All change: Jan Mark’s “Thunder and Lightnings” (1976)

In my previous post I wrote about nostalgia and the loss of contiguity that can trigger it. There are books, though, that I have always had: every house move has seen them boxed, shifted and unpacked; and, in time, re-read. For these books, each re-reading reveals new aspects: a form of anti- or a-nostalgia. One of these is Jan Mark’s debut novel, Thunder and Lightnings (1976).

I loved this book as a ten year-old. I took it everywhere; read it countless times. I can remember being on at least one visit to a family friend’s and immersing myself in it, to the exclusion of the other children present. I love the illustrations by Jim Russell, and the cover (above, again by Russell, such as you’d never see nowadays) of my battered edition, but I also love the current edition’s cover art.

It was not, however, the book I’d hoped it would be. When it was advertised in the school book club brochure (“The Chip Club” or “The Lucky Club”, I forget which), as an aircraft fanatic I read the blurb and expected it to be about planes. The cover did nothing to dispel the notion. So when it came, I was a little disappointed. Surely I can’t have been surprised: I knew it was going to be fiction, after all. But it wasn’t “about planes”. What was it about?

Andrew Mitchell moves with his family from Kent to a tiny village in rural Norfolk. At school he meets local oddball Victor Skelton, who is obsessed by aircraft: specifically the Lightnings that fly from nearby RAF Coltishall. The two become friends: Victor is an outsider and although never spelled out as such, Andrew is too. As Andrew becomes familiar with Victor’s idiosyncracies (which are largely his means of keeping the rest of the world at bay), he worries about how his new friend will react to the imminent replacement of Lightnings by the newer Jaguar aircraft.

That’s it, in a nutshell: two boys meet, new boy is drawn into local boy’s hobby, worries about how his friend will adapt to change. There’s no plot, as such; something I’m not sure I realised aged ten. Events occur, a friendship develops, and although it most certainly is about things, that’s pretty much it.

On a surface level, then, it’s about a friendship. But what it’s really about is change, and adapting to it.

Andrew is used to change; his family have moved many times in his twelve years: “I went to three junior schools and two secondary schools”. Victor has lived in Pallingham all his life; Lightnings have flown overhead for as long as he can remember. He is anxious about a future without them; the recent retiral of the Hawker Hunter has plainly given him a foretaste of what life without his beloved interceptors may be like. But Victor’s friendship with Andrew – evidently his first close one – and his newfound fondness for guinea pigs suggest a diversification of interests will help him through the loss.

Although Andrew is plainly used to change, he is unmoored by the move, and is feeling his way through his new life. His baby brother, Edward, is too young to be affected by the change, and accepts everything with a nonchalant interest. Until encountering Victor, Andrew’s schooldays are a vacuum: he makes little effort to reach out to other pupils, and is consequently ignored.

Andrew’s personality only comes out in relief, as he is the character through whose eyes we (mostly) read the story. In many of his conversations with Victor he is highly pedantic (not that Victor notices; or, if he does, he bats it back to Andrew). In his favour, he is self-aware enough to realise this and tries to stop, but can’t help himself. I’ve maybe re-read it three or four times since childhood, and the most recent time (last week) I was surprised by how much Andrew needles Victor, unable to reconcile the other boy’s contradictions. Throughout the book there is a face-off between a type of low-level chaos and a desire for order. Andrew’s family and Victor represent the slightly rough-around-the-edges chaotic side, while Victor’s uptight parents with their spotlessly clean house, and (arguably) Andrew with his need for tidy explanation, represent the desire for order. Such dynamics help show both boys that one person’s normal is another person’s weird, and vice-versa.

Much of the boys’ discussions take the form of low-level arguments: in the proper sense of considering each other’s point of view and revising one’s own accordingly. In this manner, Mark makes many points that no doubt escaped me as a ten year old. The boys – and Mrs. Mitchell – read the action strips in boys’ comics, but as they begin to use a nascent critical intelligence, they see through the jingoism and fantasy that usually1 underpins such characters. This is reflected in a trip to a war grave near Coltishall, where the militarism that’s never far from the surface in the UK is simply and elegantly dismantled. It’s an impressive feat the author pulls off, in getting across a genuine love of aircraft with a recognition of what purpose these multi-million-pound weapons perform, while simultaneously recognising the historical feats of the Battle of Britain yet not romanticising or idealising them.

The main theme of adaptation to change by-passed me at the very time in my life I could have done with learning from it. A parental divorce when I was very young, though I was spared the worst, left me at some subconscious level wary of upheaval. Years later, around the time I devoured Thunder and Lightnings, my Gran died. I used to go to her house for lunch every day; in her absence, rather than join my classmates in the school dinner hall, I’d head up the high street and eat my packed lunch on doorsteps, hidden from view, as if repeating the forms of the ritual would restore the substance of it. Taking pity on me, I was occasionally invited into friends’ houses by their parents to eat with them. I’ve no idea how long this went on for – no more than a week or two – before my Mum and Dad found out and I had to go to the dinner hall.

In denial? Maybe a little.

On a slightly more bathetic note, I went off football (having been a big Aberdeen fan, like most boys in my part of the country in the early 80s) when Alex Ferguson and some of the team’s best players – the ones who’d brought so much glory to the club – left throughout 1986. Like Victor, never having known the team to have changed more than just a little at the edges, the wholesale transformation (for the worst; they won only three more trophies in the next decade) was not something I could accept. I went off football almost overnight, and for the best part of a decade2.

Mark wrote the book for a competition (which she won) soon after moving to Norfolk; she based the Mitchells’ shock at the jets’ noise on her own. Coltishall replaced its Lightning fleet with Jaguars in the summer of 1974 (the year I was born), though they continued to fly from bases such as RAF Binbrook in Lincolnshire until they were finally withdrawn from service in 1988. Jaguars were scrapped in 2007, though Coltishall itself had closed down the year before. There is a photograph of me, in my Aberdeen shirt, standing in front of the Lightning “gate guard” at Coltishall, taken one summer evening in (I think) 1985. Yes, I pestered my parents to drive from the caravan park we were staying at near Yarmouth, through the back roads of East Anglia, purely to see where Thunder and Lightnings was set.

As well as being the first I’d heard of Green Shield stamps and the phrase “a fine and private place”,  it taught me (pace Andrew’s Mum) “there’s no such thing as fair”. Many years later I gave a cameo role to Andrew and Victor as adults, in my story The Other Field, as a tribute.

Victor, as Andrew’s mother surmises, is more adaptable than Andrew imagines. While Andrew fears that their new friendship may already be waning, Victor is planning cycle trips to RAF Marham to see his namesakes, the Handley-Page Victors. He sees no reason for the rest of the summer holidays not to provide a deepening and a furthering of their friendship. At the end – no spoiler alert needed; this isn’t a plot-driven book, and the replacement of Lightnings by Jaguars is a matter of historical record – Victor seems accepting of the end of the era. A lone aircraft does a trademark vertical ascent:

“”forty thousand feet in two and a half minutes”, whispered Victor…he grinned, his old and famous grin, and made a searing dive with his hand.

“Well, if that wasn’t [the last Lightning of all], that ought to have been…”

There are books you start again as soon as you’ve finished them, but the ambiguous ending of this one meant that was never the case for me. No matter, I’d return to it sooner or later.



1 I’ll look at this in a future post. In my previous post on nostalgia, I split artefacts into three categories: those which were lost and which when regained are the “true” nostalgic items; those which travel alongside you and grow with you, revealing something new each time (Thunder and Lightnings); and those which also travel alongside you but which do not grow, and form a sort of halfway-house between the other two. Into that category falls I Flew With Braddock.

2 And when I got back into it, it was as a fan of Aberdeen’s big 1980s rivals, Dundee United.



Mark, Jan: Thunder and Lightnings (Puffin, 1978)


photo: Jamie Gorman


The lure, the lie and the lessons of nostalgia

“Proust had a bad memory…The man with a good memory does not remember anything because he does not forget anything.”

Samuel Beckett, ‘Proust

To begin with, the first part of the quote above must look like exceptional contrariness on Beckett’s part. Proust’s most famous work is, after all, À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), the prime subject of which, explored at great length and from every conceivable angle, is the working of the passage of time on memory. Surely Proust, of all of us, had a good memory?

But no. What Beckett means is that if Proust had a good memory, he would never have forgotten his past in the first place; it would always have been with him. In this case, his memories would have been subject to the mind’s processes – re-remembering, mis-remembering – which render memories unreliable because they irreversibly distort the original mental “image”.

It is only because Proust’s memory was so poor that the taste of the famous madeleine (dipped in tea) brought everything rushing back to him, fresh and undisturbed. He’d forgotten everything about his early life in Combray. So, untouched and unsullied, it comes flooding back with an intensity and vividness not available to the person who has periodically revisited those memories in the interim. These recollections – the result of involuntary memory – are not “sepia-toned”; on the contrary, for the brief period that they can be grasped (before the conscious mind seeks to falsify them by expanding the captured moment, or by attaching other, non-contiguous memories), their immediacy renders them as vivid as the present moment.

Nostalgia is big business. Ebay could barely exist without it. As I write, Blade Runner 2049 is in the cinemas (and explores the role of memories in the creation of the self), and Episode VIII of Star Wars is not far off release: two movies whose existence owe much to nostalgia on the part of the post-baby-boomer generation that makes up the bulk of their fanbase; a generation to which I, born in the mid-70s, belong.

Nostalgia has been big business for years, of course. Using Star Wars as an example again: after Return of the Jedi, with the saga finished, interest in that particular universe dried up over the next few years. By their own admission, Lucasfilm never wanted to experience anything like the period from 1986-1992 ever again. But in the early 90s1 fans slowly rediscovered the trilogy, and haven’t let it go since. Of course they hadn’t “forgotten” Luke Skywalker in the same way Proust had forgotten Combray, but the crucial thing in both cases is that the continuum was broken. If something ceases to be a continual presence in your life, when it is later summoned to mind it will trigger associations up to – but not beyond – the point that you and it parted company.

