Review: Equations of Life, Simon Morden

Equations of Life (Book 1 of the Metrozone series)

Simon Morden

Orbit, 2011

ISBN 978-1-84149-948-2

You are now entering the London Metrozone. The time is 7:35, two decades after Armageddon. MIND THE GAP.

Protagonist Samuil Petrovitch is a young, brilliant, wise-cracking physics student living in the chaos and squalor of the Metrozone – the last city left in England after a nuclear war decimated the planet two decades previously. Refugees have flooded in from all over the world; makeshift flats are built from shipping containers; Hyde Park is filled with the dead and the dying. But among these terrible scenes move a cast of colourful and eccentric characters: laconic policemen, gun-toting nuns, crazed doomsayers, and huge immigrant criminal organisations, chief among them Marchenkho’s Ukranians and the Japanese Oshicoras. Petrovitch himself is a refugee from Russia, having fled the fallout to take up a place at Imperial College. There, he and his colleague Pif work away at the equations that will unlock ‘the theory of everything’, opening up the mysteries of the universe to humankind. That, and Petrovitch tries to keep his head down, stay unnoticed and, most importantly, not die. But the Metrozone won’t let him off that easily, and when Petrovitch accidentally saves the daughter of Hamano Oshicora, he is sucked into its dirty, double-crossing, and downright dangerous underworld. And there are more surprises waiting there than he’d bargained for…

Welcome to Simon Morden’s Metrozone series. If you’re on the lookout for a dystopian thriller with plentiful lashings of humour, Equations of Life could be your thing. It’s fun, fast-paced, and mischievous, crammed with gun battles, car chases, and general chaos. Fans of Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash will recognise its exuberant OTT-ness – and although Equations of Life does not reach the same level as this eminent forebear, it’s definitely an enjoyable romp.

Unfortunately, whilst I enjoy the occasional romp, my tastes veer more towards the character-driven side of the tracks. And I’m inclined to say that if you, like me, prefer stories that pack emotional punches rather than physical ones, you might want to look elsewhere. Morden’s characters are vivid and fun, but they weren’t fleshed-out enough for my liking. The emotional moments seemed to me stilted and rushed, as though Morden was eager to get them over with and launch us back into another gunfight. Whilst I realise that this maintained the book’s pace, and kept the adrenaline pumping throughout, it left me dissatisfied and unconvinced by the characters’ interactions. This was especially true of Sister Madeleine and Petrovitch; although I did warm to their friendship as the book continued, it was more a case of suspending disbelief rather than accepting their emotional arc.

Petrovitch himself was quite difficult to get a handle on. I definitely liked him and rooted for him, and especially admired the way Morden created him as physically frail, with a failing heart and bad eyesight – certainly not your standard action-hero, no sirree. Still, I wanted a bit more from him emotionally. The setup is promising: Morden hints that Petrovitch has a mysterious past, which is then slowly revealed as the book goes on. This is all well and good – except that I never really got a sense of how this past really affected Petrovitch, apart from in fairly superficial ways. What I found most grating, I think, was his continuous smart-ass manner. In places, Petrovitch’s one-liners were well placed, and very funny, but elsewhere I found myself wishing that he would stop being so goddamned precocious and express more doubt, more fear (especially considering that he’s supposed to be quite young). I would have loved, for example, for Petrovitch’s sarcastic nature to be revealed – at least partly – as a defensive front, a coping mechanism through which he deals with his and the world’s horrific circumstances. That would have been ace. But sadly, even when Petrovitch does open up to the other characters about his past, this doesn’t seem to be the case: he’s as witty as ever.

Perhaps I am being unfair. This is, after all, only the first book in Morden’s series, and it could be that I’m pre-empting him. But if so, I fear that the deeper character insights will come too late for readers such as myself.

