Book of Lost Nights

I’ve not vanished from the face of the earth – honestly. After sending Sleepwalker to my agent the feedback is this – seeing that the proof of concept is now a go, the book needs to be bigger.

And this suits me down to the ground, as I always wanted the book to be bigger, but was unsure if this was just self-indulgence on my part. At any rate, the new plan has my full backing, even if it is scaring the bejesus out of me.

The other news is that I’m going to Fantasycon in Brighton, which is going to be fantastic, as a whole bunch of the usual T Party suspects  – Tom Pollock, Dave Gullen, Gaie Sebold, Gary Couzens, Peter Colley, Sara-Jayne Townsend, Julia Knight, Caroline Hooton, Martin Owton, Terry Edge, Mark McCann and Rosanne Rabinowitz  are turning up too. Actually, it would have been quicker to list the members that aren’t going. 

I’m also going to be reading from Sleepwalker at the con, at 3pm on Friday in Bar Rogue (which I keep wanting to spell “Bar Rouge”, but the hotel seems quite adamant on its website that it’s Bar Rogue, and it’s got the mediocre ViewBrighton review to prove it).

Anyway, profoundly looking forward to the whole thing, which is shaping up to be awesome. I’ve signed up for three of the masterclasses on the Saturday, as well as the banquet, and Tom (fresh from lunch with his publisher and bearing their new catalogue showing his book and author photo) tells me that Quercus are throwing a party which I must attend, providing I tell people that I am Paul Cornell. This seems a small price to pay, and so long as some kind of costume is not required in order for me to keep the subterfuge afloat, I’m happy to do it.

But it’s ridiculous o’clock in the morning now, so must get to bed. I may have been quiet lately but have not been idle, and hope to get some more posts out between now and Fantasycon. Until then, goodnight!

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This is just a flying entry, as so far I am up to my eyes carrying out the changes on the latest MS. It’s been an insanely busy six weeks, kicking off with a rather wonderful night at the theatre – we saw Frankenstein at the National (Jonny Lee Miller was the monster, Benedict Cumberpatch the creator).

Then it was Eastercon (the T Party contingent were there in force, in fact, including Tom Pollock, Gaie Sebold, Dave Gullen, Sarah Ellender, and Martin Owton, which was just the most enormous fun and at which I met a raft of cool people I’m now tweeting at more or less constantly and had a bunch of books pressed on me, most of which I’m still ploughing through. There’s a new job, a new car, and hopefully by the end of this month, a brand new MS, so it’s exciting times.

When I get the latest draft out of the way, I’m going to start talking about the research work for the next one – which I’m pretty sure is going to be set in Cambridge, though I’m not wholly decided yet. But I’m getting ahead of myself – all that’s for another post.

So since it’s 3am I’ll say goodnight and I’ll only say this before I go dark again – don’t bother with Pirates of the Carribean: On Stranger Tides, as it’s tripe, though you probably knew that already. The line in the credits was actually Suggested by the novel “On Stranger Tides” by Tim Powers. Suggested by? Really? It’s a bit like going out with someone, sleeping with them semi-regularly, and then overhearing them describe you as a “friend of a friend”. Suggested by, indeed. Someone wants a punch in the face.

But I did love Thor, so can’t complain too much about the movies lately. I couldn’t get over how charming it was, which is a strange thing to say about a movie featuring a Norse god everyone’s mistaking for a homeless man.

Currently reading: The City and The City by China Mieville

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I’m in the process of moving my books out of storage, and in many ways this is a surprisingly moving thing to do, because the story of my life is the story of the books I’ve read. When I was a girl, I saved my pocket money up for JRR Tolkien, Richard Adams, Anne McCaffrey,  and the beautiful, pseudo-erotic works of Tanith Lee. I read and reread them, sucking them dry like orange segments, unable to even imagine a time when I would have more books than time to read them, in the same way I couldn’t imagine driving my own car or being able to choose what I had for dinner every night.

Once I started work, however, I had already started to amass a small pile of overshot – as a bookseller, people are always giving you things, and you will frequently see something come in and fancy giving it a go, even if it’s going to be a while before you get to it. Authors will come in to sign books and it occurs to you that they seem nice enough and perhaps you’ll get one signed yourself, just to give them a try, even though it’s not quite your thing.

