The Silver Wind – Nina Allan

Nina Allan, The Silver Wind. Eibonvale Press, 2011. Pp. 154. ISBN 978-1908125057. £6.99

Originally published on The Future Fire
Clocks, I venture to suggest, are the most unadorned form of story. Their inherent conflict between the precision rhythm of mechanism and the seemingly inevitable friction drag of entropy drives the plot of time. Listen carefully, however, for true clocks are not unadorned, within that remorseless tick tick tick tick tick are patterns and digressions.

Nina Allan’s The Silver Windadopts clocks (not time) as central device. The broken clock, the altered clock, the stolen clock each take a measure of time and recast it in review, rewind, in repeat. The four stories here (along with an afterword I am tempted to disregard as unnecessary and unhelpful) share the repetitive pattern of a clock. Each involves some of whom may be, or appear to be iterations of the same people, yet there are differences, subtle and obvious, in each instance. The narrator Martin’s living sister becomes a dead brother, a lost wife, an alternate. Read collectively therefore, there are patterns and deviations. The recurring character Andrew Owen becomes Owen Andrews, tick tock tock tick.

In the second story Allen introduces the horological concept of the complication, in this and subsequent instances the tourbillon, a device to simulate freefall, removing gravity from the watches mechanism, its wind, to limit running down. Having done so, she continues to describe people and places in a deadpan, precise, taut prose reminiscent at her best of the quiet, bare short fiction of M John Harrison. If Allan, or her characters are not as overtly misanthropic as Harrison’s, she shares his acute observation of the grotesque within people and a directness of approach to this.

Flannery O’Connor insisted that the writer of the fantastic needs to ensure a more intense level of reality, and Allen achieves this to a point. In The Silver Wind clocks ensure grounding in the mundane even as time appears to warp all. Opener ‘Time’s Chariot’ is a literary family set-piece which shows no sign of the fantastic in isolation, but when ‘My Brother’s Keeper’ reworks this with a possible ghost we see what Tricia Sullivan means when she writes in her introduction that the stories ‘haunt one another’.

Only with the title story itself are we explicitly in fantastika, a dystopian near future under a racist government and military control exemplifying entropy in society’s structures. This time our narrator risks entering a restricted area to meet a mysterious dwarf (a significant character with avatars in the earlier stories) who he hopes can reset time to bring his ex-wife back to life. This, it appears, is impossible but the fallout from the attempt reveals variant universes, suggesting a link to the earlier stories. It is at this point however, when Allan abandons her realist mode for a dark mysterious surrealism, that decay enters the system and her carefully constructed mechanisms show signs of breaking and running down. The little detailed exposition of this is more than in other stories where scenes are set in fragments of street names and one-line leftfield impressions. ‘The Silver Wind’ therefore stands out from the other stories, is almost in opposition to them, but binds them as a whole. Where reality was confronted head-on and fantastic obliquely, the fantastic is made explicit and reality disappears. Tick Tock Tock Tick.

There is a brooding awkwardness in every relationship here, a function of characters changing identities between stories, but also Allan’s characters are uniformly cold, artificial and given to false notes like this:

‘He pointed to one of the entries, Juliet Caseby, with the surname in brackets, 24 Silcox Square, Hastings. The postcode began with TN, which Martin knew was for the main sorting office in Tonbridge.’

People just do not think like that, and that last sentence is both jarring and unnecessary. That it works at all is down to the quiet prose breaking down at mostly the right points. That it almost fails is that there are no real characters in most of The Silver Wind, there is a literary artificiality consistent with her use of the measuring device, the clock, ahead of the natural phenomenon, time, that will not be to some readers’ taste. The title itself, The Silver Wind, might be Wind as in breeze (a natural variable phenomenon) but in my mind it might more likely refer to the mechanism of the clock, the Wind, a tense construct.

Ultimately I finished The Silver Wind unsure of what I had actually read and not a little puzzled by how it meshed together. Nevertheless, this is a remarkable book where execution almost matches conception, and one that I will be drawn back to. In time.

