Phillip Mann – writer, teacher and theatre director

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Sunset and Dawn. Which is which?

As ever I am grateful to Wikipedia for these images.

Three of my friends died recently. I am caught between my own sadness – for the loss of a friend leaves a big hole  – but also a sense of dis-belief that all that energy and laughter and knowledge could have somehow ended, or now lives on only in memory. That, I can’t finally believe – and without getting into some debate between believers and non-believers in life after death – I hope that something of my friends, some quintessence perhaps, lives on in another dimension.

I read a poem for one of them, Tom, at his funeral – the other funerals I could not attend – and I would like to publish it here simply In Memoriam.  Tom was a dedicated actor and took the lead role of the priest, Urbain Grandier, in a production of  John Whiting’s play The Devils which I directed in 2008.

In the Wings

A poem for the cast and crew of The Devils performed at Stagecraft Theatre May 2008.

In every production there comes a time,

when the SM says, “They’re letting them in.”

and the lights in the wings go out.

*

Now, the humble workshop,

where the props were made –

the bed, the chair… the torture box…

and the secret place where the nuns

keep their tables and candles –

all, all are transformed, and

our world in the wings

is now a moon-lit woodland,

with paths and dark corners…

mysterious.

*

Darkness constrains us,

speech becomes whispers,

and laughter is hushed.

Now do the actors,

stare at their mirrors,

attuned and aware,

of the music now playing,

of murmur of audience,

of time passing quickly.

*

“Five minute call.”

The ASM turns,

presses finger to lips,

and vanishes.

*

The woodland is suddenly busy with shapes.

Actors with purpose, glide to their places,

touching their hair, checking the props,

awaiting the start of the sad, steely music.

*

The audience are in.

“Full house tonight.

You can tell by their murmur.”

The door to the outside world

is now closing. Now,

the late must wait.

*

Quiet in the wings,

the actors stand,

suspended in a great stillness.

*

One quick glance at her watch,

and the SM gives the nod.

Obediently, the lights dim

and the music grows stronger.

It is happening now.

Now no going back.

The auditorium is dark.

*

A pause.

*

Then, as the sewer-man

kneels to his business,

comes the sudden and joyous

peeling of church bells –

a welcome sound

on a bright golden morning.

That is the cue,

for which they’ve been waiting.

The service is over,

The sermon delivered.

All’s well with the world.

Or so it appears.

*

So with chatter and laughter,

like bold sky divers

the actors step from the wings

and into the light.

*

There’s

a man of the scalpel, and

his henchman with notebook;

tough country lads

who take care of their mum;

women in head-scarves;

a couple with baby;

the hoi polloi and

the toffs of Loudun.

*

There’s

a woman who walks

with a smile of contentment,

and a girl who would dance

though her father forbid her.

And a priest ….

… yes a priest,

and a handsome one too,

who delights in the worldly

life of the senses,

in wit and fine wine

in perfume,

in ladies,

in the smell of wild flowers

on an old country lane…

and who soon will suffer…

unto grace… and ash.

*

But that’s all before us.

In the dark woodland,

the two SMs sigh with relief.

The production is launched,

now they must keep it afloat!

There is much to do. Props to prepare

They smile,

thumbs up,

and vanish.

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QUESTIONS

A close friend, with whom I have often worked in the theatre, has sent me ten questions concerning The Disestablishment of Paradise.

My friend has a fine sense of humour backed by a sharp critical mind and a gift for irony: so, even when we jest, I take him seriously. His questions are  clear, informed and provocative, and I hope to respond to them in depth over the next few weeks.

I have decided to publish them initially, more or less as I received them. I think you will enjoy my friend’s wit.

1.             Congratulations on your novel Mr. Mann, I enjoyed it immensely. The women in your books are really something! Miranda in A Land Fit For Heroes became absolutely fearsome. The central character in your latest novel is a woman, the narrator Olivia is a woman, and along the way a number of the characters, beginning with the Captain of the shuttle, whom the unguarded male reader might initially read as male, turn out to be women. Meanwhile the male protagonist, a hard Australian packing muscle and brawn and practical know-how, turns out to be the most intuitive and sensitive, the most “feminine” of them all. Two questions: Were Hera and the narrator always conceived as female from the very start?; and How has your conception of women characters developed through your fiction over the years since The Eye of the Queen?

