British Summertime, by Paul Cornell

Second paragraph of third prologue:

“The things concerning me have an end,” he’d said that evening, at the meal. He’d said that one of them would betray him, and had told Simon Peter to take the money he’d kept for food, and to buy a sword with it. So Simon would be forced to use it. So Jesus would be able to demonstrate his mercy to the victim of that attack. That had all been obvious to Judas immediately.

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Ralph Vaughan Williams, “The Lark Ascending.” Jocelyn had been complaining, wanting something more modern.

I got this at Gallifrey One in 2023, but have only now got around to reading it. It’s one of Paul Cornell’s standalone novels, tracing a complicated path through the personas of Alison, who lives in today’s Bath, and Douglas Leyton, a pilot from the year 2129 who turns up in her life with his navigator, a disembodied head. I must admit that I lost track of the various time paradoxes (including the last days of Jesus Christ) but I enjoyed the ride; also the author’s deep love of England and Englishness, in a very healthy, inclusive way, is rather heartwarming even for those of us who are not English. You can get British Summertime here.

This was my top unread novel acquired in 2023, and the SF novel that had sat longest unread on my helves. Next on both piles was Firefly: Carnival, by Una McCormack, but I broke sequence and wrote that up last week.

Death in the Stars: A Melanie Bush Mystery, by Bonnie Langford with Jacqueline Rayner

Second paragraph of third chapter:

He nodded, pointing at the headsets they were still wearing. ‘Must’ve switched themselves on as we fell.’

A novel presented as being by Bonnie ‘Mel Bush’ Langford, though one suspects that Jacqueline Rayner had quite a strong hand in it. It’s a space opera story set soon after Dragonfire, with several plots going on at once: there’s a suicidal generation starship cult, there’s another starship with a crew coming out of suspended animation, and then there is a murder that Mel has to solve. Oh, and Sabalom Glitz being his usual self as well. To be honest I thought the plots were not especially well integrated with each other, but the character riffing between Mel and Glitz is nicely done, and the book succeeds in its main aim, to make it clear that Mel has an afterlife, or indeed a life, after her TARDIS travels end.

You can get Death in the Stars here.

Ruins, by Brian Aldiss

Second paragraph of third section of first part (there are only two parts):

It was a movement of hers which had wakened him. Evidently aware that he was awake, Alice turned and put an arm round him. But it was not sex that interested her this morning. She had a number of complaints to deliver, many of them centring on her landlady, Mrs Chivers, who was making her life unnecessarily difficult.

A couple of weeks ago I spotted a Humble Bundle offer with 41 books by Brian Aldiss, of which at least ten were new to me, so I snapped it up. This of course means extra height for Mount Tsundoku, so I am going to work through them gently in increasing order of length, and also use the opportunity to revisit some of the Aldiss books already on my shelves.

The shortest was this 1987 novella, in which a middle-aged man who became rich at a young age drifts between England and America, and from woman to woman, processing the deaths of his parents. There is no sfnal element apart from some possibly prophetic dreams. The protagonist eventually reaches catharsis by befriending a much older woman and the ending may even be a happy one. Although not science fiction, it’s unmistakably Aldiss in style; sparse, quietly thoughtful, but also rather male in a mid-twentieth-century way.

You can get Ruins here. If I keep this up, my next Aldiss will be Enemies of the System.

Striking cover by Selim Patell.

Star Trek Deep Space Nine: The Peacemakers, by Una McCormack

Second paragraph of third chapter:

The playhouse, like the rest of the place, had been built to Ben’s design. From spring onward (and it always seemed to be spring on Bajor), the doors folded back, so that you could play half inside, half outside. The cover of the trees was put to good use too, for when the sun was too hot. In the winter, the place became a snug little shelter, a cozy cabin, where hot chocolate could be drunk, and s’mores consumed. Right now, halfway through spring, the doors stood open, and Deborah’s game spilled out of the playroom onto the grass outside.

This is Una McCormack’s new book, to be published later this month; and in case you needed reminding, she is the Guest of Honour at Novacon this weekend. (I am afraid that this was the last unread book by Una McCormack on my shelves, so if you have just started reading in hopes of more Una-related content, you may have a long wait.)

The Peacemakers is a Deep Space Nine novel, which unfortunately means I’m not the target audience; I have read a spinoff novel by Robert Sheckley, and seen only the two episodes of Deep Space Nine where Sisko and colleagues are beamed back to 2024, but that’s it.

It doesn’t matter, because The Peacemakers is set some time after the end of the stories that we saw (well, that other people saw) on TV, and the central character is not Captain Benjamin Sisko, but his son Jake, an aspiring writer who is undertaking a visit to the conflict-riven world of Cardassia. There’s a lot of stuff in here that I loved. Jake’s experiences as a writer on the convention circuit must surely be partly inspired by the author’s real life observations. There is an intriguing plotline of him being spied on by his own side, and resisting the efforts of others to involve him in politics.

But in particular, the story really gets going with a cryptic archaeological site and an Agatha Christie-style murder mystery, which also ties into the broader issues of cultural appropriation, commemorating the past and dealing with the legacy of conflict. It’s all tied up with the complex and tragic history of Cardassia, which is close enough to some real life situations that I know rather well. But the parallels are left for the reader to observe; there is no sledgehammer symbolism.

All in all I enjoyed this a lot, despite my general ignorance of Deep Space Nine. The Peacemakers is not out yet, but you can order it here.

Incidentally for fans of African history who don’t already know this, Julian Bashir, the doctor in the space station Deep Space Nine, is played by Alexander Siddig, who is a direct male-line descendant of the Mahdi, who defeated the British in Sudan in the 1880s. His first cousin Mariam al-Mahdi is a prominent opposition leader and former foreign minister.

Screenshot

Firefly: Carnival and Firefly: Coup de Grâce, by Una McCormack

Back in August 2023, I was in London on my way to the Arthur C. Clarke Award ceremony, having been one of the judges that year, and spotted these in Forbidden Planet. We had rewatched Firefly the previous year, and loved it again, so I grabbed the two books; and then ran into the author herself at the ceremony, where she cheerfully signed them.

I confess that I had not actually got around to reading them until now, spurred by the fact that Una is the Guest of Honour at Novacon next weekend, but also they bubbled to the top of my reading lists anyway. One thing to say about both is that at the same time as reading them, I was also attempting to read one of the great classic Western novels set in the general area of Texas in the 1850s, and found the Firefly books so much more entertaining that I abandoned the other one. (More on that in due course.)

Second paragraph of third chapter of Firefly: Carnival:

“Trouble?” said Ava. She wasn’t anticipating trouble. She was heading off to the big city, like she’d always wanted to since Momma and Poppa had died. Free at last! Money in her pocket and all the big wide ‘verse to explore. “I’m a good girl! I ain’t plannin’ on gettin’ into trouble.”

