasy detail. Biographically, Lovecraft seems "ick"-laden: he had a horror, post the New York years particularly, of other races and their seemingly animalistic qualities; even earlier, he withdrew in a nervous state from the world for a long period, and then delimited his life to gentlemanly and polite pursuits after the big reclusion had ended; he didn't want to much engage with sexuality or the elements of any sort of physical hedonism, certainly not publically anyway. The impact of his stories seems allied to this - a feeling of ick. And, thanks, despite himself, to Houellebecq, I now see this echo more clearly. Lovecraft and Houellebecq are the two primary authors here, but there are a couple of others to mention: Stephen King provides an introduction, and celebrates the author's "passion", whilst also decrying it - very gently; Dorna Khazeni is the translator, who has felt the need to add an appendix listing all the times she found it impossible to locate Houellebecq's sources for quotes. He mentions early on that this book, his first, was "almost a first novel" - giving himself a neat little out for invention? I dunno, it doesn't recommend itself as a cause for confidence. The details through this piece are great, despite one's need to constantly mentally edit as one reads, until Khazeni's appendix is reached. I think on the whole Houellebecq can be relied on for the spirit/essence of his "facts", but can't help feeling a sense of caution.

The Call of the Cormorant by Donald S. Murray (2022)

 This is a book which is in some senses local to me. Shetland, where I live, is mentioned a few times, and the author lives here. It's also set, in its earlier sections, in Faroe, which is not too far away, and similar in a range of ways. I don't know the author, but could come across him at any time, given the small population here. Which brings up a standard difficulty when one has criticisms and lives in a relatively unpopulous community. Due to proximity, should one just shut up, and look to "propriety"? Or conversely see this journal for what it is, and speak? That's preferable to my thinking, but I know I need to be meticulous - and would like to think I am that habitually, anyway. Choice made...and hopefully not regretted. The subject matter of this book is a chap called Karl Einarsson, an Icelander/Faroe Islander, most of the meat of whose life was lived in the first half of the twentieth century. The book is a novelisation of his life, and has as a subtitle An Unreliable Biography: the author is at pains to point out in notes that it's a work of imagination, not only through choice, but also because of a paucity of available facts. Looking at what information there is, and reading between its lines, Einarsson emerges as highly evasive and highly eccentric. He harboured all sorts of ideas and identities: St Kilda was the only remnant of Atlantis, which had its own language (which he presumably invented); he, despite never having been there, was its self-styled "Count"; he also adopted the title Emperor Cormorant XII of Atlantis; was known under several other pseudonyms, including academic ones; having moved to Germany before the Second World War, he broadcast for the Nazis to his old homelands; after the war, he befriended Nobel winner Halldor Laxness, by whom some of his ideas and exploits were recorded. All this points to someone with significant pathology, very unlikely to be pinned down, except wholly in these terms. And that leads to a first criticism - the character here is, in his youth, a fairly average boy, who is mysteriously seen as a bit of a blowhard by some of those around him, but never really shown to us to be. Almost as though the oddness perhaps couldn't be depicted? It would certainly be a tall order for a writer; one would need virtuoso skills to do it convincingly, and perhaps Murray shied away instinctively. But it would have been there, in reality, and isn't here. Which makes the work of imagination which is this life quite a bit less convincing. An essential element is missing. When this Karl goes on to Denmark as he gets older, leaving the restrictions of Faroe behind, we get the slight shifting of axis so that some of the real character's later excesses can begin to be explored. But because of its earlier absence, his oddness is not compassed even in this section. He's made instead into more of a manipulative and evasive conman, though how that change comes about from the earlier ordinary boy is not overtly covered. It just happens to happen. Karl the boy here and Karl the man here don't really relate to each other. Two unreliable biographies. Proof of this pudding comes when the real Karl's written works are mentioned. Their nature does not match his as depicted here, like a fundamental disjunct. Other sections of the book come from Karl's sister Christianna, and tell a parallel story which stays in Faroe, detailing her falling in love with a shipwrecked Hebridean sailor, eventual marriage to a local, frustrations and dissatisfactions, unrequited love for another, and horror when she hears Karl's voice on the radio from Germany. These are far more anchored somehow, and it's a fastening we need, I think. We would no doubt have needed this strand even if the depiction of Karl had been a unified and convincing one, it would have formed something for that craziness to push against. There is, unfortunately, another criticism here: Christianna's voice is largely the same as Karl's. They have the same method and manner of investigating their inner workings and revealing their concerns. So, a little flat and underimagined to some extent. There is a last concern with this book, and it lies in the nuts and bolts of the writing. Firstly, Murray has the tendency for malapropism in similes: when the "constant" praise of his work by colleagues, necessarily episodic, is "rattling away like the drum downstairs", when someone with snow-white hair shifts their head, and "looks for all the world like a flurry of sleet or a blizzard", when the smells of a Copenhagen neighbourhood are "as regular and persistent as waves that crashed against the coastline of my home island", and many another example, one's confidence in the author flags a little. Secondly, there are enough typos and missing minor edits here (repeats of the same word within one or maybe two clauses, for example) to underline the need for these skills at publishing houses. The publisher of this is quite tiny. But there is also a proofreader mentioned in the acknowledgements - hmmmm. So, a plentifully fascinating subject, not well reached; it still has colour and interest, which go some way towards compensation.

