Final Fantasy VII Remake

 I'm old enough to remember the PlayStation 3 technical demo of the original Final Fantasy VII opening. I'm old enough to remember the original Final Fantasy VII coming out. Crikey, I'm old enough to remember people at my primary school playing it and reporting back that actually, yes, this is very good, even if it looks like it was sponsored by Megablocks. It was, after all, 1997, and the glow-up the introduction received in 2005 simply rendered existing content into something that looked more palatable to an audience that wasn't going to put up with old-fashioned early pixel character models. I mean...

Fast-forward 26 years and I've finally completed the first part of the Final Fantasy VII remake, originally titled Final Fantasy VII Remake. It seemed a good time. With Rebirth on the way it was about time I tied off the loose ends of a narrative that perhaps didn't do anything to shock, but did plenty to thrill.

I'm pleased to report those late-1990s character models are gone. Final Fantasy VII Remake is a graphical and technical marvel that pushes the PlayStation 4 to its limits. Midgar never looked so good. Well, Midgar never looked good - the whole idea is that it's an industrial hellscape ruled and ruined by one corporate entity, like Saltaire gone wrong - but the slums under the plates of the city in the sky have been given an incredible glow-up. The environments are sensationally produced. There's a sense of finally realising a vision in the environments and designs. No longer do we see the limitations of pre-rendered backgrounds (no matter how much I remain in love with such retro concepts); instead, we get this:

That's gameplay footage, from chapter 15. The world of Midgar, the city of Shinra, feels so real and immersive it's possible to get lost in it.

Which leads neatly to what will immerse many people: the plot. The narrative. The story.

The Shinra Electric Power Company is draining the planet of its mako energy. Eco-warriors/terrorists Avalanche contract with former Shinra SOLDIER operative, the mercenary Cloud Strife, to make strikes upon the mako reactors that produce energy at the cost of the planet's life. The cast of characters is that of the 1997 original. Barret Wallace, the gruff and good-hearted leader of the band. Tifa Lockheart, Cloud's childhood friend and martial arts expert. Eventually, circumstances lead to them being joined by Aerith Gainsborough and, at the very end, Red XIII, who sadly isn't playable. That decision does make sense; introducing another playable character about 5 hours from the end of a 40-hour game, who would need new mechanics and options, would have been a technical challenge to the producers and likely to break the player from their finely-balanced battle tactics.

The game focuses on the first quarter or so of the original; there is nothing beyond Midgar in this first instalment of a likely three. The game ends with the ragtag band of heroes leaving Midgar behind them, to strike their way across the world. That isn't to say later events aren't referenced - foreshadowing plays a huge, perhaps onerous, part in the narrative - but the scope of the game is restricted.

What this does mean is a narrative focus that investigates Midgar and its denizens far more. Don Corneo, for instance, plays a more significant part in the game. As do Avalanche operatives Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie, who feature as minor players in the first 4 hours or so of the original but who here get fully fleshed-out characters and backstories. There's an added complexity which augments the original storyline in many respects.

The downside of this is that sometimes the additions to the story just don't work. A 2-hour quest to Jessie's parents is just one of several examples of unnecessary sidetracks to the main quest. Yes, there's a boss battle at the end of it, but what was the point? To show Shinra up as the bad guy? It goes nowhere and adds nothing. It is filler.

That being said, most of the additions add something. Take, for example, the climb from Wall Market to the Shinra building which comprises chapter 15. For the most part, it is pure gameplay, but then there are moments of poignant reflection. The destruction of the Sector 7 plate is brought home as you first walk through the topside parts of the plate, then climb to see the scale of destruction. The arbitrary cruelty of Shinra is brought home in a far more effective way than in the original. Plus, thanks to the well-balanced action RPG gameplay, you're always moving and always busy.

Then there are the changes to the story. There is one significant change to the story, well-documented elsewhere, which may have huge repercussions. Not least to my ego, as it's just gone through this other part of the backstory of Final Fantasy VII and in some ways feels betrayed, for all the narrative possibilities this opens up. This is, when all's said and done, no longer the comfortable world of 1997; this is a new world of Final Fantasy VII that could do things we just haven't seen before.