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The Quarry – Iain Banks

It’s impossible for me to be truly objective with this one.  The death of Iain Banks hit many of us hard, and this final novel touches on so many memories too.  I met and spent significant time with Iain on several occasions over the 26 years I knew him.  There is much in The Quarry to recognise from the man himself as well as earlier works. 
In that light then, it is difficult not to read falsely here, to interpret some kind of final summary statement that isn’t actually there.  The presence of a major character dying of cancer adds to that, of course, despite knowing that the book was almost completed when Iain was diagnosed. 
It is also a novel that circumstances have led to be previewed in a couple of high profile interviews this week.  Expectations inevitably arise from these that also colour judgement on the text as it is.
But enough caveat, The Quarry is, like most of Iain Banks’ novels, a variation on the family saga, a twist on the gothic castle.  Six university friends gather twenty years on at the home of one, Guy, who is dying of cancer.  Guy’s awkward, geekish, loner 18 year old son Kit is the narrator, one more variant on two of Banks’ most memorable protagonists, Frank Cauldhame and Prentice McHoan.  Kit is not the unreliable narrator that Frank is, but he shares with both Frank and Prentice a state of being wilfully misinformed that has a similar effect on the reader.  
Over the course of a long Pinteresque weekend the assembled cast search Guy’s home for a missing video that will, it seems, embarrass them all.  The home sits on the edge of an expanding rock quarry, but I am tempted to suggest here that the quarry of the title is in fact the hunted tape.  That would fit the game playing humour of this novel and Banks’ past work.
Right from the start Iain Banks writing has been full of little jokes, sharp jabbing rants, and indulgences that frequently look unnecessary yet accumulate as a part of character and mood.  The Quarry arguably takes this further and more bluntly than previously.  (At this point it does occur that, given time, some of these might have been edited out or revised.  Or would they?)  Early on Kit tells us how he has been taught to make small talk, discouraged from expressing his autism-like obsessiveness too deeply.  This becomes a refrain throughout and distinguishes Kit from the less self-aware guests as they rant, squabble and display petty jealousies.  Thus the selfish, arrogant, thoughtless conversations come over as broad satire of corporate speak, of the vapid opinions of the media classes.  It is hard not to read Banks own, publicly stated, politics in rants about a minor character’s change of newspaper, for example, or his mockery of jargon when a character states “I solutionise outcomes” without irony.  Through Guy, in particular, Banks rails at much of commercial, conservative society in the same way that his shock jock Ken Nott does in Dead Air. 
So The Quarry echoes scenes or aspects of Banks older work, from Kit’s obsession with measurement to his close bond with Holly, his dad’s former lover to his escape into an online game.  Guy’s cancer is less central than you might have been led to expect.  With a couple of exceptions it is mostly a device to allow Guy his raging and rants.  And the big secret?  Paul Kincaid observed many years ago that with Banks the bad guy, the cause of trouble, is always within the (pseudo-) family.  The Quarry plays on this again but its turnings are different. No spoilers.
Time will tell if we can consider The Quarry as good as Banks best novels The Crow Road, The Wasp Factory, even Whit, but for now, it’s proved a passionate, enjoyable, and suitably cathartic (for his fans) read.  It feels and reads like a typical Iain Banks novel, in that clear voice that was all his own.

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The Flight of Michael McBride

On her death bed Eileen McBride anoints her son Michael’s left eye with a curious chrism.  His father says nothing but lays down an iron railroad spike that Michael puts in his pocket.  Afterwards he finds himself attacked and pursued by a mysterious figure in a red cap and other figures like nothing he has ever seen before.  Only the abrupt inspiration of the Irish faerie stories his mother told him reminds Michael that iron will repulse these attackers and he flees to the rail station and ultimately out west.  The year is 1876.

A seemingly chance encounter with a woman called Poker Alice on the train leads Michael to a cattle ranch in Texas where he immediately demonstrates skills in taming a wild stallion using his mother’s old Irish lore and is employed on a cattle drive.

Both SF and Fantasy have frequently overlapped with Crime, Thriller and Romance genres but the true Fantasy Western is scarce.  The Flight Of Michael McBride takes Michael out onto theTexas plains on a round-up and Midori Snyder sets the scene with detail.  The cowboy banter, jokes at city boy Michael’s expense, and the dirt and tiredness of trail riding draw the story along until the camp is attacked.

Although Michael can see the fantastical creatures attacking his new friends, to them it is a panther, then a water snake.  Nevertheless they begin to fear whatever it is that haunts him, and fuelled further by tales of Coyote and the mysterious Night Hatchet, they banish him from their party and he goes off on his own into the Texan wilderness.

