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This is the sort of book I loved to devour when I was nine or ten years old. Authors like John Christopher and Nicholas Fisk had a big influence on me and I still enjoy catching up with their work today.

This one is set in a post-apocalypse future where a privileged minority live in high-tech cities. The underclass (called "savages" by the gentry) are banished to the wildlands beyond the city walls, except for a few who are kept as a servant class, effectively slaves.

The protagonist falls foul of the vicious politics of the city leaders and gradually learns how brutal the system is. He finds that life among the rebellious "savages" is better than the comfortable tyranny within the city walls. It's like an inversion of Christopher's earlier novel "The Guardians", where a working class city kid learns about the elite gentry of the English countryside. Both novels, but "Wild Jack" especially, have a whiff of HG Wells' "The Time Machine", with its Eloi gentry and Morlock underclass. Christopher is following the pattern of his "Tripods" trilogy, which is an acknowledged riff on "The War of the Worlds".

As far as I'm concerned the British class system is a travesty, including the ultimate upper class degenerates, the monarchy. Books like this help erase the base propaganda of arse-licking royalist scum, and they are still relevant today. It just occurred to me that I read "Wild Jack" around the 50th anniversary of its first appearance.

Cordwainer Smith's slim body of work has been packaged and repackaged in many different ways. The first collection I read titled "The Rediscovery of Man" was a paperback, and the first story in it was "Scanners Live in Vain". The SF Masterworks edition seems to be the same as that collection.

A later edition is subtitled "The Complete Short Science Fiction of Cordwainer Smith", and it is this more substantial book which I am reviewing here. It's worth seeking out. There could be some confusion about which one you have, possibly exacerbated by the "incomplete" SF Masterworks cover being used for the "complete" edition in some online entries. You can quickly tell if you have the longer one because the first story in it is "No No, Not Rogov", one of four stories detailing the early stages of Smith's so-called future history of the "Instrumentality of Mankind". It also has some marvelous illustrations from the original magazine publication of his stories.

Once you have the "complete" edition, you only need to get his one published novel "Norstrilia" and you are a Cordwainer Smith completist.

I've just read a short essay by Ursula le Guin, praising, critiquing and analysing Cordwainer Smith's work. She writes: ‘Cordwainer Smith’s stories were an amazement to me when I first read them. Forty years later, they still are…exuberant language, brilliant invention and hallucinatory imagery’.

As usual, le Guin gets it right, but sometimes I love Cordwainer Smith, at other times I find him slightly disturbing. A few of these stories drag, many of them are scintillating page-turners. At their core, they are myths, fantasy, or fairy tales, transposed to varying degrees into a science fiction setting. Occasionally I was put off by his Christian evangelising. It seemed to get worse as Smith became more devout later in his career. Earlier stories had a more nuanced approach to religion. He sexualises his child characters on a couple of occasions, and I couldn't immediately discern any excuse for it, but these were isolated incidents. On the plus side, he has more women characters than probably 10 of his contemporaries combined.

The idea of a closet science fiction nerd leading a double life working for the State Department and Johns Hopkins University adds to the fascination of Cordwainer Smith, whose real name was Paul Linebarger. He'd be a great subject for a biopic. One of his best creations, the underpeople, can be seen as a version of the wild and beautiful parade of minorities fighting for their rights before and after these stories were written. Smith even creates a sort of acid freak musical rebel in the form of Sun-boy, although you get the feeling he's more Charles Manson than Jimi Hendrix. I wanted him to be the latter. Smith mostly writes with nuance. It's hard to say who is a villain and who is a hero most of the time, and the descriptions of the bongo-slapping nuclear-enhanced hipster of the underworld are super cool, even if they were written by a military man who was in another galaxy compared to the beatniks and hippies rising up all around him.

For all his background in warfare and governance; for all his drift into traditional religion - Cordwainer Smith always seems to be seeking for a better way humanity can quest after. Ultimately love and hope are at the heart of his stories. In real life he was part of the establishment, but in his fictional universe he is a rebel, even a revolutionary at the same time.

A strange future history of life on earth and beyond, explicitly presented as a collection of myths. One of them is titled "Aesop", tempting you to think of it as a fable. But that's a deception. There is no simple moral to these stories. Although it's a short book, there's a lot to digest, and I will probably need a bit of time to order my thoughts about it.

A consistent line running through the tales is the way technological progress ends up being a dead end. First it's the demise of the city. Then there's the emergence of a promising new philosophy, Juwainism. It promotes empathy, but the goal of humanity is to harness it to accelerate development and progress. That goal fails, and when Juwainism finally takes hold, it has the opposite effect.

