House of the Drag-on

Pace. I'm told - constantly - that pace is the key to anything. No more so than in narrative. It has to shift, increasing and decreasing as appropriate. The conventional wisdom is to start slow and to build up to a rapid conclusion. John Le Carré was the master of this; just see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy for confirmation.

House of the Dragon, Sky and HBO's Game of Thrones prequel, needs to learn a lesson when it comes to pacing. And, for that matter, focus. This isn't to criticise too strongly; there are so many elements of House of the Dragon deserving of praise that there are times it is possible to forget issues of pacing, timing, and narrative focus. The problem isn't those times; it's the blank spaces in between. Game of Thrones was more narratively daring, while based on A Song of Ice and Fire, than many other TV series. It was one of the reasons it was successful. The cut and thrust of faux-medieval politics didn't lend itself to a single-thread narrative, and so the ensemble came into its own. Add to that, nobody was safe. There was no guaranteed 'point' to a character or a narrative thread. They could be snuffed out in an instant while having little bearing on the overall plot. Key characters could reach stupid endings, even without bearing the finale in mind. And this was a strength. Unpredictability, a refusal to conform to norms, and a glorious pacing - interspersing realpolitik with action-adventure - led to a compelling watch.

This was the great strength of George R.R. Martin. For those of us who have read more than just A Song of Ice and Fire, we're aware that he doesn't do 'normal'. Fevre Dream, an earlier work of Vampires on the Mississippi, had similar pacing. It wasn't an instant hook, that's true, but it maintained attention, had moments of dread, of fear, and of action that meant it never got dull.

Now compare to House of the Dragon.

King Viserys reigns. Not the hot-headed, borderline insane brother of Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, but his ancestor. A man who had the good fortune to inherit a peaceful kingdom from his predecessor, but who equally inherits the seeds of the dynastic conflict that became known as the Dance of the Dragons. His inheritance over the Princess Rhaenys set a precedent; women cannot inherit the iron throne, so when he bestows the throne upon his daughter, the realm's delight Princess Rhaenyra, he sets up the struggle between his later-born son Aegon and his eldest child.

So far, so good. The initial set-up may be slow, but it creates the intrigue we like, especially with characters like Otto Hightower and his daughter, Alicent. Alicent marries Viserys when his first wife, Aemma, dies in childbirth. Here we see the setting up on factions and the development of relationships and rivalries. We see the fall-out of this internal politicking as it affects the court of Viserys. We see, crucially, how ineffective the good man Viserys is as king.

 I'd be lying if I said early episodes weren't interesting. I'd be lying just as much if I said later ones weren't either. The drama is interesting, it's just... glacial. And after the finale of the first series, who can blame the showrunners for wanting to go slow? It's a welcome return to gradual building and plotting, it just lasts too long. Add to that one of the series' biggest flaws: what happens off-screen. We're told of war in the Stepstones. We even get to see a glimpse of it when Viserys' brother, the scene-stealing Daemon (played by Matt Smith, so that shouldn't be a surprise) pitches up alongside Corlys Velaryon - better known as the Seasnake - to produce a rare early action scene. But we're kept in the dark about its significance and most of the action surrounding it. We never really see the Seasnake's power in action; we're told of it, but when push comes to shove we only see Daemon Targaryen doing things based on the rule of cool. Later we're told of deaths and injuries, but we don't see them. The significance is hidden from us.

To a point this makes sense. The narrative is intended to focus on the court of Viserys and the two rival factions for the throne after he passes, but the overall effect is to render the pacing consistently glacial. Very little feels like it happens. Characters are established, yes, but their wider significance to the Seven Kingdoms isn't made clear. Beyond the central cast, too, characters come and go almost without introductions. Outside Viserys, his wife, his eldest child, his brother and his Hand, everyone feels transitory, entering a tiny world and leaving it again without explanation.

Then there are the jumps in time. The series takes place over the better part of 20 years. We see half a decade skip past at times between episodes. Changes of actors are necessary - and for the most part the newcomer fills the previous incumbent's shoes without a hitch. While fidelity to the source material is laudable, I'm of the view that this has created an unnecessarily jarring situation for a more casual viewer. It's impossible to simply pick up a thread and run with it.

Put all of these issues together, and House of the Dragon is almost disappointing. Almost, but not quite. In and among the criticisms, there are some real nuggets of gold. The narrative direction is, in general, bold. Action, when it does come, is satisfying and serves real purpose; the flip side of keeping the narrative slow and character driven is that when the pace is increased, along with the stakes, it really matters. The showrunners have also learned from some of the big mistakes of Game of Thrones, most notably in the toned-down sex and language.

