Nineteen in '19: Brief Answers to the Big Questions

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

17/19: Brief Answers to the Big Questions by Stephen Hawking

The blurb: Throughout his extraordinary career, Stephen Hawking expanded our understanding of the universe and unravelled some of its greatest mysteries. But even as his theoretical work on black holes, imaginary time and multiple histories took his mind to the furthest reaches of space, Hawking always believed that science could also be used to fix the problems on our planet.

And now, as we face potentially catastrophic changes here on Earth - from climate change to dwindling natural resources to the threat of artificial super-intelligence - Stephen Hawking turns his attention to the most urgent issues for humankind.

Wide-ranging, intellectually stimulating, passionately argued, and infused with his characteristic humour, BRIEF ANSWERS TO THE BIG QUESTIONS, the final book from one of the greatest minds in history, is a personal view on the challenges we face as a human race, and where we, as a planet, are heading next.

The review: well, in a minute. Because first, an apology. Despite the modest nature of the reading challenge I set myself, I failed. I only managed 17 books in 2019, not 19 as planned. This will be the last review in this series, and it's in arrears. Sorry, my bad, mea culpa, all the rest.

Anyway, the book. I may have mentioned before but when I was trying (and failing) S-level Physics in the Sixth Form, it was something of a rite of passage to read Hawking's most famous work, A Brief History of Time. Indeed, the consensus was that if you got past page eleven and still understood everything, well, you were doing okay. This, his last book, is a different kettle of fish - yes, there's some physics in there, but it's not going to give you a headache, honest. In fact, this is about as far from a book on theoretical physics as Hawking was ever likely to get. His introduction suggests that he wanted to collect his answers to the big questions he was most commonly asked, regardless of subject. Hence we get chapters on issues relevant to his specialism, such as "What is inside a black hole?" and "Is time travel possible?" but also on wider issues, such as "Will artificial intelligence outsmart us?" and "Should we colonise space?" Still science-y, and clearly the sort of question Joe Public would ask Hawking because, you know, he was a famous science guy. Ask anyone under 30 what three things pop into their head when you mention Stephen Hawking and they'd probably say wheelchair, speech synthesiser and science. Or possibly Eddie Redmayne.

And here's where my slight beef which this generally excellent book comes in. Hawking was Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at the University of Cambridge for 30 years, and an absolutely brilliant theoretical physicist. His Amazon bio states that he "is generally considered to have been one of the world's greatest thinkers", and I can't really argue with that - the man's achievements were immense. But trying to answer questions like "Is there a God?" in just a few pages seems ambitious, and something Hawking was no better qualified to answer than anyone else. You might just as well ask me for my thoughts on the current state of women's tennis - I have an opinion¹, of course, and you might like/agree with it, but it's unqualified. Not even Hawking, brilliant as he was, could prove the existence or otherwise of a god, but calling a book "Personal Opinions on the Big Questions" probably would have harmed sales.

It is only a minor beef though, for this is a good book, tackling big topics in an accessible manner. Much is made in other reviews of Hawking's trademark humour; well, it's not Monty Python but equally it's clear that some of this material has been given many times in public lectures, when Hawking would have to prepare answers to pre-submitted questions in advance. It's been honed, refined, polished, in other words. It makes for a very readable book and keeps the pages turning, even when you get to the occasional paragraph that you have to read twice to ensure your understanding.

It also serves as a fitting epitaph to a remarkable man - he was working on this right up to his death, and it feels like it (it was completed with input from his family and academic colleagues). Here was a man, perhaps aware of his advancing years, stating his case, once and for all: this is what I think, and why. He'd written his autobiography five years earlier, but this feels like a memoir too: a biography of ideas.

The bottom line: thought-provoking, illuminating and impeccably argued brief answers and big opinions, and the perfect way in which to sign off.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

¹ Women's tennis is as good as it has ever been, and there are more players at a higher standard than ever before, but no-one is consistent enough to dominate in the manner of Navratilova, Graf, Hingis, Seles, Williams...

Nineteen in '19: The Three Dimensions of Freedom

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

16/19: The Three Dimensions of Freedom by Billy Bragg

The blurb: At a time when opinion trumps facts and truth is treated as nothing more than another perspective, free speech has become a battleground. While authoritarians and algorithms threaten democracy, we argue over who has the right to speak.

To protect ourselves from encroaching tyranny, we must look beyond this one-dimensional notion of what it means to be free and, by reconnecting liberty to equality and accountability, restore the individual agency engendered by the three dimensions of freedom.

The review: in the 1985 Spitting Image book there was a spoof of Smash Hits magazine, in which fictional lyrics by contemporary artists were printed for comic effect. One featured artist was Billy Bragg, and the biting satire of the day imagined his lyrics to be something like (and this is from memory, I don't have the book any more ) "Kids are good, grown-ups are bad, vote Labour, vote Labour, vote Labour. Vote, vote, vote - Labour!". I know, hilarious, right? But it made a point, of sorts. For Bill, always engaged, always an activist, knew what he felt and knew what was wrong. In his keenness to tell us all, sometimes the message was muddied, or incomplete. I remember going to see him in Brighton in the very early 90s, with The Man Of Cheese. Between songs, Bill would give his views on the rights and wrongs of the political landscape, something he is still inclined to do. But I remember feeling disappointed by it at the time, as it really wasn't that far away from the Spitting Image parody - it was essentially, "Good things are good, bad things are bad and have to change." Truisms without solutions, basically.

The great thing about the Bard of Barking, though, is that he maintains the courage of his convictions, stays true to his roots, and knows that to be active, to be effective, you need to learn about what is going on. To continue the paraphrasing, you need to understand what has led to the good things and bad things. Only by understanding the bad things can you affect change on them. Only by learning how we've got into a sorry mess can we hope to pilot a route out. And Billy has learned, oh yes. It's no accident that he appears regularly on Question Time these days. He is no longer the working man proclaiming simplistic messages - he's the informed voice of the liberal, common man. Nowhere is that more evident that in this short polemic, the first of Faber Social’s new series of political pamphlets.