To switch to music; when we shared a student flat in Dundee, my friend Dave and I were into the electronica that was coming out (including Warp’s Artificial Intelligence series) at the time. There are tracks from the early 90s which I have listened to ever since but Dave hasn’t, and vice-versa. As a result, tracks that have formed part of my soundtrack for two decades immediately take Dave back to evenings in a damp-smelling maisonette because he hasn’t heard them in the interim, while they maybe take me back to the bus journey home from work a few weeks ago, because that was only the most recent time I listened to them; or they don’t spark any association at all because they’re a background part of my life.

“”Something to do with eBay”, Johnny reckons
He’s bidding on it now, for a Subbuteo catalogue ’81-’82
He’ll win it, put it in a drawer, and forget he ever bought it.”

Saint Etienne, “Teenage Winter

The key thing about the items in the photo above is not that they date from the 1980s. They don’t necessarily come from contiguous parts of my childhood: I may have devoured Look-In intensely in 1981 but a few years later it would have been a distant memory because I was reading Asterix, and then a few years later Zzap!64. Each stage of childhood is lived intensely; but when it passes, it’s dead. For a child, a decade feels like a geological era and at 14 you are no longer the person you were at 7, or even 11.

What links these items is that they are all things which I had – or which I remember, or my friends had – at the time but were thrown out (or lost) and which I purchased much, much later, usually via ebay. Although during this time (and to this day, though my son has custody of them now) I had, for instance, a Star Wars annual and other books and magazines from my childhood, the things pictured above had long since ceased not only to be present in my life, but even to exist in my voluntary memory. As a normal and healthy part of growing up I had forgotten the existence of these things, and from day to day my memory wouldn’t even stray down pathways that would lead me to recall them. This is what the Star Wars generation had forgotten: the memorabilia and paraphernalia that – while the films remained – had long been thrown out, passed down to younger siblings or given to charity shops

There are studies which show that nostalgia can trigger positive feelings in the brain and certainly the pleasurable shock of recognition when confronted with something long-forgotten is a thing you can crave. The photo at the top is proof of that.


But what is it we’re looking for when we’re nostalgia-hunting? The idea that things were better in the past, that there was some golden age that we can hark back to, is a reactionary one that I do not subscribe to. But for the vast majority of adults, childhood was a time largely free of responsibility, when life had an intensity that is experienced much less frequently when you’re older. And nostalgia needn’t mean looking as far back as that; as I said above, the continuity of presence is the key, and once that is broken you can be nostalgic for things that happened (relatively) much more recently.

The things in the photo above date from roughly 1981-1986. A little after that, my main interest was horror fiction, much of which I’m happy to re-read today. But revisiting things from earlier, from pre-adolescence, should not surely be done with the expectation of gaining anything of worth, should it? Most of these items are annuals, comics and magazines, and their very form is significant: they are ephemera, weekly or monthly output designed to be read and discarded. Books are different, or can be (the gamebooks in the photo are a bit of an outlier: not disposable but still unlikely to be of any real worth to someone older than their target market of boys aged 10-14). So these things represent the little background forgotten elements of my childhood. The nouveau-roman author Alain Robbe-Grillet, perhaps surprisingly, sums this up perfectly in his autobiography:

“the importance of things…obviously doesn’t lie in their intrinsic significance but in the way they stick in our memory”

The associations are the key. The items above don’t actually offer anything significant other than their existence, and the fact that they remind me of a particular time of my life. Is there anything deeper that my obtaining them seeks to reach? What did I actually gain from buying these things? From watching dodgy VHS transfers to YouTube of 70s and 80s kids’ TV opening titles? “A walk down memory lane” is an inappropriate metaphor. It isn’t a bucolic stroll the nostalgia-junkie seeks, it’s a jolt; a hit.

The initial thrill is just that: initial, a short-lived burst of – what? A moment wherein your own personal Combray opens up; the layout of the bedroom you had when you were eight; the wallpaper, a mood, an atmosphere, whatever was in the charts at the time. You thumb through the magazines for a brief diversion: maybe some of the stories are better-written and better-drawn than you appreciated at the time, maybe some others aren’t, and even the adverts – those least important, most peripheral pieces of cultural jetsam – give you the hit. “I remember that! And that!” And what of it?

Because our oldest memories were created by a child’s perception, which is very different from that which we have as an adult, it lends those mental snapshots an incomplete, hazy quality, into the gaps of which can easily slip a sense of the eerie. It is this disjoint – an adult playback of a childhood recording – that has made hauntology such a successful aesthetic in recent years.

In using nostalgia not solely for its own sake, but by acknowledging and actively promoting the argument that the past is not a golden age lost, but exists instead as a weirder place than we can now “properly” recollect, hauntology is in this respect a progressive mode.

But, my interest in hauntology notwithstanding, I’d be kidding myself if I’d bought a thirty-year old copy of Look-In for anything other than that first rush of familiarity.


The ten minutes spent leafing through the magazines above were the mental equivalent of the junkie hit: intense but fleeting; maybe leaving a sense of wasted time and money, a slight feeling of shame, and a promise never to do it again. What were you looking for? A time that’s passed, long past. An impression of it, then: for what reason? To do what with it? A retreat, anaesthetic.

Buying such items again is a form of reclamation; an attempt to recapture the time in which they were part of our lives. But all we end up with are the artefacts; the associations we hope to rekindle with them – temporal, ephemeral – are long gone.

Nostalgia can be a sugar-coated trap. Life should be lived facing forward, not back. Brexit is only the most extreme version of what happens if you disengage with the present and wallow in nostalgia (or, worse, nostalgia for a time before you were born2, the reality of which you therefore can’t verify and which has been pre-packaged for you).

However, Proust, in his final volume (Le Temps retrouvé – Time Regained), has the epiphany that all of one’s past still exists, and can be accessed via involuntary memory by finding the relevant triggers. For him, these include an uneven cobblestone, a ringing doorbell and, obviously, the madeleine. But he also realises that this time must first be lost before it can be found, in order for it to contain meaning.

As I’ll examine in a subsequent post, there are things from childhood that grow with you, in which you can constantly find relevance and meaning. Other things don’t, and we may regard them with a sense of bewilderment that we ever invested so much emotional stock in them. A further type of things, also, don’t speak to the person we are now but can still offer a briefly enjoyable visit to the past. They give nothing new, they speak only to us like a crackly recording.

This last category, I think, covers the things photographed above. The things from childhood which still speak to me are those whose presence in my life has never been interrupted: for the very reason, possibly, that they still held meaning for me. There are countless items – and I’ll look at them too in the future – that I have not sought to re-obtain, even though they ostensibly belong to the same category as Look-In and Zzap!64. The items in the photo, then, represent those things in which I have tried, and failed, to find contemporary relevance and which have delivered the (pleasurable, but ultimately sterile) hit of nostalgia for its own sake.



1Someone (not me) could write a thesis (furthering the work of Simon Reynolds and Mark Fisher in this area) on the part played by the events of the late 80s and early 90s (downfall of Communism/”the end of history”, etc.) in creating a cultural environment which could give rise to the burgeoning nostalgia industry; ironic given that from the viewpoint of 2017, the early 90s seem like a lost utopia.

2The “WWII/finest-hour/time-when-the-population-was-entirely-white” mentality that led us into this mess.


Beckett, Samuel: Proust & Three Dialogues (Calder, 1965)

Proust, Marcel: In Search of Lost Time, (six volumes, Vintage, 1996)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: Ghosts in the Mirror (Calder, 1987)


photos: Jamie Gorman


I have four writing priorities at the moment. They are, in no particular order (and that’s the problem):

  • this blog and my duty to you, dear reader
  • unfinished fantasy novel, 185 MS pages after 3 years’ work
  • pro-cycling-themed gamebook, 1st draft completed, needs reworked
  • Robin Hood novel, completed 3 years ago and redrafted, and submitted (so far without success) to several agencies

The Robin Hood book has gathered dust since the beginning of this year, yet it is currently the only finished item I can “use” (aside from the previously-published short stories on this blog, or available in my self-published collection) to make an entry into publishing.

I enjoy writing this blog. My initial idea was to use it as a showcase for my fiction, but following a stressful restructure at my work which has made me wonder why I’m doing a job so far removed from what I always intended to do, the blog has been both a release valve (allowing me to write pieces that aren’t fiction), and a way to practise concision. How successful I’ve been, you can judge.

The gamebook needs a re-draft and then play-tested by guinea pigs friends who have kindly volunteered for the job. The book is a choose-your-own-adventure version of the Tour of Flanders cycle race, and while I realise that the Venn diagram overlap between ‘gamebook fans’ and ‘cycling fans’ is probably pretty small, I think there’s a market for it.

The fantasy novel is the main project (the gamebook was a Friday-night-after-some-Leffe inspiration which, unusually, seemed an even better idea the following morning), and it is probably the true priority. I always feel that I should just write, that that’s the thing, keeping the momentum up and working to produce an end product.

What that means, of course, is that the other stuff – the communication, the self-marketing, the rewriting – takes a back seat and I don’t make any progress; I don’t actually come any closer to publication or getting my name out there. How do other writers juggle these competing priorities?


In praise of brevity: Clive Barker’s “Cabal” and the anti-epic

Clive Barker’s 1988 novel Cabal is short: at 253 pages, padded out by chapter breaks and illustrations, it’s practically a novella. After the effort of writing the 700-odd pages of Weaveworld, this was a refreshing length for the author:

“One of the interesting things about going to Cabal after [Weaveworld] was that I found a new size which I’d never even tackled before, about 250 pages long. It’s the right size for the novel. I think you’ve got to allow stories to occupy the length that they need to occupy.”(1)

Cabal is about the misfit Aaron Boone. Deceitfully persuaded by his shrink Dr. Decker that he is a serial killer, he flees to the legendary Midian, refuge of the outcast. Once there, he is attacked and bitten by one of the inhabitants, a bite which gives him a strange life-in-death following his subsequent murder at the hands of a police force roused by Decker, who has followed him. Boone becomes one of Midian’s denizens, the Nightbreed: monsters and freaks who have built a city to hide themselves from mankind’s eyes. But Boone’s lover Lori, retracing his final steps – and who believes him dead – finds him and in doing so unmasks Decker as the true serial killer. This exposes Midian to the local rednecks, who set about destroying the refuge. As the Breed die or flee, Boone, responsible for the loss, is anointed by the city’s deity to become the Breed’s saviour and build another Midian.