But at no point is House of the Dragon a comfortable watch. The issues of misogyny from Game of Thrones still exist. No matter the justification that some seem to believe - that misogyny was a medieval staple - there's still no excuse for some of it; if we can believe in dragons, we can tone down some of the dialogue to cancel some of the needless comments of 'whore' and such. Equally, there was a big problem with childbirth in the series; again, I understand the need for fidelity to the source material, and that childbirth was particularly hazardous for women in medieval (or pseudomedieval) society, but was there really a need to show multiple deaths in childbirth and stillbirths? So much went on off-screen that surely some of that could have been moved off-screen. It seemed to be there for a shock factor that was unnecessary. Had the darkness been leavened by humour at some points - something the Tyrion Lannisters of the original series provided - maybe it could have been more bearable, but House of the Dragon made itself almost unrelentingly dark.

Will I return for season two? Yes. For all its failings, House of the Dragon offered a return to form for the Game of Thrones universe and created enough in terms of compelling characters and storylines to keep me engaged. But would I like to see some changes? Absolutely yes. There was little by way of relief, and by the end the pacing was starting to really drag. Thankfully, with the advent of the Dance of the Dragons, more pace is promised next time around.

Bleak House

For three weeks I have toiled, worked, engaged my senses upon a reading task of mammoth proportions. My experience is that I am the richer for it. At a time when I am reacquainting myself with many classic works, Bleak House has been a task in itself. No faint heart had I in taking the challenge of reading this over a period of time when that very commodity was at a premium. And rewarded I found myself at each turn. Dickens' classic - argued my many to be his best - ostensibly tells the tale of the chancery case of Jarndyce v Jarndyce, a case once about a disputed will now taken over by the question of costs. Its beneficiaries, such as they are, frame the story as the case enters its very latest stages. The matter, it is made clear, was a great one of chancery. The opening chapter spells out most clearly just how murky the waters of the court have become. Nobody seems to know what is truly happening in the case. In true Dickens fashion, the case has descended to farce, with twenty-one barristers in court, some seeming to speak and to never speak again, melting into the wonderfully evocative mists of nineteenth century London. As a lawyer, Bleak House has long been recommended to me. I now see why. Daunted as I was at its prodigious length - running to almost 1,000 densely-printed pages in paperback - it has taken me some twelve years to finally read it since being recommended it as part of a law and literature unit at university. It is a book about law and about its more farcical elements. It is about reform. It is about wider society and Dickens' usual zeal for improvement. At once about nothing and everything, it is regarded by many as one of the greatest novels ever written. I can very much see why. But for that, it is a book of frustrations. Bound by its times while being a novel of social liberalism, we see women damned for children out of wedlock. We see the attitudes of the time both damned and accepted. We see the reformers forced to work within a stringent framework of a society out of touch with the needs of the most desperate. African reformers fail to see the world around them, obsessed as they are by their own projects. And all of this, running as a satirical seam throughout the substance of Bleak House, is what makes Bleak House a great book.

The Green Bone Saga

Fantasy. Sword and sorcery. Game of Thrones. Wheel of Time. To many, these are synonymous. Fantasy has a particular aesthetic. It must be medieval, western European, feudal. Even games like Skyrim riff heavily off Norse influences. Going further afield, the original formula for Final Fantasy was heavily European in its influences - sword and sorcery, knights in armour, paladins (yes, Final Fantasy IV, I'm looking at you), and so on. Only later did we see a change in the approach taken by the creators, with Final Fantasy VII and VIII being distinctly cyberpunk while retaining many more traditional fantasy elements.

What I've already said is a generalisation, but it holds true in many a case. Recent years have seen a more nuanced approach to fantasy developing. No longer is it exclusively the realm of JRR Tolkien and his disciples. Yes, many settings have remained the same, but narratives have grown away from the McGubbin quest. The genre has been refreshed by the likes of China Miéville, Jen Williams, Joe Abercrombie to name but three leading proponents of modern fantasy. Developments such as magical realism, combined with the influence of mythology outside the Norse standard (Neil Gaiman, do it please ya), outside genres (see: The Dark Tower), and ideas from tabletop (and video) gaming have revitalised a flagging genre. Add to that, we have seen outstanding writers writing truly magnificent multi-trilogy series. Robin Hobb is still the queen of fantasy.

