The Decide Your Destiny books

Second paragraph of section 3 in each book as follows:

1) The Spaceship Graveyard, by Colin Brake

'That's not the answer,' he [the Doctor] says quietly.

2) Alien Arena, by Richard Dungworth

Determined to dislodge you, the creature tries another tactic. It backs towards the nearest section of the Arena's perimeter, and rears up, in an attempt to crush you against the wall.

3) The Time Crocodile, by Colin Brake

'It looks a bit like any other zoo,' you tell the Doctor.

4) The Corinthian Project, by Davey Moore

He appears to be wearing an old navy uniform – a thick blue wool jacket with gold buttons and a white woollen pullover beneath. A gold badge on his chest says Jacques.

5) The Crystal Snare, by Richard Dungworth

The creatures escort you and the Doctor roughly along the tunnel, until it opens into a large chamber. The chamber's walls are coated with the same luminous green substance that lines the tunnel. A large, transparent cylindrical pod occupies the centre of the floor. Inside it you can see fifty or so human beings, each enclosed within a capsule of blue gel.

6) War of the Robots, by Trevor Baxendale

'What was that thing?' asks Martha.

7) Dark Planet, by Davey Moore

'I'm sorry if my appearance frightened you,' he says. You mention seeing him at the chapel and he says, 'Yes! I was leaving to meet Akemi and Teah. We meet at the old fairground – no one comes here.'

8) The Haunted Wagon Train, by Colin Brake

'Patience, that's enough,' her father interrupts abruptly.

9) Lost Luggage, by Colin Brake

'Is that something different to StarBase Gamma?' you ask. The Doctor nods, grimly.

10) Second Skin, by Richard Dungworth

Before you can take in your new surroundings, the Doctor pulls you down behind a large cabinet. As you peer cautiously around it, you see why.

11) The Dragon King, by Trevor Baxendale

There's no way you're going to get out of this on your own. You have to call for help, even if it means the native with the bow and arrow!

12) The Horror of Howling Hill, by Jonathan Green

You join Martha and the Doctor in peering through the grimy, cobweb-choked windows but can see nothing as there are no lights on inside.

13) The Coldest War, by Colin Brake

'We need them to find the Dx87kk=$si2£,' he tells the Doctor. [It's a malgunctioning translation machine.]

14) Claws of the Macra, by Trevor Baxendale

But now you're all in a darkened passageway that smells distinctly of –

15) Judoon Monsoon, by Oli Smith

'Doctor!' Rory shouts, getting up and running over to the retreating figure. 'Don't you think it would be better to ask around the village first? Try and discover why these aliens might want to come to Betul?'

16) Empire of the Wolf, by Neil Corry

But that doesn't shock you. Nor does the column of light reaching endlessly into the sky, filling the place with so much radiance that it bleaches the colours from everything. The bean itself is fascinating, with swirling strands rising through the beam towards the heaves. Its power seems immense.

I've written up the Old Who game books previously – six not hugely impressive British ones from the 1980s and two rather better American ones of the same vintage. There are also two Twelfth Doctor Choose Your Future books; but these are the sixteen Decide Your Destiny books, the first twelve featuring the Tenth Doctor (mostly with Martha) and the last four with the Eleventh Doctor and Amy.

Colin Brake is the lead author here, with five of the sixteen to his credit. He has written a bunch of other Who books, of which the most memorable for me is the only Doctor Who story set in Brussels. To my surprise he has varied the format a bit from the usual solo game books that I am familiar with. I am used to these books having a core narrative which then,reader is guided along, but several of his books lead to very divergently branching storylines which are basically incompatible in the same universe. It means you could read the book several times and get interestingly different outcomes, but also somewhat dents the sense hat this is a coherent world.

Even more surprisingly, the reader is given choices to make about the plot that come from a very different direction to other solo game books that I have read. For instance, the very first section of the first book ends thus:

If the [Tardis] engines respond and fire back into activity, go to 63. If nothing happens, go to 79.

So you get to choose whether you are going to read a story where the Tardis starts working again, or one where it doesn’t. I don’t recall ever coming across that before (and it’s only Brake who gives the reader that sort of choice in these books). Is it common, or at least not unknown, in computer games? Unfortunately the choice you make then doesn’t have a lot of impact on the outcome, as you tend to end up in the same place either way.

There’s not a lot to say about the rest of them. The four Eleventh Doctor books bring back TV monsters: the Sycorax, the Macra, the Judoon and the werewolves from Tooth and Claw. They also at the time featured on-line tie-in material on the BBC website, which possibly is the cause of two sets of orphaned pages in The Coldest War which aren’t reachable though the hard copy text.

One other point that struck me was that in most of the books, there are no unhappy endings – you struggle through until you reach a resolution which is usually some degree of the doctor and friends wining and the baddies losing. The exception is the very last, Empire of the Wolf by Neil Corry (who it should be noted also wrote for the Doctor Who game magazine Battle In Time) whwere a majority of the potential endings have “you” turning into a werewolf – including, most unfairly, one which is reached in only two steps from the opening chapter (both of which involve running away).