REPLY. The narrator was a relatively late development. During the writing of the book, I was aware that it bore some similarities to The Eye of the Queen (Eg, a human being residing alone amid an alien race). I can not remember when, but at some point, I decided to solve some of the narrative problems by expanding the narrative laterally, to include historical documents, recorded dialogues etc. This also meant that I needed a narrator – again like The Eye of the Queen. In a way I let the choice be Hera’s – viz. her letter to Olivia in the Introduction. The result was Olivia Ginger – a woman who contrasts with Hera in many ways from looks and temperament to background and experience. They are, however both highly intelligent.  Olivia is somewhat cynical after three failed marriages, while Hera is passionate and still deeply in love with the only man she has ever really known, Mac. You can see the contrast between them when Olivia cries after Hera has revealed her intimacy with Mac (See page 345) Olivia has never achieved that level of intimacy with anyone.  I liked the fact that the two women clashed and argued. These interviews quite naturally became part of the texture of the book.  They allow the reader to hear the authentic voice of Hera. They became so real to me that I only had to start a dialogue to hear their voices.

As regards the second part of your question: Although there are really no women in The Eye of the Queen, all the women in my later books are confident, strong and  passionate women. Miranda in A Land fit for Heroes undergoes many transformations, and ultimately becomes a Goddess. Undoubtedly The Disestablishment of Paradise is my longest and fullest treatment of female character. I can tell you this that I was very surprised when I realized that all, save one, of the major characters in the book are women. That was not planned, it was just the way it worked out – I am very glad to say.

2.            Congratulations on your novel Mr. Mann, I enjoyed etc. If I understand aright, you first conceived and wrote this novel a long time ago, and it has been finally published after a long delay. Two questions:

i)   Has the novel remained substantially the same over the decade or more in which it languished in a drawer? How much revision and rewriting did it undergo when you prepared it for publication?

It has remained substantially the same in content – although I did a bit of trimming and re writing for clarification at the request of the editor, Marcus Gipps. His editing was brilliant and gave me a lot of confidence. However, the basic narrative began as a short story. This became a novella and finally a full novel. There was a point in the writing when it suddenly took off and I got a sense of the scale of what I was attempting. Luckily, this did not happen until I was well advanced in the book and by then the prose was flowing the characters were assertive and Paradise was alive as a place. I loved writing the dialogue sections as they brought me very close to the emotions of the work. I cut out quite a bit and had to weather a lot of well-meaning criticism among which were suggestions that I remove the narrator, that I cut the book in half, that I throw away the documents  etc. etc. Finally, unable to find a publisher, in deep sorrow, I put the book away. It was as complete as I could make it – and to be perfectly frank, I thought it was my best work and I hoped that sometime, perhaps in a hundred years, it would be appreciated for what it is.  I started a new work, which is still not complete. Then of course I heard from Gollancz and it was all systems go again.

ii)  When you first came to New Zealand in the late 1960s, New Zealand seemed to be a comparatively egalitarian society, and we could swim in the rivers. Since then a huge gulf has opened up between rich and poor, and the natural environment has become terribly degraded. So my question is this: Your novel, enthralling and richly rewarding at the literal level, is also richly symbolic; has it been written more out of sadness or anger?

There is both sadness and anger, but there is hope too. The first step in solving a problem is to understand it: that is where literature comes in. We are in crisis, not only in NZ but in the world at large and it must be faced. The deepest ‘message’ of the book – though I did not think in terms of a message when I was writing it – concerns our relationship with Nature.  of which we are a part.  My first aim is always to entertain. Once that is accomplished we can talk about issues. However, I can not help but feel grief when I  see destruction of the environment and read of extinctions. The world does not have to be like this… but the first change must be in our minds. I believe that change is taking place but how long do we have? A video giving an eye-witness account of the oil pollution in the Gulf of Mexico and the ongoing problems related to it has recently been released in New Zealand. It sounds the tocsin, since the NZ government has granted permission for under sea oil exploration in our waters. If you would like to hear more about the risks, watch the following.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yduv3APYawA&feature=youtu.be

New Zealand takes pride in, and is renowned for, its clean green image. Sadly, it is now a tarnished image and the present government is doing little to improve it. How I wish that we could put ‘Green’ policies at the heart of our planning, whether it be for buildings, transport, power or food production. I know this would be difficult, but there comes a tipping-point after which change becomes almost impossible. The old ways are forgotten: the new ways do not work. I do not want to accused of being an alarmist, but as a writer I must speak the truth as I see it. Paradise reached that tipping point and nature began to rebel. So what are we seeing now with mighty storms in the USA, the worst flooding in Europe for hundreds of years and accelerating levels of CO2 in the atmosphere? The Disestablishment of Paradise is more than just an ecological cri de coeur, but it is a warning, and a recognition that life is precious and very vulnerable. My greatest fear is that we have not evolved institutions which combine compassion with realistic forward thinking: had we done so, we would not be in the mess we are now in. 

