The Wit Of Oscar Wilde.

Found this old O Brien paperback on a recent book haul. Was struck by the lightness of touch, simple joy of the intro, and the nice sketches within. There are so many versions of compilations of Oscar Wildes wit and wisdom, many just repeating what the others have already done. But you know what, so what? If you have a problem with that, away outside and count the Moon.

An Annual Event.

In a world saturated in Doctor Who merchandise its something of a poignant reminder of the scarcity of related material back in the day. The World Distributer annuals were such a treat. When they materialised on the shelves as a new title you knew Christmas was on the way. Just look at some of these covers. My chum Brian Mullholland found them in a charity store and he extended that sense of charity to an ageing Doctor Who fan. I remember when these annuals turned up on a shelf in Harry Halls Bookshop. With Mr Hall holding an armfull of them as he made his new annual displays. The 1977 annual was a real head melter. It probably had more to do with a narcotic experience than a familiarity with our beloved show. It was the first thing I ever paid off on lay over, courtesy of our newsagent Vincy Mullholland. I used every penny I got to pay it off and it seemed to take forever. All these years later and two Mullhollands continue to provide great Doctor Who stuff for me. The Whoniverse in action.

The Modern Prometheus .

My admiration for this strange and wondrous book will never diminish. Its extraordinary author and the life she lived may never cease to astound me. That the many variables , the building blocks of her era, that combined to produce Frankenstein, in a truly unique warning to history. All from the mind of this nineteen year old woman, a contruction built on dreams and a thousand unresolved details of her personal experience. Delicate yet possessed ofa titanic inner strength pushing against the traditions of her age, remarkable.

The Church On The Water.

(From my sketch book.) Yes, its Whitby church, generally sitted atop the bay, overlooking Whitby harbour. I just grounded it slightly. Or lotly.You could plonk it anywhere and it would look good in its faux decay.

Holy Cross#1

Silverview.

Felt like a bit of Le carre and so it was. His characters are so morally ambigous they must be real. What a sly world they inhabit. Broken people acting like sticking plasters on a blasted kingdom. I do not think I have read a story by him where I encountered people I would ever want to be in a room with. I try not to judge any of them too harshly (actually, that is not accurate, I hate some of the people he describes.) but there is something compelling in the unravelling of their situations. George Smiley was the closest I got to finding a character I actually liked but I think it had more to do with two interpretations of him by two masters of their craft; Alec Guinness and Gary Oldman. Anyway, did like this this. Must have really liked it as I wanted to start another by the author soon. Settled for an interview with him I found on Youtube. I am still attempting to mentally digest his personal revelations and the complexity of the relationship he had with his father. Das and their sons, bloody hell. Are there no rule books or guides to navigate the unquiet waters of family?

Before

Lovely little compilation of stories set in continuities we, as Doctor Who fans, might well be familiar with. Events occurring er, well...Before. The Doctor's life being one where he is constantly arriving and leaving other people's lives.

Spud Boy.

(From my sketchbook.)

Byzantium Endures.

