The Great Cathedral of The Absented is certainly the most important site of pilgrimage in all the land of Otherwhile and perhaps the most important site in all the globe1 , housing at its centre the Lake of Loss, the silver-watered lake - its circumference a perfect circle, its surface ever still - where The Absented took Her and His and Itself from this world.
Though the Lake has existed beyond the memory of humankind, the cathedral that presently surrounds it was first erected some thousand years ago, during the reign of the Queens of Day, and has been added to and amended many times over the years. Viewed from above the original building took the shape of an equilateral triangle: the southerly side housed accommodation, kitchens, workshops and such whose purpose was to serve both those who attended the Lake and also the many visitors who came, if not on pilgrimage (the Absented having forbidden her/his/its worship), then on something very like it; the westerly side contained the Great Library; the easterly side provided a space for merchants to ply their trade.
Those divisions of the building's use remain essentially in place even to this day. However, a thousand years of building have left little of the original design of the cathedral visible. Instead there is a great encrustation of towers and turrets, annexes, wings, buttresses and the like built in at least a hundred different styles. It is said that one could spend many years in the Great Cathedral moving to a different room each day and one would never be forced to visit the same room twice, though whether one would want or be wise to do so is another matter altogether.
In the present time both the Great Cathedral and its equally Great Library are under the control of The Unvoiced2 , though a large area to the cathedral's south-east is reserved for Farla's Veils3.
1. One can never be definite about these things: the world of Otherwhile is large and may be home to continents as yet undiscovered, those continents may in turn be home to new and unfamiliar cultures and those new and unfamiliar cultures may have built even greater sites of pilgrimage. On the other hand, they may have seen very little point in the whole building sites of pilgrimage thing and preferred to discuss predicate logic, invent new forms of musical notation or go surfing instead, but it's best to be on the safe side.↩
2. Of whom more will be revealed at a future date.↩
3. Who are discussed briefly in Ye Gods↩
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
A Small Discovery
I've been spending a lot of time down among the dustier shelves in The Great Library of the Absented, shelves where the thick leather bindings of the books have been untouched in decades, perhaps centuries, and where the heavy chains that keep the books from wandering are flecked with red rust.
This morning, in the middle of clearing away an unusually heavy covering of dust from one of the thicker books, I stumbled upon a small and very delicate scroll, tucked away. Much of what was written on it was indecipherable and much of what could be deciphered was gibberish but the few fragments that did make sense threw up what might be a very interesting possibility: it seems that when Arbor Vulpa stole the great gem known as the Heart of the World (a tale that begins here) he may have left a tiny sliver of the Heart behind. What happened to that sliver I don't know for certain but other documents, as old or even older than the one I happened to find this morning, lead me to think that it may somehow have found its way into hands which meant, perhaps still mean all these hundreds of years later, to change the fate of Otherwhile itself. It's an exciting discovery and one I intend to follow up. In the interim I hope you'll excuse me if I continue to be a little slow in delivering the tale of Vyolla Who Sings. Poor Vyolla, her story deserves my full attention and it would be wrong for me to give it anything less.
Friday, 31 January 2014
And Another Thing
It's been rather quiet in Otherwhile recently. At least, it seems to have been judging by the frequency of updates on this site. In truth, there's been quite a lot going on: a near riot at the Applefall Fair, rebellion in the west, even - so they say - the disappearance of someone closely connected to the royal family. Unfortunately I'm not in a position to tell you much more about these things, at least not right now. Nor can I tell you more about The Veils, or The Voiceless or the Great Library of The Absented, though all of these will come in time, as will the story of Vyolla Who Sings, which I promised you ages ago.
For now though, what I can give you is a picture. You see I wrote a picture book for my niece, who is making the perilous journey from two to three, and my sister has just sent me this illustration for the book's cover. I think it's rather marvellous.
