Philip Pullman Article in Full.

Since the Times Online article has disappeared and the Google cache one is unavailable, here it is in full:

Malevolent Voices that Destroy our Freedoms

Philip Pullman
Times Online
Fri, 27 Feb 2009 19:19 UTC

Are such things done on Albion's shore?

The image of this nation that haunts me most powerfully is that of the sleeping giant Albion in William Blake's prophetic books. Sleep, profound and inveterate slumber: that is the condition of Britain today.

We do not know what is happening to us. In the world outside, great events take place, great figures move and act, great matters unfold, and this nation of Albion murmurs and stirs while malevolent voices whisper in the darkness - the voices of the new laws that are silently strangling the old freedoms the nation still dreams it enjoys.

We are so fast asleep that we don't know who we are any more. Are we English? Scottish? Welsh? British? More than one of them? One but not another? Are we a Christian nation - after all we have an Established Church - or are we something post-Christian? Are we a secular state? Are we a multifaith state? Are we anything we can all agree on and feel proud of?

The new laws whisper:

You don't know who you are

You're mistaken about yourself

We know better than you do what you consist of, what labels apply to you, which facts about you are important and which are worthless

We do not believe you can be trusted to know these things, so we shall know them for you

And if we take against you, we shall remove from your possession the only proof we shall allow to be recognised

The sleeping nation dreams it has the freedom to speak its mind. It fantasizes about making tyrants cringe with the bluff bold vigour of its ancient right to express its opinions in the street. This is what the new laws say about that:

Expressing an opinion is a dangerous activity

Whatever your opinions are, we don't want to hear them

So if you threaten us or our friends with your opinions we shall treat you like the rabble you are

And we do not want to hear you arguing about it

So hold your tongue and forget about protesting

What we want from you is acquiescence

The nation dreams it is a democratic state where the laws were made by freely elected representatives who were answerable to the people. It used to be such a nation once, it dreams, so it must be that nation still. It is a sweet dream.

You are not to be trusted with laws

So we shall put ourselves out of your reach

We shall put ourselves beyond your amendment or abolition

You do not need to argue about any changes we make, or to debate them, or to send your representatives to vote against them

You do not need to hold us to account

You think you will get what you want from an inquiry?

Who do you think you are?

What sort of fools do you think we are?

The nation's dreams are troubled, sometimes; dim rumours reach our sleeping ears, rumours that all is not well in the administration of justice; but an ancient spell murmurs through our somnolence, and we remember that the courts are bound to seek the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and we turn over and sleep soundly again.

And the new laws whisper:

We do not want to hear you talking about truth

Truth is a friend of yours, not a friend of ours

We have a better friend called hearsay, who is a witness we can always rely on

We do not want to hear you talking about innocence

Innocent means guilty of things not yet done

We do not want to hear you talking about the right to silence

You need to be told what silence means: it means guilt

We do not want to hear you talking about justice

Justice is whatever we want to do to you

And nothing else

Are we conscious of being watched, as we sleep? Are we aware of an ever-open eye at the corner of every street, of a watching presence in the very keyboards we type our messages on? The new laws don't mind if we are. They don't think we care about it.

We want to watch you day and night

We think you are abject enough to feel safe when we watch you

We can see you have lost all sense of what is proper to a free people

We can see you have abandoned modesty

Some of our friends have seen to that

They have arranged for you to find modesty contemptible

In a thousand ways they have led you to think that whoever does not want to be watched must have something shameful to hide

We want you to feel that solitude is frightening and unnatural

We want you to feel that being watched is the natural state of things

One of the pleasant fantasies that consoles us in our sleep is that we are a sovereign nation, and safe within our borders. This is what the new laws say about that:

We know who our friends are

And when our friends want to have words with one of you

We shall make it easy for them to take you away to a country where you will learn that you have more fingernails than you need

It will be no use bleating that you know of no offence you have committed under British law

It is for us to know what your offence is

Angering our friends is an offence

It is inconceivable to me that a waking nation in the full consciousness of its freedom would have allowed its government to pass such laws as the Protection from Harassment Act (1997), the Crime and Disorder Act (1998), the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act (2000), the Terrorism Act (2000), the Criminal Justice and Police Act (2001), the Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act (2001), the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Extension Act (2002), the Criminal Justice Act (2003), the Extradition Act (2003), the Anti-Social Behaviour Act (2003), the Domestic Violence, Crime and Victims Act (2004), the Civil Contingencies Act (2004), the Prevention of Terrorism Act (2005), the Inquiries Act (2005), the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act (2005), not to mention a host of pending legislation such as the Identity Cards Bill, the Coroners and Justice Bill, and the Legislative and Regulatory Reform Bill.