A special word for the gameplay. To complete the game, you'll spend about 35 hours with a controller in your hands; it has to engage and grip, and, for the most part it does.  Action RPGs aren't my thing, not when compared to old-fashioned turn-based games, but Final Fantasy VII Remake balances the two well. It emphasises action and forces you into quick-paced battles requiring tactical thought and positive activity. You have to attack to build the ATB gauge, allowing you to perform other actions; it takes some getting used to, and it's not a choice I would have made as if you are hard-pressed in a battle you can find it impossible to find your footing. Of course, this is offset by making the right choices in equipment and materia; making those choices well can make your life easier, without breaking the game. The risk the game runs is always going a little too far; battles, although fast-paced and riddled with decisions, have a tendency to linger for too long as basic attacks only do so much and the ATB issue leads to battles being dragged out.

There are truly epic battles to enjoy. The Airburster boss battle stands out, not least because it is fought against a background of a heavy symphonic metal remix of 'Those Who Fight Further', the original boss battle theme. Meanwhile, the Blade Runner aesthetic of the setting, complete with the holographic head of President Shinra himself, lends something to this particular highlight of the game. Players looking for those epic fights, combining tactical nous with brute strength, will not be disappointed, even if the common battles can become a little repetitive.

There's much to recommend in Final Fantasy VII Remake. Players of the original, like myself, will enjoy the sense of nostalgia and, yes, fanservice. Memorable moments are reproduced. Yes, Cloud dressing up as a young woman is still intact and as ridiculous as ever, even if thankfully many of the attitudes from the original are replaced by a more modern sensibility. Yes, the chase after escaping from the Shinra building is there and fully-playable. And yes, there is that 'ooomph' moment at the very outset. But there's also much here for the newcomer. There's a sense that this is a new beginning.

The Places in Between

 In his afterword, Rory Stewart explains the odd afterlife his 2001-2 walk through central Afghanistan has undergone. It has become a comment on a moment in time, between the rule of the Taliban and NATO's attempts to impose liberal democracy on what the West regularly terms a failed state. Stewart himself is unequivocal: this was not his aim. He simply wanted to walk across Afghanistan.

An odd goal, perhaps, given the dangers involved. It is hard to imagine many places more dangerous than Afghanistan in the weeks after the fall of the Taliban in 2001. What structures there had been had collapsed. A power vacuum existed, being filled by tribal leaders and traditional village leadership. The legacy of a decade and a half of invasions, power shifts and failed initiatives, going up to the post-9/11 invasion of Afghanistan.

Once again, that's what the Western narrative would suggest. And it is hard to read Rory Stewart's book without using Western eyes, sensible to the rule of law and sense of shared, common identity. Afghanistan, viewed through those eyes, does appear to be a failed state. But that, as every person Stewart met showed, is viewing Afghanistan as a geo-political problem and not necessarily a social one.

The Afghanistan Stewart walked through is one quite probably very similar to one that exists today, in the aftermath of the disastrous Western withdrawal in 2021. The Taliban continue to be zealots who vandalise the cultural heritage of this place in between; in between the Persian world of Iran and the structured Islamic world of Pakistan. Local justice - often based on Sharia law - is still dispensed under trees by village headmen rather than through a formalised court system. Viewed in such a light, Afghanistan is not a country that we would recognise as a nation state.

But that's the beauty of this astonishing book. Those places in between - the villages of central Afghanistan, in the mountain passes, where UN advisors and international experts were told it was too dangerous to travel - are Afghanistan. I would not want to go travelling there myself; today, as in 2001, it is simply too dangerous for someone unprepared. But it is in those places that millions of Afghans live, in villages that still work within a feudal system. Afghanistan isn't a Western democracy; it is a place of its own that the West has fundamentally misunderstood in two decades of foreign policy failure.

