“Landfill” by Tim Dee

My copy of Landfill was supplied for review by Little Toller Books.

Tim Dee’s latest book may just be his most important. His 2008 work The Running Sky is justifiably recognised as a classic of modern nature writing. Through the months of a year Dee looks at a particular species, habitat, or aspect of our relationship with birds. Never the monomaniac, he sees connections between things that are not always obvious: a magpie’s eye for collecting seemingly disparate threads and bringing them together.

His second book, Four Fields, is – for me – his weakest. A study of four different fields (in England, America, Africa and Ukraine) in different weathers and seasons, the book reads like the author is trying too hard for unity of design. That said, Dee’s prose is always a pleasure, and the chapters on Chernobyl were engrossing. Of all the Chernobyl-related literature I’ve read, this passage stands out:

“Fall-out was so potent in these woods that for a time it destroyed microbial activity as well as most other living things. Rot was killed, decay arrested and the dead kept immutably dead. There were no friendly worms. Death, needing no colleagues, moved as an absolute master through these woods and fields, armed solely with itself, raining death beyond death down over the trees and grass, keeping everything dead.”

The idea that there can be a form of death so absolute that it prevents rot is appalling; utterly un-natural. I first read that paragraph with the same creeping feeling of dread that a horror story gives.

All of which brings me nicely around to the new book. Landfill is, in one sense, a book about death. Throughout, we see glimpses of Dee’s ageing parents and the slow constriction of their horizons (ironically, in a book about one of nature’s great colonisers) and his adjustment to their increasingly straitened circumstances. But it’s also about what we throw away, and the effects of our behaviour on those most raucous and vital of our urban neighbours: gulls.

The book’s promotional material calls it “a new book about rubbish and birds” but that new is surely superfluous. There can’t be many books devoted to the relationship between our culture’s detritus1 and the natural world, and certainly fewer still about gulls. Why not? Dee has written passionately about the purpose of the new nature writing, and in his introduction to the recent Ground Work: Writings on Places and People, says:

“Modernity has shattered our world like never before, we are more deracinated than ever, but because we feel most places to be nowhere we have also learned that anywhere can be a somewhere.”

Landfill, then, is a further entry into the library of nature writing which aims to redress that particular imbalance.


As an occasional birder, gulls are one of my blindspots: I can identify black-headed, herring, lesser- and greater-black-backed but like many people tend not to pay them much regard (though watching a soaring white gull against a clear blue sky is one of life’s small pleasures). “Nowadays gulls are trash birds, the subnatural inhabitants of drossscapes“: this is true. We view them as we view pigeons or rats (“slum avifauna”), and in the process we establish a mental hierarchy of nature. But larophiles (from the genus larus) exist, and this book shines a light on them.

Our rubbish tips allowed previously cliff-dwelling birds to colonise inland areas miles from the sea. However, changes to our disposal habits are forcing them to adapt. We throw away far less food waste than we used to, so the number of gulls at landfill sites has dropped. At the same time, reports (usually in the silly season, which coincides with the summer holidays) shrilly alert us to the hazards of marauding gulls who brazenly steal tourists’ chips or guzzle their ice creams. The reality, as ever, is more nuanced.

But what are gulls to do? “We’re responsible for all this. Gulls are caught in an ecological trap with us”, says Viola Ross-Smith of the BTO (Dee speaks to many experts throughout the book and generously allows them their own voice, even their own chapter). I particularly like the anecdote about how “[gulls] have even learned that dumps often don’t open on Sundays and they must go elsewhere…apparently [they are] confused by public holidays, and wait for hours in vain.” Poor sods. Yet “gulls are dynamic birds and fast adapting”, displaying aptly-named “behavioural plasticity”.

On the subject of plastic, I would have liked – and indeed expected – a little more on the subject of rubbish itself (the balance is definitely in favour of “birds” over “rubbish”). As it happens, while I was reading the book BBC4 showed a documentary on the history of landfill which was far more informative on what happens to what we throw away. Perhaps I’m being too literal in my expectations.