Billy starts with the famous Tony Benn quote, "If one meets a powerful person, ask them five questions: 'What power have you got? Where did you get it from? In whose interests do you exercise it? To whom are you accountable? And how can we get rid of you?'" (amusingly, he later quotes Danny Dyer on the same theme), before going on to define his three dimensions of freedom as liberty, equality and accountability. There follows a section on each, all of which are effective and one of which works brilliantly.

For where the messages on liberty and equality are, at times, slightly overlapping and prone to occasional thematic repetition, the chapter on accountability really hits the spot. Liberty and equality are very much viewed through the lens of history, whereas in his perspective on accountability, whilst still explored in an historic context, Billy finds much more amiss in the current landscape. Whilst there is nothing to really disagree with in any of the chapters, it is the section on accountability that comes closest to a clarion call, and is all the better for it.

The only real problem with this book is something that Billy recognises himself - our current political and societal landscape is so polarised, so divided, so entrenched in immovable opinion, that this book is unlikely to win anybody over. Indeed, I doubt very much that it will be read by anyone who doesn't already agree with the opinions expressed between its covers. That's a shame, because it's a book that makes you think, that leaves you wondering what you can do to make a difference. Because there are still no solutions ... just more to think about as you try to come to your own conclusions about what needs to be done. That, at least, has to be a good thing, right?

The bottom line: thought-provoking personal political opinion that leads you to the inevitable conclusion that, in the words of the song, there really should be no power without accountability.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: How Not To Be a Boy

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

15/19: How Not To Be a Boy by Robert Webb

The blurb: Robert Webb tried to follow the rules for being a man:
Don't cry
Drink beer
Play rough
Don't talk about feelings
Looking back over his life he asks whether these rules are actually any use. To anyone.

The review: on the face of it, this is a memoir about the blond one who played Jez in Peep Show. So if you enjoyed Peep Show, you should read this. There. End of review. Except there's quite a lot more to this book than that. And actually very little about those nine series of that show you enjoyed. So what is it about?

The clue is in the title and, for once, the blurb. For this is really a story of how someone kicked so hard against the stereotypes he didn't conform to that he ended up conforming to them. So here's sensitive, angelic Robert, growing up in rural isolation, doting on his mother, but surrounded by tough-talking, beer-swilling, football-loving, fist-throwing male archetypes. You might imagine this was a recipe for disaster and, in some respects, you'd be right. For here is young Robert, markedly different from his much older brothers, frankly fearful of his father, feeling different from them from an early age and yet navigating a possible path out of it all through selective education and grammar school, where the encouragement of one teacher in particular makes him realise another world is possible. That maybe that other world includes Cambridge, and performance. And then, on the cusp of getting out, the escape tunnel collapses as Robert suffers personal, familial tragedy.

The story might have ended there. Towards the end of the book Webb pauses to consider how different his life almost was; he doesn't use the phrase Jonbar points but that's what he's talking about. But even all this autobiography, and the years that follow - Cambridge, Footlights, meeting David Mitchell, meeting his future wife, Peep Show, Let's Dance for Comic Relief, marriage, parenthood - that's really just the means by which the real point of the book is illustrated. For really, this is a book about gender stereotyping, feminism, mature masculinity (Robert's phrase, not mine), societal conditioning, all that... and the inevitable, damaging effects they have on, well, everyone really. But especially those who don't conform to the stereotypes. They're the ones who are scarred.

So this is an autobiography of sorts, but one with a theme. Webb is two years younger than me, grew up shy and sensitive in a rural nowhere, feeling that he didn't fit, and then found a way out via grammar school and university, so for this reader there was plenty to relate to. But this isn't the sort of autobiography that recounts anecdotes from Peep Show or That Mitchell and Webb Look or Ambassadors or Back or any of the rest of it. Indeed, the only time his career really gets a look in is when something in it illustrates either how messed up he had become or how he found a path out of, in his own words, being a "pompous dick". And he has found that path - no pompous dick would be this open, this honest, this raw about themselves.

What do I make of it all? Simply that this is a book that I think everyone should read, regardless of age and gender. And more than that, I think this is a book that middle-aged men must read. Oh, and if, like me, you used to watch Peep Show then inevitably the first-person narrative of this book will have you hearing Robert's voice in your head, Jez-style. But that's not a bad thing, is it?

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★★

P.S. This is the 900th post on New Amusements. Hooray for me.

Nineteen in '19: The Sea Inside Me

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

14/19: The Sea Inside Me by Sarah Dobbs

The blurb: In an England ravaged by civil strife and terrorism, Newark-by-the-Sea has trialled the Process – the removal of traumatic memories to eliminate crime and fear from the minds of its citizens. Processing Officer Audrey is instructed to tail Candy, a girl whose memories are inexplicably returning. As the Process is about to be rolled out countrywide, a dark conspiracy coils smoke-like into view. Dobbs’ prose is vivid and emotive, crammed with stark images and disturbing insights into the way we are and where we are heading.

The review: there's a quote that the publishers of this novella, Unthank Books, are using to promote The Sea Inside Me and it's this, from Guy Mankowski: "Evoking Ishiguro and Philip K Dick, this story couldn't be more now." And you know what, he's right. Dobbs's portrayal of a near-future England, familiar yet going to ruin, did put me in mind, at times, of Never Let Me Go. Similarly, her extrapolation of modern life, and its direction of travel, to conjure a realistic and all-too conceivable future world reminded me of Minority Report.

Those are pretty grand comparisons to make, but The Sea Inside Me justifies them as a slice of dystopian science fiction. But that's not all. Like all the best speculative fiction, Sarah's tale uses the prism of an imagined near-future England to shine a light on contemporary issues: gender inequality, trafficking, the commodification of women, worrying developments in the use of technology and, looming large over the whole story, climate change and environmental catastrophe. Those are all heavyweight issues, yet the author lays them all out for us to consider deftly, without them overshadowing the narrative; these themes serve the story, not the other way around.