I’m not averse to reading a thumping great epic (my favourite Barker and Stephen King novels are Weaveworld and IT, respectively), but I like the fact that a world can be created and a story spun with what amounts to little more than gestures. Cabal delivers a brief, very satisfying rush, and though Barker planned at least two sequels I don’t think we’re imaginatively any the poorer for not having had them yet. Boom! Studios have produced a follow-on comic which takes the vignettes that appeared in Clive Barker’s Nightbreed Chronicles (1990) and built them into back-stories. Fun to read, but I got the feeling I get when approaching the Star Wars Expanded Universe: the sensation of gaps being plugged, the spaces filled out and all the air removed.

We don’t need every detail; we can survive on a hint of greater depth:

“I wanted to do the reverse of what I did in Weaveworld which was to really cross the t’s and dot the i’s, give every detail of psychology and so on. In Cabal I wanted to present a piece of quicksilver adventuring in which you were just seeing flashes of things, Boone, Lori, the Breed, each character’s psychology reduced to impressions. The reviews for the book split into two camps. One was those people who enjoyed Weaveworld in all its detailed 700 pages and thought Cabal was too perfunctory, and the other camp thought Weaveworld was too large and enjoyed Cabal because of its speed. You can’t please all of the people all of the time, but I never set out to make Cabal a work of Weaveworld’s depths.” (2)

The key word here is “impressions”. There is a scene early in Cabal in which Boone is held at knifepoint in a graveyard by two of Midian’s inhabitants. In Nightbreed, the uneven 1990 movie version of the book, these characters have been – by necessity – sketched out and designed and cast and made-up. “The fantastical elements in the book… are rather impressionistic. But you can’t do that in a movie, people need to see what these guys actually look like.” (3)

In Cabal one of these characters – Peloquin – is described in the vaguest of terms:

“a large beast, its species impossible to read…the head…was not solid; it seemed almost to be inhaling its redundant features…there were human features beneath, set on a body more reptile than mammal”

The man holding Boone in the novel is named “Jackie”, but in the film is the crescent-headed Kinski. The description of Jackie is transposed in Nightbreed to the background character(s) Otis & Clay, whose physiognomy in the days before CGI would have been difficult to make look believable:

“two faces on his lumpen head, the features of both utterly distorted; eyes dislodged so they looked everywhere but ahead, mouths collided into a single gash, noses slits without bones. It was the face of a freak show foetus.”


Oliver Parker as Peloquin (left) and Nicholas Vince as Kinski in Nightbreed

Nightbreed certainly has its flaws, and though I’m keen to see it (someone please release a UK Blu Ray!) I’ve no doubt the Directors Cut doesn’t fix them all. But it shows that even a 100 minute film is not enough to portray in depth a world created in fewer than 300 pages.

Barker’s fictions, being primarily set in our own world (Abarat apart), neither have nor require maps: the topology of his worlds is of secondary importance. Cabal is set in Canada, and Midian’s location is the deliberately vague “east of Peace River, near Shere Neck, north of Dwyer”. Peace River exists but beyond that the necropolis is in the imagined wilds of Alberta. A motif in Barker’s 1991 novel Imajica (an epic in scope as well as in size) is the lack of an authoritative map, a lack which that book’s troubled hero, Gentle, intends to fix. But, crucially, we are not given one ourselves with which to orient our journey across the Dominions.

And that’s a good thing.

I’ve nothing against maps. I got over-excited about OS maps in one of my previous posts, and in my adolescent years Tolkien’s maps of Middle Earth were, as they were for thousands of others, something to pore over and let the imagination wander across. But a map says that everything can be known, when it can’t. I’m with China Mieville on this:

“If you don’t know what’s on a map in the real world, how can you possibly fill one in in a world that doesn’t exist? It’s meaningless. Leave things unknown. With The City & the City, one of the things that fascinated me was the number of people who criticized it on the grounds of wanting to know how the cities got like that. Personally that has no traction for me as a reader, partly because I like mystery—I like not understanding things in the books that I read. But also because—and I know we’re not talking about the real world—it’s an equivalent question to asking, “How did London come to be?” “Why is Budapest like that?” It’s a question that demands such an amount of history that the weight of totality is so great that you can’t possibly answer it. Totality evades our complete understanding, not because the world is unknowable, but because there’s so fucking much of it.

For all those reasons, I think one of the most important things in world creation is to leave certain things unsaid. I think there’s nothing wrong with frustrating your readers about that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with pissing them off at all, as long as they’re interested.”(4)

The time has come to declare an interest. I’m writing a fantasy novel, which will likely run to around 300 pages for all the reasons above but also, without wishing to make a virtue out of a necessity, I have relatively little time available for writing. I dread to think how long writing anything longer would take: this one has already taken 3 years and I’m still some way off finishing.

Fantasy doesn’t have to mean maps, doesn’t have to have every detail fleshed out, doesn’t have to form part of a cycle. Long live the anti-epic.


  1. Skeleton Crew, III/IV, 1988 at
  2. Philip Nutman, Fangoria, No 87, October 1989 at
  3. Nigel Floyd, (i) 20/20, No 2, May 1989 (ii) Clive Barker’s Shadows in Eden (edited) at


Barker, Clive: Cabal (Fontana, 1988)

Barker, Clive & Close, Murray: Clive Barker’s Nightbreed Chronicles (Titan, 1990)

Barker, Clive: Imajica (Collins, 1991)


Illustration: Clive Barker

Relocated in translation: “HEX” by Thomas Olde Heuvelt

“This is a low-flying panic attack” – Radiohead, Burn the Witch

Moving the action of a European or Asian film to America when Hollywood remakes it is not unusual. Moving the location of a European novel to America when translated into English, however, is.

Published in English in 2016, HEX is the story of the small New England town (where have we heard this before?) of Black Spring, which has lived under a very real curse for centuries. Largely, and deliberately, cut off from the outside world, the town is haunted by a long-dead suspected witch – Katherine – who manifests randomly, her eyes sewn shut and her mouth constantly whispering. What she whispers makes those who hear it feel suicidal, and there is no escape: leaving Black Spring for any length of time causes the same feelings. She has this town locked down. The kids, armed with their iPhones and YouTube channels, rebel against the consensus that keeps the town in this frozen state, and that’s where the fun starts.

It’s a bleak book, up (or perhaps down) there with – as we’re in roughly the same area – Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. Bleak, but worth reading; enjoyable in that “am I actually enjoying this?” feeling that effective horror gives you.

My early thoughts, given the author’s nationality and the novel’s location, were that with it’s many references to the early Dutch settlers, Olde Heuvelt was reclaiming American history for the Dutch: after all, they were there before the English (but not, obviously, the Native Americans). Or that although not strictly in his territory of Maine, that this was an affectionate nod to King. It wasn’t until I was near the end that I looked into the publishing history, and found something far more interesting.

Published in Dutch in 2013, HEX is the story of the small town of Beek, in Limburg, south-eastern Netherlands, which has been held hostage for centuries by a witch, Katharina.

HEX was successful in the Dutch-language areas of the Netherlands and Flanders (the northern half of Belgium). Given that Euro-horror novels are relatively uncommon in the UK, and that I love European fiction and horror, I’d have liked to read a direct translation. I speak some Dutch (de Nederlandse taal), and read it well enough to understand newspaper and magazine articles but not, I suspect, a novel. So I should be pleased that I can read HEX at all, but unfortunately not the author’s original.

When the English translation rights were sold, the decision was taken to relocate the novel’s action to America. Olde Heuvelt himself was thoroughly involved in this work (alongside translator Nancy Forest-Flier), and was excited by not only the chance to expand his readership, but to revisit the novel:

“I love the fresh perspective that comes with reading fiction from different cultures. Being Dutch, 90% of the books I read come from abroad. Sometimes I even want to be taught about these cultures. The Kite Runner gave me a much more nuanced view about Afghanistan than Fox News. Murakami taught me more about Japanese customs than any sushi restaurant I’ll ever visit.

But there’s a limit to what I want to be taught. Some books I just want to read for the fun of it. The thrill. Or the scare. And I realized my novel, HEX, was such a book.”(1)

The author was given the chance, as he says in his afterword to the novel, to play with his characters again (and to change the ending from the original), without it being a sequel. Which writer hasn’t felt such a temptation? I understand that.

But there’s something depressing about the fact that such a change was felt necessary. Old Heuvelt jokes about this (“the book had—quiver, Americans—a Dutch setting”), but on one level, it isn’t funny at all. I’d like to think that U.S. publishers woefully underestimate the American reader, who I hope are happy to read books set outwith their own country. Yes, the names may be unusual (but aren’t most American surnames derived from immigrants?) and the setting unfamiliar, but even allowing for cultural differences, in the immortal words of Depeche Mode, “people are people”.

The other depressing thing is distance. Beek is 815km from where I write this, and a mere 314km from the nearest point to it in the UK, Dover. That isn’t far, and is much closer than upstate New York. But I don’t mean geographical distance; I mean the cultural distance which dictates that in Scotland I must read a U.S.-translated-and-located version of a novel set in a neighbouring country; that we’re beholden to America when it comes to experiencing the work of a fellow European, and when it reaches us it’s had almost all of the European-ness removed. I’m reminded of when the small part of Border Books (remember them?) devoted to foreign-language literature was called something like “books not yet translated”. I paraphrase, but that was the essence: that work from any language other than English does not properly exist until it has been translated. In the case of HEX, in a sense it doesn’t properly exist afterwards.

I don’t want to sound too down on HEX or Olde Heuvelt: as I said above, I enjoyed the book, I recommend it to horror fans, a TV adaptation of either version would be welcome and whoever had the idea of reworking the novel, the author has taken it in good spirit. But still. When I read China Mieville’s speech at the 2012 Edinburgh World Writers’ conference on the future of the novel, I didn’t necessarily disagree with him:

“To love literature doesn’t mean we have to aggrandise it or those who create it. That aggrandisement is undermined by the permeable text. Be ready for guerrilla editors. Just as precocious 14-year-olds brilliantly – or craply – remix albums and put them up online, people are starting to provide their own cuts of novels. In the future, asked if you’ve read the latest Ali Smith or Ghada Karmi, the response might be not yes or no, but “which mix”, and why?”(2)

But here we aren’t talking about a fan’s – or even a translator’s – remix. This was a conscious decision driven by not so much profit as by the idea that an entire market of readers would be put off by the thought of encountering something even a tiny little bit, well, different, from the culture that surrounds them. In the era of Trump and Brexit, that’s a step as unwelcome as it is unwise.