The best of these for my money is the last of the Tenth Doctor ones, The Horror of Howling Hill, well written and interestingly structured by Jonathan Green, with lots of interesting incidental characters and colour. (He also wrote a less brilliant Eleventh Doctor novel.) I’ll give you the opening section, just to give you a taste:

Hearing the unexpected hooting of an owl, you suddenly notice how dark the sky has become. Black rags of cloud scud across the darkening velvet blue of night. You had not realised it was so late, and you are still some way from the cottage. The deal was that you could stay out at the playing fields, by yourself, until dusk – then you had to hurry home.

But now night has already fallen and you’re still nowhere near your holiday house.

You’ve been there almost a week, enjoying a short country break with the rest of your family on the outskirts of the pretty, chocolate box Wiltshire village of Caernbury. Like Stonehenge and the stone circle at Avebury, Caernbury is steeped in the myth and mysticism of the Stone Age people who used to claim these lands as their tribal hunting grounds.

The owl hoots again, an eerie sound cutting through the night, and you cast your eyes towards the silhouette of the hill away to your left. On its crest, visible against a smattering of stars between the dark shapes of scrubby, wind-blown trees, is the solid black form of the long barrow. The ancient burial mound is one of the local tourist attractions that have put Caernbury on the map. Locally the feature is known as Howling Hill.

It is just at that moment that the owl’s screeching cries are silenced by a terrible mournful wail, which echoes around the hillside and over the dreaming village beyond.

You freeze, your blood turning to ice water in your veins. You have never heard anything like it, and you are convinced it came from somewhere nearby. Then the cry comes again, like some unearthly animal wailing, only closer this time. You are not alone.

If you want to run from this place as fast as you can, turn to 45. If you want to stand your ground and see what happens next, turn to 20.

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Wings (1927)

I have a vague ambition to improve my rather dismal knowledge of cinema by watching all of the winners of the Oscar for Best Picture (or equivalent). If I do them at the rate of one a month or so, I should finish roughly around the time of the centennial of this, the winner of the Academy Award for Outstanding Picture of 1927/28 (not yet called the Oscar).

I had no expectations whatever of Wings. I don’t think I’ve ever previously seen a film with Clara Bow, the star, or even with Gary Cooper, who has a small part as the first character to get killed. So, going from bad to good, my totally spoilery impressions were:

Whiteness: I don’t think I spotted a single non-white face. I thought at one point that they were about to introduce French colonial troops, but they were white too.

Plot: It’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen as soon as you see the set-up of Mary (Clara Bow) loves Jack (Buddy Rogers), who loves Sylvia (Jobyna Ralston), who loves David (Richard Arlen), and Jack and David go off to war, and David takes his teddy bear mascot with him (which obviously means he will be killed). Though getting David accidentally killed by Jack in a friendly fire incident was a slightly unexpected twist.

Also fails the Bechdel test – though there are several women characters, they hardly ever talk to each other, and never about anything except men.

However, one has to give the film a lot of credit for attempting a not too glamorous portrayal of air combat in the first world war less than ten years after it had happened – as recent for the makers and audience as Obama’s first election and the global financial crisis are for us today, and of course still raw and unspeakable for many.

Make-up: I know intellectually that you just have to accept this as part of the conventions of film production of the era, but the vast amount of make-up on Buddy Rogers, playing Jack the hero, including during battle scenes, somewhat threw me out of the zone (particularly since few of the other men seem to wear any). Clara Bow’s make-up is also laid on pretty thick but there’s less of a divergence with other women either on the screen or in real life.

Comic relief: There is a comic German recruit, who is mocked by his fellow soldiers until he shows them his “Stars and Stripes Forever” tattoo. Twice.

Locations: I’ll come to the battle scenes below, but mostly they are set in San Antonio, Texas, which does not look very much like Northern France. There are however some excellent exterior shots set in Paris, presumably a combination of back projection and good set design.

Acting: As noted above, the plot isn’t up to much, but the actors give it their all – I felt in particular that Clara Bow lived up to her reputation, and got quite a lot to do ranging from comedy to deep emotion; and here Buddy Rogers as Jack comforts Richard Arlen as the dying David (who he has accidentally killed) with reputedly the first same-sex kiss in a mainstream Hollywood film:

Richard Arlen, playing David, had actually served in the Royal Canadian Flying Corps, but never saw combat. Both he and Buddy Rogers did some of their own flying, which I’m sure would be regarded as horrendously risky for a major star to do today.

Cinematography The other Academy award won by Wings was for Best Engineering Effects, and that was richly deserved. There is a lot of absolutely breathtaking action in the aerial combat scenes. I griped earlier about Texas pretending to be France, but the air is the air and the clouds are the clouds. It does go on a bit (the film is 144 minutes long – and we complain about film length these days!) but if you have loads of material you may as well use it. In these days of CGI spacehips and dragons, it’s sobering to realise what could be done 90 years ago with basic authentic equipment.