Unfortunately, I had similar misgivings about the setting. The Metrozone is certainly a ‘cool’ idea in a morbid sort of way, and I do have a soft spot for the grungy post-apocalyptic aesthetic – but again I’d like for the book to have dug deeper under its surface. I mean, this place is awful, right? People have flocked there to avoid radiation poisoning, or because their home countries have been wiped off the map. People go to Hyde Park to die in hordes. And yet the horrors of the situation don’t really seem to impact on the characters or the storyline very much. OK, so they’ve lived there for a long time and they would be hardened to it to some extent, and sure, sister Madelaine cries when she and Petrovitch have to go through the park, but the feeling I came away with was that the post-Armageddon scenario was convenient. That is to say, it provided a nifty setting in which the characters could run free and bash/shoot/blow things up without real fear of imprisonment or consequences.

Also, there were many things about the setting that didn’t work for me, at least not unless I was given more explanation… For example: there are still cars and computers and all kinds of things being produced in, or shipped into, the Metrozone. Is this feasible? I mean, who’s making them? Where? How are they getting their resources when the world’s gone to sh*t? How do people still have money to buy them? Haven’t the banks collapsed? And how come Petrovitch and Pif are still using paper with apparent abandon – has the environment not been affected by this world-changing nuclear war (which didn’t happen all that long ago, remember)? Or was it, despite being called ‘Armageddon’, not actually ‘that bad’? Is the world already well on the way to recovery? TELL ME MORE I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS IS ALL WORKING.

Again, I may be pre-empting Morden here; later books will hopefully weave in more detail. But as a fan (and student) of apocalyptic literature, I didn’t get a sense of why it mattered that Equations of Life was set in a post-fallout scenario.

But perhaps I’m taking this all too seriously. Equations of Life isn’t The Road, after all – and it’s not meant to be. It’s energetic, it’s amusing, and it will keep you reading. (It’s also got a really funky cover. I mean, look at that! So awesome.) If those qualities tick your boxes, then hop on for the ride – just ignore the gaps.

Review: Heroes and Villains, Angela Carter

Heroes and Villains

Angela Carter

Penguin, 1993 (first pub. 1969)

ISBN 978-0-14023-464-0

This was a strange one to say the least (though not as strange as Ice!), and this review is going to be difficult to write, as I’m still mulling over Angela Carter’s beguiling 1969 novel, Heroes and Villains – half in fascination, half in bafflement.

Carter presents us with a future earth which, in the wake of a terrible conflict, has reverted back to the verdant tropical luxury of prehistoric times. Humanity itself has been vastly reduced, and the survivors are divided into several factions. The Professors and the Soldiers live together in compounds – the Professors preserve the various disciplines of learning, living a perpetually university-like lifestyle, researching and teaching; the Soldiers defend them and the community from the threat of another group, the Barbarians. These ‘savage’ people live in the woodlands with the dangerous wild animals, and periodically ravage the Professors’ colonies. And in the ruined cities dotted throughout the country – said to be haunted and perilous – creep the Out People, left deformed and desperate after the (presumably nuclear) war.

In this uncertain, fractured world, our protagonist Marianne – daughter of a Professor – attempts to carve a place for herself. Seeking something more than her sheltered existence in the Professors’ compound, she breaks out, only to find that there are also constraints in the exotic outside world. Living with a Barbarian tribe, Marianne finds herself bound to the terrifying yet beautiful young warrior, Jewel – and a new struggle begins as she attempts to turn the situation into a liberation rather than a further imprisonment.

Heroes and Villains is a rich and intelligent book – and rather overwhelming. As I understand it, Carter is using a post-apocalyptic (argh, I don’t like the label, but there we go) scenario in order to investigate notions of society, power, and control. Passing from one form of community to another, very different one, Marianne’s journey raises a number of complex questions: what values are important in sustaining a contented human existence? How can societies can be maintained whilst still granting autonomy to individuals? What sacrifices does one have to make to keep the peace? Entwined with and reflecting these larger questions is the story of the relationship between Marianne and the Barbarian, Jewel, where societal politics are played out on a smaller scale, emotionally and sexually – meaning that the book is also very much about the awakening of female sexuality, and the place and influence of women in a harsh, unforgiving world.