And some books you’re told you should read, and know you should read, but just never do. A good example for me is Vanity Fair, by William Makepiece Thackeray, published 1848. I bought it in the 80s - I wrote the date in it in my round, childish hand. I wanted to read it because it was Charlotte Bronte’s favourite novel, and many of my colleagues’ favourite novel too. Friends had raved about it. It is a cornerstone of British literature. And so on and so on.

Twenty-four years later, I have actually picked it up. Though I must have read thousands of books between then and now, I have begun a book I bought in the morning of my life. The pages, with their old fashioned acid paper, are a kind of brownish-mustard colour, and crackle a little at the edges when I turn them.

And the thing about Vanity Fair is this – it’s great. It’s funny, lively, inventive, picaresque: a vast social panoply quickly and wittily drawn on a big canvas. It’s got a strong female protagonist. It’s soooo my thing, what’s not to love? Other novels I have adored clearly draw on it (increasingly I feel Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White is a direct reply to it – why should women obey the rules and strictures of a society that wishes to dominate them?). Thackeray’s a genius – even in the sentimental outbursts, you can never tell if he’s wailing away about the joys of feminine virtue and filial piety with a straight face or not. It’s just awesome. So why has it took me so long to read it? And why should I care?

Well, as a writer, I ought to care because at some point when I surveyed my pile of unread books, this gem fell through the net. Fell through the net about once every week or fortnight, in fact, again and again, over the course of 24 years. I already owned it. There was no obstacle to reading it. I just chose not to. And if I want to write books, and hopefully sell them, it kind of behoves me to find out why Vanity Fair didn’t make the cut, or else be doomed to writing novels that will sit in other people’s unread book piles, waiting to be picked up.

So, here’s a little list of the factors affecting my decision. Depressingly, there are quite a few that Thackeray can’t really do anything about:

• It’s long. 797 pages long. A long great novel is a wonderful thing – ask Tolkien, or Susanna Clarke. A long dull novel is a season in Hell. I’m looking at you, Samuel Richardson. 
• There’s no concession in the blurb on the back to the idea of this as a novel, an entertainment, a story. To quote the first sentence: "Vanity Fair (1847/8) is the story of English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century." Is it? Is it really? Does English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century find itself thrown out of Miss Godsham’s Academy for Tormented Orphans, snubbed at the ball, and arrested with Lady Carruther’s diamonds snuggled down the front of its evening dress? Does English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century throw everything away to declare its love to Monsieur LeRodin, the billionaire racing playboy, despite the opposition of his family and the connivings of his jealous ex-girlfriend? Will English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century be caught up in a race to stop a conspiracy to kill the President? Probably not.
• Guilt. I have not read this important novel. This makes me feel guilty. Guilt makes me feel bad. I reject things that make me feel bad. So I don’t read Vanity Fair. Aristotle would approve.
• There’s about 20-odd pages of small text by way of "introduction", explaining how important it is, before I can actually start the bloody thing. Because I am incapable of not reading this, as it’s part of the book, and it’s frequently laced with spoilers (because, God knows, if it’s a classic I should already know what happens in it, ignorant philistine that I am) it makes starting the actual book a serious case of delayed gratification.

But I’ve started it now, is the main thing. And for the next few months, I’m going to have a little experiment. Every second book I pick up to read will be one I would normally reject in the short term. Let’s see if any other hidden jewels can find the light, or whether missing this book is the exception that proves the rule when it comes to my book filtering system. If so, I can then apply the findings to my own works.

Wish me luck…

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Last weekend I had to explain to an earnest woman in a kagoule that I was not a would-be suicidal cliff-jumper. 

It was possibly the most surreal conversation I’ve ever had.  

It happened like this:

Sleepwalker is dragging. The new job and the uncertainty over whether it will be extended, the impending move, Mephistophela’s launch into the ether… all of these things mean that it’s hard to give Sleepwalker the flying tackle it needs to get the new iteration launched.

Desperate (but, as I’d like to reiterate for the record, not too desperate) times call for desperate measures, so I resolved to kickstart my progress by having a weekend away to research the big changes to Part II I’m contemplating.

I’d been drawn to Beachy Head when I visited last year – I wanted to set Hansley near there, but ultimately the strange, wild but sparse beauty of the place didn’t suit my plans then. That said, the setting took instant root in my imagination – it was just too good to not do something with.

Photo: David Iliff, reproduced under Creative Commons license

However, it suits my current plans to turn the heat up under my protagonists – they’ll be hiding in a deserted hotel on the cliffs. Sunday morning was bright and clear and sunny, so I had a lovely walk from Birling Gap up to Belle Tout and back, and then spent the afternoon writing over a very civilised cup of tea in the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, being waited on hand and foot in old-school style. And crucially, I had time to sit and think – I felt unblocked for the first time in ages.