Despite what the title implies, this is a book more about order than mess. I hadn’t known that the early years of this century saw the Herring Gull split into several individual species, including Yellow-Legged and Caspian, which had previously been considered sub-species. Dee examines this at length, pondering the way we sort and organise the natural world – none of which materially affects it (a Herring Gull doesn’t know it’s a “Herring Gull”) – and then revise that ordering. Species are “lumped” together or “split” apart, yet the whole time “a species is a human construct”. Gaps in the Arctic sea ice have made passage around the northern hemisphere easier for birds, and this has allowed previously separate subspecies to interbreed. “Evolution isn’t over, although most of us carry on as if it has finished – as if its discovery, the auditing of its accounts, locked it down forever.”


Dee intersperses his own trips to watch gulls with pretty much every significant cultural appearance of the birds (including, naturally, Daphne du Maurier’s The Birds, which I’ve looked at before) or of rubbish dumps. Again, I got the feeling that at times he was trying to bring everything into scope and was perhaps over-reaching in search of significance. That said, his contempt for Richard Bach’s “poisonous” Jonathan Livingston Seagull is amusing. He loathes its embodiment of a particularly American sense of Manifest Destiny, and laments that the gulls are only gulls in form. Bach “stole their gullitude and colonised or domesticated the birds even as it constructed a fable around their real aerial mastery.”

Moving onto cultural representations of rubbish, he looks at Clive King’s gentle, wonderful Stig of the Dump: a book I persuaded – over a period of months – my reluctant son to let me read to him, and who then loved it. Dee muses on the dump in question, full of pre-plastic junk, all reusable and re-purposed by Stig. He looks, too, at that poet laureate of “living residue”, Samuel Beckett, via Happy Days and Endgame, works in which life, in true Beckettian style, just persists.

Although by the end you may feel that every cultural reference to gulls and rubbish tips has been exhausted (though the anti-epiphany of Tom McCarthy’s Satin Island is absent), ultimately this is a rewarding book, even if the concept may not be one with immediate appeal. Dee himself had reservations, but the process of researching and writing the book evidently affected him:

“I thought writing about this might describe an impoverished experience: birders turning to gulls because they are the only birds around…but it turns out more substantially that the meeting of gulls and people is exuberant… birders [are] processing the gulls, picking through them, finding new things to know and to understand, finding value in creatures others labelled shoddy or dreck. This enthusiastic ordering of life…in the midst of the organising of what we would call death is gripping. Landfill means more than just a tip for the end of things. It is also a description of how we have worked the rest of the living world, learned about it, named and catalogued it, and have thus occupied or planted our planet, filling the land.”

In the introduction to Ground Work quoted from above, referring to the charity/lobby group Common Ground, whose guiding principles inform much of the best of the new nature writing, Dee writes:

“One of the reasons why nature writing is resurgent today is because of Common Ground’s steadfast belief in the value of exploring what the natural world – even the broken-down, rubbish-dump world – means to us.”

With biodiversity destruction rampant, the Brazilian rainforests under renewed threat, plastic choking the oceans and species extinction at unprecedented levels, we can no longer turn our face from what we have done to the world. And that, as this thoroughly absorbing book examines, means bearing witness to the environments our culture has created, even if it means risking “the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass”.


1 “At the point we identify anything as waste, even though up until then it has been ours, we don’t want it and we don’t like it.”



Dee, Tim: Landfill (Little Toller, 2018)

Dee, Tim: Four Fields (Jonathan Cape, 2013)

Dee, Tim (ed.): Ground Work: Writings on Places and People (Jonathan Cape, 2018)


A blank space filled

They’re building houses on the field.

Not in the field: the field has gone. On it, on the site that it once occupied. For a hundred years, it was a field. Before that, common land perhaps, before the village spread up the hill to encompass it. I don’t know.

The developers haven’t grubbed up hedges or cut down a woodland or demolished a historic building to create the space for the new houses. All they’ve done is levelled a hillside field which had been largely unused for 34 years.

We moved when I was nine. The new house was separated from the nearest street by a long, rutted driveway (whose potholes, no matter how often they were filled, always returned in exactly the same form) and from the rest of the village by a quarry1 and, directly in front of it, the field in question. Behind the house – to the south – was a steep whin-furred hill2 above which the sun barely rose in winter months.