But all of that has been distinctly medieval (at least, if we discount real-world set urban fantasy, which I've traditionally not enjoyed particularly). What has been missing, to really give new ideas, has been a modern world-inspired series that does something different.

Enter Fonda Lee.

"99p? Can't go wrong!"

I can't claim to have known of her before Amazon put Jade City on a 99p daily deal a couple of years back. My thinking was simply: 'it's fantasy, it's 99p, if I don't like it I haven't lost anything.' I've since learned she was an up-and-coming young adult writer with one successful series under her belt, turning her hand to adult fantasy for the first time. Since then, I've been hooked on the Green Bone Saga - Jade City, Jade War, and Jade Legacy - and will be looking for more of her work. Say what you like about Amazon (I normally do) but those 99p deals do work to promote newcomers.

Set in an east Asian-inspired island nation, Kekon, the Green Bone Saga follows one of the two main 'clans' in the country, the No Peak clan. Led by the Kaul family, there are strong overtures of the Godfather in the way the clan operates. Although legitimate and heavily involved in running the country, alongside rival/enemy clan, the Mountain, much of what the No Peaks do is shady. Murder, extortion, smuggling, you name it: it exists alongside the legitimate business side of the clan. There's a military side to the clan, led by the Horn. There's a business side, led by the Weather Man. And at its head there's the Pillar of the clan, Kaul Lan, grandson of a war hero who helped Kekon throw off the chains of Shontar in a previous war.

Uniting the clans is bioreactive jade, a substance that gives its wearers enhanced combat powers, such as the ability to deflect bullets, show super strength, perceive what others think, and (almost inevitably) jump far higher than ordinary individuals. Jade is seen as a Kekonese birthright, its wearers known as green bones, bound by an honour code known as aisho. Other nations want it, but cannot wear it without suffering madness. Even jade-wearers can suffer from its effects, as is seen throughout.

Set over a quarter of a century, the Green Bone Saga is a combination of family story, turf war,

This one wasn't 99p. Worth it though.

international political epic, and cultural reset for fantasy. In around 1,800 pages we see relationships grow, blossom, be snuffed out in an instant. We see rivalries used and subverted. Characters we grow to love are forced into situations we're desperate to see them escape from, knowing that they are not safe. Society changes and morphs in reaction to outside events, and we see how traditions are clung onto and altered in the face of overwhelming pressure.

This is not a series of good and bad, where evil is obvious. I nearly opened this review with the word of Obi-Wan Kenobi: 'Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.' We root for the Kauls and No Peak in their struggle against the Mountain because we see things from their perspective. We rarely see anything from otherwise. We grow used to seeing Espenians as jadeless outsiders. We dislike the opponents to jade. But when we see glimpses of those alternative perspectives we start to see that they are not bad guys. In fact, several of the characters we're rooting for could be monsters from another point of view. We see the characters we grow to love commit unconscionable actions, and yet we find ourselves almost justifying what they do. In that regard, it's a masterpiece of shades of grey. The justifications - the other side would do it if we didn't, we're protecting ourselves, it's the way it's always been - seem reasonable, but they ask questions of us. What could we justify for ourselves?

Neither is this a series where there's a truly overarching driving plot. Yes, there's an arc from beginning to end, but each character treads their own path within that arc. Sometimes they diverge from the path and disappear for a time. Sometimes they make missteps setting them back. The narrative is not conventional, but it is organic and it is utterly compelling.

Look, just read them.

If the story keeps you turning the page, the depth will keep you hooked. This isn't a conventional western fantasy by a long chalk. Yes, we see western elements - such as Espenia, which stands as a proxy for the USA - but the dominant cultures are inspired by Korea, China, and Hong Kong. In fact, Janloon, the main city of Kekon, reminds me very strongly of Hong Kong in its depictions, its post-colonial status, and its independence. The whole culture of modern east Asia, rich in history and tradition separate from the west, runs as a thick seam throughout the narrative. Clan sensibilities and psychology are based on that way of thinking, and it makes for a refreshing viewpoint. Fonda Lee has used non-western culture to change the whole vibe around her urban fantasy, and I cannot praise her highly enough for it.

This is a magnificently-realised world where modern technology and ideas clash with traditional culture. The characters are wonderfully and lovingly created. It has been a breath of fresh air over the past couple of years to indulge myself in Lee's masterpiece, and it has been an eye-opener as a writer. Every fantasy fan should read this trilogy.