But that wasn't the point of the book. The point was the people. From the security escorts provided to Stewart in the early legs of his six-week walk, to the headmen he met, Afghanistan teems with complex humanity. It is those individuals and Stewart's interactions with them that form the basis of the book. It is fundamentally a travel book, interlaced with the history of Afghanistan. Every person he met on his journey he met on organic terms, not those imposed by some international treaty or agreement. Stewart saw villages and their social structures in operation. He met the kind, the cruel, the honest, the vindictive, the decent, the hospitable, the xenophobic and all other types in the human tapestry. He stayed on mosque floors and ate the bread of hospitality. And that is the backbone of this book: humanity.

Stewart doesn't always emerge to his credit - there are times when he is almost stereotypically the Brit abroad, domineering, abrasive, and stubborn - but in hindsight it's clear that he learned at every step, whether dealing with his security detail or with former Taliban commanders. He learned the country in a way few could do without spending weeks immersed in its people and landscapes. His affection for the place, despite its dangers, shines through. There are times when Afghanistan's beauty is able to shine; sadly, these times tend to be when he discusses the rich history of Afghanistan or its unforgiving geography, and not the very human problems that have dogged the place for centuries.

The Places in Between will live with me for a long time. In places poignant, in others brutal and unflinching, it is a book that touches on the entirety of human experience on the fringes of Western understanding. It is hard to read it without feeling something of the pity that exists in such a place.

The Prime Ministers

 Iain Dale's book has a major problem. In providing profiles of 55 men and women who have held the office of Prime Minister (or First Lord of the Treasury), there's something missing. To be specific, the latest incumbents of the office. As up-to-date as the book is, being published only in mid-2022, events of mid- to late-2022 are missing. So no Truss. No Sunak. Anyone hoping for anything more recent than covid will find themselves sadly disappointed.

Such have events been. No longer is George Canning, ailing at his accession to office, the shortest-serving PM. At least Iain McLeod holds his record at the shortest-serving Chancellor of the Exchequer, even if it's because he sadly died just 30 days into the job - rather than spending October crashing the economy on a mad, ideologically-driven 'dash for growth' that was doomed to failure necessitating removal from office to the backbenches.

At least for 54 of the 55 PMs there is an up-to-date analysis of their achievements and failures in office. Even then, Dale's own analysis of then-premier Boris Johnson - and how long does it feel since that could be said? - rings true. The personal charms of Johnson do not outweigh the fact that, even before Partygate and resignation scandals, his political achievements were limited to bikes on loan while he was Mayor of London. Dale reserves judgment, but places Johnson squarely in the bottom half of the league table of Prime Ministers; there's even the caveat that he could rank lower.

Recent history is where this collection of biographical essays excels. Historians, politicians, and journalists contribute one essay each to outline the achievements of the men who, since Robert Walpole, have assumed the mantle of political leadership. From the mid-nineteenth century on, as politics assumed its modern shape and the constitution settled into something reconisable, with familiar parties and conventions, the writing becomes stronger. The judgments made by the authors - if coloured by partisanship and personal inclinations - hold true in the light of ideas in 2023. Particular highlights include Rachel Reeves writing on Harold Wilson, the essay on Herbert Asquith, and Adam Boulton's fine judgment on David Cameron's tuneless leadership.

At its strongest, the book puts to one side the political ideas of the authors and provides a dispassionate and compelling overview of the development of the office and achievements of its holders. This is something that, despite the stronger second half, the first half also achieves. But it is this overview which holds back the book. This is inevitable; 300 years and 55 men and women are covered in 508 pages. Each essay can only ever be a summary; much will be missed. Going to Harold Wilson, having recently read a 500-page biography on him alone it is something of a shock to see his premierships distilled into 10 pages, little over 4,000 words.

This is particularly a problem for controversial PMs who made great achievements, particularly in the modern age. Henry Campbell-Bannerman and Herbert Asquith are limited, between them, to fewer than 20 pages despite being the achitects of modern social structures and the beginnings of the welfare state, with its move away from laissez-faire government. David Cameron, who achieved the square root of nothing beyond sticking parts of his appendage in dead farmyard animals (allegedly), gets ten pages, just a couple fewer than William Pitt the Younger and significantly more than Earl Grey, who began the process of democratisation - not that he would recognise it as such. This is most obviously problematic with Thatcher; fourteen pages is nowhere near enough time for a proper assessment of her leadership style, her achievements, her failures, and her impact both in the short- and long-term. The result is an unbalanced essay, focusing as much on Thatcher's personality and not her rearrangement of the British economy; even the miner's strike barely warrants a mention.