This is set on a planet where the locals are preparing for Carnival, which means hedonistic enjoyment for the rich and hard work for the poor. The Serenity crew get tasked with the delivery of a sensitive cargo, which of course gets stolen from them, as a result of which their client holds Zoe and Shepherd Book hostage against its restitution. The crew also gets entangled with the story of 14-year-old Ava, who has left home to find her fortune in the city. Together they discover much more sinister goings-on, which the alert reader will work out before the characters do (in fairness because the characters are not able to share vital information between each other). We know from TV that human trafficking happens in the Firefly universe, and here we see how deeply it goes. You can get Firefly: Carnival here.

Second paragraph of Firefly: Coup de Grâce:

“Somethin’ the matter, Captain Reynolds?” I said. “Somethin’ you want to say to me?”

Here too there is a young woman at the centre of the story, the daughter of a lawyer who has been assassinated by a local gang. She hires the Serenity crew to get justice for her father, but the local politics turns out to be a lot more complex, with the gang enjoying a certain level of official and corporate protection. We end up exploring both the difficulties of post-conflict social and economic reconstruction, and there is vicious deconstruction of the Boris Johnson government’s “levelling-up” pledges. You can get Firefly: Coup de Grâce here.

Fans of the TV series will be very satisfied with either or both of these books. They both feature very good portrayals of the main cast, and interesting shuffling of the personalities to get pairings where the characters can banter off each other. I slightly get the sense that McCormack’s favourite is Simon Tan, but I may be wrong.

There are seven other Firefly novels, four by James Lovegrove and the others by Tim Lebbon, M.K. England and Rosiee Thor. I have read one book by Tim Lebbon and was on a 2005 Worldcon panel with James Lovegrove; perhaps I need to broaden out my Firefly reading.

Carnival and Coup de Grâce were the two SF books that had lingered longest unread on my shelves. Next on that pile will be Descendant Machine by Gareth Powell, but it will wait until I have finished all the other books I acquired in 2023. Carnival was also the top unread book on my shelves acquired in 2023. Next on that pile is Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle, by Paula Frederiksen.

This Sporting Life, and Peace in Our Time, by Una McCormack

Two Big Finish Short Trips, both by Una McCormack in advance of her Novacon appearance, both featuring the First Doctor and Steven (the first also with Dodo), both moored in real historical events, both read by Peter Purves. Both are audios, so I won’t attempt to locate the second paragraph of the third section in either case.

This Sporting Life, from 2016, is about the theft of the World Cup thirty years before. Stephen finds himself unexpectedly holding part of the trophy, and the TARDIS crew ends up entangled in a trail of stranded aliens and helpful humans, and the need to get history back onto the right course. The alien intrusion into our history is of course one of the classic Doctor Who plots, but nicely done here, and there are some good character moments for the unsporty Stephen, vs Dodo for whom this is contemporary history. The title of course refers to the 1963 film of the same name starring William Hartnell. You can get This Sporting Life here.

Peace in Our Time, from 2019, is also a story of alien intrusion, but this time it is evil extraterrestrials meddling with the Anglo-German naval arms race by infiltrating the Admiralty just before the launch of HMS Dreadnought in 1906, with the Doctor and Steven trying again to re-route history onto the correct lines. The interesting thing here is that the viewpoint character is Ruby Watkins, a servant in a posh house, who is a channel for McCormack’s observations about class and patriarchy, and ends up (minor spoiler) engaging with the suffragettes. It stretches a bit farther than This Sporting Life, which is not necessarily a bad thing. You can get Peace in Our Time here.

Picard: The Last, Best Hope, by Una McCormack

Second paragraph of third chapter:

During this brief pause, this hiatus before the whirl of activity that is about to follow, I must take a moment to remind myself how profoundly grateful I am to everyone who has willingly put aside everything to commit themselves to this mission. Above all, I thank the stars for the work done behind the scenes by my new XO, Commander Raffi Musiker. I am aware that through her efforts what should be problems are presented to me as wholly solved. Captain Kirsten Clancy has been liaising with the Romulans, and Raffi is of course a specialist in Romulan affairs. I have the distinct impression that Clancy’s tendency toward micromanagement has been a burden that my XO has also borne on my account, and I am greatly appreciative. This has left me with the time to fully concentrate on staffing, coordinating, and directing the fleet. On Earth, Commander Gbowee has rapidly constructed an organization and processes to respond to our requirements for matériel and staff; she and Lieutenant Kaul are masters of the concise briefing. Messages from Commander Geordi La Forge are proving an interesting read: I sense behind his words some resistance from the yard’s engineers at these new and overwhelming demands that are being placed upon them. I understand too that for many, this will mean setting aside research for many years that may well have been the chief concern. But if any officer can corral them toward a common goal, it is surely Geordi, among the most optimistic, practical, and sincere officers of my acquaintance.

This is the best known book by Una McCormack, according to the three book-logging systems that I consulted. Because Novacon is this weekend, and Una is the Guest of Honour, we’re going to have a run of her novels here this week.

It’s particularly poignant to be writing this so soon after we lost Sir Patrick Stewart. Of course, most of the best lines given to Picard were written by the writers, not him; but there has been a tremendously moving outpouring of affection from those who worked with him, or met him, or just even had a casual encounter with him in the supermarket queue (though I’m not sure that I believe the Huddersfield autograph story). We will not see his like again.

Back in pandemic days, we hugely enjoyed the first series of Picard. This is the prequel, telling the story of how Jean-Luc Picard masterminded the evacuation of the Romulans’ home world on assignment from the Federation. It’s not an action-packed adventure, but a thoughtful exploration of the politics of crisis, with a certain amount of putting narrative pieces in place to explain the setting of Picard.

McCormack folds into this some political parables: the Romulan refugee crisis feeds directly into populism and threats of Brexit-style secession within the Federation; there is a science-denying Romulan nobleman whose refusal to accept the imminent disaster puts his own people in danger. There’s also an interesting depiction of the tensions between secrecy and openness in Romulan society.

But the core of it is the character of Picard, who I think McCormack catches perfectly, and his trajectory from philosophically accepting his duty to losing patience with the Federation, via intermediary stages of indirectly or directly disobeying orders for the greater good. I think even a reader who knew nothing at all about Star Trek would enjoy this. You can get Picard: The Last, Best Hope here.