The field in 1855…

That first summer – we moved in June – the field was full of crops. What crops they were I don’t know, other than that to us they had the softness and pliability of grass. At season’s end the field was full of monolithic cuboid bales (which the farmer would shout at us for clambering over).

That summer (and perhaps all the summers beforehand, I don’t know) local kids of all ages played in the field. The long grass converted it into a different world. We made tunnels through the grass; flattening it into broader or narrower channels through which we crawled, playing hide and seek, or ambushing each other by tying the grass in loops that caught a running foot. In the centre of the field where all the paths met was a vast plaza of flattened grass; a meeting point from which all points of the field were visible. Hours were spent in perfecting these hidden channels and creating new ones, or hidden ones whose start and end points were not linked from others: to get to these you needed to jump over the grass to find them. The field seemed to contain more space than its dimensions occupied.

Then the field was mown, and the bales raised. The field shrank overnight.

After that summer, it was left fallow. Ponies were kept there until recently. An electric fence was installed to prevent their escape3. But because it was much quicker to cross the field to get to school than it was to take the road, I risked the fence twice daily. Sometimes it got me – a snap that seemed to twist the bones in your finger all the way around – and sometimes it didn’t.

…and 1947

By coincidence, one of the houses at the bottom of the field belonged to my aunt and uncle. My route took me down the field, over the low wire fence at the bottom, and through their garden. The sightlines were clear and the distance sufficient that my cousins and I could pass messages from house to house just by leaning out of a window and shouting. No-one was disturbed, there was only a field in the way.

And that’s it. Since then the field has been a negative space; a memory; a pause or comma between streets. But enough to seal its fate. The houses are being built – though such is the height differential of the slope that there’s now a virtual cliff at the back of the site. In fact the gradient is such that you wonder that it was even worth the bother (the site foreman told my Mum that it was the most troublesome development he’d ever worked on). The houses themselves are social housing, which the country needs. There’s some local discomfort about this, but when I was growing up almost every house in the surrounding streets was a council house: all that’s happening is a belated attempt to mollify the logical consequences of Thatcherism.

How Google Maps sees it

From now on, the field will be a ghost: the memory of it will lie beneath the flats and houses.

The book From Place to PLACE by Common Ground is about parish maps: local communities creating alternative, subjective maps of their area which can give precedence to parts that an “objective” map wouldn’t. My son’s school has recently been undertaking a project along similar lines in the town where we live. In the book, people are asked to consider not just what it is they treasure about their “parish”, but also what they would miss if it were to disappear (the direct implication being: to make way for new buildings). If I had ever to contribute to such a map of my home village – which I left for good more than twenty years ago – it wouldn’t have included that field for the simple reason that I wouldn’t have assumed there was any threat to it; nor did I appreciate it’s quiet value. Now I do, but it’s too late.



1 Home to the peregrines – or the descendants thereof – that Kathleen Jamie wrote about in Findings.

2 Suzy’s Planting

3 I once managed in a particularly harsh winter to sledge from the side of my house, down the drive, down the banking, down the field and crashed into the fence at the bottom: 200 metres at least. It was magic.


Vintage maps reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland

Other images copyright Google

Lodestone – the work of Benjamin Myers

Benjamin Myers is a writer whose time has come. Recent winner of the Walter Scott Prize for his stunning The Gallows Pole, Myers has been a prolific voice of the English North for several years, and his wider renown is thoroughly deserved. It also comes at a fertile time for writing from the North of England. Writers such as Jon McGregor, Fiona Mozley and Andrew Michael Hurley have also recently published critically-acclaimed works which explore a sense of place and identity during this (to put it mildly) interesting time for England.

I want to look at his most recent works: The Gallows Pole, which resurrects the tale of the Cragg Vale coiners in 18th century Yorkshire; and Under the Rock, which details Myers’s own experience of settling into a home in the shadow of the brooding Scout Rock in Mytholmroyd: a town whose name immediately sparks thoughts of another writer intimately associated with deep Yorkshire: Ted Hughes.

The Gallows Pole tells of the rise and fall of a gang of coiners under the rule of “King” David Hartley. For 3 years, from 1767 to 1770 his fiefdom provided a kind of socialism or, if that’s too much of a stretch, a welfare sub-state for the poor of the Calder valley. In so doing his forged coins devalued the official currency of England, something the authorities were not going to overlook. Myers’s story, then, is a tale of power and authority and identity, what creates them and what happens when they are challenged.