Inconceivable.

And those laws say:

Sleep, you stinking cowards

Sweating as you dream of rights and freedoms

Freedom is too hard for you

We shall decide what freedom is

Sleep, you vermin

Sleep, you scum.

Philip Pullman will deliver a keynote speech at the Convention on Modern Liberty at the Institute of Education in London tomorrow

Nice One Mat

Yep, by the end of the show I thought he was the one who most deserved to win it, and whilst I'm glad he did, I do feel for the other two contestants who were bloody good too. But then they're ten or more years younger than him and have plenty of time to pursue their dreams. Mat, it appears, won't be pursuing his just yet, since right now is perhaps not the best of economic times to gamble your livelihood on starting up a restaurant.

His winning menu on the last show consisted of a starter of trio of wild rabbit, a main course of spider crab with hand-cut chips and sea vegetables.

This was followed by an exotic dessert of lavender mousse with hokey pokey honeycomb and a blackberry sauce.

Philip Pullman Article

Thanks to Phil Edwards for pointing this out to me on boingboing, the original article at The Times Online. Here we have Philip Pullman talking about how our freedoms are being destroyed:

The image of this nation that haunts me most powerfully is that of the sleeping giant Albion in William Blake's prophetic books. Sleep, profound and inveterate slumber: that is the condition of Britain today.

We do not know what is happening to us. In the world outside, great events take place, great figures move and act, great matters unfold, and this nation of Albion murmurs and stirs while malevolent voices whisper in the darkness - the voices of the new laws that are silently strangling the old freedoms the nation still dreams it enjoys.

Go and read the whole thing.

Alcohol Units

You know, I'd really like to cut down on my drinking, but I've been having a few problems lately. I blame television. Every evening I keep seeing this government sponsored advert for booze. It displays nice frothy pints of beer all ready to guzzle, it shows a lovely glass of chilled white wine, the glass all dewy and its contents utterly tempting. I'm not entirely sure what the numbers written into the dew on the glasses is all about, but never mind. There is a health warning near the end of this wonderfully alluring display of alcohol, but by then it's too late because I've already cracked open a bottle.

Stem Cell Gamble

Damn, I've only just read this. I didn't realize this stuff was so advanced. But then I should have guessed we'd be seeing treatments like this off the radar in countries where medical advances aren't burdened by leaden bureaucracy and HSE minded jobsworths. This is fucking brilliant!

A year on, he has regained strength in his legs, back and stomach, can control his upper body movements and walk with parallel bars.

His circulation has improved, hairs have started growing on his legs for the first time in 20 years and his hope now is that soon he will be able to walk unaided.

I did a short piece once for Nature Magazine, in which I had a character walking into a museum to gaze at a wheelchair in a glass case with a plaque detailing when such archaic devices were last used. Seems this has every chance of being a reality within my lifetime. Excellent!

Kestrel?

Any twitchers in the house? We spotted this on our hedge this morning and I can't figure out whether it's a kestrel, sparrowhawk or what. I think it was driven over from its usual perch on the telegraph wires by the spraying activity out there. Anyone know?

The King's Ship

Here then is the image that might appear on the back of Orbus. It's pretty much correct in that it shows the King of the Prador's ship much as described. This thing is fifty miles from top to bottom, but is suitable transport for a rather large monster in need of some personal space. Oberon, the Prador King, is a creature with a tendency to extreme and destructive irritation in personal encounters, and the result is usually messy. When his ire extends to worlds, this ship's weapons are more than sufficient.

Orbus Cover

Damn but I'm losing my marbles. I got sent this cover quite a while ago and completely forgot about it. Here then is the cover for Orbus, available for pre-order on amazon, along with one of the blurbs. Both are likely subject to change...