But again, without that decision I wouldn’t have come across the book at all. So maybe I should stop moaning, buy the original and improve my Dutch…




Olde Heuvelt, Thomas: HEX (Hodder, 2016)


Photo: Jamie Gorman

Warp Records’ “Artificial Intelligence” series, 25 years on

I don’t intend to write often about music on this blog, but a recent Guardian article reminded me that a group of albums that I love are approaching their quarter-century. Given that they transformed my musical tastes, I thought it worth revisiting them and the effect they had on me. Also, in an era where information can be found in seconds, it’s interesting to look back at a time when cryptic liner notes and credits were all you had to go on when making discoveries and connections.

Many 1990s retrospectives follow a predictable line of easy signposts: early 90s rave, baggy, shoegaze (if you’re lucky), grunge, Britpop, drum n’ bass, big beat (if you’re unlucky). Those that dig a little deeper will cover the underground electronica which crossed over (Orbital, Leftfield, Underworld, The Future Sound of London, the Orb, etc.), but some of the most revered acts and albums of the time are those which passed under the radar of the cultural gatekeepers, via the then-Sheffield-based Warp Records, but which ultimately had a huge impact on the development of electronic music.

In 1992 Warp released a compilation called “Artificial Intelligence“. They followed it up the next year with groundbreaking albums by the acts featured on it, making ’93 a year which marks, for me, the highpoint of electronic music*. Easy to forget now, but at this time, it was unusual for the NME (let alone Melody Maker) to cover electronica in much depth: you had to buy DJ or Mixmag (or, later, Muzik); the idea that broadsheet newspapers would review such albums was unthinkable.

Artificial Intelligence

By late 1992 when I started University, my musical tastes were moving away from guitar-based indie. The Shamen and Primal Scream had been my gateway to electronica: firstly to The Orb and Orbital and then, under the influence of my friends, some of the progressive house and early trance of Guerilla Records. The bassline to FSOL’s “Papua New Guinea” alone did much to convert me. This was what the future was going to sound like, and it didn’t involve guitars.

A friend left the CD of Artificial Intelligence at my house along with a host of others, and it was initially the one that looked least promising. Among the rest were Hardfloor’s classic second-wave acid “Trancescript” and a compilation with a superb, and then-rare, remix of Orbital’s “Open Mind“. The green CD with the robot on the front looked impenetrable. But I gave it a spin, possibly because the closing track was a version of “A Huge Ever Growing Pulsating Brain” by The Orb’s Alex Paterson (listed here as “Loving You” and credited to Paterson himself for legal reasons).


The cover image (by Phil Wolstenholme, top) was an exciting – and witty – vision of what computer graphics could do. The message on it is clear: the record is coming from the label which released “LFO”, “Tricky Disco”, “Dextrous” and “Testone” (all on Warp’s own “Pioneers of the Hypnotic Groove”, on the floor by the chair), but it isn’t for the dancefloor. “Electronic listening music”, it said. Pink Floyd and Kraftwerk were closer to the mark: this was “music for late nights and chill dawns”.

Most of the electronic stuff I’d listened to so far had been either not too far from the indie-dance stuff, or quite dubby. The abstract, metallic soundscapes on Artificial Intelligence were something new to me. But another of the CDs left with me was Network Records’ superb 1990 compilation Biorhythm (subtitled “dance music with bleeps”), and I listened to these two albums with increasing fascination. Although the tempos of the two CDs were quite different, and the sounds of the Warp one far more abstract, these were my initiation to the world of Detroit techno. It was all new to me: both this second wave of techno, and the late 80s Detroit stuff which had influenced it. The reference points on the AI inlay card were as esoteric as the sounds I was listening to. Who was Derrick May? Well, Biorhythm had the track “Emanon” by Rhythim is Rhythim: there’s your answer.

For music to listen to after a night’s clubbing, ambient had passed its first 89-90 peak (KLF, Orb, 808 State) and not yet found its 1994 second wind (Fax records, Rising High records, SAW2) but as Jochem Paap noted, “ambient means in the background. This focuses on that it has to be listened to.” It seems unbelievable now, but there was little at the time in the mid-tempo range of electronica to sit and listen to. There was club music you could play at home (Orbital were moving towards their trance peak of 1992-3), but it was really designed for dancing. There was ambient (The Irresistible Force’s lovely Flying High was released in ’92, as was UFOrb), but that was for spacing out to. There was a gap in between that needed filling. Dave Simpson in Melody Maker, in his review of AI, noted that this was “music to provoke thought rather than to nullify it”.

And the music? The opening track on the compilation was “Polygon Window” by Aphex Twin (recording as “The Dice Man”, which caused a spike in sales of records by an identically-named – but very different – artist on Vivatonal records). His wonderful “Selected Ambient Works 85-92” was being passed around at the time. This was much more raw, but gripping. I liked the slightly cheesy concept of “Telefone 529” by Musicology (B12) but came to a shuddering halt against “Crystel” by the then-unknown Autechre. “The Clan” by I.A.O. (Black Dog) managed to be both abstract but warm, and so was Speedy J’s “De-Orbit”. “Preminition” by Musicology I disliked for many years: too harsh! too loud! Yet at the same time, the next track was the one that finally hooked me: “Spiritual High” by UP! Another low-key rumble from Autechre followed, then a nice quasi-ambient wash from Speedy J and, to my further surprise, the closing Alex Paterson track stood out like a sore thumb: the track I’d been most keen to hear as a fan of The Orb just did not sit with the other tracks. In the time it had taken to listen to the CD, my tastes needed re-evaluating.

Then, in 1993, we were drip-fed every month or so a new emission from Warp as these artists released their individual albums. The production values were superb: The Designers Republic rarely did better work than their Warp sleeves during this period, and their abstract beauty was a world away from the tired cliches of hyperreal dance music visuals and circuit board imagery.

Polygon Window: “Surfing on Sine Waves”

I love “SAW 85-92” and some of his other tracks, but have never been an Aphex convert. His mid-90s drill & bass stuff left me cold, and there’s a gleeful darkness to much of his work that I couldn’t, and still can’t, get into. The opening track here (“Polygon Window”, again), the scrapyard frenzy of “Quoth” and a few others I can listen to, but I rarely bother and long ago sold my vinyl copy (which I bought in Chalmers & Joy, Dundee: is that shop still there?). But at the time it sounded like nothing else, and that was enough.

Black Dog Productions: “Bytes”

This is great, and a remastered version is long overdue. My cousin had it on (gatefold) vinyl, and it was both accessible and (for early 1993) very odd at the same time. Simon Reynolds described it as being “asymmetrical dance music for beings with an odd number of limbs”. Weird breaks, tracks that seemed to last seconds before veering off at tangents; everything buzzing with unquenchable energy; it was a world unto itself, and remains a highlight of Warp’s back catalogue. Black Dog had been around for several years by this point, and 2007’s “Book of Dogma” gathered their early stuff. By then the trio had long since split (into Plaid and Black Dog) after their 1995 LP “Spanners”. Both acts continue to this day, and whereas Plaid’s stuff I’ve always found a bit insipid, Black Dog still produce deep, thoughtful electronica. This, arguably, is the AI release which has best stood the test of time.


B12: “Electro-Soma”

This caught my attention as I walked into HMV in Dundee, but the name “B12” meant nothing to me at first. Their tracks on the compilation had been under the Musicology name, and they weren’t happy that Warp marketed them as “B12”. For them, that was the name of their own label, and the tracks they released on it had been under such monikers as Redcell and Cmetric: not “B12”.

This is the AI release that really wound Simon Reynolds up in his 1998 book Energy Flash, but it’s the one I’ve listened to most consistently (and has just been remastered and re-released). What I didn’t know at the time was that the acts were offered fat contracts by Warp (giving Aphex a permanent home and launching Autechre’s career) but B12 rejected the advance. As a result, they released only two more records for Warp (1996’s fine Time Tourist and the ugly duckling drum & bass/jazz of 1998’s 3EP) before going on a decade-long hiatus.

From the opening wash of “Soundtrack of Space” to the plangent “Drift” (vinyl only), I was hooked. It maybe lacked the industrial aggression that the early Detroit releases sublimated, but there was no better gateway drug for me to the Detroit (or Detroit-influenced) sound of techno.

F.U.S.E.: Dimension Intrusion

For many years, this was my favourite album. Although Richie Hawtin’s earlier work as F.U.S.E. was strictly for the dancefloor – and appears here courtesy of cuts such as “Substance Abuse” and “F.U.” – the newer pieces** reflected a change of mood. Introspective, subtle and haunting, “A New Day”, “U.V.A.”, “Mantrax” and the title track blew me away then and still do.


Hawtin, in coming from Windsor, Canada, was the closest to an actual Detroit artist – and along with Speedy J the only non-UK artist – in the AI series. Dimension Intrusion and Electro-Soma were both compiled from the back catalogues of their owners’ labels (Plus 8 and B12 respectively) with a few new tracks added, rather than being recorded as cohesive albums. In Hawtin’s case, the musical progression, and the shift in style and tempo, is more obvious. Although he mutated into Plastikman and released some excellent music in the rest of the 90s, for me nothing he has done since has matched the atmosphere of the handful of tracks here.

Speedy J: Ginger

Rotterdam’s Jochem Paap was signed to Hawtin’s Plus 8 Records, and “De-Orbit” (which ends the UK release of Ginger) appeared on his 1991 Intercontinental EP for that label. Again, the development of electronic music was so fast at that time that “De-Orbit” already felt out of place, tacked on to the end of an album whose true final track was the gorgeous “Pepper”***. Although Paap later dismissed the album as over-produced, it bleeps and blips serenely, though always with a subtle, steely undercurrent that he let rip on 1997’s Public Energy. Paap released a club-friendly (and now somewhat dated) remix of “Pepper” the following year, and the lovely G Spot album on Warp in 1995 before he, like Hawtin, licensed his UK work to NovaMute.