Watership Down

 According to its own author, Watership Down is simply an adventure story told to his own children about rabbits. I, for one, don't buy it. On one level, it absolutely is that adventure story - and one with heart and soul and spirit - but on another it serves as allegory for totalitarianism, for human spirit, and for those freedoms enjoyed in democracy.

It may surprise you that I hadn't read Watership Down until now; I suppose some would argue that I still haven't. It was my monthly listen on Audible, with Peter Capaldi providing the narration. For a fortnight, between work and home, I listened to the adventures of Hazel, Fiver, Silver, Captain Holly, and - my own favourite - Bigwig, actively hoping for short delays just to listen that little bit longer. For seventeen and a half hours I was engrossed in the tale of a hardy bunch of rabbits forging their new home on Watership Down. And every second was worth it.

A good book for children works for all readers. It works for both child and parent when they read together as a shared experience, and it's possible to admire the skill that goes into its creation. I'd certainly argue that listening to a story like Watership Down makes you feel a child again, but with adult sensibilities. Those things that drift over a child's head are absorbed by the adult, so the literary references, the historical placements, the epigraphs at the beginning of each chapter, and wider social context all find their mark alongside the qualities of the story.

And what a story. On the one hand, we have the rabbits who leave their warren to escape its destruction by men as part of a housing project, attempting to find their own home. They think they find it, only to discover that secrets are being kept by their new hosts, and they set out again to find Watership Down itself. As the new warren comes under threat, the greatest crisis faces the rabbits of the warren in the form of General Woundwort and the dictatorship of the warren of Efrafa.

A child will love the adventure and the characters; an adult will love the adventure and the characters, but on a different level. For this is no simple tale. Interwoven with the main plot is the lore of the rabbits, that of the spiritual El-ahrairah and his adventures, told through tales and legends. The world of the rabbits is so well-realised, the characters so well-drawn, that they are more human than many - perhaps most - characters and tales you'll find elsewhere.

This is Watership Down's greatest strength: the characters. You care for them, and they are real. Not real in the sense of being physically real, but in the sense that they matter. The fact that they are rabbits and not anthropomorphised rabbits actually helps; these aren't rabbits who make their own tools, they do real rabbit things - from eating their own tods to eating their own young. This isn't glossed over, which is to Richard Adams' credit; too many children's books sanitise reality rather than tackle it. One of the reasons Horrible Histories is so popular is because kids don't want to be talked down to about the world, and Watership Down certainly doesn't do that.

But the characters... I find it hard to put into words the quality of the characters. There are no characatures here. What we have are rabbits that have their dominant traits, it's true, but which are never beholden to them. They may normally show good judgement, but they can become prideful and learn from that. They may be able to inspire loyalty, but make mistakes. They may have a set way, but eventually come around to a different way of thinking. And it's this humanity to them that generates so much empathy and sympathy. This is true of every character in the book. Even minor characters firstly play their part, and secondly find themselves being so well fleshed-out that you can't help but support and hope for them. The main antagonist, General Woundwort, is no different; yes, he's mad, yes, he's very much a sociopath, yes, he's a mortal threat, and yet... and yet... He's still so human in his way. Parallels can be drawn between him and every dictator of the twentieth century, every strongman who used violence 'for the greater good', to use a term from another beloved book.

Better commentators than I have linked Efrafa to the dictatorships of the twentieth century - especially notably East Germany and the erection of the Berlin Wall 10 years prior to the publication of Watership Down - but it is worth mentioning. This in spite of the author's own insistence that this is just a book about rabbits. I normally listen to the author and I'm inclined to believe them as they know their own art, but I can't help but think Richard Adams was being coy for the sake of this being a children's book.

Should a very young child read this, or have it read to them? Probably not. But should a child of ten be allowed to experience it? Absolutely. This should be a gateway book to literature. As an adult I regret not reading it when I was younger, only to experience it anew as an adult so I could see both levels of Adams' mastery. As an adult, I absolutely loved what I experienced.

The Interest: How the British Establishment Resisted the Abolition of Slavery

A myth - one of many to do with Britain and her history - exists to do with slavery. Ask a man in the street about it, and they will more often then not proudly proclaim that 'Britain was the first country in the world to outlaw the practice.' What is true is that in 1807 Britain stopped its legal involvement - I hesitate to go as far as to say abolished, considering that other countries continued the trade - in the transatlantic slave trade. A grass-roots campaign, waged over twenty years, resulted in Parliament finally legislating to stop that particular aspect of the horrors of human enslavement.