What's more, Dobb's liquid prose style is a joy to read, even when the subject matter is grim. She has a distinctive voice, conjuring inventive descriptions and using words in unusual ways, that is both exciting and rewarding to read. She is also terrific at evoking a sense of place with great economy, brilliantly describing sensory details that place the reader very firmly in Newark-by-the-Sea. Similarly, there is concise but effective characterisation here - Dobbs provides enough of a character to instantly draw a thumbnail sketch of them, with further tiny details drip-fed as the story progresses, allowing the reader to join the dots. For an author, this is a real skill; for a reader, it is a joy to behold.

I'm keen to avoid spoilers, but I can talk about the Process because it's described in the blurb. It's such an intriguing idea, and it's been on my mind for days since finishing the book. Because if you can blank people, ostensibly to remove traumatic memories from victims, do you also create people to whom anything can be done? That's a pretty scary idea... but then if speculative dystopian SF doesn't scare you a bit, it's not doing its job properly, I'd say... And on that note, I'll leave the last word to Sarah's protagonist, Audrey, who closes The Sea Inside Me with this:

Mostly I wonder about stories. About how, while they might not change the world, they at least let us ask the questions. Don't you think?

The bottom line: brilliantly, beautifully written slice of speculative dystopia, deserving of a wide audience (and a three-part TV adaptation by the BBC, in my book)

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: Starting Over

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

13/19: Starting Over by Tony Parsons

The blurb: This is the story of how we grow old – how we give up the dreams of youth for something better – and how many chances we have to get it right.

George Bailey has been given the gift we all dream of – the chance to live his life again.

After suffering a heart attack at the age of 42, George is given the heart of a 19-year-old – and suddenly everything changes…

He is a friend to his teenage son and daughter – and not a stern Home Secretary, monitoring their every move.

He makes love to his wife all night long - instead of from midnight until about five past. And suddenly he wants to change the world, just as soon as he shakes off his hangover.

But George Bailey discovers that being young again is not all it is cracked up to be – and what he actually wants more than anything in the universe is to have his old life back.

The review: as you will all know already, Parsons' writing career began as a journo for the NME, where he also met, married and later divorced fellow "hip, young gunslinger" Julie Birchill. He wrote a number of books throughout the Seventies and Eighties but only really achieved mainstream success at the tail end of the Nineties, with Man and Boy. In part, I think, this took off as a sort of "blokes want to read too" reaction to the emergence of chick-lit as a thing - lad-lit, maybe, a phenomenon that benefited Parsons and plenty of others (Mike Gayle and John O'Farrell to name but two). Whatever, it sold by the truck load, as did the sequel, and lots of other books with similar covers. The last Parsons I read was My Favourite Wife, probably about ten years ago.

And so to Starting Over, a book I picked up for free at a sort of "bring a book, take a book" swapping initiative. In other words, immediately not a book I would spend money to read, but something I was prepared to take a punt on. And it's alright: a perfectly serviceable story, told at a pace that keeps the pages turning, a bit predictable in places but generally... alright. What stops it being more? Well, I like a story where the author maps out the dots and then leaves the reader to join them up. There are times here when Parsons doesn't just join them up for you, he does it with a Sharpie. It's efficient storytelling, maybe, but is it effective? Not for me.

Oh, and the predictability. I get that it's going to have a feelgood element. A lot of people, even lad-lit readers, want some kind of a happy ending. But even when things are going awry for our hero, at no point did I feel that they would end badly, ultimately. And if you're in any doubt about the Capra-esque nature of this story, or Parsons' efforts to produce something of that ilk, I refer you to the protagonist's name... But for fables to work you need archetypes as the lead characters, not clichés, and there are times when Tony treads the wrong side of that divide.

If I'm sounding too down on this book, let me remedy that by saying that it is far from all bad - Parsons writes about being a father as well as anyone. Here, laying out how it feels to be a dad, and what it's like to watch your kids grow up and move beyond what you know of them, this is where Parsons' somewhat on-the-nose style actually works - he lays it out plain. This is how it feels. But since Man and Boy it does feel somewhat like Tony is recycling those same feelings, just ascribing them to new characters. But anyway...

The bottom line: perfectly serviceable, somewhat predictable, slightly forgettable and too overt... neither evolutionary nor revolutionary but essentially a harmless, throwaway read that moves along at a decent pace.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★☆☆☆

Nineteen in '19: The Institute

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

12/19: The Institute by Stephen King

The blurb: Deep in the woods of Maine, there is a dark state facility where kids, abducted from across the United States, are incarcerated. In the Institute they are subjected to a series of tests and procedures meant to combine their exceptional gifts - telepathy, telekinesis - for concentrated effect.

Luke Ellis is the latest recruit. He's just a regular 12-year-old, except he's not just smart, he's super-smart. And he has another gift which the Institute wants to use...

Far away in a small town in South Carolina, former cop Tim Jamieson has taken a job working for the local sheriff. He's basically just walking the beat. But he's about to take on the biggest case of his career.

Back in the Institute's downtrodden playground and corridors where posters advertise 'just another day in paradise', Luke, his friend Kalisha and the other kids are in no doubt that they are prisoners, not guests. And there is no hope of escape.

But great events can turn on small hinges and Luke is about to team up with a new, even younger recruit, Avery Dixon, whose ability to read minds is off the scale. While the Institute may want to harness their powers for covert ends, the combined intelligence of Luke and Avery is beyond anything that even those who run the experiments - even the infamous Mrs Sigsby - suspect.

Thrilling, suspenseful, heartbreaking, THE INSTITUTE is a stunning novel of childhood betrayed and hope regained.

The review: long-time readers of this blog will probably know that I am a Stephen King fan, and that I have devoured just about everything he's published. Which, famously, is quite a lot. So naturally I picked up The Institute as soon as it came out, and whistled through it in fairly short order. What can I tell you about it that the blurb doesn't? Well, if you already like King, you'll like, perhaps even love it. For this is almost a King archetype or, maybe more accurately, some kind of greatest hits tribute act, for so many recurrent King themes are revisited. There's the principled but troubled male lead Tim, trying to escape something dark in his past (see also Johnny in The Dead Zone, Danny in Doctor Sleep, Jack in The Shining, Gard in The Tommyknockers, and Thad in The Dark Half for starters, and that's without the short stories). Similarly, there's the preternaturally bright, gifted child hero Luke (see also Jake in the Dark Tower series, Danny in The Shining and Charlie in Firestarter, to name but three). And of course, there's the plucky "band of brothers" grouping that assembles to save the day (see also The Body, The Mist, The Stand, IT, The Dark Tower ... you get the idea). Most importantly, there's the underlying sense of a wrong being righted, an injustice being set straight, a theme that recurs so often in King's body of work that I'm not even going to start listing examples.