Myers writes thickly layered prose; the world is invoked by dense clods of language and his David Hartley is an elemental figure subject to visions, in stark contrast to the “genteel”, smartly-dressed figures of authority who live in town: “David Hartley appeared of the earth, of the moors. A man of smoke and peat and heather and fire, his body built for the hills”. Town and country are pitted against one another. Men “whose family names were as much a part of the terrain as the boundary marker stones that mapped the moors and fractioned their tight territories” do not exist in an urban environment. Yet urbanity, too, has its depths: “It seemed to him to be two places, Halifax. A town of two faces. One of sunlight and another of shadows”: both exist and both are true.

To the coiners, town represents officialdom and “England”, a notion which means little; an idea too big and too distant to matter. “Jorvikshire” is the limit of their focus and ambition: they make no reference to England and cannot conceive of a wider polity than their own county. “England” exists only for the rich: when the Prime Minister’s name is invoked, one of the coiners retorts “I’ve never heard of him”. Hartley’s brothers style themselves the “Duke of Edinburgh” and “Duke of York” in a (partly) ironic assumption of nobility. They are questioning what nobility means: they are, after all, acting for the benefit of their people, even if the nobility of their actions is a side-effect of their accumulation of specious wealth. But England contains Yorkshire within it, and their power and independence is ultimately shown up for the circumscribed game that it is.

When removed from their environment, the gang members are bereft: turncoat James Broadbent looks around him in the home of one of these authority figures, hoping to trade his knowledge for cash and immunity. But his identity is fractured by the multiplicity of things, of reflective surfaces: “Furnished textiles. A pewter platter. A tea service. A decanter. Mirrors. Many mirrors reflecting James Broadbent’s eyes as they dart around the room and struggled to take everything in…a world unimaginable.” The difference between assumed power and established power is revealed.

And yet, for all the power of the establishment, to what end is it being put? To maintain itself, of course. The coiners offer a vision of something better, a localism opposed to the nationalism of England. “The starving of Calder Valley…had been clothed and fed and given hope, and that was more than any landowner or dignitary or law-maker…had done. It was more than the King of England himself had offered.”

Of course, an existential threat such as is posed by the coiners cannot be accommodated and must be purged. “The Crown doesn’t need proof…when the man decides it’s you, then it’s you that will be swinging”. The lawmen’s betrayal of Broadbent is no surprise: “this was about pragmatism and trust in a system. The English way.” Pragmatism is that default setting of the English establishment, historically adept at justifying the means to an end. For all their culture and manners, the Law and “England” are as morally skewed as the coiners, who are at least true to their word.

The Gallows Pole is a brutal work (not least for the few stoic females that haunt its pages), but utterly gripping and convincing in every aspect.

Staying in the Calder Valley, Under the Rock sees Myers explore his new home. It’s a piece of landscape writing which is parochial in the best sense: in not showing how small a locality is in the wider world, but showing how large a world exists in that locality.

The double meaning of the title can of course refer to the poetry written about and around a place (by Ted Hughes, Glyn Hughes and Simon Armitage, for instance), and also the innate meanings and resonances, shapes, forms and moods, that a place can have. Elmet is the title of one of Ted Hughes’s finest collections, where his poems are paired with photos by Fay Godwin: wonderfully evocative monochrome scenes of post-industrial decline and savage moorland in which even the brightest sunlight sends a shiver down the spine.

“Elmet was the ancient Brittonic kingdom of the native Celts that covered much of the West Riding between the fifth and early 7th centuries and part of the larger Yr Hen Ogledd – The Old North – region that incorporated numerous minor kingdoms from Southern Scotland down through the Borders, Cumbria and Yorkshire.”

Hughes had previously written a collection called Remains of Elmet, but edited and supplemented this in the revealing light of Godwin’s work.

Remains are thick on the ground anywhere in Britain, and come in many forms: “what I particularly like are the industrial remains: the old mills and mill ponds, the buried pieces of machinery, forgotten things half hidden beneath the undergrowth.” Even since the late 70s of Hughes’s poems and Godwin’s photos, the landscape has changed. In trying to find the spot from which a particular photo – featuring the dark sentinel of Scout Rock – was taken, Myers realises that it too has gone; has been built over, redeveloped. The site of those lost visions of Hughes’s 1930s childhood are themselves lost; a double-burial.