For now though, what I can give you is a picture. You see I wrote a picture book for my niece, who is making the perilous journey from two to three, and my sister has just sent me this illustration for the book's cover. I think it's rather marvellous.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
The Candleheart Boy
[I realise it's been a while since I last posted a proper story. Regular readers (what's an over-optimistic plural among friends?) will be glad to know that I haven't been wasting my time and have in fact managed to track down some further letters from Otherwhile's least intellectually able ambassador, Lemnick of Carysfort, to the King of Shende. I've no doubt you're as eager to learn what he has to say as am I, so let's to it (skipping over the two preliminary pages which are occupied chiefly with various praises of Shende's "most Munificent and Sagacious of Rulers".]
'... I was, as your High Wondrance1 will doubtless have Anticipated, most especially gratified by the interest Your Serenissitude2 shewed3 in the little Otherwan Tales I was able to most humbly impart in my previous missives ... [omitted here several paragraphs of rather oleaginous humility] ... As a Result I have been pleased to take the liberty of seeking out further such Stories and Yarns whilst residing in this land. In this regard I have been most grateful for the assistance of my good friend Lyre Merrum, who directed me to one Granddam Tetch, his childhood Nurse. This good lady, though somewhat wandering of Mind and, as it proved when I sate myself too close, of hand, has proved to be a very Fount of Tales, the first of which I will take the great Honour of imparting forthwith.
'Long ago and far from here, there lived a woman who had lost a daughter to war, a son to the Murrain, three children yet to famine and ill-fortune and beside all a husband to a high cliff path and a misplaced step. And so the woman was left all alone with a crumbling house and a barren strip of land and an aged goat to tend. And in her loneliness the woman craved a child as winter trees crave the summer's sun.
One spring day the woman was making her way to market when she came upon a walnut-faced man seated cross-legged against the bole of an old oak, carving away at a fallen branch. So intent upon his task was the man's expression and so eager was his working that the woman stopped to watch him, utterly entranced. And as she watched, and as the day moved from morning towards afternoon and into dusk, she saw emerging from the branch the shape of a small boy, perfect in every detail. To the woman's surprise, the old man did not cease his sculpting when the wooden boy was formed. Instead he began to carve deep into the child's breast, making a deep hollow where his heart would have been. And then, just as the sun was readying itself to slip beneath the horizon, the old man reached into the pouch that lay beside his tools and withdrew a small, red candle, such as the woman had never seen before, which he placed inside the hollow.
And now the old man set about making a fire, turning to the kindling that lay ready beside him and bringing it into flame with steel and flint. Now all this while the woman had not moved a step nor breathed a sigh, and yet, as the flame licked up from the fire and as she saw the deep red glow in the wooden boy's cheeks and the upward tilt to his lips and the trusting look in his eyes, she found a small, soft moan emerging from her lips. At this sound, the man turned his face from from the fire and his small, dark eyes looked up at the woman.
Without saying anything, the man shuffled up from his place on the ground and carried the wooden boy to the woman and placed it in her arms.
"But", said the woman.
"Yours", said the man, "The child for which you wished".
The woman looked down at the lifeless lump of wood, confused. And then a smile cracked the walnut shell of the old man's face and a spark lit in the depths of his eye.
"Fear not", he said, "for long ago I was taught a little of the Absented's word and I shall speak it to the boy".
And then he picked up a spill of wood from the fire and lit the candle that lay where the wooden boy's heart should have been. And at the same time he brought his lips to the wooden boy's ear and whispered something. And then the wind sighed and the leaves of the old oak shivered and the flame of the boy's candle heart flickered. And then the boy opened his eyes.
"Mother", he said, looking up into the woman's eyes, which were wide and filled with tears.
"Child", she said and took the boy's hand in her own.
And then the wind stirred once more and the flame of the boy's candle heart flickered a moment and the boy trembled.
"The candle will not burn down", said the old man, "but the flame must be kept alive. For, if it were to fail ..." And then he shook his head and looked down towards the ground.
The woman nodded and held the boy tight to her, shielding him from the wind. And when she looked up from him, she and the boy were alone and the old man had disappeared into the gathering dark. So the woman took the candleheart boy home.