Or at least, that’s what I think.

Perhaps partly because of Carter’s wider agenda, and partly just because it’s her chosen style, characterisation in this book is certainly not your standard, attempted-naturalistic fare. Carter’s prose, including the characters’ dialogue, is self-conscious and matter-of-fact; character voice is not hugely differentiated from that of the narration. Because of this, you can’t really lose yourself in the characters, as you’re kept aware that they are simultaneously operating as ciphers or symbols, as ways of thinking through societal issues. Sometimes the characters literally function as philosophical mouthpieces, their erudite conversations bringing out the book’s larger concerns.

Nevertheless, the characters are still powerfully drawn, and the unravelling of their relationships is often fascinating. Jewel, especially, is a potent and charismatic figure. Unsettling the concept of the ‘perfect savage’ that the Professors speak of, his personal struggle is against that stereotype, which impinges upon his own individuality by dictating how he is expected to behave (again, my interpretation… would love to know what you think!). And, throughout, Jewel with his attractive but alarming vitality and half-trained mind is made just as compelling to the reader as he is to Marianne.

Marianne herself is also anything but dull: a sharp-tongued, severe sixteen-year-old, she is a worthy protagonist. As I’ve said above, Carter is not so much concerned with believability as with aesthetic impact, and Marianne is skilfully drawn to fit her place in the tale. Her strong personality forms an important focus for the reader; her actions are often flawed, but her courage and wit are constantly admirable. I found myself (interestingly) torn between pity, disapproval, and awe as I read of her battling against restrictions from her previous life, her new husband, the expectations of the Barbarians, the scheming Doctor Donnally (also a great but disturbing character) and the puzzling behaviour of his ‘idiot’ son, and the perils of the tropical landscape. I mean, jeez, what would you do??

The writing itself is – typically of Carter – rather wonderful. The matter-of-fact tone is curiously unsettling, and it by no means bars her from producing some really astonishing passages. Just read this, for an example…

There were gold braid and feathers in Jewel’s hair and very long earrings of carved silver in his ears. Darkness was made explicit in the altered contours of his face. He was like a work of art, as if created, not begotten, a fantastic dandy of the void whose true nature had been entirely subsumed to the alien and terrible beauty of a rhetorical gesture.

… Pretty spectacular, I thought.

Conclusion: If you just want a light, entertaining read, Carter’s Heroes and Villains is probably not for you. But if you’re looking for something a bit more challenging and thought-provoking, it’s worth checking out. The novel is odd but intriguing – though perhaps a bit frustrating at times. Carter certainly has her own agenda, and you won’t find what you expect from a ‘post-apocalyptic’ tale if what you have in mind is The Day After Tomorrow or War of the Worlds. But if you approach Cather’s novel with an open mind, I think you’ll find it a rewarding read.

Review: Ice, Anna Kavan

Ice

Anna Kavan

Peter Owen, 1967

ISBN 978-0-72061-268-4 (2006 reprint)

When I picked up this book, all I knew about it was that it was apocalyptic. I certainly didn’t realise that the apocalyptic scenario in fact plays out a sinister psychological dreamscape, where the boundaries between interior and exterior, real and imagined, hallucination and daydream, sadistic wish-fulfillment and physical injury, are utterly erased. That was a shock. But whilst Kavan’s Ice turned out to be far more disconcerting than I’d anticipated, it certainly wasn’t disappointing.

Ice is often described as a ‘slipstream’ novel, and as far as I can see that’s a pretty good classification, if indeed it helps to label it at all. The novel is a slippery specimen, that’s for sure. From the very first page, Kavan launches the reader into the mind of the (unnamed) first person narrator, as he is driving through hazardous snowy conditions in order to reach the house of a girl he used to know. We learn that he has been out of the country for some time – but not where, why, or for how long – and that he and the girl have some kind of romantic history. We also learn that he is, basically, obsessed with her. This sense increases as the story goes on: the plot details the narrator’s constant, unyielding search for this girl. He encounters and loses her multiple times, but cannot give her up… And all this time, we are made aware of some global disaster that is taking place all around. Its nature is unclear – nuclear weapons are mentioned, as is environmental catastrophe, along with a number of other possible crises – but the main constituent is the monumental, inexorable approach of the ice, creeping over the world, gradually covering it in a sheet of frozen death…

