books


And here in the first of the ‘How to cook from an 80s cookbook’ series is Beggar’s chicken. To be honest I’m surprised they didn’t call this something dodgy, but there you go. Apparently PC was alive an well as early as the mid-80s. And so we begin:

This is one of the renowed dishes of the Orient. The chicken was originally wrapped in lotus leaves, then in clay, then thrown into a hot fire. Supply chopsticks for four lucky people.

You’ll need:

1.5kg chicken

3 shallots (I used a small onion, which was probably a mistake)

2.5cm piece green ginger

1 tsp sugar

3 tbsps soy sauce

2 tbsps dry sherry

1 tbsp water

1/4 tsp five spice powder

2 extra tbsp soy sauce

2 tbsps oil

extra oil

1kg cooking salt (!!)

4 cups plain flour

1 1/2 cups water (approx)

The recipe itself is pretty simple, the first thing to do is to mix all the dough, then stuff the chicken with the surprisingly limited amount of spices, wrap the whole shebang in foil and dough, and cook that thing for a total of FOUR HOURS. You’ll need to pay attention to that last bit.

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I came to The Iron Heel from a list of “Dystopian Fiction” I found on the interweb, a list also including such classics as 1984 and A Handmaiden’s Tale. It was interesting then to later discover that The Iron Heel is cited as an influence on Orwell, because the similarity in the authoritarian nations that emerge in London’s alternate-history USA and the industrialised world of Oceania is obvious, despite the two authorities being respectively Fascist and Communist.

The similarity in the nature of the authoritarianism depicted by London and Orwell reinforces for me the ease with which any imaginer can foresee their own system of government slipping into a future distinguished most strongly by control, with the machinery of this control only differentiated by favoured contemporary political philosophies. The potential to garner authority (and its exercise by an oligarchy or plutocracy) imagined by these authors is also exhibited the recently-read Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things (1987).

Of course, it is nothing new to claim that all dystopia are marked by authority-masquerading-as-utopia. What is interesting to me is the manner in which dystopia is so readily imagined to emerge as a consequence of contemporary events, and the suggestion that the here and now may, by virtue of being the opposite of that dreaded  future, in fact be the utopia we have long sought. This is especially the case when reading other contemporary fiction such as Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003, which I’m currently in the middle of) and by Marcel Theroux, Far North (2009), where the marvels of the C20th and early C21st are remembered as halcyon days.

The placement of utopia in the here and now, instead of placing it as a future to serve in contrast to a dystopia we need fear, a heaven and hell, is an idea in which I have become increasingly interested. In a manner of speaking, we do currently live in London’s  “wonder-city of Asgard”, and our capitalists do operate an oligarchy in which a great many wonders are possible. It was strange therefore to be reading The Iron Heel as the Occupy Movement began to unfold across the US, and to see the authorities in Oakland begin to come down on protest. Part of me wondered if what London calls ‘standing on faces’ might not have continued and expanded had there been a different President in the White House.

While The Iron Heel degrades into a fantasy of class-, or caste-based warfare, the initial exposition of the failures of capitalism are very interesting, presenting as they do a critique of an economy in which monopoly and resource exploitation are rife, and in which competition to smother smaller players is both necessary and acceptable. While reading of absorption of the petite bourgeoisie by the corporations I was easily able to see the expansion of the mega-malls across the US, and the migration of the small-business-owner into minimum-wage jobs, and in the transformation of farmers to serfs I was reminded of the growth of gigantic monoculture industrial farming.

So does this mean that I think the US is slipping into authoritarianism, with London writing a vague script to a gathering revolution? No more than I think 1984 is likely. As it is The Iron Heel sits alongside the great dystopian works as a reminder of the paths on which no rational humanist would want to find themself. Moreover, what The Iron Heel and 1984 have in common is an imagined world in which resource-exploitation continues to be feasible. If you contrast those worlds to more recent works such as the aforementioned Oryx and Crake, Far North, or even Bruce Sterling The Caryatids (2009), all of which feature the collapse of the nation-state system under stress from resource shortages and environmental change, things start to get a little more real.

