Meg and Mogg in Amsterdam and Other Stories by Simon Hanselmann (2016) 164 p.

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More of the same hilarious winning formula of drug abuse, suburban ennui, depression and Owl’s relentless bullying at the hands of his alleged friends. Possibly the best part of this volume is the introduction of Diesel and Jaxon, “the terrifying children of Werewolf Jones.”

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Werewolf Jones is already such a terrible person – a cruel, narcissistic, obnoxious, mooching heroin addict – that the idea of him being a deadbeat dad to two actual children (who are utter terrors, considering their home environment) is brilliant.

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I don’t have much more to say. Simon Hanselmann is a comic genius and you should buy his books.

His Illegal Self by Peter Carey (2008) 272 p.

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Not one of Carey’s best efforts; indeed, one of his weakest. For the first few pages it seems like his writing might have finally caught up to his life: New York City, the Upper East Side, Bloomingdale’s, Lexington Avenue. A young boy in the 1970s, Che, being raised by his grandmother because his parents have waltzed off to join the Weathermen. Then the narrative twists and turns its way very shortly down to Queensland, where Che and his adpotive new mother Dial spend the next two hundred pages in a hippie commune near Nambour, as Carey himself did in the ‘70s.

Part of what made His Illegal Self a slog was that Carey’s prose seems to lack its usual spark. He writes from the perspectives of both Che and Dial and his characters have lost some of that loquacious charisma that always lets you know – whether it’s 19th century England or contemporary Australia or some completely fictional country – that this is a Peter Carey novel; give or take a few lectures Dial receives about American arrogance, or the occasional observational gem:

Then she waited for the lawyer, watching him stroke his mustache like a fool. She could not imagine how this man had ended up in this crappy little office with felt tiles on the floor. All those years in law school and then spend your life in fucking Nambour, staring through the window at the Woolworths loading dock.

Overall, though, this is a strangely flat outing from an author who is many things but rarely boring.

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I think the last time I saw something slowly playing out on television and thought “this wasn’t supposed to happen” was the 2015 UK election. (Brexit, despite what people seem to think now, was always tight in the polls.) That was a mild version of this, because Cameron and Osborne cannot begin to compare to this. An election result that goes to the party you don’t support is a fluffy daydream compared to this. This is more like 9/11: watching something on your TV screen which you know cannot possibly be real. Something which, therefore, does not feel real. Something which makes you feel as though you’ve woken up in a nightmare. Something which makes you feel as though you are witnessing history in the making, and not in a good way; you are watching the dawn of a darker time.

We are all fucked. It is difficult to underscore how fucked we are. I am not American; by “we,” I mean everybody on the planet. Every human being.

This has nothing to do with being a left-winger. Of course I would prefer a Democrat in the White House. But this is not the same as if John McCain or Mitt Romney had won the presidency. This is a chilling, unprecedented catastrophe in the making. Every other Republican candidate in that race obeyed the norms and conventions of a liberal democracy. I’ve said throughout this election that if it were a vote between Trump and, say, Dick Cheney, I wouldn’t just vote for Cheney – I’d fucking volunteer for him. Donald Trump represents a historically unique threat to the United States and, therefore, to the world, and I am far from the first person to say this.

In the short term, I am frightened for the economy. Today the Dow Jones fell 750 pointsmore than the first day of trading after 9/11! I am frightened that the first year of Trump’s administration will usher in a global depression which will make 2008 look like a joke. I am frightened that now that Australia’s mining boom is over – and given that Trump has proposed 45% tariffs on Chinese imports – Australia will not, this time, be shielded from the worst of it. I am worried for my savings, my scant investments, my shitty job that I badly need. White male privilege, sure, whatever. Economic recession isn’t good for anybody anywhere in the world.

In the medium term I am worried about a man like Trump with access to America’s nuclear arsenal. Did you know that “the President has almost single authority to initiate a nuclear attack“? Is it beyond the realms of imagination that he might choose to nuke, say, Raqqa? Can you imagine him having a cool head to handle a potential crisis on the Korean peninsula? Would you be comfortable, as he apparently is, with an arms race in the Middle East or East Asia, with Saudi Arabia and South Korea and Japan developing nuclear weapons? This planet has gone 76 years without using a nuclear weapon in conflict. We all collectively came through the Cold War unscathed. Will that still be true in four years?

In the long-term, I am worried about society – human society, everybody’s society. The rise of populist nationalism across the Western world has been bad. Brexit was bad. Nothing has made me feel despair like this. Nothing has made me worry more that we are slouching towards a science fiction dystopia, a William Gibson novel, the end of The Bone Clocks, a dark and frightening world of inequality and hate and survival and despair. Americans have willingly voted for a man who ignores all democratic norms, who believes climate change is a hoax, who shows a disturbing love of authoritarian dictators like Vladimir Putin, who said he would only accept the election result if he won, who has called for the jailing of his political opponent for nonsensical reasons, who has willingly stoked racial division and bigotry in ways the Republican Party had previously only flirted with.