That was a long and windless summer, such as the world used to have when it was still young, full of blue skies and bright suns and the sound of laughter. And much of that laughter came from the candleheart boy and his mother, who found great joy in each other and, in doing so, found great joy in themselves.
Autumn came, as it almost always does, and loosed summer's grip upon the world. Apples ripened, geese returned to the skies and fields, leaves began to redden and golden and brown. And with it all came a new coolness in the air, so that the woman began to feel the first hint of chill in her bones and she called to the candleheart boy and sent him out into the forest to gather wood for the fire. And so he set off amongst the trees, the candle that was his heart burning brightly, and began to gather up what he could from the forest floor, not stopping to thank the oaks and beech and hornbeam and ash for their bounty.
The boy spent much of the afternoon at his task and as he worked he whistled and skipped and told stories to himself and took no notice of the whispering in the trees as the wind began to rise, nor of the light touch of the first raindrops upon the autumn leaves, so that by the time he did look up the wind had risen high and the rain was falling fast. And whether it was the wind, or the rain, or simply the strangeness of them to a child who had known only the calm warmth of a long, still summer, something there was that set the flame of the boy's candle heart flickering and sent him running home, his bundle of twigs and sticks from the forest floor quite forgotten.
Now when the woman saw him, his red cheeks pale, his lips turned down and his eyes full of fear, it was as if a wintry hand had reached deep within her and then tightened. And when she saw how the candle that was her wooden boy's heart flickered and trembled, she was taken with a fear as deep as any know.
And now the woman took up the candleheart boy and sat him on her knee and cradled his wooden head in her hand and let the warmth of her own arms and body take the chill from his heart. And as they sat, she saw the flame within the wooden boy's chest become still and bright once more and knew that all was as it should be. And yet, the memory of fear's cold touch would not leave her, as how could it leave one who had lost so many in her time. So it was that all that winter she kept her candleheart boy within the walls of her small home, safe from wind and rain and cold, while she trudged out into the forest for her wood. And for all the hardness of her work, she was happy and - safe within the walls of the woman's little hut - the candleheart boy was happy too.
And then the spring came and the sound of birds in the bright blue sky and the shimmering laughter of children playing on the green grass and the flame of the boy's candle heart leapt at the sound and he turned to the woman saying, "Mother, may I go out?"
And at this the woman said, "No". For still the memory of her fear would not leave her so that when she thought of her smiling wooden boy going out into the world she pictured to herself a thousand-thousand dangers and saw in her mind the dimming of the candle's flame. And for these reasons she kept the boy inside her home, where he worked and played as best he could, all the while keeping an eye upon the little window that looked out on sun and sky.
And now the woman saw a thing she had no wish to see, for even as the summer sun waxed stronger each day, so the flame of her boy's candle heart began to wane, its flame growing pale, its heat growing less.
"Get away from that window, good my child", she said, fearing that it was the sweet breeze that so troubled her wooden son's heart. And then she drew up the shutters and blocked out the world, so that it could not harm her candleheart boy. Yet each day her child grew paler and his flame darkened yet further.
"Does the breeze trouble you still?" she asked the candleheart boy, watching the flickering flame within him.
"I know only that my heart is troubled and grows weak", he said.
And now the old woman took up the little oaken chest that was all she had of her long-dead husband and took out from it all that was inside and told the candleheart boy to lie within.
"This will keep you safe", she said and at this the wooden child smiled and the woman kissed him and she closed up the lid of the chest and there the boy stayed, safe from all the world. Each day the woman would sit by the chest and press her lips to the lock and ask how the candleheart boy fared and each day the boy would tell her he fared well. But when she placed her eye to the lock she could see that the wooden child's candle heart was growing dimmer and she shivered and pulled her shawl close round her for the room felt suddenly cold.
At last there came a day when the little flame within the chest was so dim that the woman feared it would soon fade altogether. Desperate, she ran from her home and set to digging a deep pit, into which she placed the chest that held the candleheart boy.