Autechre: Incunabula

I never bought this album until 1998, by which time I had all their other releases and had seen them live twice. Although I bought Basscadet in 1994, nothing about the tracks on the compilation could convince me to shell out for their album. A mistake, in hindsight: Incunabula is their most accessible record (which isn’t saying much), and a vast improvement on those two early tracks (“The Egg” reworked here as “Eggshell”). This release was notable for the first appearance of a small “AI” logo, of a smiling face receiving audio waves. Cute, but surely not a good sign?

Artificial Intelligence II

Summer 1994 saw the release of a follow-up compilation. Featuring most of the original artists, plus others, this was a bigger affair, with a broader range of styles reflecting the quantum leaps electronica had made in the intervening 24 months. But for me, more wasn’t necessarily better. Although some of the tracks were outstanding (those by Speedy J, Richard H Kirk and Link in particular), there was a harshness to the likes of Seefeel and Polygon Window that for me defied the whole “listening” concept. It was the final release consciously branded as “Artificial Intelligence” (barring “Motion“, a 40-minute VHS of (for the time) stunning computer animation by Phil Wolstenholme, David Slade and Jess Scott Hunter). As Warp founders Steve Beckett and Rob Mitchell noted, when HMV begins to stock the likes of “Now That’s What I Call Artificial Intelligence!”, the movement is over.


The series, though, signified a huge change in the culture of dance & electronic music. Acts had released albums before with mixed success (both The KLF and Orbital had done it well), but Artificial Intelligence was a tipping point. It’s from this moment that the album or the 74-minute CD, and not the fast turnover of white label 12″ singles, became the main concern of many aspiring artists.

This bourgeoisification of electronic music, as Simon Reynolds notes, happened at the same time as the tempo dropped and the focus moved away from the communal experience of the rave or club into the more private surroundings of the home. For Reynolds, this was a sapping of dance music’s power and energy, resulting in “test-card muzak” and which marked a

“full scale retreat from the most radical aspect of rave music…towards more traditional ideas, namely the auteur theory of the solitary genius. Because it was founded on exclusion (musical and social)…it ultimately paved the way for its own dead-end redundancy.”

Reynolds was scathing about the whole AI project in Energy Flash, which raised my hackles when it came out in 1998, but he’s right about the initial compilation: it’s difficult to look at objectively now and see what the fuss was about. It isn’t, on its own merits, an outstanding compilation: Musicology had better – or more representative – work; two tracks by an unsigned band was a gamble (Autechre went on to great things, but “The Egg” and “Crystel” wouldn’t have suggested it); the appearance of Alex Paterson seemed incongruous; and the Richie Hawtin track, though an absolute belter, undermined the “listening music” concept. But the album and its sequels changed my life, and my musical tastes (which amount to the same thing, no?). As a statement of intent, and for what it signified, Artificial Intelligence is one of the most important releases of the last 30 years. Not that I love 1992! would tell you that.


*also out in ’93:

  • Spooky: Gargantuan (Guerilla)
  • Orbital: Orbital [Brown album] (Internal)
  • Orbital: Peel Session (Internal)
  • Amorphous Androgynous: Tales of Ephidrena (Virgin)
  • The Future Sound of London: Cascade (Virgin)
  • Underworld: Rez/Cowgirl (Boys’ Own)
  • Reload: A Collection of Short Stories (Infonet)

**the comprehensive sleevenotes by NME’s Sherman provided a history of Hawtin’s Plus 8 record label, and the state of Detroit techno since the late 80s heyday of May, Atkins & Saunderson, along with composition dates for the tracks on the album.

***Trainspotter alert! Vinyl and CD contained different versions of “Pepper”.



Reynolds, Simon: Energy Flash (Picador, 1998)

Young, Rob: Warp (Labels Unlimited) (BDP, 2005)

Peter Lanyon: Liminality & Psychogeography

The art of Peter Lanyon – who died 53 years ago today – is, like all great art, uncompromising. For those seeking “Cornish Art”, it has none of the serenity of the calm seascapes on offer in every gallery in every tiny cove. But if you’re prepared to look beyond the initially daunting surface of Lanyon’s vast canvasses, there is much on show that should strike a chord with many who come to experience (and I use the word advisedly) the liminal zone – where sea meets land meets sky – of Cornwall. There’s nothing wrong with the calming blue landscapes on show elsewhere: there are worse things than a memento of a Cornish summer in the grip of a bleak, grey Scottish winter. But Lanyon’s work is a distillation of Cornwall: its long past, and the ever-present moment of vivid experience.


You need only stand on any headland – Lizard, Cape Cornwall, Trevose Head – to recognise in the 270° sea, and 180° sky, what works such as Silent Coast, High Ground, High Wind, and my favourite, Thermal, exemplify: the experience of being in a place where edges meet and clash.

Lanyon, in his travels across Cornwall, wanted to come “on a place unawares”, and capture the first sight of it before it settled into familiarity. In the days before he took up gliding, he would do this by running up to a sudden view, or turning over to see it upside-down; by hanging onto a cliff-face, or by diving. “A formal conception of landscape”, he said, “is a horizon set low, dividing the canvas in top and bottom” which “presupposes a fixed viewpoint”.

His greatest works are his gliding paintings of 1959-1962*, and though they may depict a view of Cornwall few of us are lucky enough to share, they are more conventionally beautiful and accessible to the casual viewer than much of his earlier work. At least, the names (Thermal, again) quite clearly match what the canvas shows: airy blues and whites rising and spilling and colliding. His own intrusion to this barren kingdom is symbolised by the streak of red seen in Solo Flight and Soaring Flight.

For walkers on the South-West Coastal Path, for surfers at Fistral or Praa Sands and for sea-kayakers off the Lizard, though their pursuits differ there is a shared goal of the sheer in-the-moment experience. Lanyon’s work re-presents this. In simple terms, from the mid-1950s, he didn’t seek to paint a place, but the sense(s) of being in that place. Compare two paintings of Portreath. The first, Portreath (below), from 1949 is an abstracted but still-recognisable portrayal of the fishing village near Camborne. The latter, Offshore (1959) only shows symbolic elements of green and blue, but the energy imbued in the work suggests the winds off the coast, and an approaching storm. If the sky is vertical in a Lanyon, it’s probably because he was lying down at the time, catching the view unawares. Offshore shows what it felt like to be there, not what it looked like.

Peter Lanyon: Portreath (1947)
Peter Lanyon: Portreath (1949)


On his return to St Ives after the Second World War, he had sought a reconnection with the countryside of his youth, and this process informed his work throughout his life, even when working abroad (in Czechoslovakia, for instance; the USA; or Devon). This led first to an appreciation of the history of a place (and the role of human labour in that history), then to portraying the sensation of being in a place at a particular moment, and then, as he sought ever-new ways of experiencing the world around him, into the air (and, ultimately, to his death after a gliding accident).

From the late 40s to the late 50s his work is dark, earthy and rooted in particular places. His palette is redolent of the greens and browns and blacks of the Penwith peninsula’s farms, fields and walls. He wanted to bring out the smell of dung in a farmyard in the work Bojewyan Farms. This is one of a series of agricultural paintings done in the early 50s after a walk from Pendeen to St. Just, through the near-barren farmlands which still cling to the cliff-edges of Penwith on the most western face of England. The map he later drew of the walk shows the route and the paintings it inspired:


As if working out an atavistic guilt over his family’s wealth from the local mining industry, his work at this time is filled with references to human labour: thick black mineshafts, and what Cambridge art historian James Fox described as one of the most significant pieces of British art in the 20th Century, St. Just (1953). This not only commemorates the men killed in a mining accident at the Levant mine near St. Just in 1919, but stands now as an elegy for an entire lost industry.

By ironic coincidence, this walk (which we would now think of as an exercise in psychogeography) traces the route of the B3306, today widely considered as one of the most “picturesque” roads in the UK. But for Lanyon, the act of walking, of touching the Cornish hedges, of feeling the road and fields underfoot, was the crucial thing linking him to the landscape.

In late 2000, Tate St. Ives mounted an exhibition (Peter Lanyon: Coastal Journey) commemorating that walk. For the first time, it grouped together in one space the paintings Lanyon refers to in his map, each of which portrayed a stage of the journey and the associations of that particular spot. In the accompanying catalogue, Andrew Dalton writes that Lanyon

“thought of these works as representing more than a mere tour of the region. He wished to express a complex, multi-layered experience of these places which addressed his sense of the industrial, agricultural, spiritual and mystical aspect of Penwith…to evoke the deeper meanings locked within the landscape.”

Lanyon is buried in the churchyard of St. Uny in Lelant, in a corner sheltered by a small sycamore, beneath a gravestone of granite and slate, those two emblematic Cornish bedrocks. It may seem an incongruous resting place for a man whose greatest works depict the experience of taking wing and soaring above the clashing territories of wave and shoreline, but he was – fanatically – a Cornishman, and this was his territory. Engraved on the slate of his tomb are lines from one of his own poems.

I will ride now

The barren kingdoms

In my history

And in my eye



*This is not to discredit the work that follows from them in the final two years of his life. Though his purpose – to capture the sense of being in a place – changed little in his final years, the style and method did. Alert to changing tastes, and the rise of Pop Art in particular, his response to the new forms of art sees a lightening of touch, an introduction into his “serious” art of the humour he was well-known for. If he lacks the irony of Pop Art, he shares a kindred playfulness, and the bold – but lightly applied – colours of works like Saltillo or Mexico, which almost look like they’ve been done in acrylic rather than oil, reflect this.



Dalton, Andrew: Peter Lanyon: Coastal Journey (Tate, 2000)

Fox, James: The Art of Cornwall (BBC, 2010)

Stephens, Chris: Peter Lanyon:  At the Edge of Landscape (21 Publishing, 2000)

Garlake, Margaret: Peter Lanyon (St. Ives Artists) (Tate, 2002)



Alain Robbe-Grillet: early fiction (part 3)

In this final part of my study of Robbe-Grillet’s early fiction, with today being what would have been his 95th birthday, I’ll look at the novel which, for me, sees him reach the high-point of the nouveau-roman; and a series of experimental (in the true sense of the word) short fictions. By the time of their publication, Robbe-Grillet’s focus had already moved into the world of film-making, his first forays into which I’ll also look at briefly with emphasis on his cine-romans.