October 2026 books

Non-fiction 5 (YTD 71)
Wifedom: Mrs Orwell’s Invisible Life, by Anna Funder
Garden Jungle, by Dave Goulson
Lost, Found, Remembered, by Lyra McKee
Frontios, by Paul Driscoll
50 Things I Love About Fantagraphics, by Colin Blanchette and Alex Eklund

Non-genre 3 (YTD 40)
The Red House Mystery, by A.A. Milne
Ruins, by Brian Aldiss
Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy (did not finish)

SF 7 (YTD 77)
Wench, by Erynne Rivers
Picard: The Last, Best Hope, by Una McCormack
British Summertime, by Paul Cornell
All That We See or Seem, by Ken Liu
Enemies of the System, by Brian W. Aldiss
Firefly: Carnival, by Una McCormack
Firefly: Coup de Grâce, by Una McCormack

Doctor Who 7 (YTD 61)
The Cabinet of Light, by Daniel O’Mahony
Doctor Who: Death in the Stars: A Melanie Bush Mystery, by Bonnie Langford with Jacqueline Rayner
Doctor Who – Frontios, by Christopher H. Bidmead
The Flight of The Sun God, by Nev Fountain
Paradise Lost, by Darren Jones
This Sporting Life, by Una McCormack
Peace in Our Time, by Una McCormack

Comics 2 (YTD 29)

Gods and Monsters, book two: Faustine, by Stephen Gallagher and Martin Geraghty
I Killed Adolf Hitler, by Jason [John Arne Sæterøy]

~4,500 pages (YTD 67,100)
9/24 (YTD 103/283) by women (Funder, McKee, Rivers, 5x McCormack, Langford/Rayner)
1/24 (YTD 27/283) by writers of colour (Liu)
2 out of 24 reread (Enemies of the System, Doctor Who – Frontios)
248 books currently tagged unread, up 67 from last month and up 59 from October 2025, thanks to a couple of Humble Bundle investments. 

Reading now
Little Thieves, by Margaret Owen
Agatha Christie, by Lucy Worsley
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Peacemakers, by Una McCormack 

Coming soon (perhaps)

The Dalek Factor, by Simon Clark
Doctor Who: The Adventures Before
The Daleks’ Master Plan: The Making of a Television Serial, by Alan Stevens

Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle, by Paula Fredriksen
The Case for Kosova: Passage to Independence, by Anna Di Lellio

Jingo, by Terry Pratchett
“Welcome to your Authentic Indian Experience™”, by Rebecca Roanhorse
July’s People, by Nadine Gordimer
A Quiet Place, by Seichō Matsumoto
Septology, by Jon Fosse
Real Tigers, by Mick Herron
Les Reines de sang – Tseu Hi, La Dame dragon, by Philippe Nihoul
Palestine, by Joe Sacco
Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis
The Bonfire of the Vanities, by Tom Wolfe
Project Hail Mary, by Andy Weir
Is a River Alive?, by Robert Macfarlane
The Song of Achilles, by Madeline Miller

Lost, Found, Remembered, by Lyra McKee

Second stanza of third section (a poem called “Awaiting the Snowflakes”, written when McKee was thirteen):

Away from the harsh realities of fantasy
I walked along the shore.
The dark, choppy waters
Mirroring my thoughts.
Thoughts residing at God’s mercy
Where I fervently prayed
For anything but her missing presence.
She was silent
Knowing not to bother me
Not knowing why.

As I have previously written, I did not know Lyra McKee myself – she was six years old when I left Northern Ireland – but inevitably we had a lot of mutual friends, all of whom seem to remember her fondly. Her murder in 2019, during one of the periods when the Stormont institutions were suspended, was a low point in the Northern Ireland political process, though we have had other low points since then.

I did have a slight concern that in the process of canonising her after her tragic early death, nobody was asking the question of whether she was a good writer. I am completely reassured by this collection of essays (with a few poems); she was indeed a very good writer, eloquently articulating the feelings of young people who could not directly remember the Troubles, but whose lives were shaped by the unhappy history of Northern Ireland.

I am sure that if she had lived to curate this, she would have edited it a bit differently – there are several pieces about the high rate of suicide among young people in Northern Ireland, and other topics are touched on more than once (notably the experience of growing up gay in a traditional society). But even so, it’s a short and powerful book, and a vivid testimony to what violence can take away from us. You can get Lost, Found, Remembered here.

This was the shortest unread book on my shelves acquired in 2023. Next on that pile is The Case for Kosova, by Anna di Lellio.

The Red House Mystery, by A.A. Milne

Second paragraph of third chapter:

“Can I help?” said Antony politely.

This is by far the best known book by Milne outside the Winnie-the-Pooh mythos. It’s a locked room murder mystery published in 1922, where the long lost brother of the owner of the Red House turns up mysteriously dead in the library, and the owner himself disappears. For the attentive reader, it’s fairly obvious who the murderer is from the moment it happens, but the full details of the mystery are delightfully worked out by Antony Gillingham, who just happened to be visiting his friend Bill at the Red House and arrived exactly at the moment of the murder. There’s a hilarious and improbable secret passage ending in a croquet box (illustrated on the original front cover, so I don’t think this is a spoiler).

Antony and Bill role-play Holmes and Watson through the (short) book, but I think Milne is hinting that they are more than just friends, in the closeted upper-class way of the time.

Also interesting that there is no reference at all to the war. (We are told in a throwaway remark that Bill learned Morse Code in the Army.)

You can get The Red House Mystery for free on Project Gutenberg, or pay for it here.

Gods and Monsters, book two: Faustine, by Stephen Gallagher and Martin Geraghty

Second frame of third part:

This is another return to the world of Warriors’ Gate by Steve Gallagher, this time featuring a Tharil princess and an earthling, plonked into contemporary (well, 2020-21) Manchester and dealing with strange alien forces. I thought it did very good continuity service, plus promising to be part of the bigger Gods and Monsters story. You can get Faustine here.

Wench, by Erynne Rivers

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Marian does not know how long she has lain there.

A fun re-telling of the Robin Hood legend as a conflict between ancient powers and twelfth-century modernity and patriarchy, with some good spicy moments in the relationship between Robin and Marian. A first novel by an American author who doesn’t always get the cultural nuances right – Marian’s father’s name is Eamon (I blame Robert Jordan) and the evil Sheriff’s name is, I kid you not, Baldric (I blame Blackadder). But it’s engaging and passionate. You can get Wench here.

The Garden Jungle, by Dave Goulson

Second paragraph of third chapter:

As if all this isn’t enough to ensure universal revulsion for these little creatures, there is an old superstition that earwigs favour sneaking into our ears while we sleep, presumably the origin of their name. I imagine that they might well have occasionally sought shelter in old-fashioned wigs too, though it is thought that the ‘wig’ part comes from an old word for ‘wiggle’. Lurid stories whispered in the school playground tell of unfortunate souls who were driven mad by an earwig lodged deep inside their ear, incessantly wriggling and tickling. In more elaborate versions the earwig lays eggs and rears her offspring inside, or even burrows into the brain for a snack. For all of these reasons, earwigs are almost universally loathed and even feared. Little wonder, then, that the Earwig Preservation Trust has yet to be founded.⁸
⁸ Sadly, should the EPT ever be created, it will be too late for the giant earwig of St Helena, the world’s largest earwig species which came in at a smidge over 8cm long, with a truly whopping set of pincers which made up about one-third of its body length. It lived in deep burrows among nesting seabird colonies on this remote Atlantic island, and the females were said to be devoted mothers. Unfortunately most of the seabirds have been wiped out by invasive rodents, which may also have eaten the earwigs. The last living specimen of this gigantic beast was seen in 1967, fifty years ago as I write. Rest in peace, giant earwig.