Now in charge of an cargo spaceship, the Old Captain Orbus, flees a violent and sadistic past, but he doesn’t know that the lethal war drone, Sniper, is a stowaway, and that past is rapidly catching up with him. His old enemy, the Prador Vrell, mutated by the Spatterjay virus into something powerful and dangerous, has seized control of a Prador dreadnought, slaughting its entire crew, and now seeks to exact vengeance on those who tried to have him killed.

Their courses inexorably converge in the Graveyard, the border realm lying between the Polity and the Prador Kingdom, a place filled with the ruins left by past genocides and interplanetary war. Secure in that same place the Golgoloth, a monster to a race of monsters, is recruited by the terrifying King of the Prador into the long cold war between his kind and the humans. It is imperative that Vrell be hunted down and killed, for what he knows and what he might become.

Meanwhile, something that has annihilated civilizations is stirring from a slumber of five million years, and the cold war is heating up, fast.

Very Different Books.

>

I liked and actually cared about the characters (including the talking gun). I enjoyed the action, the visceral violence and sordid sex. This is no nonsense entertainment and really you get what it says on the tin. If this were a tome delivering deep homilies about the horror of war, sexual and racial inequality or environmental issues, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be called Death’s Head Maximum Offence. I’m also guessing Gunn had his tongue firmly wedged in his cheek while writing it, probably to stop him laughing out loud with enjoyment. Once it grabbed me at about page 30, I polished off this book, with similar enjoyment, within a day.

Dexter

A little while back on this blog, when I was ranting about some of the crap I’d watched either on television or at the cinema, someone suggested I should watch Dexter (Vaude?). Well, I didn’t mention it at the time, but I did watch most of the first season and enjoyed it thoroughly. In fact, the basic premise of the show of a serial killer whose prey is killers, was close to one I used in a short story I wrote over ten years ago (It was called ‘Trophies’, and the serial killer was a hunter of serial killers, Dexter just nobbles the normal kind).

Now I’m watching the second season and, since Caroline has now succumbed, I’ve gone and bought the first season (very reasonable on Amazon) and look forward to catching up on those critical episodes I missed at the end of the first. Yup, Dexter is excellent stuff and gets my recommendation.

MasterChef

-->I haven’t said anything about it here but, after last night’s excitement, I have to mention that I really like Master Chef. Yes, it is apparent that much excitement is manufactured by camera work, scattering the timings, and a pretence of disagreement between the two judges, Gregg Wallace and John Torode.

When judging six contestants of which three must go, it’s always the case that two are in two are out almost immediately, then Torode and Wallace often pretend disagreement about the good and bad points of the remaining two, and we don’t find out who’s going until they do the line up and dismiss them. Also, it’s noticeable how the cooking scenes are spliced together to generate tension with either of the two judges declaiming, “Two minutes left!” amidst mad frantic cooking which, though it might be true in some cases, certainly isn’t true all the time with all the contestants. Then there’s the part of the show when the remaining three have to work in a professional kitchen in which it seems they always screw up at the start and always manage to sort themselves out by their last dishes (again, this might be true in many cases, but not all).

However, this is television, and I don’t expect the camera to remain in place as a cook stands by his oven cleaning his fingernails whilst waiting for a joint to roast. And there is real tension, real emotion and hunger to succeed. Torode and Wallace, whilst playing to the camera, tell it like it really is when they try the food, being either harshly critical or full of praise. Both of these guys are likable, brash and appear to be utterly honest in their opinions about what they’re eating. You only have to see a grown man nearly in tears because Torode has said of some dish, “That’s really beautiful” or Wallace has been grunting with pleasure upon munching a mouthful of the puddings he so relishes, to realise that the contestants think so too.

Now the program is into its final stages with the three finalists being really put through the mill, cooking for critics, the high and mighty, large numbers of people (in one recent case those being 600+ steel workers) or out in the field rustling up dishes for hungry soldiers. I’ve been enjoying it immensely and will sad when it’s all over.

Frequent Visitor.

He was waiting outside the back door after we'd been away for months and soon fell back in to his usual routine of attacking towels and coming in and sleeping on our bed. Caroline had wondered if he's not sure who he belongs to, but I've pointed out that he thinks that we and his owner, our neighbour Heidi, all belong to him. His name's Basil.