After humans have deserted the earth, or forsaken their own cursed humanity, a super-evolved society of ants takes over the role of development and industry, persisting to the very end with a city of their own, an ambition which proves itself to be another inevitable journey to decay and extinction.

In between, there's compassion, loyalty, love, and even vegetarianism. A clear inspiration is the relationship between dogs and people. What would happen if that partnership evolved as canine intelligence arose to stand alongside its human partners? (Simak seems to prefer dogs to people, I feel certain that would be part of his biography in real life).

When the great works of all the species to have conquered the earth have come toppling down, there is memory, in the form of the ancient robot Jenkins, who has lived through it all and seen everything.

After reading SImak's "Way Station", I'm aware of the way nuclear holocaust shadowed his thinking. He avoids making war and conflict the driving force of his stories. The malign impetus of a doomed humanity is there in other ways, but he also finds hope and beauty at the core of existence.

I only take a star off because the book fails dismally in female representation. I am inclined to re-read the work of Cordwainer Smith, who also explored the way some of our best traits are expressed in the way we interact with our animal cousins.

The premise is that a single human has been chosen as the manager of a galactic teleportation station. He is the only person on earth who is in contact with the broader community of interstellar life. On the outside, he lives a peaceful existence walking through the countryside and chatting with his best friend the postman, but secretly he is in daily contact with strange creatures from all over the galaxy.

The book was written at the height of the cold war, and Simak portrays an earth society on a seemingly inevitable course to nuclear annihilation. The protagonist, Enoch Wallace, discovers that the galactic community of which he is the sole human participant is also on the brink of a destructive crisis.

Simak portrays a universe where god exists as a sort of higher lifeform, and is somehow made accessible by technology. The nature of that technology, in keeping with the old SF adage, is indistinguishable from magic. My strident atheism is mollified by the broader knowledge that this idea was codified by Arthur C Clarke, a non-believer of the highest order. In "Way Station", the access to the deity could also be seen as metaphorical. Either way, I don't think this book is describing a universe where we would find god if we ventured out to the stars, but if you are that way inclined you might interpret it that way.

I greatly enjoyed this book which was published the year after I was born. I get such a warm feeling of nostalgia from discovering the ideas of mid-century science fiction. It was a fertile time and I think its more concise forms of storytelling are preferable in a lot of ways to the longer form styles in vogue today. Simak also portrays simple but lasting virtues: friendship and tenderness are precious; peace is something to strive for; violence and death are bad things, even if you are forced to resort to them for the greater good.

Also, get rid of your guns, you insane Americans.

I look forward to reading Simak's other famous work "City".

There are are some fantastic concepts in the third Titus book - the modern setting is the first surprise, but it's nothing like our real world. Peake had illustrated an edition of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland", and here we have a sort of urban dreamscape which Titus has entered mysteriously and can't quite wake from. It never feels like science fiction, although from habit I imagined it to be a sort of alternative future of the sort you might get from a SF writer.

Unfortunately, Peake's florid descriptive power from the previous two books is not quite working here. Having fled Gormenghast, the adult Titus is a bit of a self-obsessed arsehole, and not at all like Alice. Her commentary about the way things become curioser and curioser is not the sort of thing Titus offers us as we follow him on his sojourn of discontent. In fact he's generally an entitled royal turd and a sex pest who ought to be charged with assault for some of his nasty groping and harassment. The supporting cast of Juno and Muzzlehatch never quite come to life like the human menagerie in the preceding two books.

The story and its meaning are also somewhat untethered. New, surreal landscapes and a whole population of characters appear suddenly like a dramatic edit in a Stanley Kubrick movie, and their thematic relevance to Titus and his sojourn is subtle, or perhaps left to the reader to decide. The loneliness of Titus is self-imposed, although he might be forgiven for his almost solipsistic approach to life because of his traumatic childhood in Gormenghast. His surly rejection of human companionship is countered by the devotion of his guardian Muzzlehatch, his ex-lover Juno, and a comic trio of eccentric beggars who appoint themselves as his bodyguards.

I found the climactic confrontation at the end of the book to be quite satisfying. Even though it threatens only psychological peril, it is still an engaging conflict.

"Titus Alone" was worth the effort, but didn't dazzle nearly as much as the two novels which preceded it. It's got factories, futuristic cars, and drones like you might encounter in an Iain M Banks novel, so don't think for a second you will be getting elves and wizards just because this series is usually categorised as "fantasy". All three books really are in a genre of their own.