The journey back loomed around 7pm – I wanted to stop for dinner at the Tiger Inn, as a treat to round off such a productive weekend. It was pitch dark by then, and there was no Moon, so in the freezing night the stars were glorious. I knew I would have to have another look at the cliffs in these conditions, because they’re dramatically perfect.

So into the little car I get and off I go, climbing the steep and winding road that will take me to the cliffs. Ice crystals were forming on the tarmac.

As I drove through the dark (there are no streetlights up there), trying to find the carpark right near the cliff edge, I was aware of a van behind me – it looked like an AA van, and had be-Parka-ed people with woolly hats in the front seat. CHAPLAINCY SERVICE was written along the side. Nothing sinister, at any rate, so I gave it no further thought.

I pulled up on the carpark, the one under Belle Tout which is only about thirty feet from the edge. I was getting my stuff together when I become aware that the van has not only pulled up behind me, but someone is walking over to my car.

At this point, I realise what is happening. I am alone in a car next to a notorious suicide spot in utter darkness and incongenial weather.

These people think I’m going to jump off the edge.

There’s a special moment in a person’s life, which has often been the subject of books, film, TV… the moment where you try to explain that despite all appearances to the contrary, you are not insane and a danger to yourself and others.  

“Actually, you see, I’m writing this book… this is why I’m hanging out by the cliffs… in the dark…"

I was gabbling by the end. I ended up telling her things about my plans for the book I haven’t told my agent. Because there is a special kind of horror, too, at the thought that I could walk up to the edge, and pitch myself into the restless freezing sea, and have it break every bone in my body. Obviously I’d thought about what that would be like – I imagine things; it’s kind of my stock in trade – but the thought of someone else imagining it as though it were possible or true was just unbearably chilling.

Anyway, the feeling soon passed, as it didn’t take her long to work out that I wasn’t a "despondent" person (as they describe it in their very diplomatic website), just a feckless one. But I got talking to her, and my admiration increased as she explained what the Beachy Head chaplaincy actually does.

It sounded a very dark job to volunteer for. I couldn’t do it. Apparently there’s been 30 suicides so far this year, if I heard her correctly, and they have to counsel 7 to 15 people a WEEK who have driven out there to malinger sadly near the edge. Most have gone up there to think, but it does hint that the suicide rate itself is just the tip of this huge pyramid of human misery.

They also have to do foot patrols by the cliff edge. At night. She told me that in the dark, the gap between sea and cliff-edge can be hard to see, so she could well have saved my life despite my lack of disposition towards self-murder.

Anyway, I found it all fascinating, and admirable – that’s more lives than I’ll ever save – and would have kept her longer except it seemed mean to make her stand there in the cold.

In any case, my burger at the Tiger Inn tasted that much better after this brush with darkness. Damn, that was a good burger.  

If you get the chance, show the Beachy Head Chaplaincy Team the love: http://www.bhct.org.uk/wp/

3 Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: agents, beachy head, books, mephistophela, research, sleepwalker, travel. | #

T Party bud and fellow word-botherer  got in touch to see if I fancied watching a cagematch between Stephen Hawking, isaac Newton, and Paul Dirac. The point was to see which of these eminent Lucasian Professors, should they find themselves trapped in a balloon that desperately needed to lose some ballast, would need to be heaved over the side in case of emergency.

Since no reasonable person could possibly refuse such an offer, 6:30 on a cold Wednesday night found me settled in the very comfortable attic room of Foyles, where Manjit Kumar, Graham Farmelo, and JP McEvoy argued passionately but with tongue and cheek about the relative merits of Isaac Newton, Paul Dirac, and Stephen Hawking respectively. At the end, the audience voted by show of hands.

I got to thinking, while this went on, that this was an interesting but ultimately futile thought experiment. The thing being debated is the perception of utility, not the utility itself which is impossible to measure and historically contingent anyway.

So how do we perceive utility? And who, in fact, won?

Well, in ascending order, first out of the gondola was the unfortunate Professor Hawking. Though the only living professor (and everyone is always more famous after they’re dead – my guess is that had he expired before he hit the ground, he would have got second place) it seems that the act of popularising science is not what we look for in our scientists.

Which suggests that the virtue associated with scientists is not that they are educators.