By 1959, Alain Robbe-Grillet was the enfant terrible of the French literary and cultural scene (inasmuch as a 37-year-old can be any sort of enfant). Critics had by now a well-established idea of the nouveau roman as a movement even if, as always happens, those lumped together into a scene deny its very existence. The New Novel represented, to the critics, “l’ecole du regard” or “school of the look” being obsessed, as they saw it, by an utterly objective fascination with superficial details. Robbe-Grillet, in his articles for the Nouvelle Review Francaise and later collected as Pour un Nouveau Roman (Towards a New Novel) explained with great patience and in great detail, how his works, on the contrary, were not objective and anti-human, but were utterly subjective and anti-humanist.

His next novel would be the last which by nature of its content was likely to appeal to a broad readership, before his own sexual obsessions drove his work in both cinema and literature.

Dans le Labyrinthe (In the Labyrinth)

I have previously explored the different techniques which each of his works employs (as a writer I have long been keen to examine how he does what he does): in particular the ‘hole’ of The Voyeur and the ‘absent-I’ narrator of Jealousy. In the Labyrinth documents – though it may take several readings for this to become clear – the writing process itself. It expresses itself through the fits and starts, backtrackings and wrong turns of finding a satisfactory narrative path, and the magpie-like collection of phenomena that are woven into a work of art. Its very form is that of the process of the novel itself being written.

The story ostensibly being told is that of an unnamed soldier from an unspecified army, in retreat after losing at the Battle of Reichenfels, and his search for the recipient of the parcel he doggedly carries. That’s the story in a nutshell, on one level. The other story is the writing of that story by a narrator who frames the soldier’s tale, bookending the work, and whose intervention in the tale is evident in places when elements of the story are retraced – with variations – or discarded entirely. The result is a wonderfully claustrophobic maze-like trudge through the empty streets of a deserted town and at the same time, the repeated turns and culs-de-sac of the narrative process.

The book begins with an authorial preface; a typically destabilising effect in which Robbe-Grillet claims “the reality [of the story] is strictly physical…it has no allegorical significance”. Again, as with Jealousy, Robbe-Grillet denounces depth and meaning, and warns us that all that exists is the text. As he was later to say of L’Année dernière à Marienbad, the characters have no existence before the film starts, and none after it ends. In the Labyrinth is, structurally, a counterpart to the script Robbe-Grillet wrote for Alain Resnais’ film.


In a film by Frederic Compain, Robbe-Grillet says of In the Labyrinth that “it’s probably the first of my books, for whom no pre-established anecdote existed before the writing started [and is] the first of my books without a central figure, or central conscience, towards which everything converges”. The narrator here is no je-neant: he comes and goes, with reference to himself, and the soldier is his pawn, at one remove from us. In his autobiographical Ghosts in the Mirror, Robbe-Grillet says “characters…are kinds of phantoms: you can hear or see them, you can never grasp them”.

That remove is blurred early on as we begin the first of our plunges into the depths of this novel. James Lethcoe produced a graph (below) which plots the “levels of reality” in the novel, and is similar to the diagram used by Alain Resnais while filming Marienbad to help him place each scene in the correct slot within the temporal schema.

31-07-2017 14-59-37

As we can see, the bookending “meta” level in which the narrator directly addresses us is Level 0.

This first person soon disappears, having lulled us into a false sense of security about the narrative mode we can expect. This voice makes decisions about the weather: “outside it is raining…outside it is snowing”, but even after the narrative has entered Level 1 the writer is still making changes to the setting of the “story”: “outside it is raining…outside it was snowing”. This prevents us from establishing a continuous timeline, as with Jealousy and its many references to an unspecifiable “now”. As if to remove any remaining doubts as to the unreality of what we’re reading, we come across a description which nests within it a by-now-recognisable Robbe-Grillet trope: the snow removes “all depth from the landscape as if this blurred view were a badly painted trompe l’oeil” (my italics).

The soldier’s journey through the snowy, deserted streets is one we will see over and over again, with varying start- and end-points. What gradually becomes clear is that this journey may only be taking place in the author’s mind (and as Robbe-Grillet said upfront, in any case only exists in the reader’s mind at the time of reading). We can gather this from the use of triggers. Contrary to the hole in The Voyeur, but like the guilty, evasive gaze of Jealousy, these triggers are textual generators: items described which spin off what initially seems a narrative tangent but may signal a change between Levels. These include a lamp, the shadow cast by that lamp, the act of flicking a cloth across a table and, crucially, a print depicting a cafe scene full of soldiers entitled “The Battle of Reichenfels” which is, of course, the battle the soldier we are following has just fled: so how is this possible?

Each time one of these triggers is activated – every time a table is cleaned, for instance – we shift to another Level. This has the wonderfully disorientating moebius loop effect whereby the print will be described – the positions of the figures within it, etc. – and then we are in the mind of the soldier in it, who is also the soldier we have been following, who apparently exists in the same continuum as the print which features him, and so, spiralling, on.

That these recurring events are being arranged in the mind of a controlling author is also demonstrated by the decisions made about their placement: we see this in examples such as “no. Door ajar. Passage. Staircase…no. No. No. The door is not ajar”, and in the earlier decisions about what weather this story will take place in. In some cases, a certain train of events will start, be halted, the story will backtrack and we will then take a different route to the same outcome, which this time will be allowed to play out to the full. Examples of this include the appearance of an enemy motorbike: “Then they heard the sound, very far away, of the motorbike. No. It was something else.” “The” motorbike suggests something already known or anticipated, but it is not time for its appearance for another four pages. The use of the past tense here should also ring alarm bells as to the event’s reality. A little later “the soldier is lying on his bed…his coat is unbuttoned. No. It is in fact another wounded man”: it is not yet time for the soldier’s death, either.

In true postmodern style, this back-tracking and changing highlights the unreal nature of what we are reading. As he writes in his autobiography, the Nouveau Roman “tries to expose and stage accurately the multiple impossibility with which it is contending and of which it is constructed…this intended conflict [becomes] the very subject of the book. Hence the…digressions, cuts and repetitions, blind alleys, shifts in perspective, dislocations…”

Here, this is further aided by typical Robbe-Grillet touches such as suspect numbers (the soldier’s number is 12,345) and doubts about chronology: “yesterday…you saw me yesterday?” The soldier gives the boy he meets a marble. “Where is it from? From my pocket. Before? Before I don’t know”. Yet the mood – of a lonely, snow-covered town – is perfectly sustained and highly atmospheric.

At the end, the soldier is dead, and the first person narrator reappears. But the presence of the cafe print, objects in the room which have appeared in the “story” and the fact that despite the snow, “outside it is raining” suggest, like The Usual Suspects, that the story has been built out of almost nothing. Have we been in a labyrinth, or up the garden path?

Instantanes (Snaphots)

Robbe-Grillet’s next purely literary appearance was the 1963 publication of Snapshots (bundled together in the UK with his collection of theoretical articles, Towards a New Novel), a collection of very brief short stories. Although undated, they read like warm-ups or exercises: initial forays into the use of a device he will later expand on in a novel; in this context, they look back across his work to date, but also – in the case of the final story – point toward his future.

The first is arguably the best-known, later being anthologised in John Fletcher and John Calder’s “The Nouveau Roman Reader” (highly recommended, particularly for the introduction): “The Dressmaker’s Dummy”. Consisting solely of the description of the arrangement of objects in a room, it seems – right up to the penultimate sentence – to provide Robbe-Grillet’s critics with ammunition. As I mentioned at the beginning, “L’ecole du regard” was one disparaging term for the Nouveau Roman because of Robbe-Grillet’s scientific-appearing, highly detailed descriptions (has any writer used the word “parallelepiped” as much?). But “The Dressmaker’s Dummy”, like Jealousy, proves ultimately to demonstrate quite the opposite.

The objects described include a coffee pot, the eponymous dummy, a wardrobe which has a mirror, and a further mirror on the mantelpiece.

So far, so objective. However, not yet described, is the tile upon which the coffee pot rests: not described because not currently visible. The description, having inventoried the primary objects, then expands to include what the action of the mirrors means is actually seen. That is: three dressmaker’s dummies: the object and its reflections. Everything that is reflected, however partial its re-appearance, is described with as much narrative respect as a tangible object, in the same way as Robbe-Grillet’s “objectivised hypothesis” gives equal footing to phenomena existing only in the imagination as to those in the “real” world.

The final two sentences deliver the epiphany: that is, a revelation for the reader, if not the narrator. Because in a move which reveals the subjectivity of the entire piece, the design on the tile (“an owl, with big, somewhat terrifying eyes”) is described. Yet this could only be done by someone who knows what it looks like; an objective “camera” eye could not tell us this, only a je-neant narrator.


“The Way Back” is a startling little description of a walking trip around an island which is attached by a causeway to the mainland. The narrator makes clever use of time and perspective to create a moebius loop in which a view of the island from the mainland prior to crossing, morphs into a view of the mainland from the island prior to returning. The story is told in the first person plural and we are never sure which of the named characters – if any – is telling the story. This further adds to the confusion over “point of view” in more than one sense: there is no “I”. Roch C. Smith, in his Understanding Robbe-Grillet says the “switch of tenses disorientates the reader just as the narrator is confused by the viewpoint”.

“The Beach” is probably my favourite of these shorts. It displays a scene of perpetual motion in which everything moves but nothing changes. Three children walk along a beach, the gulls they disturb fly a little way off and land, and the action is repeated. The constant, repetitive motion of the tide mirrors the “action” (such as it is) of the vignette, providing the perfect metaphor for the author’s experiment. Even the children’s speech seems to loop: like Vladimir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot, it beckons or seeks to initiate change that never happens. The children leave no track because “the sea is constantly obliterating the star-shaped trace of the feet”. “The Beach” reminds me of the novelty lenticular rulers or postcards which frame a brief scene of action which movement animates.