Myers’s writing is refreshing in that his eye misses nothing; its view is not selective: beauty can exist anywhere, in unexpected forms. “The sun’s rays reach Burnley road to flood the industrial units and workshops and bacon-packing factory with light, and fill the stagnant canal with honey, making even the dumped BMXs and deep-green swirls of goose shit look golden”. This is nature writing that acknowledges the pictureskew, that does not hide from the acts of violence done to and within a landscape:

“Recent years have seen our bookshops swell with works that consider the rural landscapes of Britain. Often their authors are people like me, blindly staggering around trying to make sense of the world and their place in it. But so many of these accounts veer towards the romantic. They are escapist representations…one step removed from the reality. Few seem prepared to tackle the more insidious side of the landscape – the blood and guts of it, and also the actions of those individuals whose negative influence can define a place for decades of centuries”

Myers may have had one eye on the Cragg Vale coiners as he wrote that, but the other was fixed on the unholy local trinity of Peter Sutcliffe – the Yorkshire Ripper – his friend, Jimmy Savile (whose life and fame only becomes more strange and unpleasant the more you read of it), and mass-murdering GP Harold Shipman. In this region of uncompromising landscapes, the world of Heathcliff and Ted Hughes, he asks “can the contours of a county determine the actions of its residents?”

Yet Scout Rock, whose “dark mythology” overhangs the book in every sense, offers Myers both stability and hope in a time of financial hardship and emotional difficulty. This may be from study of the fauna: “most are weeds and viewed as invasive or poisonous or ugly, yet I find them fascinating and beautiful, each as valuable as a wild orchid, if not as rarely seen”, from the persistence of nature in reclaiming humankind’s efforts to subdue it: “I have seen true rewilding at work at a microcosmic level, and barely a stone’s throw from schools and houses, pubs and petrol stations. It has been completely accidental, and has happened despite, rather than because of, humans…the rewilding of Scout Rock is born out of neglect, and is nature’s fight-back against the centuries of industrialisation,” or from the hypnotic consolations of putting one foot in front of the other:

“Walking is writing with your feet. When we walk our footprints mark the soil like the crudest of hieroglyphics, and our minds take fanciful turns. Over long, solitary miles abstract or disconnected thoughts can often find purposes in words which then link to form cogent sentences. Writing and walking are co-dependent…Writing is a form of alchemy. It’s a spell, and the writer is the magician.. But it is archaeological too, an act of digging and looking. Writing is an attempt to tap into narratives, and to look in either direction along the timeline.”

As a coda, Myers journeys to Spurn Point at the mouth of the Humber, into which the Calder flows: that river’s “true conclusion”. He despairs – as he has throughout the book – of the “downward ecological spiral” our culture has produced for itself. At this outermost point of Yorkshire he sees the curious juxtaposition of plastic junk washed down rivers or cast up by the waves, piling up on a steadily eroding coastline. When he says “we are a shrinking island” he speaks metaphorically as well as literally. “Water is only ever passing through”: it is “not self-contained…[and] lead[s] elsewhere…I must remind myself that there is a world beyond.”

The obvious, looming narrative that writing taps into at this point in time is Brexit. In common with both fiction and non-fiction currently exploring the idea of “place”, these works are  – perhaps inadvertently – a reaction against the narratives that have brought us to the brink of Brexit; a reaction against the insular visions of Britain (Greater England) that have poisoned the public sphere and made the current political mess possible. They are works that aim to reclaim the local – explored in explicit, even forensic, detail – in deliberate contrast to the vague, platitudinous ideas of the nation that decorate tabloid front pages.

I may be stretching here, but this wave of New North writing reminds me of the brief mid-90s fashion for Scottish literature (fashionable among London press and publishers, that is: it wasn’t “fashion” up here, it was just “literature”). It’s widely accepted that this resurgence, which started in the 1980s with writers like Alasdair Gray, James Kelman, Tom Leonard and Liz Lochhead, helped fashion the new sense of national identity (crucially, from a left-wing perspective) that made devolution possible (and independence likely).

