A lovely collection, one that ably demonstrates the breadth of Michael Moorcock's abilities as a writer and gifted imaginator. I would be tempted to replace the word breadth with girth in this instance. The girth and heft of his abilities demonstrates his boundless imaginnings which he has wielded for decades. Sometimes leaving us running to catch up but mostly taking us on a wild ride with him. Contained within this collection are six short stories, an array of articles on different subjects and a novella. The novella , by the way, Gold Diggers of 77 (Ten claims that won our hearts.) is a revision of Michael Moorcoc's adaption of The Great Rock And Roll Swindle which recalls lots of familiar and not so familiar scoundrels from the underbelly of Albion and its musical dreams. We revisit familiar situations and characters we thought we knew and were more than familiar with only to discover they might make even less sense when viewed through a logical prism. Well, why not, as Talking Heads once suggested; Stop Making Sense.
Hmm, not just short stories then.a nice collection of essays as well. They cover some fascinating subjects, from Mervyn Peake (A friend of Michael Moorcock so on that basis alone he can talk with some extra authority.) to the lives and times of that sprawling organism which is London. From the New Jerusalem to the subject of pornography he brigs a heady well earned, well lived wisdom to his observations. From walking the walk to talking the talk, he covers the waterfront. A mix of essays like this in a book are a real gift to any hungry mind. One of the last such collections I picked up was just such a book by Christopher Hitchens. And what a fountain of insights that proved to be. Actually the word insights there does not do justice to the precision of thought Christopher Hitchens brought to the game. Forensically Humane would just about cover it. Now what a night in a pub that would be ; in the company of Christopher Hitchens and Michael Moorcock. Imagine the discource. Although lets face it. In such company I would be their waiter.
The presience of some of Michael Moorcock's politics is Sybil like. Its as though he saw our present predicaments as clearly as that which was going on around him at the time of writing. So culturaly, in a modern context, on point it has a supernatural edge to it. Circumnavigating the troulbled waters and clashing rocks of identity politics before that sub section of the body politic was even an issue. The liquid quality of his multiverversal determinism way ahead of its time. He also seemed to recognise the physical impact of these changes upon the cultures his recurring characters straddled. When you find yourself on the barricades be as scrupulos in your choice of allies as you are of your enemies. It always ends in tears its just sometimes those are tears of joy.