Next to plunge to his doom, a victim of the force he discovered, was Isaac Newton. His case wasn’t helped by the fact that he was clearly an unpleasant character, and a lot of his work has been superseded by equally clever men with equally cool hair.

The winner was Paul Dirac; largely, I think, because most people in the room could grasp that the equations of quantum mechanics are in fact super-hard. And while I can only speak for myself, I voted for him because while all of the Lucasian Professors are clearly cleverer than me to an astonishing magnitude, his work seemed the most genuinely a) admired and b) incomprehensible to the layman.

So the value in the debate, as well as being a bit of fun, was discovering what people think of when they think of "scientist", or what the popular idea of a scientific exemplar entails.

Which is what?

Well, all three were white male Cambridge men, but as Lucasian Professors that’s pre-selected in the sample to a certain extent. Tellingly, they all had issues relating to others – issues either intrinsic to their characters or forced upon them by circumstances. Their heads, as it were, were elsewhere. They all dealt in difficult conceptual maths backed up by practical experiment – applied and theoretical mathematical and physics, so the concrete objects of their research are everyday and tangible (things fall down, the night sky is black with twinkling stars) but the theoretical journey remains opaque and mysterious to the non-cognescenti. Or, at least to the likes of me. 

I think that’s the answer – the scientific hero inhabits a world where maths, a barrier to most, becomes a liberator to those who brave it. They leave the ordinary world behind and take to the stars. The tragic sacrifice is they make is that of human connection.

And while this in no way reflects the reality of lived experience amongst the people that do this for a living; crunching numbers, dozing through presentations, staying up late to write papers to raise their RA rating – this seems to be the popular dream of them.

And the dream of a thing has great power, or, at the very least, can spare you from getting chucked out of a balloon.

5 Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: books, quantum, t party. | #

Ookapalooza is over and was fabulous (I am now in love with the Aran Islands – thanks very much to  for the lift over!). We stayed a week in Clifden, in an enormous and beautiful house. It was wildly productive for all involved -  has already posted on her progress,  has sent his opus on to his agent, and  I know produced a fair amount of short fiction. Everyone had a fabulous time! 

And of  course, Sleepwalker has gone off to Judith, and I am left clambering over the ruins of my life, which currently looks like the aftermath of the world’s wildest party. I stumble through it scratching my head, wondering where the hell I left the car keys.

Happily one thing I can now do is read, and I finally finished The Scarlet Petal and the White by Michel Faber, which I loved unreservedly. How I envied the endless, vigorous inventiveness of it all! The book of short stories set in that world, The Apple, is next on my reading list. My big favourite last year was Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke, so I think my enchantment with big picaresque pastiches is here to stay.

I also finished According to Jane, by Marilyn Brant, which K D Grace lent me. In it, a modern girl finds that Jane Austen is living in her head and giving her love life advice, which was fun and all, but I would have expected a bit more culture clash comedy. Also, at the end, there is a section where the characters interview the author, which is the sort of thing I find teethgrindingly precious. I’m not sure that’s Marilyn Brant’s fault. When I was a teenager, I wrote unbelievably dreadful stories where I interacted with my own characters (being a lonely girl in want of friends – actually this is what According to Jane is about) and the memory is mortifying. The idea of doing this as an adult just freezes my blood.

In terms of movies, I saw Resident Evil: Afterlife last night. Please don’t ask me why I do these things to myself. Possibly I find horribly written, horribly acted movies reassuring, but I suspect that the more prosaic answer is that I arrived too late to catch a showing of The Runaways.

Somehow Milla Jovavich sails through the more car crashy moments, comparatively unaffected. My admiration for her was complete under the circumstances. The guy playing the villain appeared to have been specially chosen for his resemblance to a character in a terrible Capcom cut-scene. He looked CGI even before sprouting zombie mouth tentacles. He wore sunglasses in semi-darkness, which doesn’t make you seem sinister anymore, it just makes you resemble Bono. It was all there, the black leather, the Darth Vader-esque underling murder, the smirks…

The actress(?) playing Claire Redfield seemed breathless in all her dialogue, because she’s desperately holding her stomach in and pushing her chest out to look sexy. Watching it took me back to the days when I used to go nightclubbing at Legends and had to do that all the time. The mere memory of it was exhausting, but probably better for my core musculature than watching terrible Paul Anderson movies. Though they say laughter is good for you.