What’s telling now is that this New North writing is a specifically English – as distinct from British – thing. The fact that many of these works are from independent (northern) publishers also shows that the movement (to call it such) is an organic thing, and not driven by London taste. I know that Yorkshire in particular sees itself as a separate country (as does Cornwall) and that it has a far greater sense of identity than, say, Northamptonshire or West Sussex. One of the many interesting things about the insane state we find ourselves in as Brexit looms is the struggle for a specifically English identity to emerge from the unravelling fabric of “Britain”. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland have long had a sense of themselves as entities; England, as the major partner in the United Kingdom, has not; and as the ties of that Union fray, England is an uncertain and fearful thing. It needs more works of literature like these, which examine the country, its people and its places, and the relationship between them. It may be a dark and painful process but it’s a necessary one.



Myers, Benjamin: The Gallows Pole (Bluemoose)

Myers, Benjamin: Under the Rock (Elliott & Thompson)

Myers, Benjamin: These Darkening Days (Mayfly)

Where have all the words gone?

It isn’t writer’s block.

Stephen King once wrote about a story “being dead even as the words continue to march across the page”, and I hope it isn’t that, either.

I think all that’s happened is a loss of momentum. I’ve stalled.

The folk-horror work was going well, until I went on holiday. But the momentum was lost, and I can’t get it back. That isn’t to say I’ve written nothing since June: I have, several pages (and several entries on this blog). But they’ve been sporadic. And one of the chapters – indeed a whole subplot – I decided to scrap, because it was making the story lopsided. But then the decision to scrap the subplot showed holes in the main story that hadn’t been visible before. Structural holes. Holes that, if left unattended, cold bring the whole edifice down.

It isn’t terminal, I’m sure. But it’s a pain in the arse. Because this story felt truer, more natural and, because set around (a thinly fictionalised version of) the town in which I live, more relevant than some other things I’ve written.

I don’t generally get writer’s block. Walking and thinking means that when I come to sit down to write, the words are just waiting to be spilled onto the page.

No, I think this is laziness. Because it had been going so well, so smoothly, I hadn’t had to work hard at it. And I tend to laziness. But now I need to work at it.

What I need to do is think at the macro level, not the micro. For some writers I expect that’s easy but I’ve always been a details, close-to-the-action writer, rather than a step-back-and-tell-a-grand-narrative writer, which is why the vast majority of my writing is in short form. Even the Robin Hood novel (serialisation coming soon, folks!) I wrote was stitched together from individual legends.

I was speaking to a friend about this yesterday and she suggested that I write a character piece: something about one of the characters, which would not be part of the story but a free-form chance to explore their motivations, and which in turn would tell me what choices or decisions the character would make. I tend to make my characters fit a situation, rather than have their actions drive a story. This isn’t necessarily the wrong way around, but in a novel it will be magnified, and appear far more contrived than in a short story.

I believe in this story; I think there’s a good concept behind it which I perhaps just need to iron out a little better. Maybe I started it too soon, without considering the rises and falls and arcs of all the characters.

I just need to think it out.

It isn’t writer’s block.

A Clive Barker Top 10

I compiled a China Mieville Top Ten a few months ago to mark the TV adaptation of The City and The City. Barker these days is a far less prolific author than Mieville (or even his younger self), so there’s no new work appearing to prompt this. It is, however, his birthday on October 5th so to celebrate that, here’s my utterly subjective ranking of his adult novels. His children’s works (The Thief of Always and the Abarat series) are not, therefore, in this list but are well worth seeking out.

Contains plot spoilers.

  1. Weaveworld (1987)

My favourite book. Barker’s breakthrough second novel saw him do the rounds of TV chat shows (including a hilariously awkward Halloween Wogan alongside James Herbert). First time I read it I didn’t like it, to the astonishment of friends who raved about it. I loved the horror of Books of Blood and wonder now if Weaveworld‘s dark fantasy put me off. I liked the concept (and the cover, below), and something must have told me it was worth another go. A second reading made me realise my error. I’ve since bought a hardback copy to protect my signed paperback from further damage.


