An African In Greenland, Tété-Michel Kpomassie

An unusual (for me) foray into non-fiction with this rather unique ethnographic travelogue. I caught reference to it in a brief magazine report on BBC News 24 a few months ago, but an intriguing enough one to pick up the book.

In outline, a boy in Africa discovers Greenland and its native Inuit in a book, then spends several years steadily travelling through Africa and then Europe before finally taking the final leg to Greenland by sea. It sounds like a work of magical realism, but it's actually a richly detailed description of this journey, and of the author's subsequent time in various Greenland towns on the Labrador Sea coast.

And what detail! Kpomassie has an excellent eye, and a real gift in the telling. Whether it's the range of reactions to his colour and imposing size, the unique Greenlandic living and cultural practices, the extensive friendships he forms, his adventures on the sea or on the ice, or his gruelling (for a vegetarian) descriptions of local cuisine, it's all told with engaging flair. It helps that Kpomassie makes friends easily, bringing him into contact with a range of fascinating (and occasionally alarming) characters. His ability to rock up in a new city, town or fishing village, and then find himself digs with locals at (seemingly) the drop of a hat is really quite something. And his unique heritage and winning ways with local women certainly made me wonder if he made a longer-term mark on the Greenlandic gene pool!

Where the book sags a bit is in its episodic nature and its absence of a strong narrative journey - inevitable given it's a travelogue of a real actual journey. But the tale it tells is so good, the situations, the people, and the society so unique, that the book easily carries you with it. Well worth checking out.

Finally, Kpomassie's journey having taken place in the 1960s, it's also sobering to reflect on the climatic and cultural changes that the intervening decades have wrought.

Blue Mars, Kim Stanley Robinson

Epic in every way - in complexity, in characterisation, in actual physical weight - it's a strange feeling to finally finish KSR's exceptional future history of Martian terraforming. It's great to turn the last page on something I've been labouring under for weeks (*months* if the two preceding tomes are factored in), but it's been such an all-encompassing and absorbing book that I'm going to miss it a bit too.

In pocket summary, it picks up as the second - and successful - Martian revolution is concluding, on a Mars newly liberated from a flash-flooded Earth. Thanks to anti-aging medical technology, much of the original cast of Red Mars is still with us, together with their first and second generation children. These assorted narrators take us through factional Red (pristine, lifeless) and Green (transformed, bountiful) fights, fumbling efforts to kick-start Martian politics, and the solar system-wide issue of humanity's abundance in the wake of this anti-aging.

However, that description can't touch just how ridiculously broad the canvas here is. As well as the geology of Mars and the science of its transformation (both global *and* local), the socio-economics of its political awakening, and the gathering pace of solar system expansion, the novel finds time to take in (among other things) life in southeast England on a drowned Earth, sex-and-hunting cults on Mars, and the impact of low Martian gravity for regular and extreme sports. KSR can't even leave his convenient narrative trick of anti-aging alone, and embarks on a fully fleshed-out subplot digging into biological senescence and memory.

Inevitably, not all of this works, and I suspect readers will find themselves skim-reading the themes that don't interest them as much. For me, I couldn't care as much about political theory as KSR clearly does. But then I just couldn't get enough of the Red vs. Green tussles of Ann and Sax, or the scientific detail of Mars' animation, from global geoengineering to gardening its microclimates. And there's a great stretch where Nirgal, a first generation child, takes part in a solitary, round-the-world marathon (Mars-athon?), which really opened my eyes to seeing Mars as a (potential) physical, living-and-breathing place.

So almost impossible not to recommend to science fiction fans, but it's a real taskmaster of a trilogy of novels. But, I think, absolutely worth it.

Daemon's Departure

The Secret Commonwealth, Philip Pullman

Unlike the first volume, which largely tees up His Dark Materials (HDM), this second volume of The Book Of Dust picks up afterwards, and sets a now 20-something Lyra and, more significantly, her daemon Pantalaimon, on another adventure against the revitalised Magisterium.

Motivated by a murder, mysterious goings-on in a distant desert, and the now-fractious relationship between Lyra and Pantalaimon, this is another exceptionally entertaining, fast-paced and highly imaginative journey through Pullman's rich alternative universe. As well as pulling through several other characters from La Belle Sauvage, it fleshes out Lyra's already rich world by sending her and her daemon on separate (!) journeys into Europe and the Middle East. In parallel, friends and foes are hunting them as the Magisterium rallies to counter threats to its theology and control.

Much as in HDM, Pullman continues to needle authoritarian forms of organised religion, but he has a number of enemies in his sights. The troubles in the war-torn Middle East, and the disinterest of Western powers, are laid bare on Lyra's travels. And perhaps surprisingly, the book also takes some well-deserved shots across the bows of the Ultra-rationalists and New Atheists. Even Boris Johnson attracts some of Pullman's ire with a dismissive reference to second-hand water cannons.