3.            Congratulations on your novel Mr Mann, I etc. Following on from that, do you think that in the final analysis your novel is, overall, mostly optimistic or pessimistic: I have my definite opinion about that as a reader, but I’m interested in your thoughts as the author. I think there is a paradox here: books which face the reality of our condition can be seen as pessimistic, but the very act of facing that truth is liberating. Thus a book which deals with suffering can remain positive since it celebrates the human spirit. That is why tragedy – even as extreme as King Lear – is ultimately uplifting. 

In terms of the Disestablishment of Paradise, the book is finally optimistic. But optimism comes at a price and is hard won. The  clever, manipulative mentality represented by Timothy Isherwood and Dr Hilder van Terfel control the world. They have the power and they will use it ruthlessly to their own advantage. In the book they are finally defeated and humiliated – but only because enough good people, fair-minded people, honest people stand up to them. In the back of my mind was the quotation from John Stuart Mill: “‎Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”

In the following, I quote from the second chapter of the D of P. Abhuradin, captain of the space platform above Paradise is speaking. She and Hera Melhuish have just had a bruising encounter with Timothy Isherwood and Hilda van Terfel, and both women are a bit shaken and angry. Abhuradin is speaking

And, yes, I do take a keen interest in the economic well-being of Paradise, because I do not want to see it ruined. In my view this would have been a rather nice place to bring up children. Or do you not think of such things?” Hera did not reply. “But worst of all Dr Melhuish, worst of all is to know that you haven’t a clue about what is really going on now. Have you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“That meeting just now. What do you think it was about?”

Hera thought for a moment. “Well. They were trying to make a fool of me, thanks to you.  And that van Terfel woman, was clearly primed. But overall I think they were trying to calm us down so that we wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. Buy us off with promises of redundancy payouts. It is an old trick.”

“Wrong. Dr Melhuish. Zero out of ten, Dr Melhuish.” Abhuradin was speaking more softly now and approached Hera until she was very close. “They had a number of agendas, one of which was winding you up so that you would make a fuss and demand an appeal.”

“Why?”

“Because they want you out of the way. When the appeal comes, they’ll crush you. I don’t know how, but they will. They will have something over you, and their planning is probably well advanced already. And then, when you are safely out of the way, they’ll close down Paradise, for a while.”

“What do you mean, ‘for a while?’ Stop talking in riddles. If you know something that I don’t….”

“I know no more than you. But, I know how these things are done. You watch. They’ll disestablish Paradise all right. But they’ll leave the space platform in place. This platform on which we are standing. I stake my career on it.”

“And why would they do that? You heard what that van Terfel woman said about it costing so much money to keep the platform open.”

Captain Abhuradin looked at her in disbelief, and then she spoke very slowly and distinctly. “After about five years, or ten maybe depending on sensibilities, someone somewhere will come up with the bright notion that a place is needed for recreation. And then someone from somewhere else will remember and say “What about that derelict old planet Paradise?” Then they’ll talk to someone in high places who will tell them, “Sorry there is an environmental restriction order placed on Paradise.” Shock! Horror! “But we won’t do any harm. In fact we will enhance the environment. Take me to your leader.” And within a couple of years they’ll be in. And all your nightmares about kiddies’ rides and old folks homes will come true… but it will be worse. It will be a hundred times worse. It will be more terrible than you can ever imagine… because there will be no one here to stop it. Not me. Not you. That is why they need to get rid of you, and all your friends at ORBE, and me too – because I am not thought of as a friend. Come back in ten years and then we’ll see you weep. Those lovely mountains. Those clear seas. No fish there I understand. Is that right?” Hera nodded. “Well there will be. Specially engineered game fish – fresh-water marlin and swordfish. I wouldn’t mind betting that Dr van Terfel has already taken out shares in her grandson’s name. She knows a bargain when she sees one. And she knows a sucker too.”

“What you are saying is nonsense.” Hera tried to sound confident, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. “Secretary Isherwood signed the environmental decree. It is ironclad.  ‘No Tourism on Paradise.’”

“Did he? Is it? Well perhaps you know more about men and politics than I do. But if I look at Secretary Isherwood with his bright red robe and his smiling face, I see a man who is political to the core. You don’t get to his position without being a bit corrupt, but nothing illegal, mind you – too smart for that. You can be corrupt without being illegal you know… or perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you are all saints down there in your green-houses. But at the end of the day, smiling Timothy Isherwood will come up smelling of roses. When the time is right and the price is right he will find reasons to sell Paradise to the highest bidder and will introduce a policy review or some such to overturn the environment order. Don’t look so shocked Hera. Use your brain for a change “ She paused and then added, “Like all clever people, the only thing you don’t ever seem to realize is that the enemy is at least as clever as you are. The difference being that they have vastly more power than you… and absolutely no hesitation about using it.”