You approach the second novel in the Gormenghast series as a journeyman or a veteran, thanks to your tour of duty during which you read the first. As a result you are ready to digest the richness of Peake's language, and to savour the growing power and clarity of his themes, characters and story. NOW we know what Gormenghast is all about!

Consistent with Peaks's unique and complex style, the book titled "Gormenghast" is much more about the character Titus Groan than the preceding novel which carries his name. In that first book Titus was a baby with no agency, but the second in the series begins with Titus as a seven year old schoolboy. A key part of the story is his growing independence and rebellion against the strictures placed on him by virtue, or more appropriately by the CURSE of his noble birth.

Gormenghast is a society where conformity to ritual and tradition is paramount. It is a crumbling, ancient, decaying world, so you might not immediately think of the wealth and glamour of the British monarchy. But Peake's fantasy world seems to be inspired by the meaningless imprisonment of the class system headed by the house of Windsor. Occasionally in their real-world castles you see the captives in their gilded cages show the signs of distress seen in animals tortured in the cruelest of zoos. Our caged royals never seem to make their escape, and for Titus the chains binding him are also powerful.

One again the psychotic Steerpike is on hand to inject himself into this ancient system of tradition, and to use it to bring glory unto himself. We also get to meet the mouldy edifices of education, romance and marriage in Gormenghast, where the participants are locked in their own moribund traditions and roles which the stone walls around them seemingly enforce.

For a few moments we see some of the characters come up for air and gulp in a few sweet breaths of freedom, which the stagnant of waters of their castle home deny them. Titus' sister Fuchsia in particular, takes her brother's hand and guides him, for a while at least, to the light and air of the surface.

It has been a pleasure to discover the source material which has inspired some of my other favourite books. Michael Moorcock in particular, who knew Mervyn Peake, pays tribute to the older writer in wonderful ways. More recently Susanna Clarke seems to have been a Peake fan. And the great China Mieville writes a splendid introduction to the edition I have.

In my review of the first book I talked about the comparison to Tolkien. In "Gormenghast" it has far less meaning. The intensely personal, detailed interior life of Peake's characters is a world away from Tolkien's huge world-scale battles. The other difference I am enjoying is Peake's fundamental anti-establishment position, a stark contrast to the stuffy lexicographer Tolkien who was buddies with theological bore CS Lewis.

Also noteworthy is the tragedy of Peake's degenerative neurological condition which meant he was barely able to finish the third novel in the Gormenghast series, and never wrote others that he had planned. But he did finish book 3, and I now look forward to enjoying this final installment.

Before I started reading 'Titus Groan', I'd been aware of the status of the 'Gormenghast' books of which it is the first. There was a sense that it's the hipster 'Lord of the Rings'. Tolkien is MAINSTREAM, man. If you have your finger on the pulse then you know that Mervyn Peake is hot shit, not John too-many-middle-names Tolkien.

This is not the best way to approach "Gormenghast". It is still OK to count yourself as a chosen one of alternative culture after you get into Mervyn Peake, but Tolkien/Peake not a good comparison because they are travelling on different roads.

Middle Earth is in the broad magisterium of myths and legends. In saying that, remember that that kind of story, past and present, can be part of a religious tradition. That's Tolkien's thing. It's all about the big picture of good and evil, gods and devils, and how their cosmic intentions are reflected in humankind.

While reading 'Titus Groan' I very quickly started getting the vibe that it is from a different universe, that of the Fairy Tale. While holy books are maintained and propagated by the authorities - the priests and the divinely appointed kings they serve - fairy tales come from the common folk. You don't have to be rich or powerful and you don't have to have a penis to pass on and embellish a fairy tale. In fact without the poor people with no better form of entertainment, without the mothers and aunts and grandmothers and big sisters, the fairy tales for which the real life lords and princesses hunger so ravenously would not exist.

Both Tolkien and Peake take mythology/fairytales to new realms. Both were working in the tempestuous mid twentieth century. But they go in different directions from their adjacent starting points.

And so to 'Titus Groan'. There's a castle and a king (actually Sepulchrave, the Earl of Groan), a wicked interloper, a Queen, a Princess and a young prince, even a couple of ugly sisters-in-law.

