Category Archives: China Miéville

The Naked Author 1: This Census Taker

thiscensustaker_mieville_5700

Francis Spufford’s review of This Census Taker in The Guardian, heads the “stoic bleakness” in the novel with a choice of author photograph designed to bring out the same qualities. The familiar image of China Miéville: tats, muscles, shorn head, undisputed winner of any imaginary fight with pretty well any living male author of his size and weight you could name, is spot on. Having encountered him, on the other side of a book signing table, courteously and briefly explaining the meaning of “perichoresis,” the image remains, translated permanently into a muscular imagination of mindnumbing flexibility that nobody with any sense would think of arguing with.

What struck me about This Census Taker, however, was a glimpse of the naked author. I’m interested in the idea of the naked author; this for me is where something appears in the story that remains unresolved. Why China Miéville and why this novella? Because Miéville’s ability to hew out new genres by virtue of an imagination you could break rocks with proves the unresolved feeling at the core of This Census Taker is nothing to do with an inability to tell the story.

That is in not in any way to suggest the imagination isn’t still on rock-breaking form. It is another extraordinary experience of a world both familiar and then – not. Headlong as the boy running down the hill screaming in the opening paragraph, the tense shifts, POV breaks, swoops, returns, little animals dislodged from their genres scuttle ahead. The ride has started. Now keep your hands inside the car!

” I shouted, ‘My mother killed my father!’ “

This, said at the end of the opening section, is not fixed or certain; it soon becomes apparent that this is the complete opposite to what he thinks has happened, and we have no way of knowing, by the end of the book, whether that has happened or not.

Miéville’s fiction, any reading of his sparse non-fiction political standpoints confirms, has no more authorial authority than a ride operator sending you, strapped into immobility, on your way. Miéville does not establish his authority by being Miéville but by his skill as an author. Which is why I think we see a glimpse of the naked author in a story which leaves uncertainty at its heart. After all, we are not in the hands of the ‘unreliable narrator’ of less ambitious storytellers as the reveal on the boy emerges early. He is unreliable by virtue of being a boy, and the unsettling shifts in his age, while including the adult, never give us the simple resolution of adulthood or a simple rite-of-passage tale. He achieves authority and adulthood but we have no more sense of what the authority is based on than we know what his father’s skilled craftsmanship of keys to unlock impossible secrets, consists of. The craftmanship of Miéville’s world-building in this novel, in primitive retreat from some apocalyptic state to urban fable, the glimpses of the fully-fledged worlds of his other novels, are like one of the keys. We are handed a key crafted with enormous ingenuity, but it doesn’t unlock the story.

The only reason, for me, why a writer of Miéville’s imaginative muscle would not give us the key to this world, is that we are not supposed to have it. This Census Taker is crafted with great skill to leave us, regular readers and committed apprentices of that skill alike, with something beyond solving. The confusion of the boy, left by one parent in a way that throws doubt on the other is left vividly unresolved. He finds stability as a census-taker;  but whether or not he is this census taker, the authority of a “census taker” in this post-apocalyptic world is unclear.

Like the hole in the hill that receives the dismembered animal bodies of his father’s unexplained episodes of violence, the mystery of the mother’s disappearance is never fully explained. Like the boy, the story skirts around the contents of the pit, revealing possibilities of the unspeakable without answers. The craftmanship in leaving this uncertainty at the heart of This Census Taker makes this, for me, one of the most vivid examples of the naked author.

The next example appears in Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant.

 

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You Can’t Always Get What You Want

So the Rolling Stones sang at Glastonbury last night. Or as @sisterspooky tweeted this morning

“I have to clean today. Being a grown-up is rubbish.”

Back to the Rolling Stones, who said the same thing but with more amps. ‘And I went down to the demonstration/To get my fair share of abuse/Singing, “We’re gonna vent our frustration/And if we don’t, we blow a 50-amp fuse”, yeah.’

So after a week of hanging around the latest demonstration on twitterscape about sexism in SF/F and whether male writers can write convincing female characters and vice versa, I was ready to exercise my right to free speech. And the funny thing about free speech is everyone’s for it so long as the other guy is saying something you agree with. Most of the time we’ll wade in when we’re sure everyone else is going to agree, but this week an SF author, guest blogging, said exactly what he thought about sexism in SF, demonstrating the essential flaw in free speech – speaking freely.

What was the response? Oh well, the usual response in any public forum where you’re not going to get stoned for saying what’s on your mind.