Captain Abhuradin paused, saddened by the import of her own speech. When she spoke again her tone was more measured. “Your clever quotation earlier about a few good women doing nothing… Well in my view, there are only a few good women and a few good men too, – Tim Isherwood is probably one of the better ones – and the good people have to sleep sometimes and that is when the bad boys do their business. Good bye Hera. Go back down and join your own kind. Write your report.”

Hera stood still. Abhuradin’s words had shocked her and, as happened to her when in a state of shock, she had momentarily become a block of wood. The awful reality behind Abhuradin’s words was dawning on her. Finally she spoke and her voice was small. “Will you be coming to the judicial review?”

“Not unless I am ordered to attend. I shall not be putting in an official submission. No point.      But in any case…”

“In any case what?”

“In any case, I do not want to be there and see you humiliated.”

In writing this I was attempting to show the way an exploitative mind-set operates. The fact is that the Isherwoods and van Terfels of our world would have won had Paradise its self  not decided to take matters into its own hands and protect its self. The very fact that Paradise is now closed to humans is a cause of sadness, because it was so avoidable!

When I was writing the book, I certainly did not feel it was pessimistic, and nor have those who have read it. I believe this is because most of the book is affirmative of the human spirit. The Dendron, with its carefree spirit is saved. Love triumphs even though Hera has to leave Paradise – her fate is to be the one who bears witness. That planet is now cleansing its self, with the aid of certain humans – and it will be a long hard fight, I am sure. But Paradise will triumph if only because greed, manipulation, cheating etc. are ultimately, in their very nature, self-destructive.

Thus, there is movement and there is life. However, I was also aware, that I was quite close to tragedy. And Tragedy, let us remember affirms the human spirit by facing adversity and one’s fate directly. I am reminded of the words of F. L. Lucas in his short book called, simply Tragedy. He ends chapter 3  with the following words. “Tragedy, in fine, is man’s answer to this universe that crushes him so pitilessly. Destiny scowls upon him: his answer is to sit down and paint her where she stands.”

4.            Congratulations on your novel Mr. etc. You have spent most of your professional career working in universities, in the creative field of drama. The word “cleverness” has for you a negative connotation, it implies that someone is merely clever at the risk of something as important or more important.  Questions: How do you rate cleverness? What is the positive antidote to “mere” cleverness, and where do you locate it in daily living and interactions? Hera is cleverer than Mack, but Mack, not Hera, becomes one with Paradise. In your experience, are women both cleverer and more intuitive than men? (I could ask how you now look back on Victoria University of Wellington as an institution and as a community, but I won’t…)

This is a monumental question, or a whole heap of questions. ‘Cleverness’ is, I think, captured nicely in the Wilde’s phrase about people who know “the price of everything and the value of nothing.” Wilde was replying to a question about cynicism, but the cap still fits. I think I see ‘cleverness’ as almost the antithesis of wisdom, for wisdom always seeks value beyond advantage. Cleverness can be achieved by reading books: wisdom comes from living with reflection. One of the movements in the book is for Hera to move from being clever to becoming something beyond that – I want to avoid the word wisdom. She has suffered, but she has also discovered and continues to be inspired by a deep love both for Mack and for Paradise. She has found the truth inherent in Milton’s sonnet on his blindness : “They also serve who only stand and wait.” I can not pretend to understand Mack beyond saying that he is an instinctive man with the mana of a great leader – though he would never say that. If you asked him where he gets his ability from, he would probably say his ‘granny’. I have known men and women who are both clever (in a generous way) and intuitive – and that has made them into good and abiding friends. To answer your question as directly as I can, I think the world would be a much safer place were it more controlled by women, if only because women are more in contact with their intuition. But men are changing too. Beyond that, generalizations are misleading.

5.            Congratulations on your novel etc. I love the wit and linguistic intuition deployed in your choice of proper names. Proper names and nonsense are always rooted in the particular genius, the intimate spirit of a language. As a translator, I have vaguely consider how I would deal with the names in an Italian translation. Could Gin and Tonic, two glowingly colourless liquids be translated as Campari and Soda. I think not, because the red would throw a totally different light over Paradise.  So two questions. How do these proper names come to you? And does it ever happen that, as a character develops, a name originally chosen turns out to be wrong, or are the names, once chosen, fixed points that never change?