Trump is already a disgrace to his office and to his country simply by being what he is: an arrogant, bloviating, bullying, cruel, erratic, hypocritical, ignorant, inexperienced, lying, narcissistic, vindictive, racist, sexist, sleazy, swaggering, tax-avoiding, thin-skinned monster. He is a monster. Nearly every bad adjective you can say about somebody applies to him, and I literally cannot think of a good one. (He’s not even a good businessman, he just plays one on TV – if he’d invested his inheritance in index funds and played golf for the past 40 years he’d have more money than he does now.)

He is a man who dodged the Vietnam draft and then went on to criticise POW John McCain, and the family of a deceased veteran.

He is a man who has been caught on tape talking about committing sexual assault, and has been accused of sexual assault by dozens of women.

He is a man who appears to be running for president – who has won the presidency, Jesus fucking Christ! – simply to serve his own ego, his narcissism, his desperate need for fame and adulation.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I’m linking to examples, when everybody already knows all this, after the last torturous year which turned out to be merely a harbinger for the horror about to descend on us.

Maybe I can’t fathom what has happened. I don’t understand how a country which voted for Obama twice could vote for this. I can’t believe that a majority of Americans looked at this self-entitled piece of shit; this dangerous, know-nothing braggart; this man who is plainly, obviously unfit for any kind of public office, who clearly never thinks of anyone else but himself, and thought: “Yes, OK. Let’s give him what he wants. Let’s let him live in the White House and sit in the Oval Office. Let’s let him have the nuclear codes. Let’s make him President of the United States.”

This is beyond satire. This is beyond nightmares. This feels like a rejected Hollywood script. This is a waking nightmare for intelligent people all over the world. I do not know what is going to happen in the next four years and I do not particularly want to find out. I do not want to see white supremacists given carte blanche to harass and assault African-Americans and Muslim-Americans and Hispanic-Americans. I do not want the economy to crater. I do not want to see nuclear weapons used. I do not want to see agreements on climate change rolled back, I do not want to see the world cope with billions of climate refugees by the time I’m in my old age. I do not want this horrid, awful man to feel the satisfaction of once again getting exactly what he wanted. I do not want to see the democratic norms of the United States undermined by voter suppression continuing, by Trump considering bullshit criminal charges against Clinton, by Trump appointing some crackpot alt-right judge to the Supreme Court. I do not want to feel the horrible, sickening sensation of my planet, my species, my lifetime, pitching forward off a cliff and into a dark and ugly void.

Megahex by Simon Hanselmann (2014) 211 p.

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“Meg, Mogg and Owl” sets a pretty close record for me for the shortest amount of time between discovering an online comic, reading as much of it as I could find, and then buying the book and reading all of that. It’s been floating around on the internet for a few years, on Tumblr and VICE and so on, but Megahex collects a few dozen of Simon Hanselmann’s more polished earlier works into a single hardback volume.

Based on the characters from an innocuous 1970s British children’s cartoon, “Meg, Mogg and Owl” re-imagines them as deadbeat drug addicts slouching around a sharehouse and getting into various revolting hijinks. The heart of the series, for me, is Owl: the most responsible of the friends, still a stoner and a deadbeat, but someone who at least manages to hold down a full-time job and tries to keep the house clean. In return, his friends consider him a stupid nerd and mercilessly torment him.

Lots of this goes into some pretty dark and horrible territory, and this is most definitely not a comic for everyone. A litmus test of whether or not you’ll find MMO compelling or just sick is the comic “Boston Clanger” (not part of Megahex) which neatly encompasses all the main dynamics at play in the broader series: Owl’s abuse at the hands of his friends, the gross-out comedy, but also the more subtle levels of characterisation and comedic timing. Because the funniest part of “Boston Clanger” – go read it now if you haven’t already – is not Werewolf Jones and his children messily shitting on Owl’s bed, as funny as that is. It’s the following twenty-four panels in which Owl is left to painstakingly mop up their mess, singing the Frasier theme song to himself as he goes through the kitchen cabinets for cleaning products, scrubs his floor, hoses his blanket off against the back fence, etc. It’s horribly pathetic and sympathetic at the same time and it absolutely cracked me up.

I completely get that some people would just be turned off by this, or don’t have a sense of humour dark enough to find the torment of others funny, or – even among people who do – would find the cumulative effect of Owl’s personal hell a bit too much. That’s fine. But oddly enough, the more MMO I read, the more sympathetic I find the characters and the more comfortable I feel with it. Meg and Mogg do actually care about Owl, but seem oblivious to how awful their treatment of him is. Owl himself is no saint. Even Werewolf Jones, whirlwind of disgusting chaos that he is, has a core of wretched neediness alongside his malice.