The fights stand out but there is some brilliant work elsewhere as well – this fanvid starts with perhaps the film’s most memorable shot, tracking through a Paris night club until we find Jack getting drunk with the girls (supposedly Buddy Rogers had never touched the stuff before and really was drunk; not sure if I believe that):

Anyway, it took me two evenings to watch it all, but I’m glad I did and it gives me confidence that this project is worth pursuing. Next up is a very different film: The Broadway Melody of 1929.

Winners of the Oscar for Best Picture

1920s: Wings (1927-28) | The Broadway Melody (1928-29)
1930s: All Quiet on the Western Front (1929-30) | Cimarron (1930-31) | Grand Hotel (1931-32) | Cavalcade (1932-33) | It Happened One Night (1934) | Mutiny on the Bounty (1935, and books) | The Great Ziegfeld (1936) | The Life of Emile Zola (1937) | You Can’t Take It with You (1938) | Gone with the Wind (1939, and book)
1940s: Rebecca (1940) | How Green Was My Valley (1941) | Mrs. Miniver (1942) | Casablanca (1943) | Going My Way (1944) | The Lost Weekend (1945) | The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) | Gentleman’s Agreement (1947) | Hamlet (1948) | All the King’s Men (1949)
1950s: All About Eve (1950) | An American in Paris (1951) | The Greatest Show on Earth (1952) | From Here to Eternity (1953) | On The Waterfront (1954, and book) | Marty (1955) | Around the World in 80 Days (1956) | The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) | Gigi (1958) | Ben-Hur (1959)
1960s: The Apartment (1960) | West Side Story (1961) | Lawrence of Arabia (1962) | Tom Jones (1963) | My Fair Lady (1964) | The Sound of Music (1965) | A Man for All Seasons (1966) | In the Heat of the Night (1967) | Oliver! (1968) | Midnight Cowboy (1969)
1970s: Patton (1970) | The French Connection (1971) | The Godfather (1972) | The Sting (1973) | The Godfather, Part II (1974) | One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) | Rocky (1976) | Annie Hall (1977) | The Deer Hunter (1978) | Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)
1980s: Ordinary People (1980) | Chariots of Fire (1981) | Gandhi (1982) | Terms of Endearment (1983) | Amadeus (1984) | Out of Africa (1985) | Platoon (1986) | The Last Emperor (1987) | Rain Man (1988) | Driving Miss Daisy (1989)
1990s: Dances With Wolves (1990) | The Silence of the Lambs (1991) | Unforgiven (1992) | Schindler’s List (1993) | Forrest Gump (1994) | Braveheart (1995) | The English Patient (1996) | Titanic (1997) | Shakespeare in Love (1998) | American Beauty (1999)
21st century: Gladiator (2000) | A Beautiful Mind (2001) | Chicago (2002) | The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) | Million Dollar Baby (2004, and book) | Crash (2005) | The Departed (2006) | No Country for Old Men (2007) | Slumdog Millionaire (2008) | The Hurt Locker (2009)
2010s: The King’s Speech (2010) | The Artist (2011) | Argo (2012) | 12 Years a Slave (2013) | Birdman (2014) | Spotlight (2015) | Moonlight (2016) | The Shape of Water (2017) | Green Book (2018) | Parasite (2019)
2020s: Nomadland (2020) | CODA (2021) | Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) | Oppenheimer (2023)

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Diamond Dogs, by Mike Tucker

Second paragraph of third chapter:

That was good news. The sooner they realised that everything was running as it should, the sooner they would leave him [Delitsky] in peace. He was about to turn back to his instruments when he caught sight of Johanna Teske making her way across the control room towards him.

Given yesterday’s demise of the Cassini probe in the atmosphere of Saturn, it was timely to read this Twelfth Doctor novel set in precisely that location, in a future where humans and their alien allies are mining the rains of pure diamonds that occur amidst the clouds. Tucker when on form is one of the best Who novelists writing at the moment, and here he is on form – great characterisation of the Doctor and Bill, a nice mystery saboteur plot which ends in a decent twist, loads of fan service for previous Who stories both Old and New, and tight writing. This was the first of the three Doctor-and-Bill novels this year (I accidentally read the second one already) and it’s a good start.

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The Moon Stallion, by Brian Hayles

Second paragraph of third chapter:

The horses walked on, blowing nervously, eager to be worked and eventually given their head on the open hills. Mortenhurze, in the lead, gave Purwell and Diana only the barest of formal acknowledgement, as befitted his status as Master of the Hunt. Paul, riding at the rear of his host alongside Estelle, gave a more cheery, slightly mischievous wave, before breaking into a gentle canter and riding away. Purwell watched Diana’s bright unseeing wave gradually falter as the departing horses were lost to view across the bright shimmer of parkland. He stopped waving, and holding her arm, stood for a lingering moment, taking in the sunny welcome of the May morning. Her quiet face was gently uptilted to the almost cloudless sky as though drinking in its promise of greater warmth to come; she seemed quite untouched by yesterday’s alarming incident, described so graphically to Purwell by his son. Diana had seemed more concerned about just how Todman had controlled the frenzied horse than the fact that her life had been in real danger. Thankful that the event was past and that Diana had come to no harm, he gave her arm an affectionate squeeze, and led the way into the cool recesses of the house.