1) How do the proper names come? In my case, the names just come to me as needed. It is no secret that the name a writer gives to character may come to have a deep significance of which the writer may be unaware. I discovered that with the name Pawl Paxwax when I wrote The Fall of the Families. I thought of Hera, in the D of Paradise, before I thought of the classical implications of her name, though I am sure those associations were somewhere in my mind. They were not part of my conscious intention.

2) In my experience, once a name is given it rarely changes but simply grows with the character. I do not write allegorically – though Hackabout might come close. Sometimes the names I use are consciously playful. Thus Dorothy is called Polka, which somehow fits her personality. I do not know where the name Abhuradin came from. I saw her initially as having long dark hair and a brown skin. Later this became a name which could be twisted into many different shapes, depending on who was speaking. That became a kind of game for the other characters. She is, of course, very beautiful – and is adept at handling this not in an exploitative way, but out of necessity. 

6.            Congratulations on your etc. Mack’s wisdom draws particularly on his granny’s experience and poetry. Two questions: To what extent does this draw on you own experiences with older relations or older people in general: and The novel is dedicated to your grandchildren; what sort of grandfather are you are you, and what sort of grandfather do you want to be?

1) I am sure that Mack’s Granny derives from both my Grandmother and my Mother – both of whom I would classify as wise women. My Grandmother had a hard life but was one of the kindest people I have ever known. She used to let me help her cooking and would make up stories. My mother loved poetry and would often quote poems. She also was a wonderful, wild storyteller. 

2) What sort of grandfather am I? You must ask my grandchildren. I shall be happy if, at the end of the day, my grandchildren remember me as someone who was fun, a bit disreputable perhaps, but definitely on their side.

7.            Congratulations on etc.  Following on for this, there is a lovely thread of quotation and reference running through the novel which provides a special novelty to those who recognise them, but this is never, in my opinion, something flaunted and gratuitous. There are a number of references but Shakespeare predominates. My next question is rather complicated and circuitous, but here goes. “By indirections find directions out…” That of course is the suspect and Machiavellian Polonius, but taken out of context the quotation seems to me to describe a favourite narrative manoeuvre and favourite pattern of yours. Our way to the truth is never direct, but goes in roundabout ways, following the circling paths, the whirlpool, the crop circle, of a Michelangelo-Reaper. So my question is this. Your life has brought you to this point, of being a grandfather and writing this novel. Have the crucial choices you have made in  your life, the decisions whether to turn to the left or to the right, been based on conscious choices or on hunches? A less personal way of framing this question is: How do we come to the truth of our experience and distil it in a novel?

I need to think a lot more about this. It is a very good question.

8.            Congratulations etc. Mack teaches Hera how to be a bloke working in a team: you don’t engage in useless talk, you don’t compliment people directly, you are laconic, ironic, matter-of-fact and you just shut up, don’t indulge in emotions, and get on with the job. And if you get into a life-threatening situation you have to know exactly and in advance who’s calling the shots. Were you drawing on any personal experiences when you wrote this, or were they mostly stories and reports which triggered your imagination?

Those words came from Mack. When one is writing well, that character speak for you. You don’t have to plan anything. It happens, and then you just tidy up the loose ends. So, in a way I was a bit surprised to hear Mack say these things.

At the same time I have done some dangerous jobs in my time, jobs in which one has to trust one’s buddy. It can be a matter of life or death. Working at the top of a ladder high in the grid hanging lights of scenery can be very scary. I was once in that situation with someone who was handling scaffolding pipes. He turned round with a long pipe and struck me. Luckily I saw it coming and was able to hang on – but if it had knocked me off the ladder I would not be writing these words now. At the same time, I worked with another man in the grid and I knew that he would never make a mistake like that. He knew danger intuitively and so one was safe with him. On another occasion, when I was a young man, I was working as ploughman on a farm in the North of England. I  had to reverse the tractor so that another man could attach a shackle. One slip from me on the tractor clutch and he would have been crushed by the plough. Such things make one very thoughtful. Mack is just being careful. When you are in real danger, you want to be with realistic people, not heroes or gamblers. And Mack is right. Clever people might ask questions or argue the toss, and the  next thing you know, the ship is on the rocks.