Pyat is one of the recurring characters of the Jerry Corneilius books, a lover to Ma Corneilius, or Mrs Corneilius, and also a friend to the Corneiliuys pantheon of recurring characters. Each with a patina of familiar histories and yet different, some in small ways, some not so small. Pyat is born in Kiev on the cusp of a century of change. Ukraine seems cursed to be the epicentre of "interesting times", with pogroms, famine and wars. All man made,off course, all taking place in the "bread basket " of the world.From Odessa to Kiev and way beyond, Micael Moorcock crafts a fascinating fiction against a back drop of actual history. The pendulem of history swinging violently across the years, cloaking Ukraine and the world it is attached too, in a veil of tears, punctuated with happier times, moments grasped and rememb ered all the more because of their passing. With Precision detail, brought fleetingly back through the words laid down like the contents of a lucid dream. This book is mostly fixed on the first couple of decades of Pyat's life.Innocence and aspiration abound, like an inversion of a piece by William Blake, with futurity blooming in the rubble of yesterday. This is the first volume in a series of Pyat memoirs. He is a character I was only aware of in the periphery of louder characters, and there are a lot of those in the Corneilius family. My memory of him was as a friend and past lover to that force of supernature Mrs Corneilius, I did not see the possibility I was only witness to a fraction of the characters life. Its that way with old people the way we lazily allow them small walk on parts in the epics of our lives. PyatNow I am one I experience the invisibilty that comes with white hair. Pyat's early years in the Ukraine fairly mirror the current ones, another restless era where borders blur and war runs rampant.I had been thinking there might be a degree of unreliable narration here as we view history through a distorting lens of history in fluid mobility. The characters, after all, do not on the whole consider themselves as players in another person's story.The POV is subject to the whims of such lived truths. Each one neccessarily different to the other, like a group of people witnessing an action or an event play out, each one seeing that same event only from their own perspectives. The wide eyed relatively innocent young Pyat is a very different Pyat from the slightly more worldly one who returns to an equally different and changed Odessa. Every living thing is subject to change, why should a city be any different to a single being inhabiting a city. We shape the cities we live in as much as we are shaped by them.In his earlier days Pyat dreamed of becoming an engineer, an inventor, a patriot. He is at first wary of Judaism while all the while being mistaken and treated as a jew.I was aware of some of the bullet points of Ukranian history but the complexity of its history and its people escaped me. Its vast , for one thing, but that is hardly an excuse. Across its vast land mass the place names have at times changed, to protect the guilty as much as the innocent. What a thing it was to be young and finding oneself in a bohemian Oddessa, a very heaven, depending on your point of view.At that time the young Pyat had dreams of flying.He even describes an Icarus like flight above a dreaming Kiev and all too like Icarus he finds himself grounded by reality. A mirror to the painting b y Brugel the Elder, a small splash that all but goes unseen by the wider world. Really enjoyed Byzantium Endures and can only marvel at the sheer girth of Michael Moorcock's abilities.What a Faustian gift it must be to see through his eyes, where all the fatefull collisions and impacts of history ripple out shaping his muliverse, the excruiating agregate of humanity, Galactus would devour us. Michael Moorcock gives us back what we gave away.

E Nesbitt Horror Stories.

I was not aware that the same writer who brought the world The Railway Children was such a capable writer of stories that can chill to the bone. Well, that comes from being thinly read, I suppose. She did though, and here they are, in a very nice Penguin Edt. With a cover that might cause anyone born before 1858 a shudder. E Nesbitt wrote these stories for children, which is just as well because they deal with some quite adult themes. Not in the sense of being sexually explicit, more like they deal explicity with themes of unrequitted love or unhealthy drives. Theres thwarted love, jealous love and manic melancholia. There is also a degree of non-resolution, where a story will drift off with some things left unsaid or not explained away. We are sometimes not given enough information to dispell the sense of unease, which seems quite intentional as those lack of answers prolong the pleasing terror of the yarns. There are fourtenn stories contained between the covers, each one a delicous treat. Actually, Naomi Alderman who writes the foreward describes them as 2delicous fireside tales." Very appropriate, as I read this collection in a chair seated next to my own fireplace. Something of a misleading description from me as no fire has burned since I moved in. The chimney piece having been sealed as i have oil fired central heating. Oh How I miss a roaring fire in the hearth. One of the things which surprised me about these stories is the vein of sadness that ripples through them. Lost love and squandered love, with misunderstandings that lead to despair and grief. Endings that last a lifeteme. You dont get more human than that.. a pleasing melancholy.

Frank Sidebottom on Holiday.

Was reminded of a Frank Sidebottom strip I saw on the back of some wacky humour magazine back in the day. Frank Sidebottom always made me smile.(From my sketchbook.)

Tom,Tom, Club.

The Oxford Murders.

What an absolutely beautiful ( If that is the right way to descibe a book about murder and some truly disturbing ideas.) novel. I have to assume it is an accurately translated english version of this book, by Sonja Soto, as language and its use is so nuanced and things can get lost or changed in translation. Its a simple enough tale with complex undertones, its structure mathmatically precise, which given its subject matter, is a vital component. Yet, for all that precision, it is not a cold reading of events as its humanity pulses with a warm bloodedness. I think there was a film adaption but it works so well as a book it hardly seems neccessary. Almost like writing a song to capture the essence of a painting. Which I suppose has been done. That song might well sound sweet but much can be lost as art is so subjective. Of off literatures strengths and magicks is its fluidity of impression, something I did not think would apply to mathmatics. After reading this book I am not so sure of that. Step back from an equation and it takes on the glamour of written music. Cannot really say too much about the actual events and story without diluting the books many charms. The city comes alive as Oxfordians abound in eccenric precision. Its a rarefied atmosphere, where one could toss a rock into a crowd and be garunteed of boffing a boffin,. By their standards Pythagaros is but a bubble in the spirit level of mathmatics. Not a sentence I have ever used before.