I think some readers are of an age to remember the slightly incomprehensible 1978 BBC children’s TV series that this books novelises – particularly memorable for Who fans in that it stars Sarah Sutton, a year or so before she became Nyssa, and John Abineri, who was in Doctor Who four times; and the writer of course was Brian Hayles, who wrote the four Ice Warrior stories of Old Who and also The Celestial Toymaker and The Smugglers. He died, aged 47, just before the first episode was shown (and before the book had been published).

The book sticks fairly closely to the TV story as I remember it (from first watching it in 1978 and again in 2010). It suffers a bit from the inevitable traps of novelising a script – basically, the omniscient narrator sometimes comes over as kinda dumb. But it’s a decent recreation of a very weird story, which provoked happy memories.

This was the sf book that had lingered longest unread on my shelves, and also the shortest unread book of those acquired in 1989. Next on those piles respectively are Wild Life by Molly Gloss and A Crocodile in the Fernery by Twigs Way.

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Exit West, by Mohsin Hamid

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Saeed partly resisted the pull of his phone. He found the antenna too powerful, the magic it summoned too mesmerizing, as though he were eating a banquet of limitless food, stuffing himself, stuffing himself, until he felt dazed and sick, and so he had removed or hidden or restricted all but a few applications. His phone could make calls. His phone could send messages. His phone could take pictures, identify celestial bodies, transform the city into a map while he drove. But that was it. Mostly. Except for the hour each evening that he enabled the browser on his phone and disappeared down the byways of the internet. But this hour was tightly regulated, and when it ended, a timer would set off an alarm, a gentle, windy chime, as though from the breezy planet of some blue-shimmering science fiction priestess, and he would electronically lock away his browser and not browse again on his phone until the following day.

Niall Harrison got me to read this short book as preparation for a panel at Worldcon 75, and it was very interesting – in a world similar to ours, portals begin to open which allow people to travel instantly from one country to another; at first there are only a few, and access to them is tightly controlled, but as the story continues they become more common and eventually the whole world is interconnected. For Saeed and Nadia, this becomes first a means of escape from their home city, which is consumed in a Syria-style civil war, and then a way of encountering different parts of the world, where migrants are (mis)treated in various different ways – a Greek refugee camp, a neighbourhood of squatters in London, and finally California. This is leavened with vignettes showing how the changed world affects the lives of other people who we aren’t otherwise involved in the narrative. It’s a very convincing portrayal of a world which is both integrating and disintegrating, not so very far from our own.

I found it an interesting contrast with Chris Beckett’s Marchers novel/collection, and with Dave Hutchinson’s Europe trilogy, but of course from a non-European perspective. I was also reminded of Zelazny’s Eye of Cat, where a global transmat system becomes a hunting ground for an alien tracking his Native American nemesis, and more frivolously The Seeds of Death. Recommended, anyway.

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Aliénor: La Légende Noire, vols 1 and 2

Vol 1, second frame of page 3:


Suger: "There's more. His last wish was to marry his daughter to the heir to the King of France. You, Louis!"
The future Louis VII: "Me? What do you mean, me?"

Vol 2, second frame of page 3:


"They are too well defended! We won't make it!"
"What? Get back down there! Order the ladders back up! And those catapults… Load heavier projectiles!"

I have long been fascinated by Eleanor, ever since reading A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver, and to my great joy discovered what may well be her astrological birthchart (cast for 14 December 1122 or 1123) while researching my M Phil. So when I spotted the Dutch translation of this recent bande dessinée in the local FNAC, I knew I had to go to the original and try it out.

It turns out that Delcourt, the French publisher, has started a line of historical series of albums about famous women rulers who have had a historically bad press, under the title "Les Reines de Sang", The Queens of Blood. Others covered include Cleopatra ("The Deadly Queen"), Fredegund ("The Bloody"), Eleanor of Aquitaine's descendant Isabella ("The She-Wolf of France") and Cixi ("The Dragon Lady").

The Eleanor series (subtitled "The Black Legend") has been translated so far into Dutch, Spanish and Italian as far as I know (alas, not English – it's surprisingly rare even for a top-selling French line to cross the Channel). It's a multinational endeavour, with writers Arnaud Delalande (French) and Simona Mogavino (Italian) joined by artist Carlos Gomez (Argentinian). There are six volumes out so far; the first two are told as a flashback from the 1142 siege of Vitry-en-Perthois, starting from 1137, the year when in quick succession Eleanor's father died, making her duchess of Aquitaine at 13 or 14, she married Louis, the heir to the throne, and his father then died making him Louis VII and her queen of France, and leading us through the first years of their joint reign.