"Now, sweet dove, now will you be safe", she called to the child, her lips pressed to the lock of the chest. And then she turned away and began to shovel the earth back into the pit, so that it might keep her child safe. And when her work was done, she brought out the little three-legged stool from her hut and placed it by the mound that was the candleheart boy's new home and sat down. And there, so they say, she stayed, sure at last that no harm could come to one she loved as the skies love the swallows.
What became of the woman, no one has ever told me, though there came a day when she sat no more by her child's home, just as sure as it is that The Absented has left us. And what of the boy? Many years later, on a bright spring day, or so I've heard it said, a tiny green shoot emerged from the mound where the boy once lay buried. And as the days and weeks and months went by the tiny shoot became a seedling and then a sapling and then a young tree, green-leafed and straight-limbed. And more, they say, the very next year, that young tree produced a blossom that was scented like summer and which, when touched with flame would burn long and bright, banishing the darkness and bringing a little warmth to the heart. And that, good Lyre, is the tale of the Candleheart Boy and that, good Lyre, is the tale of how the Candleblossom tree was born.'
1. Whether "Wondrance" is part of an official title or Lemnick is making up honorifics as he goes along is, frankly, anyone's guess here↩
2. No, scratch that, he clearly *is* making these things up as he goes along↩
3. Yes, he really did spell "showed" like that.↩
'... I was, as your High Wondrance1 will doubtless have Anticipated, most especially gratified by the interest Your Serenissitude2 shewed3 in the little Otherwan Tales I was able to most humbly impart in my previous missives ... [omitted here several paragraphs of rather oleaginous humility] ... As a Result I have been pleased to take the liberty of seeking out further such Stories and Yarns whilst residing in this land. In this regard I have been most grateful for the assistance of my good friend Lyre Merrum, who directed me to one Granddam Tetch, his childhood Nurse. This good lady, though somewhat wandering of Mind and, as it proved when I sate myself too close, of hand, has proved to be a very Fount of Tales, the first of which I will take the great Honour of imparting forthwith.
'Long ago and far from here, there lived a woman who had lost a daughter to war, a son to the Murrain, three children yet to famine and ill-fortune and beside all a husband to a high cliff path and a misplaced step. And so the woman was left all alone with a crumbling house and a barren strip of land and an aged goat to tend. And in her loneliness the woman craved a child as winter trees crave the summer's sun.
And now the old man set about making a fire, turning to the kindling that lay ready beside him and bringing it into flame with steel and flint. Now all this while the woman had not moved a step nor breathed a sigh, and yet, as the flame licked up from the fire and as she saw the deep red glow in the wooden boy's cheeks and the upward tilt to his lips and the trusting look in his eyes, she found a small, soft moan emerging from her lips. At this sound, the man turned his face from from the fire and his small, dark eyes looked up at the woman.
Without saying anything, the man shuffled up from his place on the ground and carried the wooden boy to the woman and placed it in her arms.
"But", said the woman.
"Yours", said the man, "The child for which you wished".
The woman looked down at the lifeless lump of wood, confused. And then a smile cracked the walnut shell of the old man's face and a spark lit in the depths of his eye.
"Fear not", he said, "for long ago I was taught a little of the Absented's word and I shall speak it to the boy".
And then he picked up a spill of wood from the fire and lit the candle that lay where the wooden boy's heart should have been. And at the same time he brought his lips to the wooden boy's ear and whispered something. And then the wind sighed and the leaves of the old oak shivered and the flame of the boy's candle heart flickered. And then the boy opened his eyes.
"Mother", he said, looking up into the woman's eyes, which were wide and filled with tears.
"Child", she said and took the boy's hand in her own.
And then the wind stirred once more and the flame of the boy's candle heart flickered a moment and the boy trembled.
"The candle will not burn down", said the old man, "but the flame must be kept alive. For, if it were to fail ..." And then he shook his head and looked down towards the ground.
The woman nodded and held the boy tight to her, shielding him from the wind. And when she looked up from him, she and the boy were alone and the old man had disappeared into the gathering dark. So the woman took the candleheart boy home.