Up to this point, two-thirds of the way in, The Flight Of Michael McBride has been an above average fantasy of faerie intrusion, made interesting by an uncommon setting and evocative writing.  Michael’s transition from soft-handed, rich city boy to horse charmer and ‘one of the boys’ is too easily facilitated as in many similar fantasies but Snyder tells her story deftly and at a confident pace.  The recognition of the role of place in faerie adds focus and by linking Mexican and Native American myths in Snyder goes new places.

Then there is a significant, abrupt dislocation as Michel’s viewpoint is left aside with the human world and we are thrust into the ongoing feud between the Morrigu and Red Cap Finnvarr, with the vicious Night Hatchet a further threat.  Michael, fleeing and aided by coyote, is transformed into a crow and must battle.  Disorienting scenes of flight, fall, shifting awareness increase the dramatic tension and then he is rescued by tough, bow-wielding, fast-talking frontierswoman Annie Mae.

The inevitable climax pits Michael against Red Cap to rescue Annie, reveals his true ancestry, and of course, ties things up neatly.

Michael’s flight is literal and metaphorical, motivated by multiple emotions, fear, love, guilt, hate, and resentment and although much of the plot is standard, Snyder’s unique touches and balance of myth and reality raise her novel well above the routine.  It’s not without faults, of course.  The role of Poker Alice is not explained sufficiently, and I’d have liked more of Annie Mae’s robust and earthy character.  The crow scene is striking and evocative, but tonally at odds with the rest, and a crow’s cry of alarm transliterated as ‘Kwak!’ was a wrong note.  Nevertheless Midori Snyder is an intelligent, original, and confident fantasist and The Flight Of Michael McBride a very worthy and memorable fantasy novel.



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Sibyl Sue Blue

Amongst the ranks of near-forgotten women SF writers Rosel George Brown is one of the least remembered.  Prior to her untimely death aged 41 in 1967 she published one collection of interesting if unspectacular short stories and this novel.  A posthumous sequel and a collaborative novel with Keith Laumer complete her scant bibliography.

Sibyl Sue Blue is, however, a character of note for her time and possibly now.  She is 40 years old, a widow with a 16 year old daughter Missy, a homicide police sergeant and a student of classical Greek.  This last is both a direct reflection of Brown’s own academic background and an opportunity for at least one aside on the way female academic progress is hindered by domesticity.
Indeed issues of domesticity and feminine roles recur throughout Galactic Sibyl Sue Blue with Sibyl herself remaining not ambiguous exactly but inconsistent in her characterisation.  She is independent, a working mum, tough in handling physical assaults right from the first sentence, and able to respond verbally to blatant sexism.  She also worries about her dress, gets flustered by the handsome villain, flirts and expresses her need for a man rather often.

I’m lucky. I’ve got a beautiful daughter and a good figure no matter how much I eat, and naturally curly hair…
The only thing I don’t have is a man. At the moment.

If that makes the 21st century reader cringe it is tempered within a page as Sibyl ponders reading Thucydides and writing about Plataea.  The ‘mad, mod heroine of the future,’ to quote the Berkeley edition front cover copy, may define herself by her relationships with men, but it is no longer the only thing she references.  Sibyl eventually falls into the handsome, villainous arms of Stuart Grant, but only when she chooses to do so.

The plot of Galactic Sibyl Sue Blue, such as it is, begins as a quirky policier.  There have been several mysterious murders possibly linked to the benzale cigarettes illicitly imported from Centaurus.  Meanwhile Sibyl is attacked (and defends herself efficiently) by normally peaceable Centaurans, ones with an odd green tinge.  Issues of inter-species prejudice and fetishization are dropped in and skim by.  Sibyl’s boss is not quite in the Gene Hunt mould, but he is of his time.
It all changes when Sibyl smokes a dodgy benzale and receives a dream communication from her late husband lost a decade before on a mission to the planet Radix.  Something links Radix, Centaurus and the murders, and Stuart Grant whose ships have the space trade monopoly, knows more than he admits. From here the rapid action leads to kidnap, escape, a mission to Radix, mutiny, and a wild plot flourish to match Philip K Dick’s minor novels at least.  Radix is a planet covered in one single sentient plant lifeform, and Stuart thinks he can use it to rule over Earth and Centaurus by assimilation.  Only Sibyl and the creepy Dr Beadle, Stuart’s erstwhile ally, can save the day.