“The Escalator” attempts a similar effect with slightly less impact. However, the key here is spatial relationships. The loop of a moving escalator in the Metro – another example of movement without change – provides the scene, and the passage of people in respect to each other is described in detail. Robbe-Grillet, in Towards a New Novel, defended his work against charges of being anti-human by saying it features people and is written from a person’s viewpoint. This story is a case in point: the people become obscured because of their position relative to the person watching them. An omniscient, god-like narrator would not feel the need to impose such a restriction; here, the narrator is implicitly human, with the limits which that entails.

The final story, “The Secret Room”, points towards Robbe-Grillet’s future. Structurally it describes a scene – a torture chamber, in which a young girl has recently been killed – which at the end is revealed to be a picture on a wall. The content, however, is an indicator of the direction Robbe-Grillet’s work would take henceforth.

The cine-roman and beyond

Intrigued by the possibility of film, and though ostensibly happy with L’Année dernière à Marienbad, he was keen to take control and launch his own directorial career in which he would have full control – as does an author – of the finished product. His first attempt, l’Immortelle (The Immortal One, 1963), is a stilted, clunky affair (which, in highlighting the artificiality of the enterprise, was partly the intention), but still watchable.

As John Fletcher notes, along with his later work, l’Immortelle plays on the cliches of genre fiction and the reader’s expectation, and takes place in a romanticised version of Istanbul. His subsequent works would take pulp thrillers and spy stories as their template, but his later use of sexual violence goes far beyond what relatively harmless titillation genre fiction offered.

As with Marienbad, Robbe-Grillet published what he called a cine-roman of l’Immortelle: essentially a description of the film, shot by numbered shot, accompanied by black and white photos and with an introduction by the author. The cine-roman aimed to provide a lasting record of the cinema experience in the days before VCRs, but it is notable that it should have flourished among the more literary film-makers of the Left Bank. It enjoyed a brief vogue in the early 1960s. Fellow nouveau-romaniste Marguerite Duras published several: Hiroshima Mon Amour contains an introduction and supplementary background information on the characters such as would never appear in Robbe-Grillet’s, and is arguably more of an illustrated script with bonus features. The cine-roman of Chris Marker’s La Jetee is possibly the finest example of the form. Almost every image from the film – which is of course composed entirely of static images – is present, with the voice-over text in as close to the appropriate place as possible (although there is an argument that this is not a true cine-roman because La Jetee is not, fundamentally, cine). In the case of Marienbad, while the film was ultimately Resnais’ work from Robbe-Grillet’s script, the cine-roman of that script was entirely Robbe-Grillet’s, and there are differences in content and of tone between the two. Robbe-Grillet was thus able to maintain control over “his” element of the film-making process.


In Robbe-Grillet’s own words, he likened the cine-roman to the libretto of an opera, as a memory aid after watching the film and as a means of “analysis for those for whom the images and sounds of the film have gone by too quickly to assimilate”.

Robbe-Grillet’s next film, and arguably his best, was Trans-Europ-Express (1966), which starred Jean-Louis Trintignant and was partially set on the eponymous train between Paris and Antwerp. Robbe-Grillet himself takes a lead role in which he proposes a film, which is what we see Trintignant play out. As Robbe-Grillet discusses the story with his associates and changes are mooted (like In the Labyrinth), the action onscreen changes accordingly. The result is a fun and witty film, with a charismatic performance from Trintignant. It’s a pity no cine-roman of this exists in English.

To the fore, though, is the role of sadmasochistic sex (one reason for the film’s initial notoriety and cult popularity). Though far from the explicit levels of his subsequent films, it highlights the problem that exists with any analysis of Robbe-Grillet’s work.

The signs were there from as early as The Voyeur, and he himself was always candid in discussing his sexual proclivities: he was attracted to young girls. That these girls exist in his work (particularly from the mid-60s onwards) as sexualised objects, and more often than not as victims of sexualised violence, is deeply troubling. His unpleasant sexual politics, overwhelming as they do the content of most of his later work (Djinn excepted) are the reason this essay ends with Snapshots. However, it cannot be wished away, and cannot be disregarded. John Fletcher finds his portrayal of female sexuality “at best misleading and at worst sadistic and perverse”, and his justifications “not wholly convincing”. His portrayal of women – of girls – remains a “but” in any appreciation of this important writer.

As with all revolutions, the wheel turns and this year’s craze is last year’s embarrassing memory. Almost inevitably, the nouveau roman was succeeded in the 1970s by the nouveau-nouveau-roman, with theorist Jean Ricardou as it’s prophet and cheerleader. His work is far less accessible than Robbe-Grillet’s, and perhaps it’s main legacy was in a turning away from such overt experimentation among French literary fiction. As for it’s impact in the UK, the nouveau roman was influential among a small circle of British writers in the 1960s (Ann Quin, Alan Burns) but most of them (BS Johnson apart) are arguably less well-known in the UK now than their French counterparts.

Much as I like Robbe-Grillet’s early work, I can see that adherence to the principles he laid down in his Towards a New Novel does not make him an easy writer to contend with. He rejected the humanist concept of “character”, or the use of inner psychology, arguing persuasively that such techniques belong to the nineteenth century, and can’t map the human experience in the twentieth (far less the twenty-first). No doubt his work, if more widely known, would be decried as pretentious. It dares to look beyond the paradigm and suggest that the fictional mode we unthinkingly consume as “realism” is a construct like any other. But there is nothing necessarily wrong with ‘difficult’ or ‘pretentious’ writers – I’d argue that we need them now more than ever – and it’s a shame that Robbe-Grillet’s forms and techniques are not emulated or developed further in the way that they deserve.



Lethcoe, James: “The structure of Robbe-Grillet’s Labyrinth” in The French Review (vol. 38, no.4, Feb 1965)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: Snapshots and Towards a New Novel (Calder, 1965)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: Last Year at Marienbad (Grove Press, 1962)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: The Immortal One (Calder, 1971)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: Ghosts in the Mirror (Calder, 1988)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: La Maison de Rendezvous (Grove Press, 1966)

Duras, Marguerite: Hiroshima Mon Amour (Grove Press, 1988)

Smith, Roch C: Understanding Robbe-Grillet (USC Press, 2000)

Resnais, Alain: L’Année dernière à Marienbad (Studio Canal Blu Ray, 2009)

Robbe-Grillet, Alain: Robbe-Grillet: Six Films 1966-1974 (BFI DVD, 2014)

Leutrat, Jean-Louis: L’Année dernière à Marienbad (BFI, 2001)

Van Wert, William F.: The Film Career of Alain Robbe-Grillet (Redgrave Publishing, 1977)

Cornwall: two landscapes

Driving west on the A30, it’s impossible to miss the post-industrial landscapes of clay- and tin-mining country. Whatever your feelings toward them, they are impressive, and very different from each other.

Clay mining – the Cornish Alps – sprawl over the area north and west of St. Austell (and give the Eden Project it’s home). Tin mining – a larger part of the Cornish economy for a far longer time, dating back millenia rather than centuries – is spread across a much wider area. Standing on Carn Brea, the low hill that looms over Camborne, Pool and Redruth, you can see from right to left, pretty much all the tin areas before you: St. Agnes, Camborne-Redruth, Godolphin, St. Ives, Wendron. Only that of St. Just is hidden by the low spine of West Penwith.

One ancient industry and one more recent, in one of the few areas of Britain where mining heritage is still highly visible. In Fife, Lothian, Yorkshire, South Wales and Nottinghamshire the winding gears have (mostly) long been dismantled and recycled. Although mining museums (such as those in Newtongrange and Wakefield) keep alive the history, regardless of your views on either the environmental impact of fossil fuel use or the assault on the trade union movement by the Thatcher government (of which coalminers bore the brunt), that there are so few signs remaining of this once mighty industry is dispiriting1. You can destroy the buildings far quicker than you can repair the fractured communities.

Cornwall has – for far longer than the coalmining regions – had to pick up the pieces after industry’s demise, and it still has one of the lowest standards of living in Britain. The county has been hugely subsidised by the E.U., just one more thing which makes the Leave vote incomprehensible.


The tin industry was not – unlike coal – destroyed by a vindictive government, but by the vagaries of an early global market. Falling prices killed the mines slowly, wheal by wheal2. Ironically, the cheaper tin which flooded the market was often sourced from countries whose own industries were founded by Cornish migrants fleeing successive waves of unemployment (the Heartlands “cultural playground” in Camborne/Pool commemorates this in its “diaspora garden”).

In the 17th and 18th centuries, these fluctuating tin prices led to miners starving. There were riots in Truro and Redruth; tinners would break into merchants’ houses looking for grain. In an early, but sadly recognisable form of working-class demonisation, they were scapegoats for all ills, and “held responsible for any disturbance, any breach of the peace.”

Several of the “iconic” engine houses have been preserved or refurbished: Levant, Geevor, East Pool, King Edward and Robinson’s Shaft (at Heartlands), and today’s (service sector) employees do not, hopefully, risk their lives on a daily basis (their pristine condition is misleading however: no tin mine would be that clean when operational, but heritage tourism doesn’t “do” dirt and grime).

The winding gear of South Crofty, across the road from Heartlands, stands proud, visible for miles. It remains mothballed since its closure in 1997 spelled the end of 3,000 years of tin mining in Cornwall. Successive attempts to re-open it have foundered, and its future remains uncertain3.

Previous attempts to reboot the tin industry have failed, having come up against the leviathan that is now Cornwall’s main employer: tourism. In 1961 a Public Enquiry was held into the prospect of a new mine near Zennor. Objections had been raised that it would spoil the landscape, and affect the fine coastal views. The only witness to speak in it’s defence was the artist Peter Lanyon. Lanyon was the only major “St. Ives artist” who was a native of the area, and he was deeply engaged with the history and geography of west Cornwall. He knew that the mine meant local employment. In defence of the proposal, he said:

“opponents talk of beauty and the magnificence of scenery as if nature were incapable of wrath that would touch them…what view do they think the Cornishman has, who desires above all to make his own riches, but is barred by some concept of beauty that denies him the honour of his labour?”

Lanyon was that rare thing: a landscape painter acutely aware of man’s impact on his environment. Prefiguring China Mieville’s concept of the pictureskew, his near-abstract paintings of Cornwall’s land, sea and sky do not efface the presence of employment and the exploitation of that employment. His monumental St. Just (1951) with its central crucifix, commemorates lives lost in the tin mines in general, but specifically the Levant disaster of 1919, an event only now receding from living memory. Lost Mine (1959) and Wheal Owles (1958) are other examples of his engagement with the industrial history of the region – a history he may, as a descendant of mine-owning family, have felt some unease toward.