Following on from The Silent Earth, another impassioned plea by Dave Goulson for nature, and for insects in particular, this time looking specifically at gardening and agriculture, and what we can do to boost sustainability and biodiversity in our own backyards. As usual there are telling anecdotes about his own engagement, and about individual species which make their own contributions to a healthy natural environment. It’s a delight, and also a comfort for those of us who don’t do a lot of active gardening – letting it grow is actually quite a good thing to do. You can get The Garden Jungle here.

This was my top unread book acquired in 2023. Next on that pile is British Summertime, by Paul Cornell.

Wifedom: Mrs Orwell’s Invisible Life, by Anna Funder

Second paragraph of third chapter:

‘What are you working on?’ she asks. It’s a new, adult question for her.

This is a tremendous biography, and I’m very grateful to S for flagging it up to me. Eileen O’Shaughnessy married Eric Blair, known to history as George Orwell, in 1936; she was 31 and he was about to turn 33. She devoted herself to supporting his writing, though they were both very ill; he had tuberculosis, which would kill him in 1950; she suffered persistent uterine bleeding, and died during an operation for a hysterectomy in 1945, aged 39.

Funder goes through the few surviving records of Eileen herself, which include six letters to her best friend, three to Orwell (including the unfinished one that she left on her bedside table before she died) and a few others. Out of this she spins a dense narrative, most of it sticking clearly to the facts, some fictionalised thought processes of what was going through Eileen’s head, and the occasional flashforward to the present day and the writer’s own family life. As far as I can tell, the fiction is clearly demarcated, which I appreciate – I’ve tried a couple of historical works recently where the line between fact and fiction is irritatingly fudged.

Funder comes to Eileen’s story as a fan of Orwell’s writing, but she shows how you can usefully explore the flaws in the work you love and in creators too. The most significant part of the book is her reconstruction of what was going on in Barcelona. Eileen peeps out of the corners of the writing of Homage to Catalonia; in fact she was the central organiser of the office of John McNair, the Independent Labour Party leader, and at great risk to herself managed Orwell’s escape after he was wounded and the POUM, who he was fighting for, were proscribed.

One vivid example of how she was erased from the story (which she herself typed up for publication) is the vignette of Orwell’s encounter with some stray soldiers: “I remember a couple of men from the International Column sitting in my room at the hotel when I came in tired, hungry, and dirty after a night on guard.” He does not mention the other person in the hotel room, or why she had had to let the soldiers in.

Eileen’s direct influence on Orwell’s work is debatable, because she herself controlled all the surviving records, so we can only surmise. It’s clear that he was utterly dependent on her support. For much of their marriage she was the one with the steady income, and for all of their relationship she organised their household affairs, while he got on with writing that was rarely and barely paid. He was serially unfaithful to her, starting on their honeymoon, and emotionally very neglectful.

When Eileen died in March 1945, Orwell was in Europe on assignment as a war correspondent, and it seems very cruel to me that he was not there for her operation – even if it was not expected to be fatal (though as Funder points out, the warning signs were there), it was none the less a serious procedure. He professed to be devastated, but proposed marriage to several other women before ending up with their friend Sonia Brownell three months before his death.

A fascinating, sad and thought-provoking book, and my renewed thanks to S for flagging it up to me. You can get Wifedom here.

The Cabinet of Light, by Daniel O’Mahony

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Later, he watched the dawn through reddened eyes and felt more hopeful. He had a plan for today: he would visit the girl in pink pyjamas and there didn’t seem to be any harm in that. No one had got much sense out of her over the past weeks but maybe they hadn’t been asking her the right questions.

One of the series of Doctor Who novellas published by Telos back in the early Noughties, this is one where the Doctor barely appears; the protagonist is a time-sensitive detective hired by a mysterious woman to find him and also to set the scene for a new series of Time Hunter stories which did not require the expiring BBC licence. It’s OK. It’s quite atmospheric about post-war London, and we readers have some fun watching the protagonist work out what is actually going on. It’s not completely clear which Doctor we are dealing with, though most likely the eighth. A story of its time, perhaps. You can get The Cabinet of Light here.

The Ghost Brigades, by John Scalzi

Second paragraph of third chapter:

“This is it,” agreed Wilson, who moved over to a monitor that would momentarily display the body’s vital signs. “Were you ever a father, Colonel?”

This is the second in the Old Man’s War sequence; older readers may remember that a certain amount of controversy was generated twenty years ago by my review of Old Man’s War itself, which provoked a reply from Scalzi, a rejoinder from me and a further reply from Scalzi. We are friends now.

The whole series was part of this year’s Hugo Packet (and indeed won the award for Best Series), so I will work through those volumes that I have not read. This is the second in the sequence; the premise is that the human federation is able to clone a bad guy, but in the process a new consciousness is inserted onto the clone, who gradually becomes aware that he’s not just an ordinary cloned soldier but has a special relationship to the overall military situation, and also has a connection with the original chap from whom his DNA was obtained.

I thought it was OK. It teeters on the edge of too many coincidences, and of wondering what on earth are the Earth forces doing. It is much more obvious than in the previous book that the humans are not necessarily the good guys. There are moments of intense emotional significance which are well-judged. I still feel that there’s too much similarity of tone between the characters, but I suspect that now that I’m looking for that in each of Scalzi’s books, I am finding it. Anyway, I will go on with the series.

If you didn’t download this year’s Hugo packet, you can get The Ghost Brigades here.

This was my top unread sf book and my top unread book acquired this year. Next on those piles respectively are Little Thieves by Margaret Owen and Palestine by Joe Sacco.

A Nation Once Again, by Paul Howard

Second paragraph of third chapter:

It was my third day in the job. I was sitting with the rest of the staff around a table in the second-floor boardroom, where I was being briefed ahead of my first meeting with the Northern Advisory Council that afternoon.

Paul Howard is the creator of Ross O’Carroll Kelly, a one-joke satirical column which has run in the Sunday Tribune and Irish Times since 1998 and has turned into a series of novels as well. Here he turns his gaze to Irish reunification, imagining a secret office of the Department for Foreign Affairs which has been planning for the great day since the 1950s.

The former head of the department (who refuses to go away) is an Irish version of Gary Oldman’s Jackson Lamb from Slow Horses; the Northerners are all stereotypes; the Southerners are mostly stereotypes; there’s even a stereotypical Australian academic; there is a late effort to insert an emotional dimension by resurrecting the protagonist’s love life; in general it’s about as good a book as you’d expect. If you like the Ross O’Carroll Kelly stuff, you’ll like this. (I think I’ve made my own position clear.)