Galactic Sibyl Sue Blue is mainly a superior 1960s SF romp with a hint of domestic romance, but Rosel George Brown mixes it up just enough to offer a subversive note.  In Sibyl she tweaks gently at the aspirations of the working mother and simultaneously the systems that deny those aspirations.  Sibyl’s concerns are her daughter and a man, yet she repeatedly and easily defeats male assailants.  She is affected by emotions but sees beyond them when necessary.

Galactic Sibyl Sue Blue is a slight novel, 158 pages, of rapid pulp action and wild ideas, full of the gender political self-contradictions of its era.  Brown tells her story with verve and wit however, and it is a fun novel, if not a classic, neither is it one to languish in total obscurity.

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Strange Devices Of The Sun & Moon

Lisa Goldstein (Tor Books, 1993)

London, 1590.  Elizabeth is on the throne, her court a roiling mess of intrigue, intelligencers and their paymasters.  Playwrights, pamphleteers and poets gather, drink and feud in taverns across the plagued city.  And the Fair Folk have come to Finsbury Field. Lisa Goldstein’s Strange Devices Of The Sun & Moon takes a setting popular in Fantasy, Elizabethan London, with its familiar characters and its familiar faerie intrusions, but Goldstein’s touch is different to many.

Alice Wood is a widow, trying to maintain her husband’s business as a bookseller inSt. Paul’s.  One morning a mysterious stranger in black starts asking about her son, Arthur, missing for some years. Aliceis also visited by a Brownie, who cleans her home, and one night leads her to see the Fair Folk and their queen Oriana. Aliceis surprised to see her odd, cat-loving friend Margery at the queen’s side.


Meanwhile a young man in a Shoreditch tavern claims to be the king.  Christopher Marlowe and Tom Nashe interrogate him, Nashe suspecting him of beingAlice’s son, Marlowe under orders to report possible treason to Sir Francis Walsingham.


Unlike many similar fantasies Goldstein focuses more on Alice, a determined woman in a mans world, than on the Court.  Her relationships with fellow booksellers including George who proposes marriage to merge their businesses and is angered by her refusal, and with the writers whose work she sells are as important to her story as the conspirators of court and the marriage of Queen Oriana.  Goldstein’s style in all her novels is generally quiet, but suffused with wit and pointed remarks.  Quite early onAliceconsiders the playwrights:

“She liked the young men who visited her, but they seemed very much like the plays they wrote, glorious and fantastical but not really fit for daily life.”

It is a line which raises a smile, but it also hints at a feminist comment on the daily concerns of women contrasted with the heroic pretensions of young male writers.  More obvious isAlice’s riposte to George when he tells her

“A woman must have a man above her to guide her, just as a country must have a sovereign.”

“The country does quite well with a woman to guide it.”

Alice Wood is notably a strong female character, not a kick-ass teen, but a 50-year old with opinions, hesitations, confidence and doubt whilst her friend George is seen to be shallow and self-centred.  Margery dismisses him as “that foolish-looking man.”

“Do you truly think he looks foolish? He seems to me just the opposite – a man who can never laugh at anything.”

“Aye, and that’s what makes him a fool.”

Accusations of witchcraft, the intrigues of court, the rivalries and literary feuds of young writers, and the greed-fuelled power struggle to become Master of the Stationer’s Company take the plot on whilst the revelation of Arthur’s heritage and Oriana’s battle to remain queen run deftly through all the other strands.  As with most of Goldstein’s novels there is a subtle linkage of scholarship and magic, and a sense that events occur around protagonists rather than to them.

Strange Devices Of The Sun And Moon is a deeply human fantasy, full of historical detail in the bookseller’s trade, and yet contemporary in concerns both in feminism, and in its jibes at the masculine posturing of some writers.  It is a thoughtful novel yet it flows at a steady pace to an unforced reconciliatory climax.  Perhaps not Goldstein’s most acclaimed novel but in taking familiar tropes and telling an enjoyable story with subtle wit and subversion she has created a neglected fantasy classic nevertheless.