The only real downside to the book is that I've unwisely read it when the final volume of the trilogy ("to be concluded") has no official release date in sight, leaving me now chomping at the bit for Book Three.

However, if I can conclude on two niggles, ... Considering the magnitude of the events of HDM, both Lyra and her world are surprisingly unchanged. Confined within her own universe this time, it's largely left unmentioned that she's been to others, even to the Land Of The Dead, that she's met primordial angels and the alien Mulefa, and that she even (if unwittingly) killed "God". It's very easy to forget all this and to enjoy the novel, but it does sometimes feel like an elephant in the room. There's also a slightly queasy feeling around La Belle Sauvage's Malcolm and his attraction to Lyra.

Feminist Panoply

Girl, Woman, Other, Bernardine Evaristo

A cross between a novel and a short story collection, GWO flits between the diverse lives of an interconnected cast of girls, women and others. Tied - chapter to chapter - to the interior concerns of these dramatists, activists, teachers, students, farmers, ..., the book rounds them out when they drift into the view of other characters.

What results is a fantastic cross-section of lived-in lives, and a tapestry of the struggles and joys - mostly, sadly, the former - from across the spectrum of the black British experience. Or so says this white, cis, hetero male reader - for whom it's a *very* pleasing own-perspective-free read.

As the title implies, the novel takes in identities hitherto unrepresented or actively written-out of the culture. But it does so with a definite lightness and fleetness of foot. The chapter written from the life of its Other character gently articulates their perspective and clearly stakes out their right to exist on their terms. But the novel is also broad and realistic enough to have a later character wryly puncture some of the activist language while still giving the respect due to marginalised identities.

By way of a character-limit-imposed summary, it's a brilliant read that I'd recommend to everyone, and a very worthy winner of the 2019 Booker. Having already read the novel it shared that prize with, Atwood's excellent follow-up to The Handmaid's Tale, while both are inclusive tours de force in their respective genres, it's clearly the more encompassing, overarching and relevant read.

And, against a backdrop of BLM and Trans-activism, and a pop-culture present that includes The Handmaid's Tale, Mrs America, I May Destroy You, and more, it feels giddily zeitgeisty.

Inner voice

The Grauniad asks ...

Describe how you express your inner thoughts - is it an internal monologue or something more abstract like sound or shapes?

My most coherent inner thoughts are expressed, as the question poses, as an internal monologue. While this manifests as if it's sound, i.e. it is not dissimilar to hearing an external voice, there is never any confusion between it and sound. In that sense, it seems a little like sound in dreams, where events are not presented in silence, but somehow there's an indefinite qualitative difference with actual sound. Possibly, at some fundamental level so that, even when deep in a dream, the mind is able to separate internal fiction from a real external danger or alarm. One feeling that I do frequently have when thinking with my inner voice is that there's some nonverbal part of my mind running ahead of the voice. This feels like a symbolic chain of thought, and it's almost as if the narrative part of me is following in its wake, struggling a little to keep up. Sometimes it even feels like my inner voice skips over something that's already been thought by this deeper (and faster) layer, just to keep up with it. None of which particularly surprises me. As a biologist, I'd expect something like this sort of nonverbal chain of thought to be an inheritance from our animal ancestors. I imagine that many of them have a consciousness like our own in many respects (emotions, choices, the eerie sense of being here), but without a verbal layer sitting on top. Although I do wonder if some particularly advanced animals, whales and primates, may have the rudiments of the same. Returning to the question, my perception of conscious words on top of semi-conscious symbols may be a function of my working life. Much of my activity involves words, either as emails, reports, papers or presentations. Perhaps, if you don't need to use words so much moment to moment, you have a better connection with what I've described as symbolic. It's obviously not possible to exist as a modern human without language, but it maybe doesn't have to be as all-encompassing as it is for a now-instinctive writer like me. That said, when I'm doing manual tasks (particularly so when quickly), I don't have an inner voice narrating things. But I know that some people do have a more continuous inner voice, commenting on their conscious experience regardless, or at least so they perceive. In any case, it might be that the majority of responders to this question are precisely those with a more verbal mode of thinking.