At first you slot into the lifelong habit developed from having the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen read to you at bedtime. You see the characters as archetypes, representing pride, jealousy, ignorance, compassion. But that's just the starting point. There are new types, in particular the scheming, ambitious Steerpike. It's not enough to call him a villain, he is a genuine fairytale PSYCHOPATH. With him and his allies and adversaries, instead of monumental, simplified emotions and motivations in human form, Peake proceeds to zoom into their personalities and their actions like a fractal animation. You get to know the thoughts and plans and feelings of these characters in a detailed, intensely sensual way. You get to know their innermost sensations. Peake can spend paragraphs describing how a character bites into a peach, (the villain's first food after an arduous trek across a desert of architectural stone). Or he will describe the passage of a single raindrop as part of a broader human drama which takes place during a storm.

A fair warning is given to the minimalistically inclined: Peake's language is florid, his sentences leisurely, his vocabulary luxuriant. The names of the characters are magnificent: Prunesquallor. Flay. Swelter. Nannie Slagg. Often their extreme behaviour and bizarre modes of speech are utterly hilarious. Peake also lets well-lubricated sexual motivations drive his characters, something Tolkien was always too hung up to allow into the chaste world of Middle Earth's sparse and doomed romances.

The archetypal characters of Gormenghast castle are somehow simultaneously familiar, yet full of surprises. The most hateful can end up winning your sympathy. The noblest are sometimes also grotesque. They inhabit a world utterly dominated by tradition and ritual. The British Royal family and the sickeningly grandiose coronation of King Charles III look plain next to the daily breakfast of the Earl of Groan. And yet into this decaying world is about to come a total revolution. The rotting traditions of Gormenghast are under attack, and by the end of the novel, you can't wait to see how they are destroyed, whether any shred of them can survive.

It was in the shadow of two world wars, the rise of tyrannies and industrial scale genocide which both Tolkien and Peake wrote their great works. But now in 2024 we are witnessing a new fear of tyranny and environmental destruction, of pride and folly and greed. I feel like we are still living under the fearful shadow of Gormenghast Mountain, with everything about to be overturned.

There are a few things which provide the context for me not liking this book. Firstly, I was 19 years old when "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" came out, consuming a lot of the subject matter of this book. I was an opinionated and dedicated music fan forming my own views. Secondly, I have recently finished reading a far superior book about this period "Rip it Up and Start Again" by Simon Reynolds. Thirdly, "Like Punk Never Happened" has a reputation as an insightful account of the pop music of the early 80s. The title reinforces that expectation, but the text doesn't deliver. Too much of it is padded with mindless fan service, waffle of the type that filled the pages of the glossy magazines like Smash Hits, which the author was intimately involved with at the time.

My assessment of the music of this period is more in keeping with Reynolds' account. Punk ploughed the field, the tired old crop of 70s rock was uprooted and buried, and then 1000 flowers bloomed. It was Paul Weller who coined the phrase that gives this book its title. In certain respects it's accurate... the "new pop" of Culture Club, Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet was crass, commercial, shallow, like the exploitative pre-punk bubblegum music of the late 60s and early 70s. But by the late 70s and early 80s, it felt like this fun, colourful new music was one of the 1000 flowers which grew as a result of punk. Reynolds tells a much more satisfying story of this fabulously diverse and wildly inventive period, and has greater insights into its contradictions.

Dave Rimmer tells a little bit of that story too, including the direct connections Culture Club had to Malcolm McLaren and groups like The Clash, and there are a few pages of excellent analysis of the cultural and political context this music sprang up in. But soon after that you get pages of tedious personal anecdotes of what the author saw in the hotel rooms, bars and clubs where he was, ahem, 'privileged' to hang out with Boy George and his gang. There's plenty about the business side of things, the cynical industrial mechanics of making pop records and getting them into the charts, but there's not much insight into the music. They actually made some great records: "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" is a lovely slice of melodic pop reggae, "That's the Way" was a soulful duet with Helen Terry which made the cynics take note, "Church of the Poison Mind" was a perfectly pitched tribute to Motown.

I suppose it's fair enough, in the case of Culture Club things of artistic weight were actually overwhelmed by the tabloid circus and the Thatcherite mode of 80s pop. But the way I remember it, we absolutely prioritised artisitic innovation and the political aspect of pop, espoused by the likes of Weller and Billy Bragg. At the same time we had the punk contempt for our hippy uncles who would sneer at pop, and so hell yes, we loved all those glossy outrageous sweet sonic treats being created by Culture Club, Wham, and the rest. We'd read NME AND Smash Hits, and here in Australia the local music tabloid RAM, but we did it because we wanted to, not because we were being herded into a particular uniformed subculture by the corporate Svengalis of the entertainment industry. We didn't have to have dinner only, or dessert only. We liked ALL kinds of music, and it was possible to do so precisely because punk happened.