Prador Moon Review

Seems Owen Roberts likes Prador Moon:

Short. Punchy. Multiple eviscerations. Neal Asher is known for his violent action scenes, but he takes gory and disturbing writing to a new level in this novel. This has at least as many entrail-littered pages as The Skinner. Tops.

Ooops!

The founder of a television station which aims to counteract negative stereotypes of Muslims in America has been charged with beheading his wife.

Gabble Review.

Nice review of The Gabble here at NextRead...

Neal Asher has an amazing imagination combined with a strong understanding of science and its potentials for evolution. Or at least that’s the impression that I’m left with after reading the tales that make up The Gabble and Other Stories.

The wonderful thing about this collection, unlike most, is that the stories share the same universe. So several elements are free to reappear like the Gabbleduck and the Gabble, along with AI and golems and several other unique, fascinating or amazing ideas.

This is my first exposure to both Neal Asher and the Polity Universe and it won’t be the last. He’s a talented storyteller that doesn’t let the science take away from the fiction he’s writing. He makes it a part of the plot and explains it such a way that it’s understandable and vital to the action and not dumbed down at all.

The Whatever Blog

I've just been reading some highly entertaining posts on John Scalzi's blog. The first is What to Know When You Ask Me to Read Your (Unpublished) Work which certainly raises a chuckle or two and is now highly relevant to me. At one time I used to do this but, now, it's just not worth the aggravation, the bottom line being, why should I forgo paid work to do this when the result might well be a wounded artiste bleeding all over me? And no, I'm not going to pat you on the head and say, "Good boy!" The second post is Ten Things Teenage Writers Should Know About Writing which is again highly entertaining but in this case points a finger squarely at the me of about thirty years ago. This kind of post is often criticized for undermining the kind of self belief that enables someone to eventually become a successful writer, however, the ones who succeed are the kind who read something like this and simply don't stop. I stuck a reply in there to that post (in the comment overflow), pointing out that the bar is set by those who have struggled for decades to get where they are, and only rarely does anyone leap that bar without equivalent effort and determination. It's a rule, I feel, that can be applied to success in just about any walk of life.

Errol Brown at the Cliff's.

-->
Last night we went to see Errol Brown of Hot Chocoloate at the Cliff’s Pavillion in Southend. Things started off not too great when we headed down to the sea front from Southend Victoria, then intending to turn right heading for Cliff’s Pavillion which sits on the coast at Westcliff – a simple short walk because, as directions obtained from the Internet detailed, it was only a mile. Reaching the sea front we asked someone for direction and he pointed where expected saying, “About three miles.” We had two hours (intending to eat beforehand), so cue the fast walk. Arriving at the Pavillion half an hour later just affirmed our knowledge that some people haven’t got a clue about distances.

Now with time to spare we found a restaurant called Bojangles that produced very acceptable cod and chips, scampi and chips and half litre carafes of white wine, and now, much more relaxed and happy, entered Cliff’s well on time. Surely Errol’s show would be no longer than a couple of hours and we’d have plenty of time to catch the last train home. Our time was limited because that train departed at 10.36 but, since the show started at 7.30, we assumed we’d take it all in. It was not to be.

Before Errol Brown appeared someone called Yolanda Brown took the stage (no relation, and nothing about her when we bought the tickets). We now got a half an hour of the ‘pimp Yolanda Brown show’, half an hour of ear-ringing boring jazz with lots of, “Let’s have a big cheer for Fred Bloggs on piano!” and “Here’s Animal on the drums!” and “Give it up for Osama Bin Laden on the Jew’s harp!” all followed by the usual tiresome and interminable jazz solos. And if, by the end of it, you didn’t know this female saxophonist’s website or know that her albums were on sale in the lobby, you weren’t listening. I was trying not to.

This period of, “We came here to see Errol Brown so why don’t you fuck off?” ate up over a half an hour of our available time. It was then followed by a half hour break during which it seemed most of the audience was intent on dulling the pain in the bar, then finally we got what we came for. Errol Brown was good, though at 61 the tight trousers had been consigned to history and he wasn’t leaping about the stage (but then he never did). It was all somewhat marred by seats designed by some research branch of the Inquisition, and the sheeple standing up when summoned and not having the decency to sit down again. However, even though our view was distant, near the back, I’m glad we weren’t on the first row, since numerous greying and somewhat wrinkled fans thought it might be an idea to line up along the front of the stage and wave their hands in the air.