9.            Congrats etc. With reference to literary patterns and antecedents, I’d add this. Your novels have an epic sweep. The epic, rather than “science fiction”, is your preferred genre. From the Renaissance onwards, the great modern epics have always included an episode in which the protagonist dips out of martial action and enjoys a pastoral interlude, before they are jolted back by some means to resume their destinies in “the real world”, which involves blood and death. I don’t know if you ever read a well-known critical book of our youth, which covered the topic of literary paradise, entitled“The Earthly Paradise” by an author called Giamatti. A paradise has always been conceived of as a garden. I gather that the Greek word from which “paradise” derives was originally used by Xenophon to describe the parks of Persian kings and nobles. Milton of course – not, I would imagine but I may be wrong, a favourite author of yours devoted his novel – at the end of this sequence of Renaissance epics, devotes his entire poem to the expulsion from the biblical paradise. At the end of his “Purgatory”, Dante, who has been led through hell, has to be purged of sin in order to re-enter the Garden of Eden in a renewed state of innocence, as a new Adam. I’d better try and get a question or two out of these ruminations. I won’t ask you to what extent did any of this literature condition you, consciously or unconsciously: that might be a question too complicated to unravel. Try these: What importance do gardens and gardening have for you and why? and Does the lure of your gardens ever outweigh your desire for fame through wrestling with words?

1 What importance do gardens have for me? A great deal. Many of my happiest memories as a child are to do with the time I spent mucking about in gardens. But they are also places of contemplation. I love, for example, the idea that the teachings of  Epicurus took place in a garden. I am somewhat a follower of Epicurus though we know little about him. I love the perfume of flowers, the busy buzzing of bees and the strange creaking of trees. At times being in a forest, or in the bush in New Zealand is like being in a cathedral. When I die, I would like my ashes to be sprinkled in a garden and hope fully they will help the flowers grow. For a while I studied Herbalism and I still believe the best cures are those provided by nature – which is not to say I do not appreciate our developments in surgery and medicine.

2. Does the lure of the garden outweigh … wrestling with words?  Yes. When I finally hang up my type writer – ok computer – I can think of nothing nicer than sitting in the garden with a good book and a glass of wine never out of reach.

10.       Cong. etc.  One of the greatest characters in the novel is yet another female, Sasha Malik. Two questions.

i)          Did you write the Documents as you went along, or are they early compositions as you built up your picture of Paradise by constructing its history, or are they, or some of them, afterthoughts.

 Yes. I wrote then as I went along. The documents came, more or less as needed. Writing them gave me an understanding of what was happening. Thus, when I wrote Sasha Malic’s story Shunting A Rex, it was so that I could get a sense of a Dendron in full motion. At the same time, I discovered this wonderful storyteller Sasha who wrote about Paradise with intimate assurance. She wrote about the Paradise she knew as home, and she was one of the wild women of Paradise (of which there were many) who would follow their heart regardless of the consequences. This encouraged me to write other stories by Sasha since via her stories I could – painlessly, as it were – convey more information about Paradise. I too was learning from Sasha and I could hear her voice very clearly in my head. In the story How the Valentine Lily Got its Name, I was able to show how Sasha took a real and horrific incident of cruelty – an example of the kind of thing which was polluting the mind-space of Paradise – and was able to transform it into a love story. Sasha is truly a child of Paradise: her body would never be rejected and exhumed. She became very real to me, almost a kind of guide. At one point I did think of writing more stories by Sasha just for the sheer joy of doing it. 

Thus, the Documents are an integral part of the text. They help explain the novel and give depth to the incidents. It is via the Documents that we come to see that the brilliant Professor Shapiro is a wounded hero, an addict to the plum, and his tragedy is that he knows that when his end comes, he will be rejected by Paradise. Hence he asks to be sent back to England.

The document  One Friday Morning at Wishbone Bay is integral to the novel. It allowed me to reveal the Dendron as Marie Newton and her children saw it. I was able to use this as the basis for Mack to work from. He has to go back to first principles and realize where Marie Newton got it wrong. There was a certain finesse about that.

Anyone who thinks the Documents are just a fancy add-on is deeply mistaken.

ii)         If this were a traditional picaresque novel, the documents would feature as inserted tales and documents included in the main body of the narrative – as such items are in fiction from Don Quixote to Pickwick Papers. How do you envisage your readers reading them? Interrupting their reading as they go along, or reading them as a set as they go along, as an appendix or postscript? Are they integral to the story or add-ons, in your authorial view?

I did not know how the audience would read them. I wanted the Documents to be able to stand alone; but at the same time, I was at pains to direct the reader to a relevant document when it would amplify the event. I wanted also for each of the Document writers (Sasha, Shapiro, Marie Newton, Wendy Tattersall etc.) to have their own voice. I wanted the to add to the texture and density of the novel. Clearly, Olivia Ginger had done her homework in preparing the text.

 There we are. Thank you for these questions. You made me think more deeply about the book.  I hope my answers are clear.