And then there's the plot: an unknown agency, presumed governmental, harvests children with telekinetic and/or telepathic powers, enhances those powers through horrible experiments, and uses the kids as a psychic weapon, ostensibly to ensure world peace. Luke is taken... Tim is the white-hat who helps him puts things straight. I can't say much more than that, for fear of spoilers. But this might already be enough for Constant Readers to conceive of The Institute as a spiritual and thematic, if not direct, successor to Firestarter... and they'd be right.

So what if you're not already a fan of Stephen King? Well, this is unlikely to win you over. It's not King by numbers (see the first half of the Nineties for that) but it is very typical King. For me, that's a good, sometimes great thing: the man is a storyteller, almost without equal in contemporary mainstream fiction. And he shifts POV better than almost anyone.

The bottom line: if you're a King fan, or love a good yarn, well told, buckle up - you'll enjoy this. Just don't expect anything too different...

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: The Guardian Review Book of short stories

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

11/19: The Guardian Review Book of short stories edited by Lisa Allardice

The blurb: Alice Munro, mistress of the short form, describes a story as "a world seen in a quick glancing light". From caves in Pakistan to the underground tunnels of London's Piccadilly line, each of the stories collected here takes the reader into a very different world. And just as they roam across the globe, so they travel in time, from postwar London to contemporary Lagos. From a historical vignette about a 19th-century German artist, to a fable in which a book comes to life in a Chicago library, these stories explore the boundaries of imagined realities.

The narrators include dogs and children. Love affairs begin and end, friendships splinter and rekindle, mothers and children learn to let each other go. Whether it is the recent revolutionary uprisings in Egypt and Libya or one woman's lone battle with her electricity company on the south coast of England, they deal with battles big and small. Everyday triumphs and tragedies are briefly illuminated, the secret places of relationships laid bare. Melancholy or mischievous, elegant or experimental – together these tales showcase the variety and vibrancy of the modern short story.

The review: this collection of eleven short stories was a freebie with Saturday's Guardian some eight odd years ago, and has been on my "to read eventually" list ever since. I've lost count of the number of time I've slipped it into a rucksack for an overnight trip, train journey or long weekend away, thinking I'll get round to opening it at last... because at a slender 128 pages, this is a perfect book to travel with. But it's taken me until now to actually get stuck in and get it read... which probably tells you more about my life than it does about my love of a good short story or the quality of writing on offer here. For make no mistake, when the list of featured authors includes Margaret Atwood, Helen Simpson, Rose Tremain, Mohsin Hamed and Margaret Drabble, there is unquestionable quality to be had, free book or not.

That's not to say this book isn't without its problems. Firstly, I didn't buy it, it was a newspaper freebie, so right from the off I felt less invested in it - I had less motivation to read it, to like it. Secondly, there is no obvious theme to the stories contained herein, other than that they are contemporaneous - so it isn't ever going to be a go-to book for people who like short stories about X. And third, there is no stylistic commonality between the included authors, so it isn't going to appeal to readers who like stories in the manner of Blah Blah either... But on the flip-side, this variety, this true sampler approach is the book's strength. Because no two stories are alike, there is something for everyone.

Some stories stand out: An Idyll in Winter by William Trevor is one such, a delicate, honest tale of love, unrequited and otherwise. Cockfosters by Helen Simpson is another, with a simple plot device (following lost property to the end of a Tube line) and two very plausible protagonists. Equally, Rose Tremain's The Closing Door is, for so simple a tale, tremendously effective and emotional. For me, best of all is Trespassing by Margaret Drabble, which might have seemed timely in 2011 but seems positively prescient now. Oh, and Moths of the New World by the best-selling but oft-maligned Audrey Niffenegger should get a mention, simply for the idea of spirits living inside books. So when these stories are good, they're very good. And even when they're not good, they're still not bad.

As an aspiring writer, I must also mention the shortest story here, Terminator: Attack of the Drone by Mohsin Hamed; it's terrific, an object lesson in how to deliver a big story, and swallow the reader whole, in four short pages.

The bottom line: an uneven collection that has a little of something for everyone, perfectly bag-sized for a long train journey or an overnight hotel stay.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★☆☆

Nineteen in '19: Thin Air

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

10/19: Thin Air by Michelle Paver

The blurb: The Himalayas, 1935.

Kangchenjunga. The sacred mountain. Biggest killer of them all.

Five Englishmen set out to conquer it. But courage can only take them so far. And the higher they climb, the darker it gets.

The review: make no mistake, Thin Air is, as the front cover proclaims, a ghost story. But there's a broad spectrum of such tales, with obvious jump scares and physical horror at one end, and unsettling, psychological horror at the other. Paver's book is definitely at the latter end of this scale, with genuine chills rooted in the psychological. Like her previous (tremendous) book, Dark Matter, there are lots of reasons for creeping unease, sprinkled liberally throughout Thin Air: the unknown, unnatural and uncanny; isolation; physical and environmental extremes; sleep and sensory deprivation; the juxtaposition of the rational - our protagonist, Stephen, is a doctor, grounded in logic and process - and the irrational - we feel Stephen's disbelief and disquiet as he comes to realise that maybe not everything in life is ordered and explicable; and more, so much more.

Also of note is the skill with which Paver uses setting as a character - Kangchenjunga, the untrodden peak, is the third highest mountain in the world, and stands apart from surrounding peaks in the range. It looms over this tale from start to finish, a malevolent, brooding presence, unseen but intimated in the early chapters, but revealed, increasingly, as the story progresses. I find the whole "setting as character" thing fascinating; the physical aspects are more obvious, with the mountain's rocky presence, glaciers and crevasses increasingly dominating our hero as time go by. But beyond the physical, the mountain is given an actual character, both from fictionalised accounts of previous summit attempts, local superstitions and reverence, bordering on fear, from the expedition's Sherpa guides. This is brilliantly done, in my view. That time in the future when I finally get around to doing my creative writing PhD on the use of place as character - I'll be using this as one of my examples.