That was a long and windless summer, such as the world used to have when it was still young, full of blue skies and bright suns and the sound of laughter. And much of that laughter came from the candleheart boy and his mother, who found great joy in each other and, in doing so, found great joy in themselves.
Autumn came, as it almost always does, and loosed summer's grip upon the world. Apples ripened, geese returned to the skies and fields, leaves began to redden and golden and brown. And with it all came a new coolness in the air, so that the woman began to feel the first hint of chill in her bones and she called to the candleheart boy and sent him out into the forest to gather wood for the fire. And so he set off amongst the trees, the candle that was his heart burning brightly, and began to gather up what he could from the forest floor, not stopping to thank the oaks and beech and hornbeam and ash for their bounty.
The boy spent much of the afternoon at his task and as he worked he whistled and skipped and told stories to himself and took no notice of the whispering in the trees as the wind began to rise, nor of the light touch of the first raindrops upon the autumn leaves, so that by the time he did look up the wind had risen high and the rain was falling fast. And whether it was the wind, or the rain, or simply the strangeness of them to a child who had known only the calm warmth of a long, still summer, something there was that set the flame of the boy's candle heart flickering and sent him running home, his bundle of twigs and sticks from the forest floor quite forgotten.
Now when the woman saw him, his red cheeks pale, his lips turned down and his eyes full of fear, it was as if a wintry hand had reached deep within her and then tightened. And when she saw how the candle that was her wooden boy's heart flickered and trembled, she was taken with a fear as deep as any know.
And now the woman took up the candleheart boy and sat him on her knee and cradled his wooden head in her hand and let the warmth of her own arms and body take the chill from his heart. And as they sat, she saw the flame within the wooden boy's chest become still and bright once more and knew that all was as it should be. And yet, the memory of fear's cold touch would not leave her, as how could it leave one who had lost so many in her time. So it was that all that winter she kept her candleheart boy within the walls of her small home, safe from wind and rain and cold, while she trudged out into the forest for her wood. And for all the hardness of her work, she was happy and - safe within the walls of the woman's little hut - the candleheart boy was happy too.
And then the spring came and the sound of birds in the bright blue sky and the shimmering laughter of children playing on the green grass and the flame of the boy's candle heart leapt at the sound and he turned to the woman saying, "Mother, may I go out?"
And at this the woman said, "No". For still the memory of her fear would not leave her so that when she thought of her smiling wooden boy going out into the world she pictured to herself a thousand-thousand dangers and saw in her mind the dimming of the candle's flame. And for these reasons she kept the boy inside her home, where he worked and played as best he could, all the while keeping an eye upon the little window that looked out on sun and sky.
And now the woman saw a thing she had no wish to see, for even as the summer sun waxed stronger each day, so the flame of her boy's candle heart began to wane, its flame growing pale, its heat growing less.
"Get away from that window, good my child", she said, fearing that it was the sweet breeze that so troubled her wooden son's heart. And then she drew up the shutters and blocked out the world, so that it could not harm her candleheart boy. Yet each day her child grew paler and his flame darkened yet further.
"Does the breeze trouble you still?" she asked the candleheart boy, watching the flickering flame within him.
"I know only that my heart is troubled and grows weak", he said.
And now the old woman took up the little oaken chest that was all she had of her long-dead husband and took out from it all that was inside and told the candleheart boy to lie within.
"This will keep you safe", she said and at this the wooden child smiled and the woman kissed him and she closed up the lid of the chest and there the boy stayed, safe from all the world. Each day the woman would sit by the chest and press her lips to the lock and ask how the candleheart boy fared and each day the boy would tell her he fared well. But when she placed her eye to the lock she could see that the wooden child's candle heart was growing dimmer and she shivered and pulled her shawl close round her for the room felt suddenly cold.
At last there came a day when the little flame within the chest was so dim that the woman feared it would soon fade altogether. Desperate, she ran from her home and set to digging a deep pit, into which she placed the chest that held the candleheart boy.