Weaveworld is the story of a realm – The Fugue – concealed from its enemies by being woven into the fabric of a carpet. Unravelled in contemporary Liverpool, it’s up to Cal Mooney and Suzanne Parrish to safeguard the world and its inhabitants – The Seerkind – from those who would destroy them: the “eternal virgin” Immacolata and her sisters, with their sidekick Shadwell, a salesman with an enchanted coat. No synopsis quite does it justice: hugely influential in opening up the genre of “dark fantasy” (Herbert’s Creed (1990) shows its influence in places and you think: “no, Jim, just stick to the gore”) and demonstrated that Barker was ambitious, and capable of fulfilling that ambition.

2. Cabal (1988)

Short and sharp, in stark contrast to Weaveworld, and published just a year later. Another “hidden tribe” story, this time telling of Aaron Boone, a misfit who has been led to believe that he’s a killer, and so sets off in search of the legendary sanctuary of Midian, where monsters can take refuge from the world. Only it turns out the monsters are actual, literal monsters. Yet as they’re pursued by the forces of law and order, who is truly monstrous?

It’s very short, characters are sketchy to the point of being thumbnails, and you can rattle through it in a few hours. Barker later filmed this as Nightbreed, and I have written about both works elsewhere. I love that it hints at, rather than shows, the wondrous terrors (or terrifying wonders) of Midian.

3. Imajica (1991)

Huge (so huge, in America it appears in two volumes) and hugely inventive. Where Weaveworld was the Garden of Eden, this is the life of Christ (Christian imagery has always played an important role in Barker’s fiction, yet seems rarely to have been commented on in studies of his work).

This world is one of Five Dominions, sundered from the other four for millenia. The messiah tasked with reconciling them, John Furie Zachariah, aka Gentle, is a dissolute mess, pissing away his talent and doomed to have his memory wiped every few decades. He must assemble his helpers and travel through the worlds, with the forces of reaction on his heels, in order to reveal the true shape of the Imajica.

4. The Great and Secret Show (1989)

I probably prefer this to Imajica, truth be told, but Imajica is arguably the better work (partly because it’s self contained, whereas this is the first of an as-yet-incomplete series). The first of Barker’s novels to be set in America, where he moved to permanently in 1990.

It tells us of the battle for Quiddity, the dream-sea that humankind swims in no more than three times in each life. Arch-enemies Fletcher and The Jaff wage a war for the secrets of the dream-sea and knowledge of “The Art” through their children, except those children fall in love. Conflicting loyalties – oh, and Armageddon – then threaten a Californian town with buried secrets.

5. Sacrament (1996)

Barker coming out as gay in the early 90s was a brave decision, and his publishers were nervous about this novel having a gay central character. Will Rabjohns is a wildlife photographer whose life changes after a near-death experience. He is flung back to visions of his childhood and time spent with two mysterious, seemingly immortal travellers, themselves bent on witnessing the deaths of the last representatives of animal species. A powerful, visionary, fever-dream work echoing millenial (and post-millenial) fears of environmental collapse, it sold well beyond the fears of his publishers, proving that who a character chooses to sleep with really doesn’t matter. One of his lesser-known works, but one of his best.

6. The Hellbound Heart (1986)

You know Hellraiser already: this is the novella that birthed it. Frank Cotton uses a magical box to unlock the doors of a world of unknown pleasures. Except that domain’s definition of pleasure isn’t necessarily the same as ours. A highly original take on the Faust legend (see below), the Cenobites were a new breed of monsters that tapped into a late 80s S&M zeitgeist. Pinhead (never named as such), great a character as he is, suffers by over-exposure in the film’s many sequels. Here, and in the original film – like the xenomorph in Alien – less is more. You could read this in a rainy afternoon, and you should.

7. Coldheart Canyon (2001)

This is good fun, and perhaps languishes so low in this list because I came to it late. Fading actor Todd Pickett emerges from plastic surgery to find devastating results, and takes refuge from the world’s media in a mansion in the eponymous canyon. The mansion, though, has secrets. Once the home of a silent movie heroine with bizarre tastes, it contains a room whose tiles – from roof to floor – depict a savage medieval hunt. Is that a trick of the light, or do the pictures move?