More than nostalgia

The Rotters Club, Jonathan Coe

The first predecessor to Coe's recent Middle England (although more like a prequel to me given I'm reading them in the wrong order), The Rotters Club is a simply brilliant evocation of the political and cultural zeitgeist of England in the 1970s. Filtered largely through the lives of teenagers at high school (all middle-aged, appropriately enough, in Middle England), it's also - by turns - searing and hilarious on this formative life stage. While there are occasional nostalgic interludes, the novel has bigger fish to fry, with the trades unions and Tories, race relations and the IRA all in its sights. But much of its entertainment value comes from recognition of the teenaged incomprehension, self-importance and angst of its primary characters. While more heightened than my own "skooldaze", I definitely recognised the agonised feelings and the japes, and even some of the characters (our Harding was called Haig). And I also had a shuddering familiarity with the general complicity towards racism painfully traced out. On these facets, it's particularly excellent, but it's much more of a solid all-rounder. The steady buildup of its labour relations backdrop, that completes with the ascension of Margaret Thatcher, is another highlight. As does the infusion of the dark IRA thread, and the timely spectre of the Yorkshire Ripper. Overall, it's a novel that's impossible not to recommend.

Finally, one distinction from Middle England is that this book was written from a position of hindsight, while Coe's Brexit novel is practically reportage. This lets the political scaffolding of The Rotters Club sit half-finished, because we know what calamities happen next. It'll be interesting to see how the future treats the later novel. Except for the fact that we'll have to live through it first.

My First Brexit Novel

Middle England, Jonathan Coe

The first unambiguous Brexit novel that I've read. Running the better part of a decade, mostly before - but also after - the 2016 Brexit referendum, following about a dozen major characters in the approach and aftermath to this rolling, shambolic and toxic national tipping point.

In essence, it's a tragedy (obviously), leavened with many comic moments, and with a smidgen of hope at the end. Perhaps surprisingly, in spite of its subject the novel is a very enjoyable read, in part down to the recognisable, god-awful familiarity of the backdrop, but also Coe's skill with his characters and their narratives. He does a good job focusing on facets of England that illuminate the whole, for instance, a foodbank-using clown and a schoolgirl feud ultimately revealed as "immigrant" UK citizen vs. "native" Irish/EU citizen. He also weaves in an explicitly political strand, has a bit of fun with the literatti (his own tribe), and touches on our still-forming notions of gender. Which all sounds a lot, but it's never rushed, and it juggles these threads skilfully.

While told from a clear Remain perspective, doubtless reflective of the author (and his readers), Leave appears throughout the novel. Not, admittedly, always (ever?) in a favourable light, but my personal Brexit experience largely accords with Coe's handling of Leaver characters (though nowhere near as dramatically). There are doubtless missing Leaver perspectives, but an emphasis on xenophobia, and a minority role for tax-dodging elites, feels pretty reasonable to me.

As I understand it, the characters are drawn from previous novels by the author, but there didn't seem to be any requirement for familiarity with these. Although, based on this book, I will now be digging into his back-catalogue.

While, as noted, this is my first Brexit novel, I expect it's a portent of many more to follow. Something further to fill one with dread.

Music As Muse

Greetings From Bury Park, Sarfraz Manzoor

As a fan of Manzoor from his journalism and Late Review appearances, this had been on my radar for a while (it's not a new book, so quite a while). But it took bring prompted by the release of a fictionalised film of it to finally get my arse in gear (= press the right buttons on the Amazon website).

Presented as chapters with either a chronological or thematic narrative, it's primarily about Manzoor's early life in Luton, and his migrant family's struggles to adjust both to the endemic racism they encounter and to the intergenerational strains between parents raised in one culture and their children in another. Anyone paying attention to UK culture over the last 30+ years will be somewhat familiar with both, but with a book, Manzoor is able to explain and explore it much more deeply.

On which point, the film does make for a rather superficial take on Manzoor's family life, almost stereotypical in terms of migrant family bingo: tyrannical father, tick, subservient mother, tick, repressed sister, tick, etc. The book is far more nuanced, with Manzoor's father, in particular, afforded a much richer treatment. While he does initially appear as that "old country" tyrant, Manzoor's telling of his life, his striving for a better one for his family, and ultimately his achieving of some peace presents a more complete and sympathetic portrait.

In being richer, the book's less heavy on Bruce Springsteen than the film. He's important, but not a dominating gimmick. It's definitely a better balance.

Finally, as Manzoor and I are almost the same age, the book also serves up some enjoyable nostalgia of the 70s and 80s. And while I haven't experienced even a fraction of the strife and struggle that he has, his feelings of being far away from the centre of things were very familiar.

Definitely recommended.

Forged Apology

Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Lee Israel

Now, as its cover notes, "A Major Motion Picture", this slim memoir serves as an excellent - and delightfully acid - complement to the fine work of Melissa McCarthy and Richard E. Grant.