What complicates all this still further is that our narrator is completely unreliable. Suffering from neurotic hallucinations – and who knows what else – the prose lapses from reality to hallucination to dream and back again, with little-to-no differentiation. At first, I could keep track of which parts were ‘real’ and which not (or at least, I think I could), but as the book continues the boundaries become increasingly blurred, and by the end I wasn’t even trying to work it out. Not that this meant I was fed up – on the contrary, I’d given myself over to the hallucinatory experience of Ice, and felt that it would be counter-productive to try rationalizing its events too much. I was confused, yes, but not to the point of annoyance (though I can see why the novel might be too oblique for some people’s tastes).

A Note on Ice’s Confusing Nature: having just searched for the ISBN on Amazon (the copy I read being too old to have its ISBN printed in it, if it has one at all) I found an interesting customer review (see here – the review dated 14 April 2009) that has gone some way to clear the fog from my eyes. For a start, it warns the reader new to Kavan not to begin with Ice (oops) and goes on to outline her disturbed mental life, her heroin addiction, and her torturous emotional pain. The reviewer refers to Ice as ‘another piece in [Kavan’s] emotional jigsaw’. I can see how this must be true, and it’s made me keen to read her earlier works, and build a deeper understanding of where Ice fits into her oeuvre. However, I don’t think that Ice is unreadable to the first-time initiate of Kavan. You have to have some patience, and whilst I’ll freely admit that I found the novel extremely disorientating, I did get something out of it, and the metaphorical resonances do form their own kind of hallucinatory logic. Besides, it isn’t long (about 150 pages), so, you know, deal. (Heh.)

Ice, in my opinion, is really an exploration of the disturbed mind of the protagonist. His obsessive search for the frail, silver-haired girl is the book’s driving force. The apocalyptic happenings occurring all around seem to form an extension of his troubled psyche, the encroaching ice-walls a destructive force that he seems both to embody and to battle. This, in fact, is a major point: the narrator’s relationship with the girl is revealed to be more than the romantic attachment it first seems. Gradually, we realise that his attitude towards her is not one of tender affection, but of a more disturbing and sadistic masculine possessiveness. This emerges particularly through the narrator’s interactions with a character called The Warden. The Warden is ostensibly the narrator’s rival, snatching the girl out of his grasp, but Kavan gives many hints that the two are linked. Are they really opponents? As the girl is manhandled by first one then the other, we find they are disconcertingly similar… And as the icy gaze of The Warden’s eyes reflects the mercilessness of the approaching ice, so the narrator’s relentless pursuit of the girl seems to have a similar cold aggression…

I saw a mention of sexism on Amazon’s reader comments (something along the lines of ‘If this was written by a man, it would be really sexist’). Um. Surely authors are allowed to write about sexism? Yes, even in the first person. Clearly character and author are not the same, and they wouldn’t be even if the author were male. Ice does indeed investigate a misogynistic outlook, with disturbing hints at sadism, but that’s, you know, what it’s doing. You don’t have to prescribe to the narrator’s attitude to find the book interesting. So that’s my stance on that issue.

Ice is not a straightforward book, and not one you’d pick up for a spot of light reading. Its somewhat deadpan tone, intermingled with bursts of vivid, dreamlike sequences, leads to a discomforting rather than enjoyable reading experience. But the novel is certainly intriguing, if you dare to venture in. I’m trying to think of something to compare it to, but it’s difficult – the closest I can think of at the moment are J. G. Ballard’s short stories (the more trippy of them). Thinking about it, I definitely prefer Ballard, but might be a worthwhile sidetrack if you’re also a Ballard fan.

In a nutshell: Simultaneously hypnotic and perturbing, prepare to be put on edge by Anna Kavan’s Ice.