Although most contributors retain some semblance of balance, there are exceptions. Criticisms of the 1945-51 Labour government's open cast mining policy crop up in a discussion of the mid-eighteenth century Duke of Newcastle, despite having no relevance to the point being made. Most PMs escape truly scathing criticism, even when they bore responsibility for significant failures in foreign or domestic policy. Nobody is held responsible for the Great Famine in Ireland for instance - another major event conveniently skated over by multiple authors. There's little discussion of imperial policy; perhaps because it could be an entire series of books in itself, but when considering several hundred years of history it seems a glaring oversight. From a history teaching standpoint, the book provides a goldmine of interpretations.

The other major problem - again, inevitable in a volume of this nature - is the inconsistency of the writing. Some essays provide excellent writing alongside skilfully woven analysis. Others, less so. These tend to be the co-opted politicians, those who are intelligent and know their subject, but who do not have the experience of writing for anything other than a political audience. Most essays are at least readable, but there's a special place in literary hell for Nicky Morgan after her appalling excuse for an essay on Lord North. Less an essay, more a bullet-pointed chronology of events, she manages to somehow overlook the key point of his premiership, whether or not he was to blame for this: the loss of the Thirteen Colonies and its impact on both Britain and the wider world. And that is without mentioning the fact that the writing in that essay is utterly abominable. 'In 1779... By October 1779... In 1780...' It would be an insult to an A Level student to describe it as a 17-year-old's standard of writing; I'd back my students to write something better, given the subject material. It must be her drive for an improvement of literary standards that makes me say that.

To sum up The Prime Ministers is a tough ask. As a primer for British political history, it serves a purpose. Its inconsistency is problematic, and a reader needs some knowledge of British politcal history to be able to analyse each essay and its author; itself a problem for those seeking instruction. But I can recommend it, with the caveats above. It is far from authoritative - and to be fair it doesn't seek to be - but it has proven useful in filling in certain knowledge gaps, particularly in the tricky nineteenth century.

Femina

You may know Janina Ramirez from the TV. She's presented plenty of documentaries on the BBC, not least the excellent Raiders of the Lost Past, where she riffs off Indiana Jones to place historical discoveries within their wider historiographical context. She's also a Cambridge professor, an art historian who regularly appears on podcasts like You're Dead to Me, and who, while taking history seriously, doesn't take herself too seriously. We need more of Janina Ramirez.

You may be less aware of her publishing credits. Not too long ago, I enjoyed The Private Lives of the Saints, which tackled issues of Anglo-Saxon faith and belief in an increasingly politically complex world. And her newest work, Femina, has moved on from there. It's a challenging work, which brings medieval scholarship up to the modern day. When someone is asking why is medieval history relevant to our world today, there's nothing more you can do than point the questioner in the direction of Femina.

Telling the story of women written out of history owing to their position as women, Femina sheds new light on the Middle Ages. What becomes clear quickly is that the women written out of history have been written out by historians; they were appreciated and admired in their own time and in their own place. We have the Loftus Princess, unknown to us but venerated by the people she lived cheek by jowl with. We hear of Jadwiga, Europe's only (successful) female king, whose legacy was a united Poland and the final pagan bastion of Europe conquered by Catholicism. We meet Margaery Kempe, a merchant and sage of King's Lynn, and a woman of the world.

The Church runs as a theme throughout, as is to be expected. Whether it's the dawn of Catholocism in England, monasteries in the south east or Germany, Crusades in Lithuania, or accusations of heresy through either the Cathars or Lollardy, we see the extent to which the power of the Church was influenced by and exerted control over the women of the Middle Ages. But women aren't subservient. We hear their authentic voices from their own accounts, particularly from women like Margaery Kempe who have their stories recorded through documents that have survived the centuries.

