Priest!

Whether you’re annoyed or amused by Christopher Priest’s broadside against the Clarke Award shortlist depends on how you rate the writers he attacked. For me, it was a mixed bag. On the one hand I loved his description of Sheri “genocide is too a proper tool for solving ecological problem” Tepper’s The Waters Rising:

how can one describe it? For fuck’s sake, it is a quest saga and it has a talking horse. There are puns on the word ‘neigh’.

Which is nicely hateful to a deserving target. But how to take his judgement of Charlie Stross:

Stross writes like an internet puppy: energetically, egotistically, sometimes amusingly, sometimes affectingly, but always irritatingly, and goes on being energetic and egotistical and amusing for far too long. You wait nervously for the unattractive exhaustion which will lead to a piss-soaked carpet.

Charlie decided to take it as a joke and brought out a line of t-shirts to celebrate. Which is probably the best attitude to take as writer. Now you may know that I’m a bit of a Stross fan myself, but I can still see where Priest is coming from. Charlie can be quite enthusiastic about some very geeky things and if you don’t share those interests this might just be a bit wearing at novel length. But this is a question of taste more than of worth. Nobody can like every science fiction novel ever written and unless you want to argue that nobody should write novels like Rule 34, this isn’t a legitimate complaint.

His complaints about “PC Plod characters” and “och-aye dialogue” are more factual, but I find both of them unjustified. If you write a police procedural you’re bound to have coppers while Charlie has lived north of the border long enough to have a good ear for proper Scottish accents; he’s certainly no worse than a true Scotsman like Ian Rankin.

Meanwhile what Charlie Stross has tried to do with Rule 34 and in which for me at least he succeeded for the most part is to write a believable, proper near future science fiction thriller, in a future that we could actually be living in a few years from now. So for example there’s the subplot of exactly what a small time crook is creating with his illegal three-d printer/matter fab: creating highly realistic sex doll facsimiles of five year old girls for pedophiles. That is something you wouldn’t really imagine as an element of your standard near future setting, but you wouldn’t be surprised to be reading about in the newspaper in a decade or so.

So whether or not Rule 34 was the best sf novel published in Britain last year, it is a credible candidate and Priest’s irritation with Charlie’s writing style blinds him to this. Remains to argue why Priest wrote this attack in the first place, which is probably not, as Damien G. Walter wants to argue a belated jealousy of J. G. Ballard. More likely it’s just general irritation with a shortlist that ignores several worthy candidates for far weaker ones, expressed more strongly than other people might’ve done.

Laurels Are Poison — Gladys Mitchell

Cover of Laurels Are Poison


Laurels Are Poison
Gladys Mitchell
237 pages
published in 1942

Whereas my fiction reading mostly centers around science fiction and fantasy, Sandra was always more interested in other genres, especially that of the classical cozy detective story. Her alltime favourite was probably Margery Allingham, but Gladys Mitchell was a strong second. Now while Mitchell was as prolific as any of the big name writers, averaging one novel a year, she never was as popular as an Agatha Christie or Ngaoi Marsh and her books weren’t reprinted as often, which meant they’re much harder to find than those of her more famous counterparts. Which is why Sandra had only a small number of Gladys Mitchell novels, but she read and reread them at least once a year. Of that small number, I think Laurels Are Poison was the one she reread the most, certainly the one she had read the most recent before she died. Which is why I decided to read it as well.

Laurels Are Poison stars Mrs Bradley, Mitchell’s version of the noisy old biddy detective ala Miss Marple (Christie) or Miss Silver (Patricia Wentworth). Mrs Bradley has been hired as head warden of one of the houses of a women’s training college. That’s her cover, but she’s really here to investigate the disappearance of the previous year’s warden, Miss Murchan, who was last seen at the end of term dance and never came back. As soon as she arrives at the college, it’s clear somebody doesn’t want her to start her investigation, as amongst a flood of not very funny but innocent practical jokes some not so innocent traps are set for her…

Read more

The 2012 Clarke Award short list is out

Remember a couple of weeks ago I tried to predict the Clarke Award shortlist? Yeah, It’s not looking good:

The six shortlisted books are:

Greg Bear, Hull Zero Three (Gollancz)
Drew Magary, The End Specialist (Harper Voyager)
China Miéville, Embassytown (Macmillan)
Jane Rogers, The Testament of Jessie Lamb (Sandstone Press)
Charles Stross, Rule 34 (Orbit)
Sheri S.Tepper, The Waters Rising (Gollancz)

That’s two out of six, with only one book out of the shortlist read (Rule 34) and one more on the to be read list (Embassytown). Not a very inspiring list, what with Bear and Tepper on there, both being Big Name American science fiction authors whose best work is decades in the past at this point. Coming after the nomination of a Tim Powers book last year that was a decade old, it seems “respectable but aging American novelists” is the Clarke’s version of Connie Wilis…

Spring has sprung

Lady Plymouth Eucalyptus

It looks like spring has officially started here in the Netherlands; the last week or so has seen temperatures reaching twenty degrees Celsius, everything in the garden starts to look green and sprouty, our resident family of finches is back and I’ve even seen some bumblebees flying around. Also a lot of mosquitoes when it gets dark unfortunately. Finally, there is the undeniable sign of spring, crows who deliberately take a bath in the guttering just as I come sit outside; no shit, three days in a row five minutes after I’ve installed myself with a book and a drink and there come the first splashes of water. Naughty, naughty corvoids.

Unfortunately the garden has suffered a bit of damage thanks to the false spring and suddenly nasty week of winter we had in late January and early February, which has made quite a few plants that thought they could start doing their spring cleaning suffer for their impudence. Sadly, the plant above was one of them, the Lady Plymouth Eucalyptus we’ve gotten from the botanical garden at the VU hospital during an open day there last April. It wasn’t really for sale, but the kind lady who had grown it gave it to Sandra as a gift; Plymouth being her home town. I had hoped it could’ve survived the winter; it was supposed to be winter hard, but the combo of soft weather followed by a harsh frost seems to have done it in.

I’m not really a gardener myself, but Sandra was and put her heart and soul in our little garden and even after two years of neglect it still looks good, if a bit wilder than it was. In hospital, that botanical garden was her lifeline, a place to espace too when being in hospital got too much, as was the bit of “wild” parkland between the garden and the hospital itself. We actually saw a red squirrel there, as well as a woodpecker and a fair number of other birds and small animals.

All of which leaves me seeing spring approach with mixed feelings; it’s in my top four of favourite seasons, but I can’t get rid of that knot of anxiety and grief in my stomach either, as everything green does remind me of Sandra.

So I end up staying in with the blinds down playing games on my pc.