Another myth exists to do with British involvement in slavery. That myth holds that from 1807 slavery itself was in decline in the British Empire. Once again, were you to ask the average man on the street (or, to use the legal jargon, the man on the Clapham omnibus) they would tell you that slavery declined to nothing, and that this was because of the benevolence of the British state.

The fact that neither of those myths are true would never occur to the average British citizen. That is through no fault of their own.

Recent times have seen the so-called 'culture wars' break out. Pitching what on the outside appears to be traditional orthodoxy, celebrating British achievements in a nationalistic fervour, against a 'woke' revisionism that simply attacks any kind of British achievement, they reached their apogee last summer, as the statue of Edward Colston was upended and pitched head first into Bristol harbour by - depending on which polar opposite view you happen to hold - concerned citizens determined to erase the stains of the past from modern life, or a rabid mob attempting to wipe out history. As for the powers that be, on one hand, we are told that slavery was a great evil and that Britain can be proud of stamping it out; on the other, we're told to respect the statues and monuments built to men who profited from the forced labour of their fellow man. No wonder many people take the simplest and shortest path to understanding, even if that understanding is fundamentally wrong.

As Michael Taylor demonstrates in this excellent book, the British state should take no pride in its role in abolishing slavery itself. Instead, the credit belongs to others: from the grass-roots campaigners in Britain who played a crucial role in twisting arms, to the enslaved men and women themselves who rose up to force the West Indian planters to live in constant fear of those they had incarcerated. The British establishment, for all it now tells us that it gave men and women their liberty, actively conspired against the abolitionish lobby. Only when it was politically expedient did Parliament legislate. And even then, it was only after reform at home.

Yes, many of the protagonists were products of their time. Take the Duke of Wellington. The hero of Waterloo, a decorated soldier, fighting in Britain's interests abroad and a pragmatic politician. He's a man who, if he was learned about in school, would have been learned about for those qualities; there's no reason to doubt them. But if we hold a microscope to him and view his achievements and qualities with modern eyes, we start to see how problematic he was. Yes, he emancipated the Catholics despite being personally opposed, but he was also a supporter of the West India Interest, the cabal of planters who wanted to keep slavery. He was opposed to reform. No democrat, he served the interests of a section of British society; a part, and not the whole. Also take William Gladstone. The Liberal PM of the mid- to late-nineteenth century has a reputation as a great statesman - alongside his unusual nocturnal activities - beloved by many in society. He was certainly more of a democrat than Wellington, and yet his family made its riches as a direct result of slavery. He was a supporter of slavery himself in his early years, when he was more Tory than Liberal. Yes, he may have reformed. Yes, his background may have informed his beliefs. But when you consider that these were the great and the good - the men who held power and refused to release it - it becomes all the more clear that the establishment resisted the ending of slavery.

Even today the establishment is squeamish about its involvement in slavery. There has been no unqualified apology for the evils Britain unleashed on millions of black men and women. In 2015, David Cameron - a relatively enlightened Conservative, as these things go, who had been responsible for the great social revolution of gay marriage, against his party and the Church of England's wishes - failed to make an apology on an official visit to Jamaica. Tony Blair had also failed to do the same. Despite both men acknowledging the evils of the practice, neither was prepared to ask for forgiveness for Britain from the descendants of those it had exploited.

What Michael Taylor exposes is how the British establishment has manipulated the realities of what may fairly be termed a genocide in order to suit its own ends. Despite the fact that it held up the abolition of slavery, we are expected to be proud of the fact that it eventually caved to overwhelming pressure against its own interests, and even then chose to compensate itself rather than those it had exploited, it has somehow turned the abolition into a great British achievement. In truth, abolition was against the interests of those in power until after the Great Reform Act 1832, when Britain underwent a process of democratisation that sidelined the West India Interest.

This is an important book, that serves as a refreshing counterpoint to official narratives. Taylor shows just how abolition was resisted at every step, and only took place when it was no longer in the ruling political class's interests to maintain the status quo. At every step, the institutions of Britain fought to uphold slavery. It's important that we understand this.

Summer of Night

 By the time you reach the end of a horror novel, all suspense has often been lost. Answers to the puzzle have been provided, and all that remains is the resolution. A good example of this is It, which rumbles along for 1,300 pages of increasing tension and drama, until the end, which resolves loose threads and gives us an ending that, as much as anything, reassures.