What has to be said, and this is a problem that fundamentally exists with history itself, is that the 'untold stories' have already been told. Individually, and in unknown documents, it is true; perhaps never put together thematically and as a part of a bigger story. But the fact remains: we do not know about other women. We can only extrapolate from what we know of these women, who tend to be more powerful due to the issues of recorded history. It's also true that we get the chance to dig in to the archaeology, which gives more of a voice to the voiceless, but we don't really get to know about individuals unless they already have a voice.

What Femina does, though, is correct the historical record in relation to the influence of those women. Although they have had voices heard and researched, they have been sidelined to allow for the power-plays of men to take centre stage. This is what Femina corrects. This is a narrative interwoven with what we know. It doesn't act as a complete rewriting of history, but it does challenge existing social and political power structures in relation to the experience of women in the Middle Ages.

Something else Femina does is bring the Middle Ages into the twenty-first century. The final chapter in particular corrects narratives that have been allowed to settle into historical debate unchallenged for far too long. Two examples help to challenge the white cis male power structures. The ideas of transsexuality and race are placed in a wider context. What is clear is that these are not issues that began in the twentieth century. Of particular importance right now is the issue of gender identity. Medieval people had their ideas, and we should not impose modern ideas on, for instance, the fourteenth century, but in the case of a non-cis individual arrested for prostitution with a man, challenges are made to the way we think of gender identity and the way medieval people thought of it. Although physically a man, the person involved was acting as a woman. Prostitution was something only a woman could do, according to medieval sensibilities, but sodomy was a thing only a man could engage in. It was a challenge to established ideas and we should not kid ourselves that the trans debate (such as it is; for me, just accept people without being a prat is a fair way forward) is anything truly new. This is history as current affairs, and it provides a thought-provoking counter to much contemporary debate.

We also see a black woman of African origin, dying in London during the height of the Black Death. The Empire Windrush was never the first example of people of colour coming into Britain, despite what certain narratives would have us believe. Miranda Kaufman's Black Tudors was an excellent counterweight to conventional (and incorrect) narratives, but Femina plays its part in widening the historical debate still further. London, recent research has shown, would have been just as diverse in the 1340s as it is today.

Whether Femina quite manages its ambitious aims is open to some debate. But debate is what it wants you to do. It wants you to question your vision of the past. It will challenge you. It accepts its biases (one for the year 7s there) and makes its case strongly. Whether you've heard of Janina Ramirez or not - and if you haven't, I pity you for missing out on one of the most enthusiastic medievalists out there - this is a book well worthy of your time.

The Age of Madness

Say this for Joe Abercrombie: he tests himself.

Say this for Joe Abercrombie: he tests his reader.

Say this final thing for Joe Abercrombie: he's never dull.

Fantasy is all too often about preservation of the status quo. There is something inherently conservative about it in that sense. Pared down to its bare bones - and more of those later - pastoral good defeats industrial evil. JRR Tolkein has much to answer for in that sense. Modern fantasy has started to make moves away from this, but change - fundamental societal and technological change - hasn't really been tackled. Even the best modern fantasy - I'm looking at you, Winnowing Flame trilogy - harks back to preservation over progress.

There are, of course, exceptions. And, of course, Joe Abercrombie marks himself out as one of them. The self-appointed (with good reason, it should be said) Lord Grimdark has always challenged traditional fantasy tropes. In the bloody vanguard of the grimdark movement thanks to the First Law trilogy and its associated standalone novels, he has never been afraid to tackle fantasy conventions head-on. You root for the morally grey - or, in the case of the Bloody Nine himself, the out and out black and evil - in a world of questionable morals. Flaws are inherent in his characters. Idealism be hanged; sometimes literally. This is a world that doesn't dress itself up as perfect.

And, when all is said and done, why would you want to preserve a world like this? This is a world where the central nation, the Union, operates under an anti-democratic closed council. Opponents to the oppressive regime are persued by a secret police that uses the most brutal methods possible to preserve (that word again) power for the ruling few. What could be testing for the reader is how dark it can get. This is a violent world. TV Tropes actively describes it, in an understatement, as a crapsack world that actively makes decent people worse. No wonder the people in it hanker after a Great Change.