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Cover Illustration by Chris Moore

Published by Victor Gollancz. London. March 2013.  ISBN 978-0-5713262-7

***

The Disestablishment of Paradise

Review written by ‘Antony’ of SF Book Review. April 5^th 2013

http://sfbook.com/the-disestablishment-of-paradise.htm

Something is going wrong on the planet of Paradise: crops will no longer grow while those imported are withering and dying in their droves. The indigenous plant life (never entirely safe) is becoming wildly unpredictable and dangerous. And so the order is given to abandon Paradise, all personnel to be removed and re-assigned – all human presence on the planet will be disestablished.

There are some who believe that Paradise still has secrets to reveal and more to offer the human race and that the risks of staying are far outweighed by the potential rewards. Hera, the leader of the research team is one person and together with Mack, the leader of the “demolition” team sets off across the planet to find the near-mythical Dendron, the last of it’s kind.

The Disestablishment of Paradise is an incredible book, it’s got that indescribable feeling of a science fiction classic; told by a talented story-teller and spoken in a confident voice. It’s also quite different to anything I have read before, a wonderfully alien world that is described in brilliant detail that feeds the imagination as Comparisons to Ursula K Le Guin’s seminal works such as The Word for World is Forest are inevitable; as is just about any novel that focuses on world ecology and man’s nature to control, hunt and strip a habitat for their own ends. The Disestablishment of Paradise does an admirable job of educating the reader without preaching to them (a mistake many fall foul of) – while also evoking the grand majesty and mystery of something truly alien in a way no book has quite managed to before (only Peter Hamilton coming anywhere near).

This alienness is truly remarkable which together with Hera’s and Mack’s relationship is amongst the highlight of the book. That’s not to say there isn’t anything else to like: the story is well constructed, feeling very organic in nature and moving forward without the reader even realising and the prose is quite exceptional; evoking a true sense of wonder on a number of occasions. Even amongst all this alien flora there is a certain sense of reality too, grounded by the earthy narrative structure and no-nonsense dialogue.

Science Fiction in the truest sense of the word, The Disestablishment of Paradise is everything a genre book should be; accessible, entertaining, rewarding and thoughtful – awakening a sense of wonder very much like those authors did in the golden age of science fiction.

***

The book was awarded 4 out of 5 stars

The approach to reviewing adopted by SFBook.com, (the website from which this review was copied) is explained in their ABOUT US section. ‘Antony’ – who wrote the review – explains:

SFBook Reviews is a none profit book review website designed to showcase the very best fiction, most of which will be within the genres of Fantasy, Sci-fi or Horror. The website is one of the oldest of it’s type still going, beginning way back 1999 before the advent smart phones, flying cars and politician expenses fraud…….

You will probably notice that the majority of reviews tend towards the positive and this is mainly due to the fact that I choose very carefully which novels are accepted, there simply is not enough time in the world to read too many badly written books. Even after all these years a few do sneak through, however these tend to be few and far between.

We are always willing to accept guest reviews and welcome anyone who wants to be a regular contributor to the website.

The Reviewers

Ant (Antony Jones)

The website is owned, designed and managed by myself – Antony Jones (Ant) and I also provide the actual reviews, which are the personal opinion of myself. All of this is done in my (limited) spare time and as such there is a real finite amount of reviews that can be published on the site.

I always read the full book before writing a review and try to be as constructive as possible. You may notice that some reviews are shorter than others around the internet and this is mainly due to the fact that I try and give as little of the actual plot away as possible so that the joy of exploring the story is not damaged for the reader in any way.

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… one which I liken to a pebble tossed into still water… the ripples spread wide, beyond the  confines of the book and let me see things I had not seen before. The letter is from Brett Shand.

***

Hi Phil,

Just some random thoughts. Memories, ideas and dreams triggered by your book. I’ll read it again soon and things will no doubt things will become clearer.

So … I’ve just finished reading ‘The Disestablishment of Paradise.’ I like it very much. It is a tale, almost a myth, for our times and one that still, may the gods help us, needs to be told over and over again. A while ago I travelled to choir practice in a car with a man who was very loudly telling everyone how everything about climate change was a lie, a conspiracy of the lefties, that there were twenty-thousand research papers to prove his point. You have no doubt heard him. The sadness was that his strident opposition made his terror that his safety and his world were dissolving about him very clear. My heart broke for him; what a way to live. He needs this book. We all do.