"Now, sweet dove, now will you be safe", she called to the child, her lips pressed to the lock of the chest. And then she turned away and began to shovel the earth back into the pit, so that it might keep her child safe. And when her work was done, she brought out the little three-legged stool from her hut and placed it by the mound that was the candleheart boy's new home and sat down. And there, so they say, she stayed, sure at last that no harm could come to one she loved as the skies love the swallows.
What became of the woman, no one has ever told me, though there came a day when she sat no more by her child's home, just as sure as it is that The Absented has left us. And what of the boy? Many years later, on a bright spring day, or so I've heard it said, a tiny green shoot emerged from the mound where the boy once lay buried. And as the days and weeks and months went by the tiny shoot became a seedling and then a sapling and then a young tree, green-leafed and straight-limbed. And more, they say, the very next year, that young tree produced a blossom that was scented like summer and which, when touched with flame would burn long and bright, banishing the darkness and bringing a little warmth to the heart. And that, good Lyre, is the tale of the Candleheart Boy and that, good Lyre, is the tale of how the Candleblossom tree was born.'
1. Whether "Wondrance" is part of an official title or Lemnick is making up honorifics as he goes along is, frankly, anyone's guess here↩
2. No, scratch that, he clearly *is* making these things up as he goes along↩
3. Yes, he really did spell "showed" like that.↩
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
A Birthday
Today is Robert Louis Stevenson's birthday, or at least it would have been were he alive, or, rather, it wouldn't have been because, marvellously, he gave his birthday away to a girl called Annie Idle who was very unhappy at having her birthday on Christmas Day.
RLS is at least partially responsible for the existence of Otherwhile Tales. You can't read Kidnapped or Treasure Island or The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde as a child (or adult) without getting a taste for tales of mystery and adventure and if I can manage to get one-thousandth of the thrills of any of those books into The Heart of the World, I'll be very satisfied indeed.
As well as raising a glass to the great Robert Louis, you might also want to pop here to download three of his tales for free, courtesy of The Association for Scottish Literary Studies. Go on, it'll be worth it.
RLS is at least partially responsible for the existence of Otherwhile Tales. You can't read Kidnapped or Treasure Island or The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde as a child (or adult) without getting a taste for tales of mystery and adventure and if I can manage to get one-thousandth of the thrills of any of those books into The Heart of the World, I'll be very satisfied indeed.
As well as raising a glass to the great Robert Louis, you might also want to pop here to download three of his tales for free, courtesy of The Association for Scottish Literary Studies. Go on, it'll be worth it.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Brief Hiatus
If you've been checking in here and wondering where the hell I've got to, well you're probably a Ukrainian spambot. But, on the off-chance that you are human, I'll apologise for my absence. I've been off sketching out the novel that Otherwhile Tales is meant to be the background for, working on a sitcom script and writing on "The Furchester" a new programme from CBeebies and Sesame Workshop, set in a monster hotel and featuring furry favourites Elmo and Cookie Monster among its cast. There was also a bit of Grand Theft Auto V and a holiday in there somewhere too. All of which amounts to busy, busy, busy. In any event, normal service will be resumed ... I'm just not 100% sure when. But do check by now and again. At some point in the not-too-distant future, Otherwhile Tales should be providing a welcoming home to The Candle-Heart Boy and perhaps even to the sad story of Vyolla Who Sings; I'm keen to know how they turn out and I hope you are too.
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
Ten fantastical authors you may never have thought of reading, Part II
This seems a good time for the second part of my list of slightly out-of-the-way fantastical authors well-deserving of a read. So, let's have a look:
Angela Carter
A lover, reinterpreter and subverter of fairytales as well as a novelist, Angela Carter conjured the worlds of her stories - be they Victorian circuses, golden-era Hollywood, or a South American city under attack by reality-distorting machines - in an enthusiastic whirl of words and images destined to occupy the reader's mind for a very long time indeed. Nights at The Circus alone contains more striking images than can be found in most authors' lifetime output (I defy anyone who has read it not to go into a reverie at just a mention of the tiger waltz or the clowns and the blizzard) . Even in her works' darkest moments there is something joyous in her willingness, eagerness, to bring together plot and signs and symbols, peppering the whole with nods and allusions to the vast world of myth, legend, folktale and literary tradition. Carter's writing is the kind that will sweep you off your feet and carry you to distant shores, where all the colour is Technicolor and everything shimmers as if in a dream.