Still no idea of what to write next, though at some point when I’m less burned out I’ll collate some Sleepwalker sequel ideas. And I’m signed up for a burlesque lesson next week with K D at Sh!, so wish us luck! Until then, it’s books and loafing and finding my damn car keys…

Currently Reading: One Day by David Nicholls

9 Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: authors, books, jane austen, marilyn brant, michel faber, million monkeys, movies, ookapalooza, resident evil afterlife, reviews, sleepwalker, travel. | #

Sorry for the radio silence, guys – still getting Sleepwalker ready.

So I’ve thinking about possible sequels. At present I’m engaged in the ghoulish occupation of sacking and rifling the past for occasions (and indeed juxtapositions) of high drama that can inspire my next move. Enter bubonic plague.

One of the things that I read recently to this end was London’s Plague Years: Lord Have Mercy On Us by Stephen Porter. I’d picked it up in trade paperbook in the bookshop in Old Street station. It’s a fascinating subject and the figures were all explained in exhaustive detail, but I couldn’t help but feel that it could have done with a few broader remarks about the history of the period to contextualise the plague for the general reader. For instance, there is reference to the impact of the plague on the Civil War, but not so much about what living through the Civil War was like with the added annoyance of the plague. Perhaps the assumption is that the reader should already know a sufficient amount about the period, but this reader frequently found herself lost.

That said, it is interspersed with frequent and lively contemporary accounts of events, and seemed meticulously researched. I’d recommend it to anyone interested in the subject.

But its primary charm, if that’s the right word, was the reproduction of the Bills of Mortality. These were civil service reports drawn up by the parishes in plague years reporting who died of what. It became compulsory to compile them whenever the number plague dead became higher than a certain amount.

However, the Bills themselves open up a fascinating window into what death looked like to people three and a half centuries ago, when one could die of "lethargy", "surfeit", or a "rising of the lights". (If one could die of either lethargy or surfeit, I’m a little puzzled as to why I’m still alive, but no matter). Reading through the rich, pithy descriptions I find that as a writer I’m enchanted by their muscular, no-nonsense language, before having to remind myself that real people were dying of these causes, being buried, being mourned (spawning more deaths even – there is a figure given for those who have died of "grief" or "hangd and made away themfelves").

I’ve transcribed the 1665 Bill from the Institute of Historical Research site just to give a flavour of what I mean. I’ve resisted the temptation to regularise the archaic spellings, which in their inconsistency also suggest something about the times.

Finally, to get a true sense of the scope and terror of Bubonic Plague, check out the figure next to "Plague" below. And then remember that plague was traditionally underreported in these things, as walling up the infected was difficult, dangerous, spread panic, and cost the parish money:
The Bills of Mortality, London 1665

1 Comment | In: Uncategorized | tags: archaeology, books, london's plague years, research, review, sleepwalker, stephen porter. | #

So the weekend before last - 17th/18th – was the Sleepwalker novel workshop. It happened in the BFI Southbank’s Benugo bar, which turned out to be a great venue to do it in, being comfy, quiet, and having access to natural daylight. A lot of T Party venues err on the dark and dungeony side, and since we had had an (admittedly great) talk with Mike Carey the week before in the George, it seemed a lot to ask people to spend summer weekends there twice in a row.

I’ve attended a few novel workshops for other people from the T Party, but I’ve never had my own picked to death by them before then. It was, I have to say, terrifying and yet exhilirating. Terrifying because a lot of what you believe to be transparent and indeed on-the-nose in your book is in fact murky and opaque, and exhilirating because so many people get what you’re doing, and some even occasionally approve.

I was absolutely blown away by all the work and thought people put into their crits, especially since Sleepwalker is a fairly chunky girl. I taped the session, being aware that the first time you hear some things about your baby, you resist or reject them – you break out the Ego Fu, if you like - and my feeling was that when calm and alone, I could revisit them with a clearer head. This turned out to be a great idea, and I was able to soak up loads of excellent food for thought. I’m a total evangelist for this method now.

In any case, the past week has been spent collating the notes, annotating the MS, and drawing up plans of what to tackle, whether some things should be tackled at all since that conflicts with other things that need tackling, and what order to tackle it all in.

Shouts are going out to the oldskool Sheherazade alumni  (who also hosted a beautiful BBQ the night before) and K D Grace, as well as other T Party writers ,  ,  , Rosanne Rabinowitz, Mark McCann, and the awesome staff at BFI Southwark.

Thanks guys. It meant a lot to me.

Currently Reading: Lord Peter Views The Body – Dorothy L. Sayers

No Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: authors, book, london, sleepwalker, t party. | #

So, it’s time to pick Sleepwalker up again.