Delalande and Mogavino have tried pretty hard both to include lots of historical detail (they slightly lose the run of it in the second volume) and also to inject some romance – Eleanor goes for it with some ruggedly handsome troubadours and noblemen, keeping Louis completely in the dark. But she comes across as an interesting character, trying to establish her own authority at court despite Louis being subject to the manipulations of Suger and his mother, attempting to protect her sister who falls in love with an older married nobleman, cultivating culture as well as warfare. Gomez' art is nice and clear, with big action scenes remaining uncluttered and the protagonists well characterised visually. The plot drives of course to the burning of Vitry, which means that we don't have all that much suspense about what is coming. But that only takes us to 1142, so I shall get the next volumes to see how the rest of the story is worked out.

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The Help, by Kathryn Stockett

Second paragraph of third chapter:

I yank my stockings up from sagging around my feet – the trouble of all fat, short women around the world. Then I rehearse what to say, what to keep to myself. I go ahead and punch the bell.

This is a novel about the early 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi; against a background of racist violence, three women (two black, one white) collaborate to publish a first-person account of domestic work in their town, and more or less get away with it. I liked the central concept of story-telling being in itself liberating, and the human geography of racial division is vividly and movingly captured. Many of the white women in the book are almost as nasty to each other as they are to their black servants. I did wonder how long our heroes would really have got away with it, though; the entire black population of the town knows what they did, and it doesn’t take much for these things to leak.

This was my top unread book by a woman and also my top book acquired this year. Next on those piles are Hermione Lee’s biography of Virginia Woolf and Ben Okri’s The Famished Road.

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QI: The Book of the Dead, by John Lloyd and John Mitchinson

Second paragraph of third chapter:

If there is a more driven person in human history than Genghis Khan (about 1162–1227) we should pray we don’t bump into him on a dark night.

From the makers of the quiz show QI, a collection of biographies of famous people, more or less tied together by themed chapters, very much going for the gosh-wow trivia, none of it all that memorable to be honest.

This was my top unread book acquired in 2012. Next in that list is the anthology Brave New Worlds, edited by John Joseph Adams.

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Sunday reading

Current
Watchmen, by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (a chapter a month)
Synners, by Pat Cadigan
Thinking Fast and Slow, by Daniel Kahneman
Life During Wartime, ed. Paul Cornell

Last books finished
How The Doctor Changed My Life, ed. Simon Guerrier

Next books
The Famished Road, by Ben Okri
The Dancers at the End of Time, by Michael Moorcock
Alexander the Corrector: The Tormented Genius Whose Cruden's Concordance Unwrote the Bible, by Julia Keay

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Along the Dijle with Bo

It was Open Monument Day today in Flanders, and I decided to go for a guided walk along the river Dijle through the middle of historic Leuven. About a dozen of us gathered at the Sint Jan de Doperkerk (Church of St John the Baptist) to be greeted by the bubbly and enthusiastic Bo, a medieval history graduate who has set up a tour company to explore the city.


The historical map of Leuven is generally presented as two concentric circles, the outer walls (now the ring road) and the inner walls (still visible in eg the St-Donatuspark). But apparently the first settlement was in the area which later became the Begijnhof, south of where the inner walls were subsequently built. The settlement that became the core of the medieval town was originally a Viking raiding post on a couple of islands, captured with much blood in the Battle of Leuven on 1 September 891 and then invested by the victorious Franks. Bo had a useful map of the area before the city came to be.

The weather was a bit gloomy but the magic of computing makes my pictures of the banks look better than they really were.


The former urban industry depending on the river has almost completely disappeared; this mill wheel (at the Dijlemolens) was built after the second world war and is the only one left in the town. It is non-functional.

Frustratingly the lovely Dijlepark was locked, but we were able to get a tantalising glimpse from the other side of the river.

If you perform the correct rituals to the statue of the Dijle Duck, it will grant your heart's desire. (Also if you press the black button, it spouts water.)

Another river scene.

Two towers, the Jansenius Tower and the Justus Lipsius Tower, mark the spot where the river flowed into the old inner walls. The Jansenius Tower on the left is where Cornelius Jansen invented Jansenism (more specifically, where he wrote his Augustinus). (I wasn't so clear if Justus Lipsius had a personal link to the more crumbling and picturesque tower that bears his name.)


Behind the Justus Lipsius tower, a rather ancient sluice gate, part of the system of controlling the water flow through the different branches of the river.

And beyond it, the Justus Lipsius College itself, which really reminded me of Oxbridge. The chapel at the end is the home of the Leuven Anglican church of St Mary and St Martha.

Urban river scene.

Along Amerikalaan the Dijle is presented between these nice stone balustrades. Paep Thoon is a medieval mythic figure, a jester and organist, who keeps an eye on passers-by.