MR James
MR James's tales may reek of the donnish scents of tweed and pipe tobacco but, nonetheless, they remain today some of the most unsettling ghost stories ever penned. Where other writers seek to frighten you with gory detail, James prefers to evoke the same uneasy feeling you might get while walking along a quiet road in unfamiliar countryside just as night has fallen. His is the world of things that hover just at the edge of vision, of muffled sounds in the half-distance. Someone - their identity seems to be lost somewhere in the nether reaches of the internet - once said that "In Poe, you reach for your bedside lamp at night and it isn't there; in James, you reach out and something in the dark hands it to you". I'd add that you will never see the hand but you may feel the lightest brush of sparse and wiry hair, or smell something that's not quite bitter almonds and not quite sulphur. In any event, you won't be putting your hands above the bed covers again all night.
Lord Dunsany
I only discovered the work of Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron Dunsany, fairly recently, though I first came across his name many years ago in Michael Moorcock's excellent history of literary fantasy Wizardry and Wild Romance. His creations may often, as Moorcock says, be slight but they are told with great charm and humour and, best of all, frequently come at their subjects from surprising angles or arrive in altogether unexpected places. He will tell you tales of anything from vanishing cities to scoundrelly chess-players to dream-wreathed journeys to distant lands. And beyond all that, anyone who can come up with a story titled Why The Milkman Shudders When He Perceives The Dawn deserves a great deal of indulgence on the reader's part.
Italo Calvino
Italo Calvino, like so many of the other authors I've listed , was a lover of folktales, going so far as to become Italy's Grimm by compiling a superb volume of native fairy stories. It was a grounding that informed his deceptively simple, always multi-layered works, novels such as If On A Winter's Night A Traveller, Invisible Cities and The Castle of Crossed Destinies being formed from what could be separate tales but, taken together, form extraordinary narrative mechanisms, bright jewels spinning around each other, linked by a glittering web of spun gold. Entering the first chapter of a Calvino book is a dangerous thing, what seems like a shallow, pellucid pool soon turns out to be much deeper than at first thought and filled with strange currents.
GK Chesterton
After all the other writers I've mentioned in this and the previous instalment, GK Chesterton might seem an odd figure with whom to finish. His aged Billy Bunter appearance, habit of getting lost and firing off telegrams to his wife such as "Am in Wolverhampton where ought I to be?" and constant ribbing of his great friend and ideological opponent George Bernard Shaw's "progressivism" seem unlikely ingredients with which to make a fantastical author. But Chesterton's fascination with the nebulous and the numinous (raised as a Unitarian he converted to Catholicism in his late forties) combined with a furious energy (he wrote 80 books, 200 short stories, thousands of essays, several plays and a lot of, not terribly good, poetry) to produce a writer of startling imagination and a wonderful subverter of conventions. In The Napoleon of Notting Hill the newly-elected king divides a future London up into a series of city states for a joke and provides the spark for the city's transformation into a place where people live out their lives as if they were minor characters in Arthurian legend or The Thousand and One Nights. In The Man Who Was Thursday a poet is recruited into a secret anti-anarchist force, only to find that all its members, bar one, are actually fellow anti-anarchists. In The Club of Queer Trades he creates a series of anti-detective stories which manage both to fit the mould of the Sherlock Holmes tales perfectly and smash that same mould into pieces. A writer who constantly reiterates the need for imagination in our approach to reality as well as fantasy, Chesterton needs to be read now more than ever.
Angela Carter
MR James
Lord Dunsany
Italo Calvino
GK Chesterton
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