There is also a nice sub-plot about sibling rivalry here too - Stephen's older brother (and charmed-life-leading golden boy) Kits also features. Again, Paver treads a delicate line here, illustrating the tensions between the siblings well, from our narrator's perspective, and keeping it plausible without making Kits explicitly unlikeable - no mean feat.

Finally, a lot of research has gone into this book - not just about the mountain and surrounding area, but of mountaineering in the first third of the twentieth century. Like all research, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and Thin Air feels entirely credible throughout.

The bottom line: if old-school ghost stories and/or unsettling, psychological horror are your thing, you will love Thin Air. I certainly did, and expect it to stay with me for some time.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★★

Nineteen in '19: The Adulterants

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

9/19: The Adulterants by Joe Dunthorne

The blurb: Ray is not a bad guy. He mostly did not cheat on his heavily pregnant wife. He only sometimes despises every one of his friends. And though his career as a freelance tech journalist is dismal and he spends his afternoons churning out third-rate listicles in his boxer briefs, he dreams of making a difference. But Ray is about to learn that his special talent is for making things worse. Brace yourself for a wickedly funny look at the modern everyman. The Adulterants is an uproarious tale of competitively sensitive men and catastrophic open marriages, riots on the streets of London and Internet righteousness, and one man's valiant quest to come of age in his thirties. With lacerating wit and wry affection, Joe Dunthorne dissects the urban millennial psyche of a man too old to be an actual millennial.

The review: in some ways, The Adulterants starts off like a David Nicholls book - you know, Starter For Ten or One Day, that sort of thing. It puts a likeable, relatable character in an increasingly difficult situation, in such a way that the reader can join the dots and see what is coming. To offset the increasing challenges our narrator faces, again like Nicholls, Dunthorne uses humour, often very dark humour. This is a good thing, by the way. The difference between the two authors though is how they resolve their books - Nicholls would enable his protagonist to somehow turn things around and triumph in the sort of feelgood ending beloved of rom-coms fans and film studios. Dunthorne, however, eschews such temptations, preferring to deliver a resolution that feels so much more real. Because life isn't like that. You know it, I know it and Joe Dunthorne knows it too.

Of course there is a flip side to this. Some readers may feel cheated out of an ending. They may come to the end of this book and think, "Oh. Is that it?" That would be a shame, though, because often in life, that is it. And what's more, to feel disappointed is to have missed the point, and to not have enjoyed the ride. And there is so much to enjoy here. Dunthorne's prose is fluid and natural, so much so that beautiful turns of phrase and combinations of words slip by, almost unnoticed. I lost count of the number of times I read a line and thought, "Ooh, that's good." What's more, his protagonist Ray remains likeable even when going off the rails, making bad choices and doing things he really shouldn't - this can be a tough trick to pull off, yet Dunthorne manages it with aplomb.

Most noteworthy though is the authenticity of The Adulterants - I am not in my mid-30s but this feels real to me. Similarly, I was not in my mid-teens when I read Dunthorne's brilliant first novel, Submarine (memorably adapted for film by Richard Ayoade) but that felt real too. This is a real book, something you read because you love reading, not just because you want a book to take on holiday with you. And, as an aspiring writer, it's very much the sort of book I wish I could have written.

The bottom line: you might not like the ending but it's the right ending for an engaging, hard-to-put-down book, shot through with dark humour and with something to say about the rubbishness of modern life.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: The House of Rumour

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

8/19: The House of Rumour by Jake Arnott

The blurb: In 1941, Larry Zagorski was a naïve young writer of science-fiction. Seven decades on, he looks back on that crucial year and traces his place in a mysterious web - one that connects the Second World War with the Space Age, stretches from London to Cuba and Southern California, and links Ian Fleming with Rudolf Hess in a conspiracy that reverberates in the present.

Could this be the secret history of the 20th century? In a mesmerising novel peopled by spies and propagandists, the conned and the heartbroken, dreamers and fanatics, the question is: who will you believe?

The review: where to start? Arnott has woven together multiple stories that entwine a cast of fictional and fictionalised characters, centred on SF novelist Zagorski. The real-life characters include Ian Fleming, Rudolph Hess, Aleister Crowley, Jack Parsons, L Ron Hubbard, Robert Heinlein, Philip K Dick, and more. On occasion, I had to check with Wikipedia as to the reality of some of the protagonists, such is the breadth (and skilful blend) of fiction and fact. There's a real spotter's fun to be had for the reader here too, most notably in the scenes with Ian Fleming, spotting references to events that later turn up in Bond novels: a boss called M, a character called Trevelyan, conceiving of a spy breaking a crime syndicate by bankrupting them in a casino, and more...

But what of the actual story? There are so many sub-plots here, and so many narrators, it's not always clear what the underlying story is. That fiction can inspire real events? That is certainly a recurring theme, notably that a (fictional) story might have been the inspiration for Hess's trip to Scotland. Or have foretold, as is often alluded here, as there is a recurrent motif in this novel of cults and the occult, tarot, the supernatural, the alien. Plenty of the protagonists buy into one or many of these schools of thought... but the real theme, to this reviewer at least, is disinformation - the black art of seeding just enough credible nonsense to divert or misinform. This recurs throughout the book, from pre-war paranoia, through Hess's flight to Eaglesham Moor, to UFOs and Area 51, goings on in Cuba, McCarthyism, Dianetics and Scientology, the Jonestown Massacre and secret service agents who could make or break people on one hand but be caught out by sexual predilection and a petty chancer on the other. So yes, there's a lot going on. Sometimes it's hard to keep up. And you might gather from the amount of time since my last review in this series, I've hardly raced through The House of Rumour. But it's works, ultimately, even if the story sometimes pays second fiddle to the storytelling. Not one for dipping in and out of, but a book that rewards your attention.