Valis by Philip K. Dick (1981)

 After a good number of in-betweeny books, one way or another, it's great to have read a virtuoso performance. Re-instils one's faith in the medium, and, given its date (all the recent mediocrities have been recently published), tends to remind one of what seems a diminution in quality. I hope I've just been unlucky, but, more and more, feel there's something going on - and down. This is in Gollancz's SF Masterworks series, but to my mind is essentially a counterculture novel. There is a fictional scientific notion at the back of it, justifying in the loosest sense possible the epithet, but seen through a metaphysical lens in large part. It involves as main character Dick himself, so is approaching autobiography, fictionally transformed perhaps. Also this avatar is split: "Phil" is the author as neutral commentator, whereas "Horselover Fat" is the author as crazed drug-adventurer, traumatised one, and metaphysical explorer. The latter name is advertised as descending from some convolution of 'philip' as 'lover of horses' in Greek (?) and 'fat' from 'dick', the German for that. Of course, 'horse' is also heroin - no idea if Dick's appetites extended that far. These two emanations are part of a small group of friends with very distinct personalities: sarcastic Kevin and religious David are the centre, but two women also have prominent roles, both of whom have died, but who are seen in flashback. Gloria, a troubled, paranoiacally-minded drug-adventurer who ran a sideline in destroying the people around her; and Sherri, a long-time cancer-sufferer, who provides a counterpoint to the mind-expanded views around her in her stubborn Christianity. Dick essays a spiral of themes, as Horselover Fat, who melds into one with Phil at a critical point two-thirds in, deals with insights he gained through a crucial period of drug-taking in 1974, ramifications rattling through all his psychological issues. What makes this different is Dick's extraordinary weave-control as he manages all the threads. He takes the drug-inspired insights and has Fat discover that parts of them were actually true in real time, rather than addled wanderings of the mind. A process is gone through of 'proving' their veracity. Connections are made by interweaving established ancient classical and religious traditions with these experiences - and then further forms of 'proof' are sought, and indeed found. Fat's excitement and amazement at these revelations is strangely palpable, as is all the other mental stuff going on in his life, which is much more melancholic and mixed, and much more guilty. He develops a growing "complete theory" (appended at the end) about humanity's place in things, and modes of thinking, most of which we have no immediate awareness of, but would with the right tools. Without going into too much detail, the origin lies in the illusoriness of corporeal existence, its actual composition as streams of 'information', and the mostly pink beams of light, routed from somewhere in interstellar space which, I think, got the whole human thing going in the first place, and can provide mind-blowing perceptions if we can loosen the mind from its current temporal-substantial grip, and be receptive to them. But this novel also involves further interweavings between 'real' 70s cultural history and subcultures and the world that is created here, with rock bands, freakout films, and cultish tropes. There is a culmination with three charismatic-but-largely-secretive ex-rock star illuminati further north of San Francisco where most of the book takes place. I don't know what Dick would think of what occurred to me during this section, where the current point of fascination, a Giant Intelligence/Saviour Being in the person of a two year old girl who speaks like an adult sage, is investigated. I found it inescapable - Dick is portraying in this section, knowingly or not, in the reactions and paranoias of all the players, a Hubbard-like quality, an (intentional?) dissection of what goes to make a cult, particularly the mania for control, the feeling of special access, and the mistrustful worry. Perhaps what I'm really saying is that his intelligence would have made him, in the right circumstances, and with his special leanings, a disturbing cult leader.