At the same time, maybe it’s not such a bad way of gently unpacking some of the issues around reunification for a Southern readership that may not have given it much thought.

You can get A Nation Once Again here.

Two books I didn’t finish: Midaq Alley, and Star Trek and Sacred Ground

Two books that I didn’t finish for different reasons.

Midaq Alley is by Naguib Mahfouz, the next in my series of Nobel Prize winners for Literature who were not white men (a list that has recently increased by one). The second paragraph of its third chapter (in the original Arabic formatting) is:

واحسرتاه كيف تدعين القمل يرعى هذا الشعر الجميل!“What a pity! Imagine letting lice live in such lovely hair!”
translated by Trevor Le Gassick

I gave it 100 pages, but I was rather repelled by how horrible the characters were and by the toxic masculinity of the authorial voice, so I’m afraid I gave up.

You can get Midaq Alley here. Next on my Nobel laureates list is July’s People, by Nadine Gordimer.

The third chapter of Star Trek and Sacred Ground: Explorations of Star Trek, Religion and American Culture, eds. Jennifer E. Porter and Darcee L. McLaren, is “Classtic Star Trek and the Death of God: A Case Study of ‘Who Mourns for Adonais'” by Robert Asa. Its second paragraph is:

Star Trek certainly was “far out” for the times, both literally and figuratively. Not only did the events of the show take place in outer space, strange creatures appeared who taxed the credulity of the average television viewer. While Americans were anticipating a manned landing on the moon by the end of the decade, only the visionaries dreamed of actually exploring other worlds. Science fiction television and films were largely confined to the B-movie category, known for their bad scripts, bad set, and bad acting. Children and teenagers might be entertained by it, but no one with mental images of the theatrical Buck Rogers or the televised Lost in Space could begin to take science fiction seriously as commentary on anything except the prevalence of mindless bad taste.

Again, I gave this 1999 collection of academic essays 100 pages before coming to the conclusion that I do not really know or care enough about Star Trek, or about popular religion in America, to get much out of it. You can get Star Trek and Sacred Ground here.

This was the non-fiction book that had lingered longest on my shelves (an Eastercon 2023 purchase). Next on that pile is Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle, by Paula Fredriksen.

Raising Hare, by Chloe Dalton

Second paragraph of third chapter:

I found in those books countless descriptions of how to hunt, kill or cook a hare, but not a word on how to raise them. I turned the pages quickly past endless colour reproductions of the still-life paintings featuring dead hares hanging upside down from hooks or slung across tables, their back legs tied with rope and blood pooling beneath their heads, which grace the walls of our galleries and museums. The meat of a single hare is sufficient to satisfy six to eight people, I read. The recipes, many of them ancient, included ‘hare in worts’ (meaning leaf vegetables); hare ‘with blood and bread’, seasoned with pepper and ale; hare with beer and chestnuts; hare with chocolate; hare stew; and lievre à la royale – hare fit for a king. Reportedly first prepared for Louis XIV and described as one of the ‘jewels’ of French haute cuisine, the recipe requires that the animal is boned, stuffed with foie gras, truffles and the meat of its own legs, and served with a red wine sauce fortified with blood. To read these violent accounts in the leveret’s vicinity felt like a form of betrayal.

It is only a few months since I read H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald, also an account of a human getting to know and become intimate with an animal, while the human world of the author is in flux – Macdonald is processing grief at the death of their father, Dalton is coping with the pandemic lockdowns. They are very different books though. While Macdonald is telling the story of domesticating a wild animal, Dalton allows the hare that she rescues to grow up and raise its own young alongside her, without constraining it in any way, and I must admit it did make me question how humane falconry can be considered to be.

I also realised how little I know about hares. I’m very familiar with rabbits, both from real life and from literature; I had not taken in that hares basically nest in quiet spots in the open country, and lead largely solitary lives apart from the requirements of breeding. One of the weird bits of hare biology is that doe can have two different pregnancies simultaneously, so that when one set of leverets is born she may still be carrying their younger siblings.

An intense study of any relationship can be compelling reading, if it is well written – and this is. There’s something particularly fascinating about getting to know a creature whose motivations we can only guess at, especially if it allows us to share a bit of its world. Dalton experiences a new awareness of the natural world around her by observing the hare’s behaviour. This is movingly shadowed against the pandemic when a lot of us found ourselves spending more time with our neighbourhood.

Personally I don’t think I have ever seen a wild hare. (The so-called “Belgian hare” is a very big “fancy” domestic rabbit, as is the Flemish giant.) I’ll keep a closer eye out now.

You can get Raising Hare here.

This was my top unread non-fiction book. Next on that pile is Agathe Christie, by Lucy Worsley.

Agents, Adepts and Apprentices, by Kathryn Sullivan

Second paragraph of third story (“Lonely”):

Marian stood in the dusty gravel road and listened to the advantages of renting one of his cottages with a slightly growing trace of boredom. What had she expected? When she’d felt that faint probe at her mind last night, she’d instantly thought of another esper, one unknown to her. But after a morning of searching in the direction from which the probe had stemmed and finding nothing but mind-blind people, she was ready to give up.

I know Kathryn well from Gallifrey One (though we first met on a Worldcon Doctor Who panel in 2005). She kindly gave me this collection of her stories a few years back. There are 22 of them in 240 pages; they are mostly very short, mostly previously published in fanzines between 1981 and 2014 (with two new for this 2017 volume), mostly fantasy, and mostly with female protagonists. Many of them are linked in particular sequences; some of them are standalone. I have a feeling that some of them have emerged from role-playing games (I have not checked with the author). They’re all good yarns – even the very shortest are more than just a vignette. Worth a look.

You can get Agents, Adepts and Apprentices here.

Shamefully, this was the SF book that had lingered longest unread on my shelves. Next is British Summertime, by Paul Cornell (also acquired at Gallifrey One in 2023.)

Patchwork: A Graphic Biography of Jane Austen, by Kate Evans

Second frame of third chapter:

This is rather a delight. Kate Evans takes the well-known facts of Jane Austen’s life, providing copious footnotes explaining her sources and admitting where she has embellished or speculated, and has produced a beautiful exploration of Austen’s works, life and world. In particular she goes into the difficult process of getting the great novels written and published.

I also enjoyed Claire Tomalin’s biography when I read it in 2014, but different aspects struck me in Patchwork: women’s desperate economic dependence on marriage, whether their own or their relatives’; the instability of constantly moving home; the dependence of English wealth on colonial exploitation; all gorgeously illustrated in a kind of water-colour style.

Heretical to say, I’m not actually such a huge fan of Jane Austen. But this is a lovely book. You can get Patchwork here.

This was my top unread comic in English. Next on that pile is Palestine, by Joe Sacco.

Rory O’Kelly – An investigation into the events of 4 March 1977, by the Independent Commission for Reconciliation & Information Recovery

Second section of third chapter:

3.2 The chapter opens by describing our engagement with the family as the case has progressed. It also outlines the family’s reasons for contacting the Commission and provides an overview of the questions they asked us to answer.