The bottom line: a decent slice of meta-fiction that succeeds because the real and the imagined are blended so well, you cannot see the join.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★☆☆

Nineteen in '19: The Shock of the Fall

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

7/19: The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer

The blurb: "I'll tell you what happened because it will be a good way to introduce my brother. His name's Simon. I think you're going to like him. I really do. But in a couple of pages he'll be dead. And he was never the same after that."

The Shock of the Fall is an extraordinary portrait of one man's descent into mental illness. It is a brave and groundbreaking novel from one of the most exciting new voices in fiction.

The review: Before finding fame as an author, Nathan Filer was, amongst other things, a psychiatric nurse. This is important, as The Shock of the Fall tells the tale of a mental health service user; Filer's CV adds an authenticity that other writers might strain to reach but ultimately fall short of. And there are big themes bouncing around here, on top of the mental illness - how about the death of a child, depression, self-harm, suicide? No, it's not a comedy. But it's not misery-porn either. Filer's trick here is to tell the story in a genuinely engaging, likeable and occasionally humourous first-person narrative, and it really works, not just at making difficult subject matter palatable but also at keeping the pages turning.

There's more to it than that, of course, as you might expect from a debut novel that was, incredibly, subject to an eleven-way bidding war between publishers. Yes, our narrator Matt is, like all the best narrators, unreliable. But more than that, he is also, for want of a better word, affected. His mental health, and its evolution, is as much a character in its own right as Matt himself. And because that character is unusual, different in fundamental ways from the average reader, it makes the story immediately more engaging. more gripping. This style, and this story-telling device, reminded me of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon, in which an Asperger's syndrome-like condition affects the narrator. Also of Elizabeth is Missing, by the wonderful Emma Healey, in which a form of dementia affects the narrator. Those are two fine, fine books, and The Shock of the Fall is every bit as good. My only minor quibble is an important coincidence in the book's final act that I felt was a bit of a stretch - I can't say what (no spoilers!) - but other than that, I devoured this 300+ page book in five lunch breaks. I guess that makes it un-put-down-able. Also, it may be a comparatively quick read but it lingers long in the mind afterwards. That's usually a good sign.

The bottom line: authentic first-person account of a troubled young life, hard to put down, full of subtle pathos and with a memorable narrative voice.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: The Graduate

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

6/19: The Graduate by Charles Webb

The blurb: As far as Benjamin Braddock's parents are concerned, his future is sewn up. Now he has graduated from college, he will go to Yale or Harvard, get a good job and enjoy a life of money, cocktails and pool parties in the suburbs, just like them. For Benjamin, however, this isn't quite enough. When his parents' friend Mrs Robinson, a formidable older woman, strips naked in front of him and they begin an affair, it seems he might have found a way out. That is, until her daughter Elaine comes into the picture, and things get far more complicated.

The review: you all know the story already, of course, such is the film adaptation's deserved fame, longevity and cultural impact. So what can I tell you about the source material, Charles Webb's debut novel, published in 1963? First off the bat, I can tell you how closely the film version sticks to the novel, especially the first half, and why shouldn't it when the novel in question is written so well? It seems incredible to me, as an aspiring writer, that this was Webb's first novel - it is so assured, so confident, so fully-formed. To quote fan Nick Hornby, Webb "writes with this lovely, spare style" and that's exactly right - he uses exactly as many words as are necessary and no more. As you may have gathered from earlier reviews in this series, that bare, concise style very much appeals to me. So sparse is Webb's style that the opening scene, which begins with our (anti-)hero Benjamin the reluctant star of a family party and ends with him being propositioned by Mrs Robinson, almost reads like a screenplay.

What else? The improbable yet oh-so-plausible dialogue the film's scriptwriters took a lot of credit for, well, a good proportion of that seems to have been lifted wholesale from the book. Yes, there are lines that aren't here and if, like me, you've seen the film more times than is healthy you'll look out for these variations and omissions (there's no "Plastics", there's no "You'll pardon me if I don't shake your hand"). But the book, and especially its dialogue, is a rich experience, and would be even for someone who hadn't seen the film.

Even for the aforementioned unhealthy cinephiles, there are elements of the book's story over and above what was shown on the big screen. For a start, whilst still painfully funny, the book has less humour than the film. More specifically, the character of Ben is a bit harder to like; as I mentioned earlier, he's more of an anti-hero in the book, a conventional hero in the film. In the book, he seems more petulant at times, and is a little harder to empathise with as a result. That you do still empathise is testament to Webb's storytelling, I think. There are other changes too - Ben is in Berkeley for much longer in the book, wearing Elaine down, and sells his sports car to finance that (so whilst he still gets to dash to the church in the final act, he doesn't do it in a Simon and Garfunkel powered red Alfa). And the final, final scene, which you all know so well from the film - well, I won't spoil it for you but the book's last page, last line pay-off is even better.

Webb's career as a novelist never really took off in the way this book suggested it might, though he did write other novels, including New Cardiff, which was adapted for film as Hope Springs. In 2007, Home School, the long-awaited sequel to The Graduate, was finally published, after much copyright wrangling. There is some suggestion that Webb only wrote this because he was in financial difficulties, which casts doubt on how good it may or may not be. Maybe I'll track down a copy and let you know. But for now, though, let's revel in the perfect, concise fiction of his debut.

The bottom line: I was prepared to be disappointed by this, such is my love of the film, but it is superbly written, lean, precise and insightful, with enviable dialogue and a page-turning narrative. Very highly recommended.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★★

Bonus!
Any excuse for a clip from Mike Nichols' film version, this scene is one of a number that remains very close to the book.

Nineteen in '19: I Am Spock

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

5/19: I Am Spock by Leonard Nimoy

The blurb: Leonard Nimoy's portrayal of the ever-logical Vulcan, Mr. Spock, is one of the most recognisable, loved, and pervasive characterisations in popular culture. He had been closer to the phenomenon of Star Trek than anyone, having played the pivotal role of Spock in the original series, in six motion pictures, and in a special two-part episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I Am Spock gives us Nimoy's unique perspective on the beginnings of the Star Trek phenomenon, on his relationship with his costars and particularly on the reaction of the pointed-eared alien that Nimoy knew best.