The sun was coming out now – less need to apply filters to the photographs!

This stern lady, comforting her dying son, is a monument to the anti-Naxi resistance erected by the National Royalist Movemebr in the 1950s.

And this is Fiere Margriet, a virginal figure of legend who met her grisly end in the river some time in the 13th century. In the 2016 floods, the river rose so high that all but her face was submerged.

A striking piece of graffiti at the Vismarkt.

In medieval times the Vismarkt represented the southernmost navigable point of the Dijle, and was the harbour where freight would come in from the north and get unloaded. It has been covered for years, and is now a convenient central car park. There are plans to open it up and expose the subterranean channels to public view; but who knows what secrets lie within?

The modern sluices controlling the river…

…which still flows quite fast.

Looking back at the Predikherenkerk, site of the old castle on the Duke's Island ('s Hertogeneiland).

In the Sluispark, which marked the end of our walk, there is an educational water playground whose channels actually correspond to the different branches of the river as they flow through the city. Alas, only to be used by children under supervision.

One last look as I walked south and up the river to where I'd parked the car.

Many thanks to Bo and to Leuven Leisure for doing this.

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William Cecil, Ireland and the Tudor State, by Christopher Maginn

Second paragraph of third chapter:

William Cecil’s Irish correspondence began in earnest within months of his appointment in early September 1550 as secretary of state and a privy councillor. By comparison with Elizabeth’s reign, Cecil’s Irish correspondence in the early 1550s is slight: all that have survived are the less than two down letters written by members of the Tudor administration in Ireland to the young councillor. Still, this number is greater than all of the surviving letters which three of Edward’s other councillors who maintained Irish correspondence — William Paulet, Edward Seymour, and John Dudley — received from Ireland in Edward’s reign combined. Some letters offered observations on the state of politics and society in Ireland, reporting back what had been heard or witnessed; others contained the hope that Cecil would, through his influence with the sovereign and his access to the corridors of power in England, further one’s own (or one’s client’s) political position or economic well-being. In these respects, Cecil’s Irish correspondence was no different from the many other communications which he received as principal secretary and later as lord treasurer. What made this correspondence so markedly different, however, was that it almost invariably contained suggestions for how best to effect the ‘reformation’ of Ireland — that is, to improve, strengthen, and extend Tudor rule in the kingdom. Roughly half the kingdom lay beyond the effective control of the crown, with large swathes of territory in the north and west still under the control of dozens of more or less independent Irish chiefs. Areas answerable to the crown outside the English Pale and the major cities and towns, moreover, often bore little resemblance to English norms, inviting usually negative comparisons with society in England. The letters that Cecil received from and about Ireland and the kingdom’s affairs thus regularly carried with them a prescriptive quality and an urgency for action absent from most of his other correspondence. It was through this medium that the secretary became acquainted with the realities of Tudor rule in Ireland.

I’m pretty sure I met the author at the conference on Elizabeth I and Ireland that I attended in 2009. This is a great analysis of the historical evidence for the interests and policies of William Cecil, Lord Burghley, the Queen’s chief minister, towards her other kingdom, firmly rooted in the manuscript records of the reign, which Burghley himself ensured would be preserved to the present day. The extract above fortunately happens to encapsulate the core theory of the book: that Burghley was deeply interested in all parts of Ireland, both the Pale and the wilder regions, and his overall policy objective was to bring about better government; he was more committed to the surrender and regrant policy as the bedrock of the new Kingdom of Ireland than to colonisation, but he still accepted that colonisation had its place.

I’m still trying to get to grips with the nature of the Dublin Castle government in the Ireland of this period. I think there may be good comparisons to be made with contemporary weak states, where the population as a whole may accept the country’s borders as a definite political framework, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into loyalty to the authority of the government sitting in the capital city, and in particular local chieftains resort to coercion to settle their differences because there is no reason to expect anyone else to take much interest. The Irish situation has the extra wrinkle that the Dublin Castle government had no secure funding of its own and therefore remained very vulnerable to royal whim, and the people causing them problems locally often had sufficient standing to appeal over their heads to London and nudge the royal whim in their favour. There’s a lot of detail but it’s all very fluent.

My own interest is of course my ancestor, Nicholas White, who was a close contact of Cecil’s from the early days until things went wrong for him in the early 1590s. There are lots of juicy quotes to mine here, but two points I particularly wanted to note. The first is that the Palesmen in general referred to themselves as English, and never as Irish. I guess we tend to project nineteenth-century concepts of nationality back into the past. But it’s clear that White and his contemporaries thought of themselves, and were thought of by others, as members of the English nation who happened to reside in the Kingdom of Ireland. White was occasionally derided by his rivals from England because he was from Ireland, but he was never described as being Irish – it’s a subtle difference but I think an important one.