If you subscribe to the theory of atomic repulsion (and knowing anything quantum is like catnip to bloggers, I’m not linking in case you never come back) we never touch anything, just register a series of atomic repulsions. So if twitterscape is built on the same principles, there’s going to be disagreement.

At some point, when we’re grown up enough to clean our own rooms, nobody is going to step in to regulate what, when you take a straight look at it, comes down to people who are good with words, using words.

Publishers know it comes down to how and what we write. We sit in front of our screens thinking, the reason I’m not published, or not selling is sexism, or ageism or I don’t photograph well. Excuse me, but most writers ARE slightly weird-looking. Check out current best-selling authors before the marketing department gets them an image that explains the hair or the stare or the whole alien-disguised-as-human-being look. Publishers are probably glad when they get an author who looks good, but at the end of the day, I assume the main thing is the book. I hope that’s the way it works, I really do.

And for me the answer lies in the fact we are writers. Whatever makes us writers (and for me writing isn’t inspiration, it’s a fifth stomach that digests reality and comes out with another sort of reality), our imaginations are surely capable of taking us into another person’s head, regardless of the gender of the body that sits in front of the screen. Can’t we give ourselves that?

There are bits of life that my fifth stomach cannot digest. Then I want to get down to the nearest demonstration and share the  abuse. But for that I remember I clean my own room, I’m a grown up, I can’t always get what I want, that’s the way it sort of works. China Miéville writes genre fiction that must have his fifth stomach working overtime. But when he wants to state his political opinions he writes a small, but very effective, political polemic.

Because You Can’t Always Get What You Want, but sometimes, as the lyrics say, you get what you need.


London, true dat

It’s been a fortnight since I went to hear China Miéville – the Boss – on ‘Visions of London’. I should have waited for the transcript*, but I know what I heard and it had an awkward question mark on it. I couldn’t wait to decide whether I was there under false pretences. China Miéville is my Boss, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the ultimate blasphemy of turning up among the faithful and being totally faithless.

What bothered me was the question about people jumping on a bandwagon. I know there are bookshelves called simply “London” where urban fantasy sits alongside history, guidebooks, social satire, litfic, everything about the amorphous mass of London-ness. I know because I’ve just seen a picture of one on Twitter. At some point, though, the idea came up that has had me thinking hard for a fortnight.

It was about urban fantasy cashing in on the new bookshelf and setting the new book in London, although your writer’s fifth stomach resides in Dorking because, hey, it’s going to be a while before there’s a bookshelf in major bookstores labelled

Dorking

Since I’ve got hold of a copy of China Miéville’s completely fictionless, political polemic London’s Overthrow I’ve been even more worried about my London urban fantasy.

Is it true dat? China Miéville’s most “London” fiction he said, is Kraken, and although I’ve still got some digging to do, I was struck by how “London” the characters were. I recognized them not only by a resemblance to relatives who were Londoners, but the grin on the violence, the humorous take on the impossible, beautiful and appalling though it can be. And in Kraken it mostly is. The London of London’s Overthrow is there in Kraken which means although Miéville was kind about the authors jumping on the urban London fantasy bandwagon, he’s a true believer.

I don’t need the credentials of background, length of time living in London, but I do have to have reasons for setting an urban fantasy in London greater than a bookshelf.

If it wasn’t the Worst Crime, next time I might take the advice of someone in the queue for book signing a fortnight ago and ask China Miéville when I reach him to, please, read my book. Is it a London-based urban fantasy for a really, really good reason?

* If any of this turns out to be me making things up when the transcript arrives, it’ll change.


China Miéville is the Boss

[Mieville]

It struck me, watching China Miéville come out on stage at the Purcell Room yesterday, that in a fight with any current modern author, he’d win. To begin with it was the muscle, the tattoos and the piercings. Then, when he started to talk, I realized it’s because he is seriously Intelligent (the capitalization isn’t a typo). He writes New Weird, but is in no way weird himself.

He was there to give an archaeological literary examination of London as a source of speculative fiction, visionary edge and a growing, niche genre of urban fantasy.

Within two minutes he’d used half a dozen terms, perfectly understandable in context, which I should have written down. One I had to ask him to put in my signed copy of The City and the City.

The word of the day = Perichoresis

It was the combination of Boss-ness regarding words as well as inks that led me to refer to “The Big Bang Theory” in the Q&A. Suddenly I wasn’t sure I knew sweet eff ay about the use of language.

I’m going to need to get hold of a transcript before I can do “Visions of London” justice.

For the moment, I’m just really worried I’ve written China Miéville into Skinny Inkers as Ink-tup.