The workshop is still about ten days away, but already I can see a few things that need more work – the character voices (Lucien’s especially), a couple of missing scenes (particularly John’s first betrayal of the Raven), and cuts, cuts, cuts. I’ve already had some feedback from K D Grace and Melanie Garrett, which while pointing out real areas for improvement, leads me to believe that the project is not entirely doomed. In fact Kathy blogged about it, which just makes me feel all snuggly-happy inside, like a sunbathing meerkat.  , meanwhile, plied me with champagne cocktails on the lawn – we had a fab conversation on the sequel, possibly a conversation where my arms windmilled drunkenly a lot while I shrieked. 

You know, people slag off this writing lark, but I definitely can see an upside.

In the meantime, I saw Eclipse at the weekend, so I’ll probably be reviewing that in the near future. Saturday Mike Carey is coming to speak to us at the T Party, which should be good, and then next Sunday is the Sleepwalker workshop, which now looks like it will be taking place in the BFI bar on the South Bank, subject to final review. The week after that, I’m a signed up guest of K D Grace’s as she reads from her new novel at the grand opening of the Sh! Women’s Erotic Emporium in Portobello Road, so the next month is going to be pretty exciting. 

Exciting, but lots of hard work, as the book rewrites will also have to happen.  All this and a new job too! Still, it will be great to be properly back in London.

Currently Reading: Brethren by Robyn Young

2 Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: authors, book, eclipse, erotica, events, job, john, k d grace, london, lucien, melanie garrett, movies, review, sleepwalker. | #

Anyway, still trying to come to terms with the writing hiatus. Ideally I should be spending time thinking about the next book, but that’s not where the energy is.

The big news this week was that Marcus Chown, who so heroically guest-blogged on these very pages right here, found his book We Need To Talk About Kelvin has made the longlist for the Royal Society Prize for Science Books on Wednesday. Congratulations, Marcus!

This was great news, but not that surprising – at least to me, who’d read it (my review is here).  

Happily, I’d just finished reading the new edition of his earlier book The Afterglow of Creation, and to celebrate these tumultuous events, I thought I’d talk about that.

The thing about The Afterglow of Creation is that it’s about cosmic background radiation: its discovery, significance, and what it tells us about the early universe, specifically about the Big Bang.

The central principle is this – a long time ago there was a humongous explosion which gave off light and heat – the Big Bang. It happened everywhere at all times. Like everything else that was once really hot but is now cooling down, it gives off a kind of heat – a radiation of just under three degrees above absolute zero – and this is cosmic background radiation. It can be measured and these measurements extrapolated backwards and from this we can learn cool and awesome stuff about the creation of the universe.

Now, if you’re anything like me, this talk of cosmic background radiation is doubtless slightly scary. Maths will be involved, of the most terrifying kind, and feature squiggly symbols and letters sandwiched in between the numbers like scorpions hiding in the crevices between rocks.

You can relax, however, because you are not going to be stung. Chown prefers a high-level discussion of the principles involved, laced with charming anecdotes about how the experimental problems of tracking down signals that are quieter than practically everything else in the universe are tackled by the scientists involved – a kind of litany of wildly creative DIY. People build high altitude balloons, share experimental space with gently rusting canisters of nerve gas, and mistake their Nobel Prize winning scientific discoveries for the interference caused by pigeon droppings on their kit.

It’s fascinating because radiation is a fairly esoteric subject, but nevertheless the enthusiasm with which its tackled both by the principle actors and their biographer is perfectly infectious. By the time the COBE satellite project is moving through the belly of the beast that is NASA you really are on the edge of your seat. A potentially very dry subject is carried off with enormous wit and clarity, with a correspondingly sensitive approach to the human element involved.

If I had a criticism at all, it would be that the book could have used a couple of images, even if only black and white diagrams. It would have been nice to see what a perfect black body curve looks like.

But this is just carping, ultimately. The Afterglow of Creation is a great achievement: a really interesting look at a difficult but vital subject. And I am too intrigued by the reference to this universe showing marks that it might have collided with another universe to think straight. I’m utterly captivated by this idea. The book is full of moments like that.

Finally, I’m linking to this – a rather spooky .WAV file of the sound of the first 760,000 years of the universe, simulated by John G. Cramer, copyright 2003. If you’ve not heard it before, be sure to check it out!

Currently reading: Brethren by Robyn Young

No Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: authors, books, faber and faber, marcus chown, review, we need to talk about kelvin. | #