The review: I bought this last year for a pound in a charity shop, in mint-condition hardback form, and it's been sat in my eternally-expanding "to-read" pile ever since. Well, I finally made time and, what do you know, it's okay. I should point out that I love a good autobiography (especially when not ghostwritten) and I love Star Trek, so I was predisposed to love this book. That I only liked it (and I genuinely did enjoy reading it) tells you something, or things. For starters, it tells you that this was not Nimoy's first autobiog: the first, written in the early 70s and entitled I Am Not Spock, did not go down too well with Trek fans at the time, who saw it as a snub to a beloved character. Without going into that too much (or how Nimoy's coming to terms with his most famous characterisation is the vehicle that drives this second biog), it's perhaps understandable that the author's early life and career, including the three years of classic Trek in the 60s, are covered relatively briefly - he's covered them before, after all. Still, there are titbits, anecdotes, Leonard's relationships with Bill Shatner (good) and Gene Roddenberry (not as good) from those times. But far more of the book is devoted to Nimoy's big screen outings as Spock, particularly STII (in which Spock dies, of course), STIII (in which Nimoy directs Spock's resurrection) and STIV (in which Nimoy directs again and brings fun back to the franchise).

You also learn that whilst Nimoy's prose is perfectly serviceable, it seldom reached the "let's have a chat, you and I" tone that he seemed to be aiming for. And the "conversations with Spock" device he used, at first interesting and occasionally amusing, becomes increasingly intrusive as the book goes on.

But aside from all this, you have to read I Am Spock, like every autobiography, with your cynical head on - how reliable is our narrator? Has truth been omitted? How self-serving are the anecdotes? And the answer, from this reviewer at least, is that this seems a balanced account of the episodes described: it isn't all one-way traffic, and Nimoy holds his hands up to things at times. The only minor variation on this score is the slight overplaying of his stage and screen accomplishments outside of Trek...but that's quite logical, isn't it?

The bottom line: a decent but not great autobiography, but you'll enjoy it if you are a fan of Star Trek and Nimoy's famous alter-ego, Spock.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★☆☆☆ as a book, ★★★★☆☆ as a book for ST fans

Bonus!
This scene from STVI, Shatner and Nimoy's big-screen swansong as co-stars, has extra poignancy after reading I Am Spock.

Nineteen in '19: Cathedral

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

4/19: Cathedral by Raymond Carver

The blurb: Raymond Carver said it was possible 'to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language and endow these things - a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring - with immense, even startling power'. Nowhere is this alchemy more striking than in the title story of Cathedral in which a blind man guides the hand of a sighted man as together they draw the cathedral the blind man can never see. Many view this story, and indeed this collection, as a watershed in the maturing of Carver's work to a more confidently poetic style.

The review: well, this collection is certainly a watershed. Carver's earlier work, the stories that had made him famous like What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, had been sparse and unsentimental. The tales in Cathedral are less concise and more overtly emotional. At the time, reviewers credited this change to a more confident, mature writer but in hindsight it's easier to see this as a result of editor Gordon Lish no longer having such a tight rein. The impact of Lish's editorial style is well documented in the Carver Chronicles and, more concisely, in this article from the Standard. So do Carver's much-lauded short stories stand up without Lish cutting and rewriting swathes? Well, for the most part, yes. Cathedral comprises bleak tales of alcoholics, the unemployed, cheaters and adulterers, and who doesn't like to read about characters like that? And even if these tales are not subject to Lish's editorial magic, they still work, with tales like Vitamins, Where I'm Calling From and Fever particularly standing out, for me. And then, most interestingly, there's A Small, Good Thing, the tale of a boy who is knocked down in a hit and run on his eighth birthday and subsequently falls into a coma. In the Lish-edited version, the reader doesn't know whether the boy ultimately lives or dies, but in the unexpurgated Carver version, included here, it is spelled out. Is it a better story for that? Maybe, maybe not. It's certainly longer, and more obvious in its story telling. You'll have a preference, no doubt. Critics at the time praised Carver's more expansive style, but was Carver ever as good as Carver/Lish? I'm not so sure.

The bottom line: bleak but real, these short stories are well crafted, however edited, and especially recommended as an object lesson for aspiring writers.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★☆

Nineteen in '19: No Country For Old Men

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

3/19: No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

The blurb: Llewelyn Moss, hunting antelope near the Rio Grande, stumbles upon a transaction gone horribly wrong. Finding bullet-ridden bodies, several kilos of heroin, and a caseload of cash, he faces a choice - leave the scene as he found it, or cut the money and run. Choosing the latter, he knows, will change everything. And so begins a terrifying chain of events, in which each participant seems determined to answer the question that one asks another: how does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?

The review: I've been wanting to read this for a long time; not only do I love the Coen brothers' film adaptation of same, I have also studied excerpts from this book on various creative writing courses. Add to this the fact that the only other novel by McCarthy that I've read, The Road, is cemented in my notional "top ten books of all time" list, and you can see why I was keen to read No Country. And I'm pleased to say I was not disappointed. I guess you are either a fan of McCarthy's pared-down, direct prose or you're not, but either way it's perfectly suited to this modern (-ish - it's set in 1980) Western. Ostensibly about a drugs transaction gone horribly wrong, with psychopathic gun-for-hire Anton Chigurh wearing the black hat to Vietnam-vet everyman Llewelyn Moss's white, No Country cracks along at a riveting pace, as good a crime or chase thriller as you could ask for. The subtext, about the change in America, in people, in morals, moves along at a slightly slower but equally rewarding speed, mostly told through italicised flashbacks and reminiscences from the real white hat, Sheriff Bell. Yes, there's a sheriff - I told you this was a Western. If, like me, you've already watched the film you'll find some scenes on screen are so close to the source material, and McCarthy's prose so bare, that it's almost like reading a screenplay - I'm thinking of Chigurgh's coin toss challenge in the petrol station, and Moss's border crossing back into America. As I've said, this might not be for you, you may prefer more florid text. But for me, this is fantastic, an object lesson in how to write. Similarly, you might find McCarthy's habit of not quote-marking speech to be annoying or confusing; again, not me - I like it, and find it concentrates the mind on the scene. Indeed, I did the same thing in my novel, mostly for storytelling reasons but partly in homage. And as is often the case, there's more to the book, story-wise, than the film adaptation, but I'll let you find that out for yourselves. You can revel in McCarthy's ear for dialogue too.