Part of what makes it easy to enjoy humour this disturbing is that it’s rendered in the form of children’s cartoons – a witch, a cat, an owl, a werewolf. Hanselmann has said in interviews that many of his comics are based on real life, on experiences he had with friends and housemates growing up in Hobart and Melbourne. I doubt it would appeal to me as much if I were reading the awful adventures of actual human beings, but Owl – an inherently risible figure, a ludicrous bird man – yeah, sure, I can laugh at him all day.

Which is not to say that Megahex is nothing but button-pushing comedy; I’ve weirdly come to actually care about the characters, and the final comic in the book is surprisingly affecting. Like I said, it’s not for everyone, but if you can stomach it then it’s something wonderful and unique.

A Pale View of Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro (1982) 183 p.

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Ishiguro’s debut novel, and not a bad one at all. It’s a frame story, with a middle-aged Japanese woman named Etsuko living in England, who recently lost a daughter to suicide, telling her other daughter about the days when she still lived in Nagasaki after World War II. In that time she struck up a friendship with another young woman named Sachiko, proud and wilful, who breaks many of the norms of Japanese society and has a strange, troubled daughter.

It’s fairly compelling from the get go, especially with the creepy vibe coming from Sachiko’s daughter’s insistence that she keeps seeing a mysterious woman across the river, beckoning children into the forest. This being an Ishiguro novel, not everything is quite what it seems. Most people will probably guess the “twist” before the ending – I put it in quotes because it’s clear, from a single line towards the end, that there may be multiple levels of deception going on. Most authors don’t have very good debut novels, but A Pale View of Hills is pretty decent – nothing amazing, but memorable and clever.

Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett (1991) 352 p.
Discworld #11 (Death #2)

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In the early novel Mort, Pratchett expanded upon one of his best creations: Death, the anthropomorphic personification of human mortality. A Grim Reaper figure who shepherds souls into the next world, he takes a professional pride in his work and has a sort of vague fondness for humanity. Mort is largely the story of his human apprentice, though, with Death himself sidelined on a sideplot in which he goes and tries to actually live: attends a party, takes a job as a short order cook, etc. It’s the B-side to Mort’s broader adventure.

Reaper Man builds upon that concept of Death as a fish out of water, treating it far more seriously. Death is merely a servant in the cosmic order of things, and he is informed one day that he has been replaced. (His sackable offence was developing too much of a personality.) He is given his own lifetimer, a certain number of remaining days, and is allowed to keep his pale white horse Binky. With no avenue of protest, Death sets out to spend his last remaining days in the real, human world – and naturally takes a job as a farmhand, being handy with a scythe.

This sounds like a screwball comedy, but Death’s story in Reaper Man actually struck me as a sort of fairytale, which makes sense in its own contained universe. People cannot see what he really is, and most of his dealings in the remote village he moves to have a symbolic quality: the landlady who was widowed before her wedding day, the young country boys who seem to become old country men with no intermediate stage, the dreadful new combine harvester which stands as a symbol of ruthless, efficient progress. Death’s combination of wisdom and naivete makes for an enjoyable and surprisingly earnest little story.

Unfortunately Death’s story thread is also smaller than I remembered; most of the book is taken up with what’s going on in Ankh-Morpork, where in Death’s absence people have stopped dying. Windle Poons, the elderly magician from Moving Pictures, is very annoyed to find himself returned to his body after a brief stretch in limbo, and sets out to discover what’s gone wrong.

This is where Reaper Man stumbles: a beautifully painted, emotionally affective story about Death learning to live with ordinary people is paired with a wacky-hijinks adventure in which Windle Poons and his crew of undead oddballs follow the trail of the randomly appearing snowglobes which turn into shopping trolleys which are then accumulating into a hive that grows a shopping mall (???). I wish I’d made any of that up. It’s an absolute brain fart of an idea which Pratchett never should have put to paper, let alone shoved in alongside one of his best stories yet. He’s written silly, disjointed books that fell flat before this, but never one which was so brazenly a creature of two halves. Reaper Man isn’t quite as good as I remember – but that plot with Death, out on the farm, living out his days, is still really something special.

Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow (1974) 270p.

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It took me about fifty pages to realise why I was finding it difficult to get into Ragtime: there’s no dialogue. Which is not to say the characters don’t communicate with one another, bur rather that the entire book is summary, not scene. When there is dialogue it’s of the free-flowing, single-paragraph, no-quotation-marks sort of style, which absolutely drives me up the wall. It makes me feel as though the entire book takes place in a dream – underscored by the fact that none of the central characters have names, referred to simply as “Mother” or “Younger Brother.”