The second is that I’m still not much the wiser about the circumstances of White’s fall from grace. There’s a tantalising hint that his evidence was crucial to the conviction of Sir John Perrot. It looks as if Cecil did very little to help him once he ended up in prison in London, despite their long personal history of friendship. More research needed, I think.

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Children are Civilians Too, by Heinrich Böll

Second paragraph of third story ("The Man with the Knives" / "Der Mann mit den Messern"):

`It makes me sick,' said Jupp quietly. `I've been working on the logical assumption that people who've paid for their tickets really want to see a show where life and limb are at stake — like at the Roman circuses — they want to be convinced of at least the possibility of bloodshed, know what I mean?' He picked up the knife and tossed it neatly against the top crossbar of the window, with such force that the panes rattled and threatened to fall out of the crumbling putty. This throw — confident and unerring — took me back to those hours of semi-darkness in the past when he had thrown his pocket-knife against the dugout post, from bottom to top and down again. `I'll do anything,' he went on, `to give the customers a thrill. I'll even cut off my ears, only it's hard to find anyone to stick them back on again, *and I'd rather be a prisoner of war again than live without ears* [this phrase omitted from my Penguin translation]. Here, I want to show you something.' He opened the door for me, and we went out into the hallway. A few shreds of wallpaper still clung to the walls where the glue was too stubborn for them to be ripped off and used for lighting the stove. After passing through a mouldering bathroom we emerged onto a kind of terrace, its concrete floor cracked and moss-covered. Jupp pointed upward. "Zum Kotzen", sagte Jupp leise. "Ich bin von der einleuchtenden Voraussetzung ausgegangen, daß die Leute, wenn sie an der Kasse ihr Geld bezahlt haben, am liebsten solche Nummern sehen, wo Gesundheit oder Leben auf dem Spiel stehen — genau wie im römischen Zirkus —, sie wollen wenigstens wissen, daß Blut fließen könnte, verstehst du?' Er hob das Messer auf und warf es mit einem knappen Schwingen des Armes in die oberste Fenstersprosse, so heftig, daß die Scheiben klirrten und aus dem bröckeligen Kitt zu fallen drohten. Dieser Wurf — sicher und herrisch — erinnerte mich an jene düsteren Stunden der Vergangenheit, wo er sein Taschenmesser die Bunkerpfosten hatte hinaui und hinunterklettern lassen. "Ich will ja alles tun", fuhr er fort, 'um den Herrschaften einen Kitzel zu verschaffen. Ich will mir die Ohren abschneiden, aber es findet sich leider keiner, der sie mir wieder ankleben könnte; und ohne Ohren leben — da wäre ich doch lieber in der Gefangenschaft geblieben. Komm mal mit.' Er riß die Tür auf, ließ mich vorgehen, und wir traten ins Treppenhaus, wo die Tapetenfetzen nur noch an jenen Stellen hafteten, wo man sie der Stärke des Leimes wegen nicht hatte abreißen können, um den Ofen mit ihnen anzuzünden. Dann durchschritten wir ein verkommenes Badezimmer und kamen auf eine Art Terrasse, deren Beton brüchig und von Moos bewachsen war. Jupp deutete in die Luft.

I'm very familiar with the Heinrich-Böll-Stiftung, the political foundation affiliated with Bündnis 90/Die Grünen, and have actually written for them. However, I didn't know a lot about Böll himself, except that he wrote a book about visiting Ireland in the 1950s and won the Nobel Prize for Literature (in 1972, it turns out). I acquired this collection of short stories years ago and got around to reading it last month.

I must say they blew me away. They are mostly very short indeed – 26 stories in 185 pages, so roughly 7 pages each on average. They were published between 1947 and 1951, mostly in 1950. They cover the horror of being a German soldier in the war, and of being a German after the war; of the disintegration of civilisation and humanity, and the dreadfulness of being oneself an integral part of that. It's unflinching and unsentimental, and full of memorable images (not all of which seem to have got translated) – the shreds of wallpaper, for instance, in the paragraph above. Most of the stories are vignettes, but some have a distinct twist in the tail. I'll look out for more by Böll; his best known books are The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and The Clown.

This was the non-genre fiction book that had lingered longest on my shelves. Next on that list is Dear Old Dead, by Jane Haddam.

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The Shining Man, by Cavan Scott

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Hilary had snatched the phone from its cradle as soon as it rang, her shoulders slumping when she realised it wasn't her daughter on the other end of the line.

Cavan Scott has done a lot of Who spinoff fiction, often in collaboration with Mark Wright; my favourites are the Big Finish Six/Seven audio trilogy Project: Twilight / Project: Lazarus / Project: Destiny, the Big Finish Five historical The Church and the Crown, and a Third Doctor story with David Troughton, The Prisoner of Peladon. The late Sarah Jane audio Wraith World, also a good ‘un, is closest to The Shining Man in theme.