I haven’t been following closely the twists and turns of the various legislation and institutions set up to deal with the legacy of the Troubles, but this report, released last month, caught my attention and I found it a quick if disturbing read. Rory O’Kelly, aged 59 (the same age that I am now) was shot dead by the IRA one day in 1977 while enjoying a drink with two old friends in Coalisland, Co. Tyrone. He had grown up there, but had moved to Bangor, Co. Down, in 1973 when he started working for the Director of Public Prosecutions. He was the only member of staff of the DPP’s office to be killed during the entire run of the Troubles.

He left a widow and five children. They were not informed about the inquest held into his death in November 1977. When the Historical Enquiries Team (HET) picked up the case in 2011, its efforts to contact the family failed. The new Independent Commission for Reconciliation & Information Recovery picked up the case at the request of one of Rory O’Kelly’s sons, and was able to brief him verbally on its findings before he died last year.

The findings are not spectacular. This was one more murder among dozens. The police investigation quickly ran into the sand. The gunman, clearly seen by the barman and by O’Kelly’s friends, was not masked, presumably because he was not local. Two men were arrested on the day, but both were released without charge and the Commission thinks it unlikely that they were involved in any way, so does not identify them. The gun was used in several other shooting incidents, and was found by the British Army in 1984 (in the possession of an IRA man they had just killed).

And that’s about it. You can get the full report here. But it’s more than the O’Kelly family got at the time, or for almost half a century afterwards, and the capstone is a moving personal statement from Rory O’Kelly’s daughter. She describes the moment when the Commission briefed her and her brother on their findings:

I had no idea of what was in store for us when the two-hour meeting started. I soon became aware that something sacred and transformative was happening. Everyone present was transported fifty years back to the hour and place of our father’s death, had become a spectator of that momentous event. By the end, [we] had moved into a space of serenity and light, all anger taken away. 

…

Truth takes precedence and nothing short of the Truth in full will work. Truth is the foundation for real forgiveness and a lasting reconciliation. 

There are too many families like the O’Kellys who are still waiting for truth.

I have to pick up on one historical point. The report states that:

1.9 In the early 1960s Rory sought election to Westminster, before becoming the successful election agent of his friend, Austin Currie. Later, Rory and Sarah [his wife], committed believers in constitutional change, became founding members of Austin’s Social Democratic [and] Labour Party (SDLP).

The first sentence cannot be fully accurate. The first Westminster election in the 1960s was on 15 October 1964, and Rory O’Kelly was not a candidate; and it took place after the 30 May 1964 East Tyrone by-election for the Northern Ireland House of Commons (ie Stormont), which Austin Currie won. On top of that I have seen newspaper reports that Rory O’Kelly was actually at one point a rival to Austin Currie for the Nationalist nomination for the 1964 East Tyrone by-election.

This of course isn’t at all inconsistent with his being a friend of Currie’s, let alone with his throwing his weight behind Currie once the nomination had been decided. Perhaps O’Kelly had also put his hat informally in the ring for a Westminster nomination, for either Fermanagh and South Tyrone or Mid Ulster, without the media becoming aware of it. The Commission’s reporting here is based on the sixty-years-later recollections of O’Kelly’s daughter, and she can be forgiven for not keeping precise track.

Marple: Twelve New Mysteries, by Lucy Foley et al

Second paragraph of third story (“Miss Marple Takes Manharttan”, by Alyssa Cole):

Despite being warned against such a circumstance by her nephew, Raymond West, and his wife, Joan, who had flown her out to the United States with them, she was standing alone.

Twelve new Miss Marple stories by writers of varying degrees of fame, including Naomi Alderman and Val McDermid. Some of them take Miss Marple out of her comfort zone, not always successfully; I really enjoyed Naomi Alderman’s Dorothy L. Sayers pastiche, which I read conveniently just before my own college reunion a couple of weeks ago; Jean Kwok’s locked door mystery set on a liner en route to Hong Kong was also memorable, as was Ruth Ware’s Christmas mystery. I didn’t hate any of them, and it’s a nice homage to the Queen of Crime and her most memorable woman character. You can get Marple here.

The Fondación Joan Miró, and The Long Journey of Joan Miró, by Gemma Ballard and Marta Altés

I was in Barcelona three weeks ago to celebrate my mother’s significant birthday, with my brother and sister, and the unexpected big hit of the trip was the Fondación Joan Miró museum, up at Montjuïc.

We went to the Picasso museum downtown the day before, and the contrast between the two is striking; the Fondación Miró is on a hillside, cooled by light breezes, rather than glowering in a city-centre palace, and also Miró just comes across as a happier and nicer person than Picasso. His art is great and I particularly love his sculptures.

Miró, phone home?

We all loaded up with souvenirs from the museum shop, and one of mine was this lovely little picture book about Miró’s life, written by Gemma Gallardo, illustrated by Marta Altés and translated by Deborah Bonner. This is the third of the double-spread pages.

Left:
After spending day after day sitting in an office, Miró ended up getting ill. The only solution was for him to move to the family’s farm in Mont-roig de Camp and be close to nature, which he loved so much.
Right:
That was how he finally managed to convince his family that the only thing he could really do was devote all his time to painting.

It has only 32 pages, but it is very sweet and intended to enthuse younger (and older) readers with the urge to express themselves in art. The Spanish Civil war is efficiently dealt with on one page, and the Second World War on another. You won’t learn a lot from it, but you will smile. You can get The Long Journey of Joan Miró here.

Seasons of Glass and Iron, by Amal El-Mohtar; and Every Heart a Doorway, by Seanan McGuire

2017 was my first year running the Hugo Awards, and we had two winners that had already won the Nebula in their categories earlier that year.

The second paragraph of rhe third section of “Seasons of Glass and Iron”, which won in the Best Short Story category, is:

She sits at the forest’s edge and watches the light change.

Hugo statistics:

I myself voted for “That Game We Played During the War”, by Carrie Vaughan, which got the most first preferences on the final ballot but lost out big time on transfers.

Coming back to “Seasons of Glass and Iron”, it took me a couple of reads to really appreciate it, but having taken the time to sit down and concentrate on it, I find it really charming and clever. It’s explicitly a fairy tale combining elements of two different Norwegian folk tales, about young women who are each under a different curse and whose love finds a way of breaking the enchantments. It’s short but powerful, and I think on reflection the voters got it right. You can read the story in full here.

Two other stories were on both ballots, “A Fist of Permutations in Lightning and Wildflowers” by Alyssa Wong and “Our Talons Can Crush Galaxies” by Brooke Bolander. The other Hugo finalists were “The City Born Great” by N.K. Jemisin, “That Game We Played During the War” by Carrie Vaugh and the dismal “An Unimaginable Light” by John C. Wright. The other Nebula finalists were “Sabbath Wine” by Barbara Krasnoff, “Things With Beards” by Sam J. Miller, “This Is Not a Wardrobe Door” by A. Merc Rustad and “Welcome to the Medical Clinic at the Interplanetary Relay Station │ Hours Since the Last Patient Death: 0” by Caroline M. Yoachim.