Which is a shame, because Doctorow writes quite beautifully in other ways, painting an evocative picture of New York in the very early years of the 20th century: the Lower East Side slums, the communist meetings, the power of the great industrialists. Probably not since Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay have I read a book which so joyfully celebrates the zeitgeist of another era without ignoring its moral failures, its racism, its poverty.

It’s not bad. It’s fine. I just wish Doctorow had written Ragtime as more of an actual, you know, narrative. One with characters and talking and other shamefully passe concepts.

The North Water by Ian McGuire (2016) 326 p.

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A novel set on a whaling ship in the 19th century, especially one longlisted for the Booker Prize, will inevitably draw comparisons to Moby-Dick. You can forget about that; The North Water is completely different. Sure, it still focuses on the dark heart of man and ineffable temptation and all that, but this is more Jack London than Herman Melville. I was actually quite surprised, given all the broadsheet praise it got, how plot-driven and gripping it was – not that that’s a problem.

Patrick Sumner, a disgraced Army surgeon, signs aboard the Volunteer out of Hull, as does Henry Drax, a brutish and violent harpooner. There are various threads at play: a corrupt owner and skipper plotting insurance fraud, and Sumner’s valuable gold ring coveted by his unscrupulous shipmates. But the main story here is about Sumner and Drax, a principled man versus a monster, and the crimes and rivalry that play out between them.

This is one of the most compelling page-turners I’ve read in quite a while, which is a pleasant surprise when you’re going in expecting a Moby-Dick knock-off. It can sometimes be a little too neat; the conclusion in particular feels a bit perfectly Hollywood, with the story coming geographically full circle and the guilty being punished for their crimes, although this is tempered somewhat by a melancholy epilogue. I can see why it didn’t make the Booker shortlist; it’s a cut above most historical thrillers, but still lacks that certain something to make it truly great. But for its sense of adventure, its intricate gears of plot, of cause and effect, of going in entirely unexpected directions – I liked it a hell of a lot.

Beast by Paul Kingsnorth (2016) 168 p.

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Paul Kingsnorth’s debut novel The Wake was a masterful account of a guerilla fighter during the Norman invasion of England; a story about a bitter and broken man who’s not as important or powerful as he thinks he is, written in an invented English “shadow tongue” to mimic the speech patterns of 11th century England. Following the novel’s success, Kingsnorth said he planned to write two more as a loose ‘England’ trilogy – a second novel set a thousand years later, in the present day, and a third novel set a thousand years after that, far in the future. These would obviously be very different books, but since The Wake was one of the best novels I read all year, I was looking forward to see what Kingsnorth did next.

Unfortunately Beast is a disappointment. The second novel of the trilogy, it’s set in the present day, but it could as easily have been set whenever. The narrator is living as a hermit on a rural moor, having walked away from his partner and infant child to go on a vision quest or something – Why I Gave Up Social Media, by Edward Buckmaster. (Given that Buccmaster of Holland in The Wake was an unreliable narrator and unsympathetic character, I don’t think Kingsnorth is necessarily supportive of this kind of neo-Luddism; on the other hand, given all his non-fiction I’ve read, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was.) Following an accident when his hut collapses on him, Buckmaster seems to be knocked into some kind of dream state or new reality – it’s all very disjointed-confused-narration-style, gradually degrading as the book goes on – in which the land is devoid of birdsong, the skies are eternally white, he cannot seem to leave the moor and he is being stalked by a strange, large creature.

Normally this kind of thing would be right up my alley, but the narration lost me. I loved The Wake’s shadow English, I loved the subtle clues that Buccmaster was dishonest, a liar, a psychopath. The narration of Beast, on the other hand, is the ramblings of a man slowly losing his mind. His plight is not particularly interesting given how unclear it is that it’s even really happening. Beast only runs for 168 pages, which was more than enough for my liking.

Having said that, perhaps in retrospect it will sit more comfortably as the bridging act in a trilogy. Kingsnorth is a talented writer, and given some of his published statements about environmentalism (he’s a self-professed “climate defeatist”) I still look forward to reading his depiction of England 1,000 years hence.

Vampires in the Lemon Grove by Karen Russell (2013) 243 p.

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A collection of short stories by Karen Russell, author of 2011’s Pulitzer-snubbed Swamplandia. For my taste her writing style is a bit too contemporary, overly-polished American MFA graduate – but she has a great imagination and these stories are very weird and very enjoyable. For me the standout was ‘The Barn At The End of Our Term,’ in which various presidents of the United States have been reincarnated as horses on a farm somewhere. What feels like a weird joke of a story is strangely sad and touching – are the presidents in Hell? Have they gone insane? Why has this happened to them, and how can they leave? I also quite liked ‘Proving Up,’ a dark and frightening Western fantasy. These are the kinds of stories I’d like to see more in modern American fiction, and I’ll definitely be checking out Swamplandia.

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