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Look To Windward by Iain M. Banks

There's an old Sysan saying that the soup of life
is salty enough without adding tears to it.
I get the odd urge to revisit Iain M. Banks now and then, and after it's all over I wonder whether it'll happen again, having sated my appetite for feeling a bit dim. For nothing makes me feel stupid like a world that is intricately crafted, exhaustively described, but of which I have only an abstract perception, a vague silvery blur against the midnight black of empty space. Look To Windward is set on an orbital, a looped strip of world surrounding a hub in which dwells the Culture AI which created and curates the terrain, rivers, cities and lives of the population of millions (or billions) which live thereon. And it's under threat from a revengeful species with catastrophic justice in mind.

As a concept goes, the Masaq' Orbital has a touch of genius about it, a whimsical playground for a bored civilization, where the terra is formed for the maximum visceral excitement (or homely comforts) of the inhabitants, a place acknowledged to be at threat from the proximity of an unstable star but kept in situ for the sheer hell of it anyway, a structure managed by one AI mind able to hold millions of conversations at the same time whilst still performing countless tasks and making important decisions flawlessly. It's also so big I can't wrap my brain around it. Each description of distance and scope puts me right off, and there are many, many of them. Likewise the strange ancient gas spheres inhabited by eons-old creatures, half plant and half animal, riding convection currents and easily irritated by communication devices - these are unimaginable places, literally, and I wish I had the time and expertise to go back and take each mention of size and compare it to the next to see if Banks is just making this shit up as he goes along (or not - I suspect not, but still, to make the reader think he can hold these dimensions and descriptions in his brain is to invite disbelief).

Having said all that, this book, famously the one where the Culture 'does a Vietnam' and makes a gargantuan mistake in messing with the politics of another species resulting in a huge and rather messy civil war along lines of caste, is still brilliant. Despite the suspiciously heavy-handed and doomed-to-failure attempt to alter what could have been many millennia of social discrimination on an alien world, we come across an entertaining if slightly depressing consideration of the pros and cons of the ultra liberalism of the Culture, with the suspicion that they might deliberately manufacture a bit of conflict for the sake of entertainment. Other concepts of identity, the permanence (or otherwise) of the soul, survivor's guilt, what happens after death, how to cope with loss (and the conclusion that, no, becoming the vessel of karmic justice is not a good idea), and interestingly, some conversations about music which I've not noticed before in a Banks novel (although I may not have been looking all that hard as I was likely in a sulk because of envy), all combine to create a slow-burner of inter-species intrigue with a fun if vaguely predictable and unsatisfying ending. It's intricately plotted, carries all the hubristic auguries of far future science fiction (the best kind of auguries), and the characters are his usual panoply of archetypes, with interestingly furred or feathered bodies and additional and surprising limbs etc. The Culture ships names are as amusing as ever and under the hubris and horror gurgles a gentle stream of comedy. Dull, disconcerting travelogue-like descriptions of the willful grandeur of Banks' creations aside, it is, genuinely, an awesome novel which makes me feel tiny, in many senses of the word.


How's about that then?

Metaliterature - what meaning to have is this for meaning?

Not a review this time, more of a curiosity. It seems I'm receiving lots of hits from Russia (Здравствуйте России!) from people searching for the definition of "metaliterature". As such, it is something of a bespoke word, created to fit a need and probably not yet recognized outside literary theory / criticism circles (Merriam-Webster Online certainly don't like it). I was wondering what they typed in to end up here, so, for fun (it's not fun, sorry) I thought I'd bung it in Google Translate and see what came out. As it turns out, one needs a little hyphen for the rather ponderous machine to understand it, and even then only does half the job (meta seems to be meta in any language). 
Incidentally, below is, ironically, a Google Chrome Thesaurus definition* of "meta":

met·a Adjective/ˈmetə/
(of a creative work) Referring to itself or to the conventions of its genre; self-referentialInterestingly (not interesting, sorry) it says this for the full term, t…

Under The Dust by Jordi Coca

So, wheel of fortune, count to 29, pin the tail, freebies off of peeps on Twitter etc. etc. Whatever the methods sometimes employed to pick the next book in my intertextual experience, the one that brought me to Jordi Coca brought me to a whopping great slice of nostalgia. Before I'd even opened it, it brought to mind Richard Gwyn, himself a published poet, author, biographer, translator and course director of the MA Creative Writing course at Cardiff University, who I recall for some odd reason gently encouraging me to read this novel, and by whose own work I was quietly impressed at the time. He was also an advocate of Roberto Bolaño, another writer in whose work I can immerse myself but from which I emerge drained, as mentioned previously. Before that, though, there is this sticker on the front, declaring 'Signed by the Author at Waterstone's'. It is indeed signed by Jordi Coca, not adding any particular intrinsic value to the book, not for me anyway, but more impor…

Hereward: The Last Englishman by Peter Rex

By all accounts, Hereward was the guerrilla scourge of the invading Norman armies in eleventh century Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, famous for isolating and dismembering members of the Norman nobility who strayed too far from home, and also for trashing Peterborough and hiding on an island. Called variously (and often erroneously) The Wake, The Exile or The Outlaw, his infamy was such that families in search of noble English lineage have usurped his "heroism" for their own glory even until this very day. Rex delights in highlighting one author's particular folly, entitled Hereward, The Saxon Patriot, in which Lieutenant-General Harward attempts to run his antecedents right back to the loins of the eponymous gentleman-rogue. 

Having only read the introduction to Peter Rex's myth-busting (and often ill-edited) work, I was already struck by an initial thought which ran thus: if as Rex asserts Hereward was the son of Asketil Tokison, a descendant of a wealthy Danish family …

A Death In The Family: My Struggle Volume 1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard

I sit here, wearing my limited edition Knausgaard t-shirt, immensely grateful to the kind people at Vintage Books for their surprising gift of the first four novels (and aforementioned t-shirt) simply as a result of being able to post a comment on their YouTube Vlog. There may have been a hidden agenda, considering I'm a book blogger (What, interrobang, a book blogger, interrobang and so on...) but I prefer to believe they picked me at random. Because I'm ace. 
Nonetheless, I had no idea what to expect of these books. I did do a little reading, and found lots of very interesting articles about Karl Ove Knausgaard, including this entertaining one in the Wall Street Journal. But in all honesty, nothing prepared me for reading them, and I can see why they cause controversy and consternation wherever they are translated (which is pretty much everywhere).
First off, being intelligent and perspicacious readers as I trust you all to be, you will no doubt have spotted the whole Godwin&#…