The second paragraph of the third chapter of Every Heart a Doorway, which won in the Best Novella category, is:

Then the eight-year-old walked into the room.

It was comprehensively ahead at all stages both for nominations and for the final ballot, and got my own vote, even ahead of Lois McMaster Bujold.

I wrote at the time:

I am on record as having bounced pretty thoroughly off Seanan McGuire’s work before (and likewise bounced off the October Daye books on the Best Series ballot), but this one worked very well for me – a brilliant story of a school for children who have had otherworldly excursions, and a detective story.

Nine years on, McGuire’s writing still generally fails to win me over, but once again I was gripped by this particular story, which combines all kinds of 21st century angst with an exploration of ancient and modern legends. I have enjoyed the one or two that I had read from later in the sequence as well.

Three other novellas were on both ballots, The Ballad of Black Tom by Victor Lavalle, The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe by Kij Johnson and A Taste of Honey by Kai Ashante Wilson. The Hugo ballot also included Penric and the Shaman by Lois McMaster Bujold and This Census-Taker by China Mieville (which I bounced off). The Nebula ballot also included Runtime by S.B. Divya and “The Liar” by John P. Murphy.

The winners of the Best Novel award that year were The Obelisk Gate, by N. K. Jemisin, for the Hugo and All the Birds in the Sky, by Charlie Jane Anders, for the Nebula. The winners for Best Novelette were “The Tomato Thief”, by Ursula Vernon, for the Hugo and “The Long Fall Up”, by William Ledbetter for the Nebula.

Both the Hugo for Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form, and SFWA’s Ray Bradbury Award went to Arrival, which is indeed a tremendous film, though I don’t seem to have written it up here, I guess because I was the Hugo administrator.

Next in this sequence is the most recent occasion on which three of the four traditional fiction categories went to the same works in both Hugo and Nebula – “Welcome to your Authentic Indian Experience™,” by Rebecca Roanhorse, All Systems Red, by Martha Wells and The Stone Sky, by N.K. Jemisin. I didn’t love any of these on first reading; let’s see if time has mellowed me (as it did with “Seasons of Glass and Iron”).

An Adventure in Space and Time, by David Rolinson

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Those plurals are more accurate because Doctor Who will be a series of serials, and each serial will be a new adventure, but the phrase ‘an adventure in space and time’ is more evocative: today, it reads like a mission statement. The phrase is characteristic of what Brian J. Robb called the ‘emphasis […] on mystery’ in the first Radio Times coverage of the series.⁷ The aforementioned teaser cover line gave Doctor Who less prominence than a front cover photograph; Donald Wilson, the Head of Serials, expressed concern to the Radio Times editor that their decision not to promote Doctor Who in that way despite earlier plans was indicative of a ‘lack of confidence’ in the programme: after all, Radio Times was then an in-house BBC publication. Wilson thought the programme ‘an absolute knock-out’ that ‘will run and run’.⁸ An Adventure in Space and Time does not depict Wilson, but it does depict characters facing a perceived lack of confidence. However, the phrase ‘an adventure in space and time’ would appear regularly in Radio Times listings as Doctor Who indeed ran and ran.
⁷  Robb, Brian J., ‘Those Radio Times’, DWM #167, p16.
⁸  Quoted in Howe, David J., Mark Stammers and Stephen James Walker, Doctor Who: The Handbook – The First Doctor, p231.

This is a book about the 2013 drama-documentary An Adventure in Space and Time, about the origins of Doctor Who. Back when it was first shown, I wrote:

By the way – wasn’t An Adventure in Space and Time really fantastic? One of those bits of Whoviana that you could safely show to a non-fan and expect them to get the appeal of the show. Sure, it’s a shame that David Whitaker got merged with other characters, and that we did not see Hartnell actually acting at the height of his powers, but the story was at least as much about what the show did to Hartnell than what he did to it. I watched it at [Charlie and Feorag’s], and then came home and watched it again with Anne and F on Friday.

I have rewatched it once or twice since, so didn’t go back to it for this writing, though now that I have read David Rolinson’s analysis I think I might give it another whirl.

David Rolinson’s book is one of the great Black Archives, even if it’s not formally in the Black Archive series (which are restricted to TV episodes of Doctor Who). It’s a loving analysis of where the series came from, where An Adventure in Space and Time came from, analysis of the form of drama-documentaries, analysis of the content in terms of what parts are factual, what are invented, what is in-between; there is a lot of reflection on the nature of television, of story-telling, of telling stories about telling stories, of the side references to other parts of the wider Doctor Who story. I was going to write that it’s not quite a shot-by-shot analysis of the play, but actually in places it is exactly that.

But on top of that, the book brings a fannish joy to bear. We can admit that the thing we love has flaws, but we still love it. Rolinson takes glee in each of the small moments of triumph, and in the bigger triumph that the whole thing adds up to. And it’s objectively a good piece of art – if got shortlisted for the BAFTA and Hugo Awards that year. (Beaten for the Hugo by a Game of Thrones episode that also starred David Bradley.) My favourite Black Archives are the ones that look at something I already liked and give me more reasons to like it, and this is definitely in that category (even if not, formally, a Black Archive).

Enough for now; if you enjoyed the show, get this and enjoy it some more. You can get An Adventure in Space and Time here.

Christopher Priest: The Interaction, ed. Andrew M. Butler

Second paragraph of third chapter (an interview with Priest himself):

I was born on Bastille Day, 1943, so I must have been conceived at the end of October 1942. (My parents’ wedding anniversary is 31st October, which probably explains a lot.)

As stated here over the years, I was a friend and a fan of Christopher Priest (see here, here and here), but for some reason I had not got around to buying the book of essays about his world produced for Interaction, the 2005 Worldcon, at which he was a Guest of Honour. But I put that right at Eastercon a few years ago and have now got around to reading it.

There are a dozen essays in the 160 pages of the book, and I know the authors of about half of them. It’s interesting that the writers, who were no doubt given specific and different briefs, keep coming back to the same works and themes (and this was before the film adaptation of The Prestige came out): binaries, negotiated realities, the nature of fiction. The one book of his that I have not read that seems particularly interesting is The Quiet Woman.

There are a couple of rogue chapters which look at his work outside the well-known run of novels – one on his criticism (often trenchant), and one on the book adaptation of David Cronenburg’s film eXistenZ. I don’t know if it was widely known in 2005 that he had also written the novelisations of Mona Lisa and Short Circuit; it would have been interesting to contrast the three adaptations.