By 9.50 it was time to head off, and I’m guessing, having heard the Full Monty ‘You Sexy Thing’ the show was nearing its close. Fast walk now back to the rail station, lost again and venturing into the regions of hoodies, vomit and discarded burger boxes. Annoying that we got to the station 20 minutes before the train departed, but to risk missing it and end up stuck in Southend at that time wasn’t an option. All an interesting adventure, but not one I’m anxious to repeat.

Story Casting.

Just got this contact on Myspace...

Can you supply a movie cast for the Polity novels? I'll
bet your fans can...

Hello, Neal.

We have a fun, free website (www. storycasting. com) where readers can create and post a "fantasy cast" for their favorite fiction, and we've put your books on our site, ready for casting!

Readers select a work they've read, choose main characters, and then fill the roles with current movie and TV stars. We also offer a special free "author account", where authors come on the site, cast their own works "authoritatively", and then send their fans to cast. Each cast is a vote for an actor in that role, and with each cast the favorites rise to the top.

We've put all your books on our site, plus links to your website and Amazon. Go take a look at the site, see what authors and readers are doing, and maybe try it out. If you'd like your free author account, so you can cast your books (Pat Rothfuss did), let me know, and we'll get you set up.

Additionally, we are giving away free "CAST THIS BOOK" bookmarkers to our authors, to use as freebies during signings and appearances. If you email me, I will send a JPG of the front and back, so you can see what they look like. Just let us know how many you can use between now and June, and we'll ship them to you.

We hope you enjoy the site, and decide to join the Storycasting community of casting authors.

Regards,

Jeff Reid

"for the movie in your mind"

Writing Update.

Righto, I’ve finished the initial editing of Orbus and now await its return from the copy editor. Next, I’ve written an article for the BSFA, The British Science Fiction Association, which is

…currently producing a series of special pamphlets for its members. Previous pamphlets include a small press sampler.’ Martin Lewis would like to produce one consisting of brief articles of SF writers on SF films. The idea is that each contributor writes an 750 word piece on a SF film which means something special to them. It might be your favourite film, it might be a guilty pleasure, it might be a film that was your gateway into the world of science fiction. I would be happy for contributors to use the broadest possible definition of science fiction and to be as popularist or obscure as they wished.

Bearing this in mind I chose Aliens, which is certainly one of my favourite films and which I might have described as a ‘guilty pleasure’ where it not for the fact I’m not pretentious enough to feel guilty about anything I enjoy. You certainly won’t get one of those film lists from me including something French with subtitles, or utterly obscure, or both, and the words ‘noir’ or ‘surreal’ will not be in evidence.

Next on the agenda is getting back to writing the ‘Owner’ story which still doesn’t really have a title. Presently I’m approaching 90,000 words, but I’ve been knocking the hell out of the story changing it from 1^st person to 3^rd, expanding the scale of the scenery and the scale of the problems faced by the somewhat nasty hero.

Back to work now.

Not Book Shelf.

Here's Irena Raseta's small contribution:

Chester

Hey, I'm in Chester over the weekend so anyone who wants a books signed or anything. I'll be popping in the bookshops there ... let me know.

Terry Pratchett Living With Alzheimer's.

I once stood in a queue outside Ottakar’s in Chelmsford (now a Waterstone’s) for about half an hour, maybe an hour, to get a book signed by Terry Pratchett, all of whose books I’ve really enjoyed, even the ones you don’t hear so much about – science fiction and not set in the Discworld universe – like The Dark Side of The Sun and Strata. At the time I hadn’t been taken on by Macmillan, but I did have The Engineer and The Parasite published by Tanjen, so I took along a copy of The Engineer to give to him. What he thought of that I don’t know. Now I’m really in the writing world I reckon he probably though me some sort of freeloader trying to get a leg up on his fame, or maybe get a quote out of him. The reality was utter fanboyism, a bit of, “Look Master, see what I’ve done”.