The bottom line: compelling chase novel, late-20th Century Western and elegy for a way of life, No Country for Old Men is all three, beautifully written in McCarthy's trademark sparse prose. Oh, to write like this!

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★★★

Bonus treat for you all... those scenes I mentioned

Nineteen in '19: Elevation

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

2/19: Elevation by Stephen King

The blurb: Castle Rock is a small town, where word gets around quickly. That's why Scott Carey wants to confide only in his friend Doctor Bob Ellis about his strange condition: he's losing weight, without getting thinner, and the scales register the same when he is in his clothes or out of them, however heavy they are. Scott also has new neighbours, who have opened a 'fine dining experience' in town, although it's an experience being shunned by the locals; Deidre McComb and her wife Missy Donaldson don't exactly fit in with the community's expectations. And now Scott seems trapped in a feud with the couple over their dogs dropping their business on his lawn. Missy may be friendly, but Deidre is cold as ice. As the town prepares for its annual Thanksgiving 12k run, Scott starts to understand the prejudices his neighbours face and he tries to help. Unlikely alliances form and the mystery of Scott's affliction brings out the best in people who have indulged the worst in themselves and others. From master storyteller Stephen King, our 'most precious renewable resource, like Shakespeare in the malleability of his work' (Guardian), comes this timely, upbeat tale about finding common ground despite deep-rooted differences. Compelling and eerie, Elevation is as gloriously joyful (with a twinge of deep sadness) as 'It's a Wonderful Life.'

The review: regular readers will know that I very much enjoy Stephen King's work; I've read it all, pretty much, so I snapped this new publication up as soon as I saw it. It's a novella, and not a long one either, so some might baulk at the price (currently £7.49 for the hardback and, counter-intuitively, the ebook is dearer) but I'm a completist, and happily parted with my cash. Elevation sees King return to his Castle Rock playground, the fictional Maine town where strange things happen on a regular basis, so Constant Readers like me can have fun spotting references to previous works - I spotted mentions of Sheriff Bannerman (The Dead Zone, Cujo) and Pennywise (IT) without trying too hard. Other King staples are in place too, like the little group of "good guys" who are quickly drawn together - the difference here is that there are no bad guys to line up against; there is no conflict. Instead, this slim offering tells the tale of a man who loses weight uncontrollably, without losing mass. That's the hook, and the cover gives a clue as to how the story ends. There is a sub-plot though, and that's where the meat is - it feels like King wanted to write about attitudes in the US, about tolerance, social acceptance, liberalism... or the lack of all those things in the country he calls home. There are a couple of swipes at Trump along the way too, and if you follow King on Twitter those will come as no surprise. But anyway... I won't talk more about the plot, I don't want to spoil things for you, but I will say this rattles along in true King style and I swallowed it whole last night - I started in at 11.20pm and was done by 12.40am. That includes reading the nine page sample of another novella, Gwendy's Button Box, that is tagged on the end to pad the book out (and stopping halfway through to get some biscuits). Now I'm a fast reader but even so, this is a slim book, and that has attracted some negative reviews over on Amazon. That's ridiculous, in my book, when the sales page clearly indicates that it is only 160 pages and the quoted reviews call it variously a novella or slim novel. Buyer beware, I say, but I guess many fans are used to heftier tomes from Mr King. I knew what I was getting though, and what I got was this: not Stephen's finest work but a well-told story with a curiously uplifting end.

The bottom line: it's unlikely to win him many new fans, but most Constant Readers will lap it up, as long as they can get over the fact that it's a novella, not a 600-pager.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★☆☆

Nineteen in '19: America City

I've read far less in recent years than I would like. To help remedy this, I've set myself the modest target of reading nineteen books in 2019. When I finish one, a thumbnail review here will follow.

1/19: America City by Chris Beckett

The blurb: America, one century on: a warmer climate is causing vast movements of people. Droughts, floods and hurricanes force entire populations to simply abandon their homes. Tensions are mounting between north and south, and some northern states are threatening to close their borders against homeless fellow-Americans from the south. Against this backdrop, an ambitious young British-born publicist, Holly Peacock, meets a new client, the charismatic Senator Slaymaker, a politician whose sole mission is to keep America together, reconfiguring the entire country in order to meet the challenge of the new climate realities as a single, united nation. When he runs for President, Holly becomes his right hand woman, doing battle on the whisperstream, where stories are everything and truth counts for little. But can they bring America together - or have they set the country on a new, but equally devastating, path?

The review: like all the best speculative fiction, America City works well because it extrapolates credibly from the present day; it is very easy to imagine the climate changes that are described, and it is equally easy to foresee everyday tech developing in the ways imagined herein, both good and bad. In fact, some of the more negative uses of technology in the book's narrative might already be here, but let's not digress. When Beckett started writing this, the idea that a character like Slaymaker could become President might have seemed far-fetched but, again, this has sadly been overtaken by reality. Whatever, this book is a timely slice of fiction and, for the most part, is well-written too, although Beckett's prose can, on occasion, be a little too overt, a little too on-the-nose, when it might be better to let the reader join the dots. Curiously, this happens most when he is writing about protagonist Holly's husband, Richard. On the plus side, interspersing the main narrative with testimony from imagined American refugees is a neat way of moving the background and context along, without bogging the main characters down in it explicitly. And despite the underlying environmental theme, Beckett treads the line between "provocative" and "call to arms" well. Ditto the line between accessible page-turner and accessible potboiler. Has a credible bleak ending too; got to love a bleak ending.

The bottom line: thought-provoking, intelligent and all-too-plausible slice of speculative-fiction.

Since everything online is rated these days: ★★★★☆☆