King Of The City.

A sequel to Mother London, one of Michael Moorcock's most celebrated books. King Of The City moves forward from the events of that previous book into na relatively recognisable modernity. We see through the eyes of narrator Dennis Dover as we follow his nearest and dearest and also those he is not so keen or close to, but then thats life is it not? In particular we meet his beloved cousin Rosie Beck and his not so beloved frenemy John Barbican Beggs. Dennis becomes a progressive musician/photographer, Rosie becomes a fearless defender of the poor and the disenfranchised,while their mutual friend becomes a billionairre maker of the poor and the disenfranchised and possessor of a rapacious appetite for things other people made. We follow Dennis and his friends across a series of decades from the seventies to almost the present in a world almost the same as our own. We revisit the dog days of previous decades, bullet pointed by rabid dog days and days when you just wanted to crawl under the bed. Its a visionary tale, more than a commentary on our own worlds progress, or lack off it, over those very same years. Admittedly a lot of things we take for granted have not fully materialised but its never enough to date it. If you, as the reader, are prepared to give yourself over to the words generated by Michael Moorcock in his books you may well find an alchemical shift take place in the region of your brain that filters information from outside your skull. His detailed world building will sink into the foundations of your imaginations and like the Asgardian realms generated by crafty old Loki whole worlds will grow there. All his worlds, as fantastical as they might initially appear will contain enough familiar elements to draw you along. And although those worlds may not always be as pleasant as you may hope, they will always be as truthful as they need to be. As always his love of music, and his belief in its power to transform, is present for you to lean into. Its a big book. As Mother London was. The distance that comes with the passing of time makes this book so accessible. Easier to absorb given it feels within living memoery. Painfully plausible. " Myths and miracles, pards. What would we do without them?" The book joyfully asks us. The truth being; Michael Moorcock has the means to seed our imaginations but only we can make those seeds grow.

The tradional RadioTimes cover for the new season of Doctor Who. A tradition I hope will continue for many years to come.

Mantel Pieces.

A collection of essays, communications , articles and cultural collisions from The London Review Of Books. There are twenty pieces in total collected from three decades of living and writing.Twas my enjoyment of her Wolf Hall Trilogy, among other bits and pieces by her, that drew me in this collections direction. The subject matter within ranges all over the show, from book case shopping in Jedah to er, getting into bed with Madonna. Blimey. Some of the pieces are built on substance as mired in reality as a writer of her faerie otherness is presumably can get. She observes with precision, writes with precision and wields her imaginative prose with precision. I flipped to the chapter in which she writes about Christopher Marlowe, who has been on my mind off late. Probably because of seeing three versions of the Doctor Faustus myth. The echo of the man permeates this creation and I hoped she might bring some of the clarity she brought to the lives of the Tudor figures in Wolf Hall to peeling back the masks worn by this mysterious man. She tip toed through the fog of history to present a new vision of a man history painted as unredeemable, Thomas Cromwell. Affording that figure an all too human face. She seemed sure of where she wanted to go, if not always so sure how to get there. The identi-fit of history createsc a confusing portrait of Christopher Marlowe. He emerges on stage in a play populated by people made of smoke and mirrors. It is not entirely clear if we are even seeing his true face, they all resemble him but would the real one please step forward please. With positively trying to pin this slippery man down one runs the risk of queering the pitch, so to speak. Reading up on what is known about Christopher Marlowe I find myself approaching a portrait of the man, or a picture proporting to be the man, and finding it vivid and life-like. At least at first it appears so, but the cl;oser one gets the less defined it becomes, until at least one accepts it as more an im pression than a portrait. Hilary Mantel wisely offers us little more than a crimes scene sketch, enough to partially identify him, but not enough to file a charge. So it is, the mystery continues,fuddled with the many footprints of those who have gone before, tainting the crime scene, making answers as elusive but as compelling as ever.