Every year when one of his books comes out (in paperback) I buy it, or more usually Caroline buys it for me, and I read with enjoyment, normally polishing it off in a day. And if he ever appears on television I’m always there watching, since my inner fanboy has never died. I particularly liked the program he did with the orang-utans, which was fascinating and laced all the way through with his humour. In one scene a massive male orang-utan came walking through the jungle, and when it crossed a wooden bridge the heavy sound of its massive weight coming down with every footstep would have been enough to get any sphincter quivering. He noted how those about him were breaking the speed record for the nonchalant walk as they departed the scene.

Last night I watched the first of two episodes of his program Living with Alzheimer’s, which was funny, sad, offered hope and took it away again. Mr Pratchett was very angry upon discovering he had this malady, and you can see his anger and frustration as he fails to knot his tie, or types slowly and makes constant mistakes. And the killer was watching him doing a reading and starting to lose it at the end, audience dead silent and some teary eyed. What a bummer. However, the humour was there right from the start with, “Hello, I’m Terry Pratchett … at least I think I am,” and there later when he wore something on his head that looked like a Dr Who prop. In the end that guy who always speaks in capital letters in hiss books (the Grim Reaper) can be less frightening than those who usher him through the door.

When I first heard the news that Terry Pratchett has got Alzheimer’s, I felt a little sick. It’s the kind of thing that rips up someone’s heart when it’s a family member and, because he is so well known and loved, there are millions who see him as part of their lives, he’s the humorous entertainer with the beard and wide-brimmed black hat, he’s the guy who regularly produces a book they want to read at once and which never disappoints. If you ever do an English course of any substance you learn the true definition of word tragedy – not how it is thoroughly misused by the media. To me the idea that a man who has entertained millions with wit, humour and an incisive intellect, with wisdom even, being gradually destroyed from inside his skull, that’s tragedy.

Hey, That White Stuff is Snow!

So, we get a few days of snow, in some places lying a foot deep but in most places sitting under the six inch range, but it’s noticable how TV reporters won’t let the truth get in the way of a good story. I saw one reporter the other night walking across a churchyard through six inches of snow and, since the stuff was barely up to her ankles, can only assume she’s one of those who has a problem with decimalization. That would be six centimetres dear.

One would think, by the news, that the home counties have become an extension of Hurricane Alley, during an earthquake, and probably with a Biblical plague or two on the way. All this freaky weather is causing ‘traffic chaos’ as cars fail to negotiate a bit of snow turned to slush by gritting lorries; schools have been closed and many people aren’t turning up for work; London buses weren’t operating and, apparently, it’s been snowing underground since the tube closed down.

It seems that our society is now completely geared to cater for the lowest common denominator: the prat in his car who has failed to comprehend that ice is slippery so crashes and snarls up the road, or little ADHD Jasmina who’s fall in the playground will result in her bloated scrounging mummy suing the school, and that this is then taken advantage of by those perpetually looking for an excuse for a day off work.

We are warned, should we need to brave these terrible conditions, that we should load up our cars with hot drinks, warm clothing and a selection of igloo-building tools. With the complicity of the hysterical media, it appears the people of this country have been nannied into a permanent state of infantilism. I’m guessing that we won’t be turning out any Shackletons in the near future.

Book Cases Seven

Bascule's book cases... yup, that'd be me lost to the real world for a year or so.

Loft Library H to M & M to S

Okay, Vaude and Afront wanted Harrison and Pohl, let's have a look ... nope, not looking hopeful on the Pohl front.

Loft Library A to D

Afront wanted Harry Harrison or John Brunner. Here's the latter to be going on with:

Bus Slogan Generator

I do like this slogan generator which I picked up on over at Devil's Kitchen. Just insert your own words and check out the results.

Loft Library C to G

Here's a random shot of my loft library and you've got Cherryh to Gemmel, or rather Graves (there are a few none SFF books scattered through here). Seeing this I'm reminded of past reading joys, like the Philip Jose Farmer's Riverworld books, the easy reading of Alan Dean Foster and the sadly missed David Gemmel. In fact every book here has been a reading pleasure. Books don't get to stay on my shelves if they're just mediocre. I'm guessing Bob Lock will quite like these shelves, as will Gary Gibson (not sure where I've put Stealing Light, Gary, but it will end up there). Nor do the numerous titles missing here that I read from the library.

I haven't put every picture up because there's loads of them, and I thought it might be fun to let you suggest a writer, then I'll find the picture that covers that writer's portion of the alphabet...