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Red Spider White Web



Red Spider White Web is not an easy read.  It is intense, relentless, dense and dark.  Misha’s prose is fragmented, jagged and/or sensuous, and poetic.  Her characters are hard, distorted, tormented.
For ten or twenty pages you will wonder where, who, why and almost certainly what the fuck?  And suddenly, if you’ve given it the effort, the rhythm takes over.Red Spider White Web is fast, dramatic, vivid and you are inside it, unable to leave without running with it.
Set in what appears to be a run down, polluted, ghettoised future-Japan, RSWW is cyberpunk taken to its most extreme form: a true post-industrial nightmare tribal wasteland.  Through this acid-corrupted landscape move two figures, unknowingly circling each other.  Kumo, our heroine of sorts, is a digital artist living off her wits in a squat.  Tommy is
cyborg, cyber-enhanced, metal-skulled, and a former preacher.  In this closed world of 15 minute tailored viral infections, and pirate drugs where synthesis trumps all, someone is killing artists.  Kumo’s friend Dori has disappeared too, but not to the killer, but into the faux-Disney reactionary enclave Mickey-san, and she lures fellow artist Motler after her.
To say more would miss the point, Red Spider White Web is a complex novel of broken or divergent strands. When we see through Tommy’s ‘eyes’ as his brain interprets this nightmare world, things get seriously scary

You have shed a leather skin. It hangs. Your face breaks the water and your eyes spin in smokey anger. You glare at each other in the thick night with fickle ripples and yellow fright between us.  The twin revolvers of her eyes are leveled at me and he flashes his mesh mask to signal that once again love conquers all.  Her full breasts are floating in front of you, but the night masks their features. His metallic vision burns images on your eyes. Ghost gators and spirit sharks slash at your calves as you lunge out of the water. Horror is engraved on his retinas. You are terrified. He closes his eyes and shouts angrily and deliberately. He is delirious with this end to monotony. You are covering her naked face and body as she steps back from my molten fury.

That disorienting, imagistic, furious paragraph is on the first page. Misha traps you or repulses you, no seduction.  Fight or flight.  Unlike most cyberpunk characters here are true indigenes, no middle-class whiteboy slumming, and their unfamiliarity disturbs, even as their tribal fetishry is superficially familiar.  Red Spider White Web is art, about art, dayglo slashes in dark corners and spilled acid etching chrome.  Kumo is vulnerable, but she fights off an assault. Tommy is seduced and learns that he has been used. Art is all, Kumo believes, and it is this glowing ember that lights our path through the relentless gloom, only to find a new light and personal acceptance. Artists are as important as art.  Greed, corruption, revenge, sordid details almost over-power honour but don’t.

I know many readers who will dislike Red Spider White Web, Misha, who may be more poet than novelist, pulls no punches, makes no concession to soft sensibility.  It is not entry level, it has no obvious entry, just a plummeting trapdoor immersion.  But for those who don’t fight it, this is an exciting, witty (like a darker version of Richard Kadrey’s Metrophage) short novel you won’t forget.

Fittingly, for a novel about art, the original Morrigan Books edition had gorgeous chapter headings by Don Coyote aka Ferret, and as much as anything Red Spider White Web reminds me of that artist’s disturbingly comic Phoenix Restaurant graphic novel.

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Cortez On Jupiter


Ernest Hogan’s debut novel, published in 1990 as part of Ben Bova’s Discoveries series, is a remarkable piece of original SF that is radical in ways that perhaps haven’t really been acknowledged yet. 

Cortez On Jupiter is the story of graffiti artist Pablo Cortez’ career progression from Basquiat-esque guerrilla muralist in 2020s LA via a staggered Bester-like plot to a weightless take on Jackson Pollock on in orbit above the Great Red Spot.  Meanwhile a series of attempts to communicate with the alien Sirens of the Jovian atmosphere repeatedly have fatal consequences.  Fascinated, Pablo volunteers.
Initially framed as a documentary on Pablo’s career, told in flashback and transcripts, Cortez on Jupiter steers a course that manages to include explicit satire and old-fashioned sensawunda SF tinged with cyberpunk simultaneously. 
The Science Fiction Encyclopaedia
talks about Hogan’s ‘pleasing gonzo energy’ which most obviously manifests in Pablo’s rapid-fire Spanglish-with-Nahuatl dialogues.  Long, free-flowing sentences leap around worldbuilding impressionistically rather than through any attempted simulation of mimesis.  Pablo drops Aztec deities into his rambling seemingly allocating new mythic status to everything.