Are the west Cornish tinscapes only impressive because of their stillness? Would we find them so romantic if they were not ruined, if they still made the rivers run red4 with their contamination? I doubt it. Daphne du Maurier writes, in her book Vanishing Cornwall:

“perhaps they seemed ugly once, bare as electric pylons do today, smoke from tall chimneys fouling the air, and instead of present silence the chug of machinery”

Is it the absence of people, the loneliness these places evoke (a relative concept in buildings that abut a dual carriageway or a modern industrial estate), their emptiness that elevates a scene to the realm of the sublime? Perhaps. The late Mark Fisher, in his wonderful The Weird and the Eerie, defines the “eerie” as something (i.e. a landscape) containing “absence where there should be presence”, and I’d suggest the ruined engine houses can evoke a sublime eeriness.

But we must be honest about what it is we enjoy in a landscape, and there is something unsettling in the enjoyment taken from a landscape which, from a human-economical point of view, has been hollowed out; there is something not entirely right about preferring a vista with only the remains of industry, to that of one with living industry providing living people with an income right now. But perhaps an acknowledgement of this dissonance is enough; not every circle can be squared.

Nonetheless, there is much that is unsettling in our enjoyment of a landscape. The granite hump of Carn Brea is topped (below) by a obelisk which commemorates Francis Basset, foremost of the mine- and land-owning Bassets of Tehidy. Although he is recorded as being concerned for miners’ welfare, and though 20,000 people took part in the procession of his funeral, this is still a man who, as Bernard Deacon writes in his Cornwall and the Cornish, as an M.P. hurried back to Cornwall to ensure hungry food rioters “were properly hanged and not, as was usual, let off with transportation”.


Is this the type of person we are comfortable memorialising? And if not, then this should lead us to the next question: “who decides who is commemorated?” And if the answer to that is “the authority in possession of the land”, then the logical follow-up question then becomes: “who owns the land?” And, ultimately: “why?”


The “Cornish Alps” are a much more modern manifestation than the engine houses. Clay mining began in Cornwall in 1746. The piles resemble the coal bings of elsewhere (Broxburn, West Lothian springs to mind), but dwarf them, and the white colour lends the panorama an element of weirdness.

Daphne du Maurier, who lived not far away, was smitten by them, writing of their

“strange, almost fantastic beauty…[with the same] grandeur as tin mining in decay but in a wilder and more magical sense…there is nothing ugly here.”

Clay mining and clay country was perhaps viewed by others as less romantic than its elder cousin. It was “relatively new and did not enjoy all the ancient historical associations of metal mining”. Many of the great white peaks, if the Ordnance Survey maps are authoritative, have no official name. Local names may exist, but DANGER signs and restricted access do not help lodge a place’s nuances in the public imagination. That said, authoritative or not, the OS Explorer map for the area in question is striking:


Doesn’t that just make you want to explore? Look at all the white! There are tracks that go nowhere! There are ancient barrows jutting right up against these huge tips! I love Ordnance Survey maps – never forgetting that they are an arm of government, with their own agenda5 – but the fact there’s stuff even they can’t fully map, here in the U.K., is awesome.

Whereas, conventionally, blue is used to denote bodies of water which in reality change colour with the light, the pools nestling in the crowns of the clay tips are actually done a disservice by the OS colouring. As anyone flying into Newquay airport can testify, they are a dazzling aquamarine, more blue than blue.

I haven’t walked among the clay tips as I have the tin country, so this piece is written from a certain distance. But I am happy to defer again to du Maurier:

“[one’s] sense of orientation goes awry, as it does on Bodmin Moor, and although roads intersect the vast expanses, and sign-posts give direction, some strange instinct compels the unwary motorist or walker to travel in a circle, the waste-heaps and pitted pools becoming all alike, and there seems no way out, no means of escaping from this fantastic world.”

She also addresses the question of this more modern industry’s place in the public (folk) imagination.

“An industry rapidly becoming mechanised…is, alas, unlikely to produce myth or legend. No knackers beckon from the pyramids, no water-sprite lurks in the deep pools. Or, if they do, the layman has not yet heard tell of them. Isolation, the breeding ground of fear and mythology, is no more”. (my italics).

Should that prevent new myths? post-industrial folklore? Walks need to be taken, journeys made, from which a common language may spring. These mounds exist; they are not going away6; infertile as they are, it takes growth such a long time to take a foothold that they are not changing their appearance any time soon; and their fascination is plain. How do we act upon them and integrate what they tell us? How do we reconcile them with the ancient features they exist among? Are these not cousins to other post-industrial regions where ruin, toxicity and the expense needed to overcome these obstacles prevent “development”? How do we speak of such landscapes?


1Perhaps coalmining lacks the “romance” of tin mining. Perhaps not enough time has passed; perhaps “romance” only develops when the scars have healed and the struggles have passed from living memory, if we define “romance” in this context as an idealisation of the past.

But are pitheads any less worthy of preservation than the statues of long-forgotten men that litter our cities? To argue otherwise betrays a (typically British) reactionary attitude toward modernist, functional architecture. Cockenzie power station was demolished in 2015; an eyesore to some, but if an eyesore is needed to remind the people of Edinburgh where their electricity has come from for the last fifty years, then so be it. And it was less of an eyesore than the ruin caused by floods or storms that hit (far away, poor) countries as a result of the global warming caused by our burning of fossil fuels.

2wheal: Cornish for “place of work”

3There is no lack of tin under the ground but also, crucially, the minerals that mobile phone batteries need to operate. Surely it’s in our interests to source these minerals without the exploitation that goes on elsewhere in the world in their pursuit?

4The Red River flows into the sea near Godrevy, passing through Tuckingmill. The colour even today is still an opaque brick red. The River Vinnick, passing through clay country, was known historically as the White River for the same reasons: pollution by mining waste.

5The decision to render the clay tips as (mostly) blank white space, although aesthetically pleasing, is questionable. They are not featureless, nor without subtle gradient. Do we lack the mapping language to adequately represent post-industrial landscapes? Are these mounds, because removed from the public arena and therefore unavailable for “utility”,  not worth the detail expended elsewhere?

6Few landscapes in Britain are unspoiled. The Highlands only appear bare and sheep-spotted because the human inhabitants were burned out of their homes and sent overseas to make room for more profitable sheep.


Ordnance Survey Explorer 106: Newquay and Padstow (2014)

du Maurier, Daphne: Vanishing Cornwall (Penguin, 1972)

Deacon, Bernard: Cornwall and the Cornish (Alison Hodge, 2010)

Chapman, Sarah & Chapman, David: Iconic Cornwall (Alison Hodge, 2010)

Stephens, Chris: Peter Lanyon – At the Edge of Landscape (21 Publishing, 2000)

map image copyright Ordnance Survey

21st century pseudonyms, or “furthermore known as the JAMMs”

On 23rd August, Faber will publish “2023: A Trilogy” by the Justified Ancients of Mu Mu. Written by (I am assuming) Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty, whose best-known guise is The KLF, the publication date will mark exactly 23 years to the day since the pair set fire to a million pounds in a disused boathouse on Jura. Shortly afterward, they wrote a contract promising not to speak about the event for a period of 23 years, put the contract in a car and pushed it off Cape Wrath, Britain’s most northerly point.

Drummond and Cauty always had a keen sense of ritual, and so the book, we must presume, is the last revelation, the final act of that particular part of their long (for want of a better) “career”, which has been superbly written about in “The KLF: Chaos, Magic and the Band who Burned a Million Pounds” by John Higgs.

Do I expect the book (“a utopian costume drama, set in the near future, written in the recent past”) to reveal their secrets and reasons? No, of course not.

Do I expect it to reveal the meaning of life? No. And in any case, it’s “23”.

Will it be rubbish? Quite possibly. But I hope not.

Will I buy it anyway? Of course.

But that’s not the point of this post.

What I find interesting is the name they’re using. The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu were Drummond and Cauty’s original late 80s sample-heavy outfit, charting with the thundering 1990 hit “It’s Grim Up North“. But again, that’s not the point. “”2023: A Trilogy” by Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty” would have been one thing, but to have the author’s name be that of a band is, for me, the masterstroke.

I suppose this entire post could just be a single question: “why don’t writers use band-type names as pseudonyms”? Because that is my point.

Off the top of my head – although I’m sure there must be some others – I can only think of one book that has been similarly attributed*, and that’s The Manual: How to Have a Number One The Easy Way by The Timelords, the band behind the genius/godawful novelty smash hit “Doctorin’ the Tardis”. The Timelords were – but of course – Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty.

Let’s ignore for now the fact that all band names are, to an extent, absurd. What is it that’s so different between the music-buying public and the book-buying public that one finds abstract pseudonyms not only normal but desirable, while the other expects it’s authors to have real – or at least realistic – names? It isn’t as if these two publics are different people, after all.

I’m not asking why don’t bands write books, but rather why don’t more authors publish under an abstract or collective name?

It’s convention, isn’t it? Authors have always used pseudonyms, but collective names for artistic purposes (again, please correct me if I’m wrong) I am guessing began early last century with various modernist movements such as the Dadaists, Futurists and Surrealists, who self-consciously used such descriptors. Should we take it as a sign of one of Modernism’s failings that this didn’t cross into literature (other than for the purpose of those groups’ manifestos)?

“The death of the author” was announced by Roland Barthes 50 years ago, we accept such innovations as e-books, the Romantics’ idea of art as self-expression has been called into question for a long time, yet still we cleave to the idea of authenticity that a “real” name above a title evidently confers. No matter what experimentation or deconstruction of the form goes on within the text, still the book-as-object appears earnestly signed off by an identifiable figure. I’d love to see someone else follow Drummond and Cauty’s lead.


*Q by Luther Blissett doesn’t quite fit the bill here, being written by a collective yet appearing as “by” a single figure, though is interesting nonetheless; Luther Blissett in this case being not the former Watford and England footballer, but an Italian group for whom he was a cult hero.