This is one of three 12th Doctor novels released earlier this year – I mistakenly thought it was the first in sequence, but actually it is the second, set after the TV episode Thin Ice and the novel Diamond Dogs, and also referencing the excellent P.J. Hammond first-season Torchwood episode Small Worlds. It combines several great hooks: the liminal interaction between today’s world and a nearby parallel and supernatural dimension; the pervasiveness of the Internet; and children who fear that they have been abandoned by their parents. The mood is dark and scary but ultimately resolved very satisfactorily.

I thought it caught Capaldi’s characterisation of the Doctor particularly well, giving Bill rather less to do, but I note that this is a minority view among reviewers and certainly those of us who miss Bill already will enjoy a bit more time in her company.

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Moomin: The Complete Comic Strip vol. 7, by Lars Jansson

Second frame of third chapter ("Moomin and the Farm"):

There are four extended narratives of around 80 frames each here, which I guess would have run for about three months each in 1961. The first is "Moomin the Colonist", a story of colonialism which would have been inspired by the winds of change; the Moomins settle a new continent and come into conflict with their neighbours (who are in fact their old neighbours from Moominland, also attempting colonisation) – the indigenous inhabitants are barely seen. The other three, "Moomin and the Scouts", "Moomin and the Farm" and "Moomin and the Goldfields" are all faintly surreal but not all that adventurous.

I bought this collection when I went to the Adventures in Moominland exhibition in January, and am actually a bit miffed – I should have spotted that it is not by Tove Jansson but by her brother Lars, and on checking inside it turns out to be the seventh of ten (so far) collections of the Evening News comic strips about the Moomins, of which only the first four contain Tove Jansson material. Next time I have a chance I shall try and get one of the earlier volumes.

This was my top unread graphic story on LibraryThing. Next in that list is The Autumnlands, Vol. 1: Tooth and Claw, by Kurt Busiek.

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You’re Never Weird on the Internet (Almost), by Felicia Day

Second paragraph of third chapter:

My music studies were a big excuse for my being homeschooled, so I would theoretically have more time to practice and become a world-renowned soloist, traveling around the world in a red velvet coach. Unfortunately, I didn’t take it seriously enough to earn the coach, and my parents didn’t force me to try. Which I’m thankful for. I’ve met a lot of those kids whose parents crammed something down their throats trying to make baby geniuses. Even by my maladjusted standards, those kids were maladjusted.

This was one of the potential nominees for the Best Related Work Hugo last year whose place was taken by the slating of that category – not far behind Letters to Tiptree in total nominating votes. It was also second in the File 770 straw poll.

To be honest, it’s mostly a fairly standard celebrity memoir. Day is funny and nerdy; I knew her from her appearance in the last season of Buffy (which she barely mentions) and from the Hugo-winning Doctor Horrible’s Sing-Along BlogThe Guild. Those who are more interested in her work than I am will really enjoy the book, and I found it entertaining enough.

I said “mostly”. There is an impassioned chapter about the impact of Gamergate on Day’s life. Within minutes of her making a public comment on how Gamergate was affecting her personally, she was doxxed by Gamergate activists as a blatant act of intimidation. It’s a strong first-person account from someone who has considerable emotional and material resources, and still found it very difficult to cope with the impact. Shame on those who have nothing better to do than intimidate uppity women out of a shared space.

I’d still have voted for Letters to Tiptree, but this deserved a place on last year’s ballot.

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The Fall of Arthur, by J.R.R. Tolkien

Second section of Part III ("Of Sir Lancelot, who abode in Benwick"):

There Lancelot     over leagues of sea
in heaving welter     from a high window
looked and wondered     alone musing.
Dark slowly fell.     Deep his anguish
He his lord betrayed     to love yielding,
and love forsaking     lord regained not;
faith was refused him     who had faith broken,
by leagues of sea     from love sundered.

This is minor Tolkien, an uncompleted epic poem about the end of Arthur's reign, not far from the version recounted by Malory – which I know only via T.H. White, who was working on The Sword in the Stone at about the same time. One would like to find a direct link, but Tolkien stopped working on The Fall of Arthur in 1937 and The Sword in the Stone was not published until 1938 (Tolkien had read it by April 1940) – and of course the later part of the Arthur legend was not reached by White until the complete Once and Future King came out in 1958.

The poetry is firmly rhythmic and alliterative – apparently R.W. Chambers, having been lent the manuscript, declaimed it with gusto to an empty railway carriage on his way back to London – and poor old Guinevere gets a lot more characterisation and agency than in most other versions of the story. But the most interesting part of the plot was never reached.

The poem itself is only 44 pages; the rest of the book is bulked out with essays by Christopher Tolkien (who is now 92) on his father's approach to the Arthurian legends, and on the links between the unfinished Fall of Arthur and the Silmarillion – in particular, the motif of the legendary figure who sails off into the West, which it is argued is drawn directly from Arthur and/or Lancelot to Eärendil and/or Tuor. Another parallel that struck me is that in the part I of The Fall of Arthur, the king is fighting enemies to the East.

Anyway, a nice addition to my Tolkien shelves.

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