Paint stick in hand like an Aztec priest wielding a flint knife, or that cop swinging his baton on that cool starless night years ago in L.A. that crushed the buckle from my gas mask into my skull, leaving a cute little scarito in my scalp that I wore my hair extra short for months to show off. Or like in that time before time when space wasn’t separate from time or anything was separate from anything else and all was the goddess Coatlicue, She of the Serpent Skirt, but then she was the Cipactli monster: alligatoroid, fished, but more a great, quivering mass swimming in an endless sea that was also a sky, a mass with mucho, mucho hungry mouths that devoured everything, the monster, the sea, the monster, the sea, so the sea was the monster and vice versa — everything all mixed up like Siren zapware feedback — ay! Makes me want to be like the gods Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca — I wonder which I am, culture giver or trickster?  Could I be both?  Why not?  I know how they felt when they decided, Hey, enough of this formless nadaness! Let’s tear this monster/paint blob apart! (p2-3)

It becomes clear later that Pablo is, as he suspected, both culture giver and trickster.  In particular the loner Pablo continually voices the trickster’s absence of respect for society, whether in small groups, through the justice systems, or in the Space Culture Project.  In the latter Pablo rails against the Director as “An icon-maker rather than an iconoclast.  No wonder we didn’t get along.” (p83)

One of SF’s favourite toys is the neologism, from raygun to cyberspace SF has modified language to tell its story but I struggle to think of any writer who has made language so distinctly his own the way Hogan does.  (He even creates the wonderful “nuevofangled cyberpsychoautonomoelectromagneticneuroextrasensorywhatchamacallit.” p210) The Spanglish vocabulary not only gives Pablo cultural depth but contributes in classic trickster fashion to subverting the otherwise standard First Contact story.  In his hands the toy is a weapon, reflected by the Picasso quote Pablo has tattooed: “Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war for attack and defense against the enemy.” (p25)


Writing in SFEye Hogan said of himself:

Growing up as a Chicano, I often found it easier to identify with aliens, mutants and other sci-fi thingies than with the white people who were supposed to be destined to conquer the galaxy.(Greasy Kid Stuff From Outer Space, SFEye 11, December 1992)

That outsider feeling has translated in Pablo into the man who can communicate with the Sirens when they have mentally destroyed others because of the artistic perspective and because of that identification more with the alien than society.  In Cortez on Jupiter Ernest Hogan challenges the Heinleinian vision of space conquest, the prevalent Manifest Destiny of Space Exploration that lingers on.  The ‘heroic’ first man to lose his mind to the Sirens is Phil Hagen. 

a typical nondescript astronaut — not even the fact that he was black and raised in Brazil made him much different from the sterilized whitebread spacemen of the mid-twentieth century. He was all hard-edge haircut and close shave all the way down to the convolutions of his brain. (p27)

That sounds like Starship Troopers‘ John Rico to me, and the last line of that paragraph reads: “I can’t even recall anything he ever said that interested me.”

Cortez On Jupiter takes a conventional mainstream SF idea or two as its plot, hence the SFE suggestion that Hogan isn’t doing anything radically original, but in warping language as Pablo does  “I really don’t care what language they’re from — I just use ’em when they fit.” (p9) Ernest Hogan satirizes swathes of SF that went before. 
Historically, Hernan Cortez defeated the Aztecs in part through his relationship with a woman who interpreted for him.  Pablo is a very different Cortez, but his return from the Sirens is facilitated by fellow artist Willa translating his thoughts.   Multi-faceted synaesthetic communications assimilate Pablo and the Sirens where the establishment protocols all failed. Hogan convincingly offers SF a new, post-Anglo paradigm. Pablo’s linguistic exuberance and artistic questing highlight and challenge the media obsessions and the cultural establishments of today both real and as more commonly portrayed in SF.

Cortez on Jupiter is a frequently very funny novel but one with a serious heart.  His story may be closest to Alfred Bester, but his freewheeling hi-NRG word mashups and sharp wide-ranging satire owe as much to Ishmael Reed.   Twenty years on I still know no writer in SF consistently doing what Hogan does with language to document, shape and comment on colliding cultures. 

Although long out of print in paper, there is now a new ebook edition of Cortez On Jupiter.


Page references are to 1991 UK edition Mandarin paperback.

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