#52 Books - June

More from my doomed mission to read 52 books for the year.  Leaving aside the initial cost of the kindle, ebooks are ridiculous value for entertainment hours at the moment.  The Herbert I picked up for 20p as part of Sony's (or someone else's) plan to take on Amazon (not too bright: you want to sell it for 20p?  Sure, we'll sell it for 20p too).  I also picked up most of Sinister Grin's backlist for less than a quid each as Shane McKenzie put on a promotion the weekend he went to the World Horror Convention (A smart move - I'll be checking out more of their books based on what I've read so far.)

#13: China Miéville – Embassytown

Miéville is one of my favourite authors.  If I had to pick a favourite book of all time it would probably be Perdido Street Station, although The City & The City might technically be the better book.

Embassytown is... tough.

Embassytown is Miéville’s foray into the type of science fiction concerned with space and alien planets, although the book is primarily concerned with language.  The eponymous Embassytown is a human city on Arieka, a planet right at the edge of known space.  The planet’s inhabitants communicate through two voices and the only way humans can speak back is to raise twins to speak simultaneously.  Then the humans try something different with catastrophic results...

Miéville’s great strength is the ability to write about the alien as if he’d actually been there.  Embassytown is no exception.  Unfortunately the book is very arid and a little too academic in style.  It is very slow-paced at the beginning while he sets up the world and background.  Most of this detail becomes important later, but I suspect a lot of readers will find it a little too dull.  The book was left half-read on my kindle for a very long time before I forced myself to finish it.  When it comes together towards the end it is very good—there is a real sense that the planet and the previously almost ephemeral narrator have undergone epochal change—but it asks a lot of readers to get that far.

#14: Shane McKenzie – Muerte Con Carne

It’s a Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but with Mexican luchadors instead of chainsaws.  Or rather a huge, fuck off, pound-you-into-mince-and-serve-you-up-in-a-taco luchador.

McKenzie’s book is a solid slab of splattergore featuring a family of crazed cannibals picking off illegals crossing the Mexican border.  There’s nothing really new here, but it’s executed well.  Marta and Felix, the hapless bickering couple dragged into the carnage, are imperfect human beings trying to do the right thing.  There’s enough to provoke sympathy from the reader, but also enough flaws to make you fear they won’t get through this.

Of course the key part of this type of book is the Grand Guignol ending and McKenzie doesn’t disappoint with plenty of splattered organs and some gruesome imagery to test the stomach.  Recommended for gorehounds everywhere.

#15: James Herbert – Ash

The last novel from legendary Brit horror writer, James Herbert, who tragically died earlier this year, and it’s madder than a box of frogs.  This reads like his revenge fantasy on the establishment as he blends fact and fiction into imaginative conspiracy theory.  There are fictional explanations for Lord Lucan’s disappearance, Dr David Kelly’s suicide and a host of past scandals.

I’ll drop an important caveat that this is a very British novel.  I suspect the use of real-life political scandals and establishment figures might leave a lot of non-British readers completely nonplussed.

Paranormal investigator David Ash is sent to investigate a spooky Scottish castle by a secretive and powerful organisation.  Similar to the cult British TV series The Prisoner (remember that one), the castle is a dumping ground to allow wealthy, well-connected individuals whose lives have been blotted by one criminal scandal or another to escape jail and live out their lives in luxurious exile instead.  Until now, because dark supernatural forces are rising and James Herbert is here to dish out the justice their real-life counterparts never received.

Herbert’s style is never going to win awards, but he’s always had a flair for the set pieces and one, with Ash and his love interest being threatened by a pack of possessed wildcats, is effectively tense.  Unfortunately the book suffers from trying to do too much.  Herbert’s secretive Inner Court organisation comes across as too venal and incompetent to be truly terrifying adversaries.  Even the dark supernatural forces set against them seem reduced to little more than bit players in an explosive climax that doesn’t really ignite.  It’s a fun read, but ultimately gets a little too silly near the end.

#16: Nate Southard – Down

Cool, another monster book and one that zips along at a ferocious pace.  A rock band’s chartered plane goes down in deep forest and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the survivors are menaced by a creature in the darkness.

I love monster books, so I was always going to like this.

The book is short, but gives the impression that’s because it’s been sent down to the gym and worked out until there’s not an ounce of fat left.  No flab to slow down the pace here at all.  I read it in two tasty gulps and enjoyed it thoroughly.

I was also pleasantly surprised when the explanation for the monsters turned out to be different, more supernatural, than I’d been expecting.  There is a Lovecraftian touch to what’s happening, but from first principles and without the usual how-many-Great-Old-Ones-can-I-reference baggage.

