I’ve been pronouncing his name, Me-eh-ville. Rolled into one. Meyeahville. Paul in St. George’s—who is a Brit—says, Maiville. Either way, one of my books of the year.
This is lazy-quick blogging. Fuck I love China Miéville. Even when I only read his books once—most of them at any rate. Short stories, I’m not such a fan of. Most of these though are subperb, and some are brilliant, horrible genius. I’ve had a selfish want for him to write proper hard sci-fi space opera skiffy, to dispense with his grime fantasy, and he does! And it’s glorious. Should be a whole book, not just six pages. (That’d be The Rope is the World.) Finished the whole thing over a week of breakfasts.
Three years, eight months ago, I took a photo. I wrote also,
“I have this strange compulsion that has overtaken me. I bought a ticket to Berlin and decided to live there, see what the dance is, see what the life might be like. Will it suit me? Will I feel something like home? Will I be able to stay?”
Those boxes. I saw their contents briefly early 2008, unpacking, repacking, again in Adelaide a month or so later for some weeks, not even bothering to really unpack. Before that, it was late 2004 that they were last in my company. Six years. What I paid to keep that all in storage likely is far in excess of what it’s all worth. Still …