In large part I felt compelled to review this book because it seems to have been written about my childhood. Pearson is of an age similar to mine, and experienced many of the same loves and hates in the world of toys. He writes for example of playing with that boy-doll ‘Action Man’, and loving Airfix toy soldiers.

Achtung Schweinhund is the tale of the boys own adventure, all written in a light, funny, and accessible style. Pearson has a wry sense of humour he deploys to full effect describing the characters he failed to grow up with in 1960s and 1970s England.

Of particular interest though, and the main reason I wanted to put up a review, is his description of the sorts of comics read by British boys in during his childhood. Where in the US comics were (and are ) populated with fantasy heroes and unobtainable women, Pearson states quite rightly that British comics were not. Where the US were colour and seemed obsessed with muscles, but the difference was more fundemental. In particular:

the nature of the heroes differed wildly. The American kids had Spiderman, Daredevil, Batman and Thor. British kids had the Second World War… The men who saved our world didn’t have extraordinary powers, fancy gadgets or bizarre costumes (though Keith’s dad sometimes wore his old jungle hat when he pruned the roses and Mr Maynard who helped sink the Tirpitz owned a colour telly). Our superheroes were our dads, uncles, and grandfathers, and there’s something rather touching in that.

Personally, never a more true word has been written about my own childhood.

A great read if you are of an age, and have hobbies you’d prefer not to share with the world at large.

Blackberries from a thornless plant.

Indescribably awful.

The story starts out with a semi-retired former-special-ops guy who’s disaffected and has lost his love for his nation because the regime has changed. He’s given a chance to get back into the action with what is most probably a trap. So, he sets out to some other world somewhere to snatch a female of some species and bring it back to a remarkably Baron Harkonnenesque evil dictator.

OK. So we’re pretty high on the cheese factor already, right? Then, he crash-lands on the planet he’s heading to, surprise surprise, and just happens to have the female wander into the near-crash zone. WTF? Nice concidence.

And naturally she’s up for a shag.

I quit not long after.

Pulp.

Pedestrian. Really seriously pedestrian.

I had high hopes after The January Dancer, but was disappointed and bored.

Sent it back despite only reading to p.193. Life is too short for tedious scifi.

WTF!! A space opera with a plot, and intrigue!

The January Dancer is a great little novel set around the events following the discovery of an artifact, the Dancer, by a ship captain named January. Largely taking the form of a narrative by a scarred man to a harpist (in a pub), the story weaves its way across one of the spiral arms.

Perhaps what I liked best is that Flynn has a huge back-story woven into the narrative, but it’s subtly written and doesn’t occupy the reader’s attention. Instead, it unfolds gracefully, and draws you in. Very nice indeed, and combined with the believable and likeable characters makes for a compelling read.

This book is very highly recommended, and could be one of the best reads of last year.

A slightly predictable but nonetheless highly enjoyable steampunk-cum-adventure novel.

A young but widely discredited archeologist is searching for the lost city of “Camlantis”, and finds herself drawn into intrigue and a likely band of misfits in a globe-spanning adventure.

And… that’s all she wrote.

Pretty much yet another story aimed most probably at late teens, but… wtf. Enjoyable.

Basically a murder-mystery-cum-space-opera.

And… that’s about it. To Hold Infinity was a good read, and 1998 was relatively early for the idea, but humans-enhanced-virtual-minds is well-covered ground and Meaney hasn’t really taken this one anywhere particularly new or interesting.

Read it on a holiday  nice and lite.

Interesting but ultimately disappointing.

My first impression was bad (a glossary… the next worse thing is a freaking map), but it livened up once I got used the author’s rhythmn. One character in particular kept in interested (Horvil, happy-go-lucky geek, a laugh a minute), while others where a tiny bit one-dimensional.

But, the story just fails to deliver. Plots fall over, a major plot is obviously a device left for the sequel, and the entire book reads as if the author simply ran out of space (or the editor said “enough!” and it was all bumped into another novel).

Single word review – Average.

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