Abercrombie's writing ranks amongst the best the genre has to offer. This is a dark, depressing world, but it's leavened with humour - often black - that offers respite. We see regular use of catchphrases to build character. Characters' dialogue feels organic. The world-building is consistently superb, particularly as we see the reinvention of an established world. The writing is sharp and focused, with hardly a wasted world. For no other reason, every fantasy fan and writer should make sure they read at least one of his later novels.

If you're looking for pace, then perhaps the Age of Madness isn't the best place to start with Abercrombie's work. My own preference is for the relentless rhythm and power of the Shattered Sea trilogy when it comes to a relentless narrative thrust. And if you're looking for real focus in the characters, the First Law standalone Best Served Cold offers more. But if you want challenge, and ideas, and invention, the best thing to read is undoubtedly the Age of Madness, the third (second? Does a trilogy of standalone novels count as a trilogy?) trilogy in the First Law world.

Change has been in the offing before. Political consequences have always been inherent within the world. Civilisations rise and fall. But most importantly: things move on. Red Country, the final standalone after the First Law, laid the foundations for a revolution. An Industrial Revolution.

And that is where we pick up. Time has moved on since the first trilogy, as we return in earnest to Adua, capital of the Union, for the first time since Bayaz, First of the Magi, destroyed the Agriont to preserve his political experiment. Thirty or so years have passed. King Jezal, put on the throne by Bayaz himself, is nearing the end of his life, his hedonist delinquent son Orso completely unsuited to rule, while the Closed Council continues to rule with an iron fist. In many regards, this is familiar territory. Unchanging fantasy.

But wait. Those changes in Red Country - itself a pastiche of the western genre - are being felt in Adua. The chimneys of industry rise. We hear of canals and capitalism run amok. Iron rails begin to stretch out of Adua, snaking into the Union itself. Investments by the rich are offset by ruthless exploitation of the poor. Simplified, we see the exploitation of the working class through predictably brutal methods.

It is in this world that we see a collection of interesting - and inevitably flawed - characters. Savine dan Glokta, the ruthless daughter of Sand dan Glokta from the first trilogy, is an amoral investor, a manipulator of men, and noted beauty. At the start of the trilogy, she is engaged in an illicit - and inevitably explicit - affair with Prince Orso. Across the sea, in the North, we find Rikke, the Dogman's daughter, blessed, or maybe cursed, with visions of the future. We also find Leo dan Brock, the Young Lion, the closest we find to a hero at the very start of the series.

If that all sounds safe and easy, rest assured it doesn't stay that way as we navigate a fantasy Industrial Revolution and all it entails. I have missed out many characters who are met during the 1,700 pages or so of the trilogy, and it is these characters who offer much of the moral complexity of Abercrombie's writing. These characters mean it is never short of compelling.

And never short of challenging. Change is inherent in what Abercrombie tries to do. This is the work of a writer unafraid of stetching what is possible within the genre. We see many normal low fantasy traits - we have battles, rebellions, plenty of politicking - but we also see a Great Change akin to the French Revolution. Ideas leap off the page, and the extent to which Abercrombie tests the conventions of fantasy becomes apparent the more we progress.

Perhaps it is inevitable in a series of books this wide-ranging and dense. When I say hardly a word is wasted, this is one of the most tightly-written series you'll come across. In a less masterful writer's hands, the books could easily have been twice the length. What it does mean is that unless you're paying full attention, key moments can be missed. It also meant that at times it feels like the Age of Madness is trying to do too much.

That being said, it's always better to stretch both reader and writer than it is to stick with what is safe and secure. And although some aspects of the Age of Madness don't quite land, one way or another, it is still one of the most significant works in modern fantasy. It is a series fundamentally about change, and about people in that change, and it takes fantasy into - if not uncharted territory - territory that has hardly been explored before. On the fringes of the map we see the cartography of a modern master.

Say this for Joe Abercrombie: he's worth a read.

