An old couple slowly eke out their days long after the departure of the British, the ending of the Raj, and the independence of India. Around them, the country modernises and Indians grow wealthy while they endure in almost-genteel poverty, reminders of the old days, but also repositories of memories. hjile Lucy and Tusker circle each other in a marriage that isn't exactly loveless but seems more like something endured out of habit, their landlady's plans do not include them staying on much longer in the old cottage that is an annexe to her hotel. 

Funny, touching, bitter, a portrait of a life that has always seemed on the margins of something much grander and more epic - we get to hear news of Sarah Layton and Guy and their family, a graceful epilogue to the epic Jewel In The Crown - Lucy and Tusker's greatest virtue is that they somehow hang on, both in India and to each other, despite disappointment and betrayal. They seem lonely despite being part of a community that includes their servants and neigbours and fellow church-goers - but they're not British, you see. The last curse of the Raj is the seperateness it inculcated in them, leaving them isolated in their, not quite superiority, but sense of class and racial divisions. 

A brilliant little novel, full of life and character and superb writing.

Tim Powers early pirate tale, full of swashbuckling action and terrible magics. A puppeteer in search of a stolen inheritance is waylaid on his way to Jamiaca and obliged to join a pirate crew, who in turn are carrying out the behest of the terrifying Blackbeard, in search of the fountain of youth which he hopes will rid himself of an infestation of ghosts as well as grant him power and immortality aided by two Englishmen, one completely insane and dragging his daughter along with him for unthinkable purposes, the other depraved and determined to become God. This they now do.

A child goes missing, the mother is suspected, Parker is brought in to check around, while something dark and evil lurks in the woods of Maine. Parker's back! I still marvel at Connolly's ability to carve character, place and atmosphere out of his words.

And the brilliant conclusion. What Vance succeeds in doing in this series is the melding of myth, folk-tales and legend into a rich, vibrant setting and a broad, epic narrative. One could easily imagine cycles of fire-side and bed-time tales about the adventures of good king Aillas and clever magician Shimrod and the wild and fey Madouc and evil King Casmir. Lots of sharp little stories where the good outsmarted the bad and won through as much with brains and boldness as well as brawn, and sometimes a dark, nasty edge would creep in, a hint of loss and tragedy to make the happy ever after that much more bitter sweet. Poor Sir Pom-Pom.

Anyway, the whole trilogy is never less than a wild and wonderful joy, even of there are inconsistencies between this and the epilogue of the first novel. Whatever happened to the faceless knight? These should be taken all in all as part of the mystery and whimsy and unexpected dangers of Lyonesse. 

I think this fantasy trilogy may well be my favourite. It's one I still reread with pleasure, probably because it is so clearly written for adults, though when I first read it as a teenager the violent indignities inflicted on Christian missionaries and the fate of poor Suldrun scared me off after the cosy safety of Middle Earth and Narnia. Luckily I went back to it. The dangers and cruelties of the Elder Isles anticipate the modern hard-boiled fantasy epics of Martin, Abercombie et al, yet the language is that of high chivalry, arch wit and sharp irony. Even the most horrible monster is highly articulate and argues with logic and reason. For every danger and cruelty, however, there is wonder and kindness and joy. The books, also, are unashamedly drenched with magic and crowded with fey personages, possibly the best fictional representation of fairies I have ever read, wonderful creatures utterly without conscience.

The story is long and strange and always unexpected. Our protagonists suffer sudden changes or reversals of fortune at every turn, and it's only about halfway through before a narrative begins to take proper shape. Vance's evocation of a fantasy landscape is unparalleled. For the first time, I noticed that there was something missing from the detailed descriptions of meals and feasts and scavenged scraps and quick repasts: no potatoes. Because, of course, they haven't been brought back from the Americas yet. I don't know why, but that little detail made me unaccountably happy. 

Happy birthday to meeee. Another splendidly executed tale of Arkwright and Co across the paralell worlds, this time threatened by a figure even more evolved than he is, but not as moral. Just amazing art whether depicting horrific battlefields post-slaughter, or technological utopias, or grimy dystopias or small moments of human wonder and joy as well as horror and pain. Talbtot is unquestionably the Master.

I put off reading this for a whole year, the way I used to put off eating a bar of chocolate, a pleasure sored up and deferred. I wish I'd read it sooner. I don't think any piece of fiction has hit as close to home as this in a very long time. It's a strange, spare, fable-like tale of an innocent alone in a strange place, a house with many rooms and corridors washed by the sea. His only companion is a mysterious Other who comes and goes, he thinks, from another part of the House, and the remains of thirteen dead people who he cares for and venerates. Then he finds signs of a second living person, and the Other warns him that he is in terrible danger.

It's beautifully written, and wonderfully evocative, but what nearly had me bawling when I reached the end was when I realised how much of a meditation on illness, mental and physical, it actually is, about the loss of Self, the loss of time, the loss of other people, about making peace with that, and being transformed, about the one person who will do anything, go anywhere, to save you, the imopssible enormity of that debt, that love, about the sustaining power of ritual, about how learning to love your own interior landscape helps you survive outside it. I'm nearly bawling again. It's a powerful, profound and deeply affecting piece of work.

A young thief is taken from prison and dragooned into a secret journey to a neighbouring country, presumably to steal something, but what, exactly and why are not revealed to him. This starts out as a straightforward quest, using the travelling time to delineate the personalities of the various members of the group and establish the worldbuilding. The thief is an engaging, if sly, narrator, getting on the nerves of his captors without pushing them too far. Paradoxically, he ends up endearing himself more than he might have expected and starts to feel a responsibility towards them, which might be Stockholm Syndrome, or might be something else. The thievery itself is tense and exciting, and the twists and turns of the attempted getaway are dizzying. 

Like watching a chemical reaction where a solution of part Mary Poppins part Jane Austen dissolves a thick wodge of Thomas Hardy into a bubbling froth, our heroine takes on a farm of melodramatic pastoral archetypes filled with suspicion and paranoia and religion and assorted passions and oppressions and neurosis and casually dismantles them and gives everyone a happy ending using only taste, restraint and intelligence. Most pages yield up at least one laugh-out-loud gem, the names are hilarious and the passages of particular literary merit are marked with stars for your convenience. Utterly lovable. 

What on earth? Why the heck did I listen to this? I remember trying one in the eighties and finding the writing too meh. As an audiobook it was fine, excellent narrator, but what drew me to this? Ok, so it's eighties horror, cold war meets psychic powers meets vampires. Opening with a grand guignol scene in a Russian facility then taking its leisurely time introducing the main charcter and his antagonist. The pacing seems weird at first, but maybe I just haven't read this type of sprawling epic in a while, I dunno. It was grand. Very white and male. 'Keogh' is pronounced weirdly. Russian baddies, Bitish intelligence goodies, how dated is that? Two weird sex scenes. Harry's a bit of a Marty Stu, though not a complete one. It puts the work in establishing the mythos, presumably for the rest of the series to build on. It does build to a fairly satisfying climax. I'll probably try volume two, though I'm still mystified as to why I started this one.