One other point that I would have liked to see explored is Priest’s screen writing. The story of his two failed Doctor Who stories is well known; less well known, he did get a small number of scripts produced, listed on IMDB – though admittedly only two of these were before 2005, “Treason”, a 1981 episode of Into the Labyrinth and Love: The Watched in 1984, both of them for younger viewers (who one doesn’t think of as the target audience for Priest’s prose). You can watch the Into the Labyrinth episode below. It stars Pamela Salem and Ron Moody as the baddies.

I was puzzled by the order of the chapters, and would perhaps have put the interview either immediately after the introduction or at the end, and similarly I might have put the chapters on the novelisation and on non-fiction together at the end, so that all the chapters on the novels were together. I know that these things are often pulled together in haste.

Anyway, you can get Christopher Priest: The Interaction here (at a price).

This was the shortest book that I acquired in 2023 and had not yet read. Next on that pile is Lost, Found, Remembered, by Lyra McKee.

Silent Earth: Averting the Insect Apocalypse, by Dave Goulson

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Of late, I have tried to turn the question around. Why should the existence of slugs or midges need to be justified, either for what they do for us, or for what they do for the ecosystem? Does there have to be ‘a point’ to slugs?

A passionate book, making the case that the population of insects in our world has declined catastrophically in recent years, and that this is a potential cause of ecological catastrophe for all of us. It’s also a loving exploration of the different varieties of insect and how they contribute to making our lives possible. Each chapter is preceded by a profile of a particularly interesting insect; and there are a lot of those.

One of his data points was particularly telling for me – I am old enough to remember that when we went on long summer drives when I was a child, the car windscreen would be liberally covered with the smashed remains of insects before the morning was out. That just doesn’t happen any more, not because the insects have got better at avoiding cars (or vice versa), but because there are far fewer of them.

So yeah, we have a problem here, and although the international community is paying attention to biodiversity as a whole, Goulson makes a strong case that insects are particularly important and also particularly endangered. Recommended. You can get Silent Earth here.

This was my top unread book acquired in 2023. Next on that pile is Garden Jungle, by the same author.

Charles Darwin and the Silurian Survival, by L.D. Lapinski; and Bloodtide, by Jonathan Morris

Second paragraph of third chapter of Charles Darwin and the Silurian Survival:

‘Is – is something the matter, Doctor?’ Darwin asked, his enthusiastic expression creasing into one of concern.

This is one of a recent series of books where the Doctor encounters a famous person from history and has an adventure with them, the first one that I have read (the others involve Frida Kahlo, Shirley Jackson and Fela Kuti). I have to say that I was not tremendously satisfied. It probably doesn’t help that my PhD supervisor was an expert on Charles Darwin, so I cut the author a lot less slack than most readers perhaps would.

But this story is the fruit of minimal research; the islands are jungle-covered, uninhabited volcanoes, rather the contested and partly colonised territory of history, and Darwin’s actual identity makes little impact on the plot; it might as well have been Captain Fitzroy who has the adventure with the Tenth Doctor. And the cover features Darwin in the famous photograph taken of him in 1868, a third of a century after he visited the Galapagos Islands in 1835.

I do have one of the other books in the series, but this wasn’t a brilliant start. You can get Charles Darwin and the Silurian Survival here.

Really, the Doctor and Charles Darwin meeting the Silurians on the Galapagos Islands is such an obvious idea that it had already been done much better twenty-five years ago by Big Finish, in the 2001 Sixth Doctor audio Bloodtide by Jonathan Morris. I listened to it in 2007, and wrote then:

Glorious, glorious: Sixth Doctor and Evelyn meet up with Charles Darwin and Captain Fitzroy on the Galapagos Islands, and – how utterly appropriate – meet up with the Silurians. No doubt the play’s account of Darwin’s inner dialogue with himself, as brilliantly portrayed by Miles Richardson, would fail to pass muster with real experts (such as my PhD supervisor) but you don’t expect utter historical accuracy in something like this. Evelyn and Six continue to be a great pairing, and the Silurians with their inner conflicts and betrayals make a great story. Loved it.

I listened to it again in order to write this. A two hour full-cast drama is a very different format from a 100-page novella, but I stand by my assessment that this is much the better work. As well as the points I made first time round, I note that there is a direct connection drawn between Darwin’s experience with the Silurians and the theories that he later developed; and the colonialism of the humans towards the island is reflected in the colonialism of the Silurians to the humans.

Though I was amused that “Governor Lawson” is depicted in the play by Julian Harries with a strong Suffolk accent – in real life, he was the Vice-Governor rather than the Governor (though Darwin might not have realised the distinction) and more importantly he was born in Norway and a naturalised American citizen, who probably never set foot in Suffolk in his life. The Latino accents put on by the all-English cast are also regrettable – Big Finish is doing better than that these days.

You can get Bloodtide here.

For those of us who were around at the time, the unforgettable fictional depiction of Darwin in the Galapagos Islands was the 1978 BBC series, The Voyage of Charles Darwin, with the superb tension between Malcolm Stoddard as the title character and Andrew Burt as Fitzroy. The Galapagos story is told in the second last of the seven episodes, which at present you can watch here:

Léopoldville 60, by Patrick Weber, Baudouin Deville and Bérengère Marquebreucq

Second frame of third page:

Next in the sequence of graphic novels about the mid-20th century life of Kathleen Van Overstraeten, a young Belgian woman who we last saw smiling in Sourire 58 (and previously surviving Nazi occupation in Bruxelles 43). She (along with most readers, including me) receives some vivid lessons about the sudden end of Belgian rule in the Congo, as seen by a flight attendant whose friend in Léopoldville has a Congolese boyfriend.

The move to independence happened very quickly. In January 1960, the white folks were confidently talking about a transition period of thirty years; but in fact Belgium handed over sovereignty only a few months later at the end of June. The winds of change, as MacMillan said, were blowing, and the Belgians faced a choice between a quick retreat with little dignity or a military defeat with even less, and wisely chose the former.

The success of the book is the vivid depiction of Léopoldville (now Kinshasa) itself by artists Baudouin Deville and Bérengère Marquebreucq. They’ve clearly put hours of research into the available archival material to show a time and a place that were about to change utterly.

Weber does his best to explore the complexities of race and power in late stage colonial Congo, but has chosen to tell the story largely from the perspective of the white folks whose lives were disrupted by change, which perhaps is not the most important of the stories that could be told. (It is striking that only one of the twelve people depicted on the front cover is African.) There is also a political subplot, which is a fairly standard thriller involving (of course) the Americans.

It was a big deal for Belgium at the time. Almost 35,000 people are known to have taken hastily arranged Sabena flights from Congo to Belgium in July 1960, rather than stay in the suddenly independent new state. The vicious exploitation of the country and its resources and people in the earlier period is not really mentioned, and we get hints of the coming troubles in Katanga but little more than that. So I was left admiring the art but feeling that the storytelling was incomplete.

You can get Léopoldville 60 here. Next up is Berlin 1961.