For those unfamiliar with the tale, it's a memoir by the biographer Lee Israel of her foray into the forgery of celebrity correspondence. At a low financial ebb after a disastrously rushed biography of Estée Lauder, Israel almost accidentally blunders into this secondary career. Initially through the selling of embellished letters, she ultimately creates them wholesale, for writers including Noel Coward and Dorothy Parker (after whom the book draws its title). With some attention to detail, including period typewriters plus solid impersonation, as well as the insertion of wicked details, her work becomes a money-spinner within the dubious world of celebrity memorabilia. Inevitably, after the rise comes the fall, but not before a highly enjoyable reveal of the tricks of the trade. Israel is absolutely unrepentant in her telling, which makes for a gleeful read, though one that lightly glosses over the straightened circumstances that led her to crime in the first place.

Viewers of the film might be a little annoyed to discover its changes to certain details of Israel's story (most obviously around a feline character), but I think it stands up well despite these minor tweaks. And I'd simply never have read and enjoyed this delicious takedown of the lucrative celebrity memorabilia market / minor meditation on "getting into character" if I hadn't seen the excellent film adaptation first.

Imagining Climate Change

The Wall, John Lanchester

One of the many failures of our culture when it comes to possible climate change futures is in playing out the likely consequences of change. "The future" becomes one purely of temperature extremes, rainfall change and, sometimes, agricultural shortages. Numbers that, while meaningful, don't capture the imagination and aren't extrapolated to day-to-day changes in our lives. This makes the future look like somewhere in which we have to, for instance, make do on 10% less food and spend twice as much time indoors sheltering from excessive heat. This overlooks what such changes will actually mean societally, and how they will play out for the daily lives of people in different places on different means.

The Wall is, arguably, an attempt to put human flesh and feeling around one climate future. It's a relatively slim volume, and focused around a small cast, but it makes great strides in sketching out how climate change can reshape a whole society, and what consequences and choices it might impose.

The book opens, almost with sly nod to Game of Thrones, with its central character, Kavanagh, braced against the cold, up on the Wall and looking for Others. The Wall is Britain's response first to sea level rise, but more significantly to the waves of climate refugees displaced from their homes. Kavanagh's job, as a Defender on a two-year stint, is to stop the Others from breaching the Wall and reaching the relative safety within. In this future, it is the young that serve on the Wall, while the old, whose past inactions have caused the Change which drives it, are cowed and nostalgic for lost beaches. And this service comes with double jeopardy for the Defenders - the risk of harm while serving on the Wall, and the penalty of being cast out to sea if any Others break through on their watch. Both of which become more than mere risks for Kavanagh as his tour of duty unspools.

In spite of its relative brevity, this creates an unnerving future Britain. Through the drama it inflicts on its characters, it shows how, while civilization may not necessarily fall under climate change, its best features can easily be worn away. Kavanagh is a relatable Everyman, but even he stops himself thinking too deeply about the Others or why they are so desperate to break into Britain. However, his resentment at previous generations, including his own parents, for their abject failure to avoid the Change is much clearer. This future Britain may not be (completely) materially ruined, but the isolationism fostered by the Change, and the resulting loss of humanity in its citizens, marks its true devastation.

So not the cheeriest read, but recommended.

Stray observations:

• The climate future presented in the novel is an interesting one. The reader is first introduced to how cold it is, counter to ongoing global warming. However, it is later made clear that it’s much warmer elsewhere, which is suggestive of the cold in Britain being a result of changes in ocean circulation. The decline in the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation, for instance, is simulated to result in reduced warming in northwestern Europe relative to other locations. I don’t think that (m)any simulations would suggest strong cooling, but there’s something of a basis for the nature of the Change as it appears in the novel.
• A number of reviews have described The Wall as “this century’s 1984” or similar, presumably latching onto the fact that its future dystopia can be read as a warning for the present. And there’s certainly something prophetic in its world, but in terms of style and narrative the two books really don’t overlap. The Wall is far, far less didactic than 1984, and the better for it. The closer parallel is with Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, with its similarly pared-back text and narrative, although The Wall gets the nod because its particular environmental calamity is more unambiguously related to our own. (The Road still wins out in terms of total doom, however.)
• In another sly nod, The Wall introduces a politician character with more than a passing resemblance to a certain British Prime Minister known for populism and lying. That said, the narrative ultimately gives him a more noble path than one might expect from this affinity, so perhaps I’m overinterpreting.
• Intriguingly from a “future technology” perspective, the Britain presented in The Wall runs off of nuclear power. It’s fleetingly mentioned, and never referred to again, so it’s difficult to know if the author means much by this. Admittedly, the changed local climate in Britain sounds less favourable to renewables like solar, but there could be more to this choice by the author.
• While an underpinning, and largely realised, feature of the world of The Wall is "civilization within, barbarism without", one of my bugbears about the IPCC scenarios that we use in climate change research is that, no matter how bad their futures get, things remain civilised. I think scenario designers might do well to read The Wall and reflect.