Too Like the Lightning

Imagine, reader, that you are the perpetrator of the worst mass murder seen in a utopian society for many years. Imagine that rather than face the ultimate penalty the rest of your days are spent in perpetual penance but in secret, as your very identity poses a risk to your safety. Imagine that you are the one man - or woman, for sex is no hindrance to this - able to balance economies and realities and that you live, almost paradoxically, in a private hive home, surrounded by the humanist and the utopian. The broken and the damned surround you and power flexes itself around you at all times.

Congratulations, reader, for you have placed yourself in the realms of Too Like the Lightning, Ada Palmer's philisophical 2016 science fiction novel. It is a novel of contradictions, set in a world completely alien to our own 21st century sensibilities.

And perhaps it is that which meant I could not finish it.

This is a strange novel. Not just for its content, which, as I have already said, feels completely out of the realms of the modern man's - or woman's  - experience. But also for its style. Its plot. Its philosophy. This is a novel that can completely alienate the reader, such as yourself, dear reader, if you do not understand its minutiae.

I did not read the novel, it should be said. I listened to it. For twenty hours, my listening was confused and somewhat lost. My questions outweighed my answers. At times, I completely lost track of what was going on. Snippets of sense emerged, but they were few and far between. Despite this, I persevered; it takes something else to defeat me in a quest to read a book such as this.

This curious mix of Thomas More and Frank Herbert (alongside the Marquis De Sade - this is the one thing I wish I was kidding about) attempts to combine future economics and politics with the unbelievable elements of a boy who can animate the inanimate. It is ambitious. It is beautifully written. It also incorporates elements of gender theory - about the only thing I understood - with eighteenth century writing style.

If I have lost you in this review, reader, I apologise. You are my master in this and I should not have let you down. But this emulation of the written style does not include how unreliable Mycroft, our first person narrator, is. Or does it? Certainly this is a pale imitation of it, bereft of many of the ideosyncracies that actually made the style interesting to listen to even when it was impenetrable.

I did not enjoy Too Like the Lightning, but I do not regret having read it. Perhaps this is a book to be pored over rather than listened to - in the car, no less, dear reader. It may be a book that rewards the tooth-combing reader who can understand the philosophy and the seemingly plotless nature of the novel. I cannot make a judgement for you, though, dear reader, and I would encourage you to form your own judgement rather than rely on my unreliable perspective.

The Year of the Word

Each year begins with a challenge to myself. Read more women. Read more from around the globe. Read a particular series. Simply read. The challenge depends on how the year looks in prospect. The decision to get an Audible account made all challenges significantly easier, it has to be said, but in general reading time has been harder to come by in the past couple of years. Having a family will do that.

So what shall it be this year? Come, come, we haven't got all day to decide. What I choose to entertain myself with shall inform my choice of book.

Last year, it was the year of the classic. Dickens. Elliot. Du Maurier. Austen. Brontë. All featured highly in my year's reading. Dickens in particular found himself a staple of my... well, listening, if you must know the truth, but then Dickens should be listened to rather than simply read. You don't get the tempo of the writing, the organic nature of the dialogue, the sense of knowing characters through rambles and interactions like friends. Were I reading his work I'd probably find it insufferable and unfocused, meandering to an ill-defined conclusion. But listened to, the language sings and provides joy.

So what of this year? This year is not a year for the classics, although Audible having many from the nineteenth century available to listen to for free as part of my membership inevitably means I'll rattle through a few from Hardy, Trollope and others. No, this year is a year for something else: 500 words per day of writing.

It's a change. And yes, I'm cheating already. I'm counting these words as a part of my daily quota, so I have something at stake in making this as rambling as possible. Talking around the issue is, of course, a speciality for Dickens and there's much to be learned from the master of the meander, but I also need to ensure in my writing I have more focus.

500 words a day is hopefully less than an hour each and every day. By the end of the year, it's 182,500 words; two good novels, although I set no targets for what I write, simply the amount. Yes, I want to write certain stories. Yes, there are some things on my to-do list. But what is more important is rediscovering the habit of opening a Word document (or Pages, as it is on my laptop) and getting words on a blank sheet. It's opening a blog to crystallise thoughts - perhaps on writing, perhaps on history, perhaps on politics, perhaps on something completely different - and hold myself to account.

This year, you can expect to hear more from me. And I hope to make it interesting.