8. The Damnation Game (1985)

Barker’s first novel, speed-written to capitalise on the unexpected success of the Books of Blood. A re-telling of Faust, Marty Strauss is released from prison into the employ of Joseph Whitehead, a wealthy industrialist whose deal was with an all-too-human devil. Time to repay the debt, but Whitehead is not willing.

Probably the most dated of Barker’s work, and much more of a thriller than either his previous horror or later dark fantasy. It tries to be all three and doesn’t quite manage, but is perfectly readable nonetheless.

9. Everville (1994)

Or, “The Second Book of the Art”, i.e. the sequel to The Great and Secret Show. Quiddity is still threatened, and the veil between our world and that one is thin. Everville is another town with secrets, a crossroads of America at which opposing forces will meet.

Although it has flashes of brilliance and some truly memorable characters, for me it fails to do what The Empire Strikes Back did in making the dark midpoint of a trilogy be the strongest part (though this particular trilogy is still unfinished). Barker was brave with some of the decisions he makes in this book: who lives and who dies, and how happy-ever-after are happy-ever-afters? But, equally, some parts are unconvincing. The shores of Quiddity in particular seem much more drab and mundane than any wonders we’d been promised and make you wonder if the battle is worth it in the end.

10. Mister B. Gone (2007)

I like the idea of this: that there’s an actual devil hidden inside the pages and the binding and the words of the book in your hands. Jakabok, the devil in the detail, is a nasty little bastard but one who spins a good yarn. Perhaps this needs a re-reading; I was disappointed in it at the time and have felt no compulsion to revisit. Unlike any of his other novels, it feels inconsequential.

What it shares with The Scarlet Gospels, and which for me is a problem with both books, is a literal depiction of a Christian Hell. I have no problem with the idea of Hell; I love Dante’s Inferno, medieval depictions of its terrors and denizens, and look forward to the forthcoming Penguin Book of Hell. Indeed, one of Hellbound: Hellraiser 2‘s good points was it’s depiction of Hell as a set of endless corridors. Hell is a fascinating concept but one that, as the location or source of ultimate suffering, should almost be ineffable, or at best rendered in the abstract. In neither this nor The Scarlet Gospels does Barker manage to make it seem anything but grey and – at worst – merely unpleasant, rather than truly Hellish.


“But wait”, I hear you cry. Where the hell are the Books of Blood? Well, they’re short story collections not novels, and ranking them individually would edge many of these novels out of this chart. Critical opinion seems to favour volumes 4 to 6 but I love them all.

So what didn’t make the cut?

Galilee (1998)

Along with Mister B. Gone, the only one here I’ve not read more than once and which retains only the barest imprint on my memory. Barker’s most un-usual (or rather, atypical) work, subtitled “A Romance”, Galilee is a dynastic epic, telling of the ongoing feud between two powerful families: the Gearys and the para-human Barbarossas.

And that’s about all I recall, other than some (typically) bizarre sex.

The sharp-eyed among you will have noticed what is hopefully not going to become a pattern: Barker’s most recent novel is not in the top 10.

The Scarlet Gospels (2015)

This had a long and troubled gestation; seemingly editor Mark Miller trimmed its length considerably prior to publication. It has a few great set-pieces: the introduction, in a crypt in Germany where Hellraiser’s lead Cenobite (called Pinhead in print for the first time) appears, is stunning. Harry d’Amour (previously seen in The Last Illusion1 and Everville) is a likeable hero, and Barker’s prose is as elegant and rhythmic as ever. But there is so much wrong with this novel. As above, the depiction of Hell seems curiously under-imagined. The characters wisecrack like a poor Hollywood movie, and make cringeworthy (and un-Barker-like) double entendres. There is also the trope of the Magical Negro in the blind medium Norma. I got the feeling that Barker had lost his way, and was relying on outside assistance to help him envision a novel for the late 2010s. Some of this may be down to the horrific health problems he’s suffered in recent years (and thankfully appears to have overcome).

Nonetheless, I retain high hopes for the Third Book of the Art (firstly that it will ever appear, secondly that it’ll be good); for the remaining volumes of Abarat; and for any of the works in the “Upcoming” section of his website.


1 Filmed by Barker himself in 1995 as Lord of Illusions with a charismatic portrayal of d’Amour by Quantum Leap‘s Scott Bakula.