I say this not to lambast It - it has become one of my favourite novels, with memorable characters, pulse-pounding drama, a plot that wends this way and that - but to provide a contrast.

Dan Simmons has been someone I've held up as a master of horror for quite some time. If King's books shock and provoke occasional terror, Simmons' books linger and haunt. Song of Kali is like that, and it's like that because, unlike It, it doesn't give us the reassuring conclusion. It speaks to our fears that no, it won't be all right. King does that from time to time: Pet Sematary is just one example of him flipping the expectation that things will be all right on its head. But more often than not the survivors find themselves in a better place. The Stand. It. Even, to an extent, 'Salem's Lot and Misery. Simmons, however, gives us lingering doubt.

Take The Terror. Despite what seems, for a time, to be a cut and dried ending, there's the coda which throws doubt on so much, and lends to the horror from before. The sailors could have been all right. Francis Crozier saved himself, but did he betray his men into the bargain? And as for the Tuunbaq: is it ever really not a threat? Was it real, or spiritual? That uncertainty is as horrifying as any of the violence that went before.

And this is where Summer of Night is so successful. While perhaps not as accomplished or engrossing as It or The Terror - for one thing it's only 600 pages rather than 1,300 or 900 - it still fills the reader with a sense of doubt at the conclusion. This is after the constant dread in the build-up. There is a constant sense of danger. It's a book you can't let your guard down with; after all, if you're alone and you let your guard down, terrible things will happen.

Summer of Night bears comparison with It on a deeper level than 'it's a horror novel'. Like It, Summer of Night follows a group of children in a small American town as they battle a horror through a summer holiday. In this regard, it is arguably the weaker book: there's a bond between the characters in It that never quite seems present in Summer of Night, and the characters, unusually for Simmons, can be a little two-dimensional. On the other hand, the bond that is forged never quite feels safe, and this insecurity just adds to the horror.

Where Summer of Night excels, though, is in the uncertainty. The writing is superb, but at times it is somewhat vague. It sows doubt in the reader's mind. Is this really happening? Where King leaves the reader in little doubt - yes, this is scary, you're right to feel fear - Simmons always has that lingering sense that you could be wrong. Maybe there's nothing to fear. But then again, if there is... Unlike King, there's rarely a sense of catharsis when a threat has disappeared, simply another building tension. There can be no doubt at all that Simmons is a modern master of horror. He makes you feel uncomfortable.

I can highly recommend Summer of Night. Anyone with an interest in horror should read it for its small town America vibes and fears. It is a study in how to write horror, and how to leave the reader in fear and wanting more, even at the end.

One final thing before I depart: If you have not read The Hyperion Cantos by the same author, what are you doing? Your life will be better for it, particularly Hyperion and Fall of Hyperion.

The Reading Year 2021

2020 was a year. I got married. My wife and I found out we are having a baby. I suffered throughout from chronic depression. The world was locked down. At some point, I might have breathed.

Perhaps it's unsurprising, then, that I read more than normal. Time was one commodity that did exist in the first half of the year, moreso than in other years. In total, I completed 100 books, many of which were towards my personal target of reading more books either by people of colour, or about different cultures around the world. If you can't go out and experience the wider world, the least you can do is understand the experiences of others.

2021 is starting with something similar: A Corner of a Foreign Field is a book on cricket in India. But that isn't all: it's a book about Indian social and political history since about 1850. It's another book to help me understand another culture - or, I should probably be honest about this, about the many different cultures of India. Let's remember, the modern nation of India is a product of a colonial past, far more than it would have been if let to its own devices.

India promises to feature heavily in this year's reading. For Christmas, my wife bought me William Dalrymple's The Anarchy, a history of the East India Company and its corporate colonisation of the subcontinent. I also intend to read Michael Wood's The Story of India. A few new ideas will keep me going.

But other than that, do I intend to set targets? Not really. Setting myself targets, partly for my own self-improvement, probably puts me under more pressure than I strictly speaking need to put on myself. My only target is this:

ENJOY WHAT I READ.

This means a return to science fiction. This means completing those series which have been sat on the Kindle for months, or (in some cases) years (perhaps that means the Joe Abercrombie sitting in the background). It means reading Ann Leckie, Adrian Tchaikovsky, RJ Barker. It means returning to old faithfuls after years away. It means Foundation and The Farseer Trilogy. It means revisiting the Norman Conquest and spending time in Anglo-Saxon England.

Life is too short to read things I don't enjoy. May 2021 bring enjoyment.