As an aside, I did chortle afterwards when I remembered the page at the start indicating the book’s events took place in 1993.  I wonder how tempted Southard was to write “i.e. before every fucker had their own fucking mobile phone to ruin good horror plots everywhere” underneath.

The difference between censorship and censorship

The Edinburgh International Book Festival is running at the moment and has thrown up some interesting articles. Patrick Ness put out this brilliant polemic on censorship and in particular how social media can cause problems of self-censorship for writers worried about their words being taken out of context and misunderstood. In the latter article China Miéville made the point it's only really censorship when the police show up.

This is a familiar argument and a problem with how censorship is defined. Selena Kitt brought it up here after the problems with paypal and online retailers banning some of eXcessica’s books. The articles around the time generated some debate with other people making the point that it wasn’t true censorship—no government body was actively banning the books; the booksellers were simply refusing to stock the books, which they had every right to do. I argued back then that the semantics of whether or not it was technically censorship were moot if they resulted in the same outcome. It might not be censorship in the pedantic sense, but the end result is still a writer being unable to get their work out for readers to read. There isn’t really a word to fit this ‘soft’ form of censorship, so we tend to use censorship even though it’s not strictly accurate.

This ‘soft’ censorship is especially appropriate to social media and I think Ness has it spot on. A writer either has to censor themselves and avoid trigger topics completely, or risk something being interpreted the wrong way and then have a baying online mob (most of whom probably didn’t even read the original work in the first place) stomp all over their reputation and career.

Ness raised the example of Salman Rushdie. Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses was not banned or censored by Western governments to my knowledge, but after seeing what happened to Rushdie, only an incredibly brave or reckless writer would attempt to tackle the same topics now. Again, this isn’t censorship in the pedantic sense, but the end result is the same—certain work will not be available for the public to read. It’s a kind of censorship by the mob.

And irony of ironies, this is the week when the Save the Pearls and Weird Tales controversy erupted on the internet, a situation that exemplifies Ness’s argument (although I don’t think he’d thank me for drawing the line from A to B).

I don’t want to talk about Victoria Foyt's book too much. I’ll be charitable and assume Foyt was aiming for an anti-racist message, but rather than hit the target, managed to spin around 180° and fire the arrow right through her foot. As a result plenty of people found it racist and were offended by it. They were also offended that Weird Tales (a fiction magazine with a long history) planned to run an extract. Further exacerbating the situation, Weird Tales had recently undergone some kind of editorial coup, with the popular Ann VanderMeer turfed out by the new owners.

This is where being one of those staunch Free Speech Warriors sucks. I fear and loathe all forms of censorship, which by extension means I also fear and loathe Political Correctness, as it’s another form of censorship, albeit by people with more honourable intentions. The moment you start to think certain things should be banned, for the “good”, is the moment you start opening the door to allow other people to ban other things, for their “good”, which might be vastly different and far more narrow-minded than your own “good”. That door should be kept shut and firmly locked. Unfortunately that sometimes means ending up on the side of the river you’d rather not be. As the famous quote goes: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

Of course, freedom of speech does not mean freedom from criticism. If someone writes something bone-headed and stupid, someone else has the right to call them out for writing something bone-headed and stupid. There is, however, a fine line between honest and deserved criticism, and hounding a writer off the internet and leaving a smouldering crater where a magazine once stood.

I fear the chilling effects Ness talked about in his polemic. Culture is poorly served if writers are grinding their work down to tasteless gruel for fear of the PC police lurking at their shoulder. Free speech should mean exactly that, not “You can write what you like, but if you write things we don’t like it’s back to rounding up trolleys at Tesco for you.” Our culture shouldn’t be ruled by fear.

Given a choice between a world where people have the freedom to write what they want and occasionally fuck it up completely, and a world where people don't write because they're scared of an online lynch mob coming after them if they do fuck it up, I'll take the former. If that means the existence of the occasional disagreeable—even bigoted—book, it’s a price worth paying.

During the rather lively discussion beneath The Guardian article someone made the point freedom to be published is not the same as the right to be published. Ultimately that decision lies with the publisher or magazine. They’re not obligated to provide a platform to writers whose work they find disagreeable, same as readers are not obligated to support businesses they find disagreeable.

I agree with that, but this is not what happened in this case. Rightly or wrongly, Weird Tales had already taken the decision to publish an extract of Foyt’s work. Then—rightly or wrongly—a pitchfork-wielding mob turned up at the gates and forced the publisher into a U-turn. In doing so they denied other readers the chance to make up their own minds on whether or not to support the magazine’s decision. That choice was taken away.

This is censorship by the mob.

No matter the provocation, we should aspire to be better than this.