A potted history of man’s understanding of light, this book is both entertaining and educational, taking us on a journey from the beginning of our history as modern man right up to the flights of fancy of today’s scientists.

Light Years is a testament to Brian Clegg’s power of clarity. He offers fantastic explanations of some of the more bizarre aspects of light, eschewing mathematics, relying on clear prose to convey appreciation of both the problem and, if we know the solution, the solution. He’s not above using a diagram or two, but only when strictly necessary.

The usual suspects are all covered here: Galileo, Newton, Maxwell, Einstein. The giants. And many esoteric suspects you’ve probably never heard of, but who made today’s world what it is: Muslim scientist Alhazen, Roger Bacon, aka Doctor Mirabilis, lens makers Hans and Zacharias Janssen, Anton van Leeuvenhoek, the father of microbiology, and those associated with the invention of the telescope Hans Lippershey, Leonard and Thomas Digges. The list goes on.

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Finally. A book I didn’t like.

Characters I couldn’t relate to. Action — mostly macho hunting action — that was boring. Dialogue that was even more boring. An antagonist, in the form of a giant burrowing alien, that was intriguing, yet at the same time immensely boring. (In more ways than one. Ha ha.)  Some thinly-veiled political allegory about socialism vs capitalism that came in on the boring-o-meter even below the rest. And an ending that came on a-sudden, briefly threatening to move the boring-o-meter, but not having the punch after all.

I have since learnt that this hard-to-find book (it’s out of print; I’m not all that surprised) is based on, or is a homage to, or something akin to, a William Faulkner short called The Bear.

In a way, this explains much of the feel of the book. The feel is old-school: a bunch of men hunting. A bunch-of-men that covers the usual bunch-of-men spectrum, from the old and grizzled, to the young and idealistic (our protagonist, Manuel), from the trigger-happy, to the, well, still trigger-happy. These are hunters after all. It could all have happened in some pioneer enclave in 18^th or 19^th or even 20^th century America/Africa/Asia/Australia/Another A. The fact that it happens on Ganymede, a moon of Jupiter, hundreds of years in the future doesn’t diminish the old-timey feel.

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The Wind in the Willows has always been at my periphery. I cannot remember the first time I heard about it, but surely it was before I was ten. It may have been an advertisement for or review of one of the many television or radio adaptations. Or it may have been in casual conversation, if under tens ever had casual conversations in which The Wind in the Willows came up. Maybe a friend or two had read it. But I don’t remember any specific conversations. We were too busy kicking a ball about or putting a cricket ball through a window. Teachers probably mentioned it. But whatever the reason I knew about it, I never read it.

It was never high on my priorities, either. Even less so now, short decades after leaving childhood’s shores. A children’s book that I hadn’t read when I was a child: what would be the point now? Of course, nothing has much point anyway, so when I stumbled across a well-worn paperback copy at my parents’ house a few months ago (uh, where did that come from?) I figured I may as well give it a go.

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I don’t know about you, but I think that photograph on the cover is something else. To me it’s the type of picture that evokes the exotic. It inspires the otherworldly. It is a story in itself. You may as well not need any words inside that cover.  (Even if the original image is somewhat sullied by being merged with a nondescript star field; something of David Bowman’s “…my God…it’s full of stars” perhaps?)

It, therefore, is going to take a story of such imagination to be worthy of that cover. And I must say, Iain M Banks has given it a good go. Even if by its nature it holds the epithet “space opera”.

Space operas (or “large-scale SF”, as the Guardian’s blurb on the back of my particular edition states) are not always to everyone’s liking. They have casts of tens, hundreds, thousands, millions — and up — and the locations are scattered across worlds and galaxies and even universes. They tend to deal with the epic: the characters are extraordinary beings at play in extraordinary times. Achieving coherence and a relatability in such situations and with such characters can be difficult. Yes, these are general-isms, but the perception of space operas as huge tomes of exposition which tend to ignore character development in favour of Big Ideas, speculation, and pure escapism does have some basis in truth.

The space opera basics are all here within The Algebraist. Far future: check. Aliens: check. Lasers: check. Other types of big weapons: check. Even bigger weapons: check. Space battles: check. Interstellar travel: check. Wormholes: check. Giant spaceships: check. Small spaceships: check. Inhabited planets, countless: check. Pan-galactic cultures: check. Epic happenings: check. Lack of character development: well, that’s a bit of a cross, really.

For all the made-up words thrown around and the fun to be had with an opera in space, Banks is not above a smidgeon of character development. The characters are shaded, filled in past mere caricature; for the most part. The Archmandrite Luceferous is a little bit over-the-top.

Fortunately, Banks plays over-the-top extremely well, and counters what would be pretentious grandeur in lesser writers with humour, mixing techno-babble and characterisation to craft a story that, while not particularly deep, should stimulate the amusement centres of your brain.

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For those of you not familiar with Iain M Banks’ Culture novels, I suggest that you do not read this book.

Not right away.

No, I would suggest that you acquaint yourself with the Culture by reading, at the very least, Use of Weapons or Consider Phlebas.

And then you read this book.

Because, although at first glance it is very easy to disregard Inversions as having anything to do with the Culture, and it could possibly be enjoyed without that prior knowledge, it gains so many more levels after familiarising yourself with Banks’ imagined universe.

Yes, it reads almost exactly like an historical drama, a faux-medieval setting populated with kings and dukes and ladies in waiting and guards and waifs and wastrels. Given that this sort of setting is so beloved by fantasy stories, it is not hard to read it as a tale of magic, even if the “magic” is so subtle that it’s plausible you could explain it away prosaically; maybe it’s just an inaccurate telling of events by a sloppy story-teller. (That last clause when applied to Banks could not be further from the truth, of course.)

Yes, it is possible to enjoy this book without knowing an ounce about the Culture. It is possible to enjoy whilst ignoring the intimations that the story is science fiction: two suns and many moons; a character’s seeming preternatural ability to listen in on conversations she shouldn’t be able to. (These could easily be worked into a story of full-blown fantasy, after all.) It is possible to enjoy the rounded characters and thought-provoking situations at face value.

But to get the full dimensionality of the story, to read it as I think Banks intended, you do need to know about the Culture.

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Ah, a new Greg Bear novel to consume. Having grown up reading Eon, The Forge of God and other humbly named novels, I was all ready to engross myself in some more of Bear’s visionary hard sci-fi flights of fancy.

This was not what I was expecting.

What I got instead was half science fiction, half fantasy, and all of it bordering on literature. Literature! From a science fiction writer? And one who normally specialises in the harder aspects of science fiction at that? Closer in spirit to Bear’s fantasy duology Songs of Earth and Power than any of his previous science fiction tomes, City at the End of Time is like nothing the author has written before.

Bear probably had specifics in mind when he wrote this book, and there will usually be one explanation that makes more sense than others, but this book has left a lot to the imagination. There are many things in City at the End of Time — characters, plot points, situations — that are open to interpretation. And therefore open to different meanings. And therefore subject to further study. See? Literature.

Speaking of imagination, Bear shows he still has buckets of it. Like many of his previous novels, the sheer scope of this book is something to behold. As Bear’s career has progressed, his stories have tended to get grander, and to get more apocalyptic. From the Little Death of his Eon series, to the destruction of the Earth in The Forge of God series, Bear ups the ante yet again, dealing with nothing less than the destruction of the entire universe in this book. And, not content to play with the universe in a purely Newtonian sense — the destruction of space at a fixed time — Bear gives a nod towards Einstein’s connection of time and space and intends to destroy both of them. In other words, not only does the universe die, but it becomes as if it never lived. How can some event that’s already happened become…um…not happened?

It is not only the concept that takes an extra level of comprehension. Bear’s method of writing is not going to win a whole legion of mainstream fans: the non-linear story-telling, the lack of explanation, the confusing, fantastical elements. I was not surprised to see that this book rates two and a half stars (out of five) on Amazon, with a fair number of one star reviews. I can see why, even if I don’t necessarily agree.

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I had never heard of Gary Gibson; I had never heard of this book; yet for some reason when I saw it in a local book store I felt compelled to buy it on a whim. Yeah, buying things on whims is akin to making darts out of twenty dollar notes, throwing them off a bridge and hoping they come back reasonably intact. And yeah, there are these things called libraries which allow you to read books such as these for free. But I got sucked in by impulse and by the blurb on the back:

For a quarter of a million years an alien race has been hiding a vast and terrible secret.

Dang. I’m hooked. I’m a sucker for elderly alien races and vast, terrible secrets. It goes on:

In the 25^th century, only the Shoal possess the secret of faster-than-light travel (FTL), giving them absolute control over all trade and exploration throughout the galaxy. Mankind has operated within their influence for two centuries, establishing a dozen human colony worlds scattered along Shoal trade routes.

Intriguing. Even if the mention of trade routes brings to mind disturbing images of the cringe-worthy Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace. Oh God, that movie’s insipid crawling foreword: “Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation…yawn…of trade routes to…snore…huh, what?…Naboo”. Make it stop already! If you’re a fan of this film please watch this. If you’re still a fan after watching that, then you are an idiot.

Anyway, blurb, you may continue:

Dakota Merrick, while serving as a military pilot, has witnessed atrocities for which this alien race is responsible. Now piloting a civilian cargo ship, she is currently ferrying an exploration team to a star system containing a derelict starship. From its wreckage, her passengers hope to salvage a functioning FTL drive of mysteriously non-Shoal origin. But the Shoal are not yet ready to relinquish their monopoly over a technology they acquired through ancient genocide.

Oooh, ancient genocide! I shelled out the cash. At least it doesn’t revolve around fucking taxation.

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