For me, you have waded into deep and dark waters. Many years ago now an Anglican minister said to me (and others) that the great division in the world was between those who needed beliefs and those who wanted faith. That rang bells with me. To hold a set of beliefs and not become a “true-believer” is very difficult; to not step over the line that divides “I believe” and “My beliefs are right and therefore you are wrong” and so enlivening all the evils that spring from that. Faith requires doubt, because it is doubt that keeps faith a living thing, constantly changing and responding to us and our world and the universe. But to live in that space of faith and doubt is also very difficult. The ambivalence and the ambiguities that are there make it a place where great courage and compassion (especially for ourselves) are needed. Which brings us to the book and me. Over the years, starting from when I was about two, I have had a number experiences that have left me with a deep feeling of connection to … what? Your ‘Paradise’ explores that ‘what.’ The faith – along with the deep and sometimes agonizing doubt I have – that everything is connected. The “deep root” of Paradise is the way I want things to be but I am not at all sure that it is. Ah, the troubles I construct for myself. So it is a comfort to find that there is at least one other (two, if you count Ursula Le Guin as I most surely do) who shares the same faith. The faith that we are wanted children of the universe; really, how could it be otherwise?

Angelo (Pioneers), Marius Thorndyke (Eye of the Queen), Jon Wilberfoss (Wulfsyarn) and Hera Melhuish from this book, are all chips off the same mystical block. The person of deep faith and the sceptical scientist battling it out in there, just like me. How I resonate to their struggles and their doubts. And out there is Paradise gradually becoming sentient and absorbing the violence and cruelty of its human inhabitants and their love and hope. (By the way I loved the story of Sasha getting her man. Deeply touching and hilarious at the same time.) And Paradise slowly turns on it’s human inhabitants almost in spite of itself. Is the Earth (and the Universe?) going to shrug too? I think maybe it will. Or is.

The Reapers are spread over the Paradise’s mountains like spiral arm galaxies with the Reaper itself like the black hole at the centre. Maybe Paradise is a symbol for our relationship to the whole universe as well with its great stream of pre-ethical love and healing pouring in. Ah, I hope it is so. I used to work with men like the demolition boss, Mack, so he is familiar to me. I once worked with a gravedigger who left home at twelve with his swag to help build the Otira tunnel. He used to quote Henry Vaughan to me as he dug.

“I saw Eternity the other night

Like a great ring of pure and endless light,

All calm, as it was bright,”

was a particular favourite as I remember. I had never heard of Henry Vaughan at the time which puzzled him because I was a “college boy.” He said he lived entirely on whiskey and condensed milk sandwiches. A hard but gentle man who said he’d never had a job that wasn’t on the wrong end of a bloody shovel. There is often a deep certainty in men like Mack which I admire, but it gets them in trouble too. Mack and Hera dividing the Dendron. Oh my! What a story.

So anyway, I liked the book very much. I liked and believed in the characters. The
narrative thread was strong and convincing. I read the quote below in the Oct-Nov 2012 edition of The Catholic Worker. It comes from a man writing an obituary for another much loved and very private man. How do you write an obituary for someone without invading their privacy? He was by Frank’s side when he was dying and had an epiphany:
“On that night, Frank led me out of the cave of illusion, took me by the hand, and guided me into the sunshine where I could see the shadow cast by the face of God. Aristotle claimed that a friend is another self. Frank is much more than a friend …. His love became the gateway through which transcendence became immanent for me …. The story isn’t about [ourselves]. This story is really about that One whose name cannot be uttered ,whose mystery cannot be comprehended, only felt.”

So it is with books, with this book.

Brett

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I have just received the following letter from a friend whom I have known for most of my life. He is a scientist, an adventurer, a walker undaunted by distance, a wind surfer, as well as a shrewd and passionate critique of the political world… and much more.  Suffice to say that he is a man whose opinion I listen to.

I was thrilled that he and his wife enjoyed the book and that it prompted his memory to tell the kind of story that we should never forget. The world is often stranger than we can imagine. It would also be nice if his final wishes came true.

***

Dear Phil,

Anne and I have just read your new novel, “The Disestablishment of Paradise”. We have not been able to do much else these past few days, even reading it on the toilet! We think it is the best thing you have ever written and that it should have many readers in future years.

Lots of good ideas, few digs at things of which you seriously disapprove and some splendid images – I particularly liked the picture of a seagull sliding effortlessly across the wind.

The story was gripping and sounded plausible, even though we knew it to be fiction. But I admire your desire to deal with the basic problem of an alien culture – that of communication.Humans, and for that matter, many other living things, are bad at communicating with other species on Earth. I am reminded of a story told by the lone sailor, Bernard Moitessier. He was in the southern ocean, steering a course that would clear the summit of an underwater mountain he knew was two days ahead, when a family of dolphins came alongside his boat, Joshua. They turned on their side and looked up at him and when they had his attention the big male swam out in front of the boat, looked back and then veered to the right a small amount. Meanwhile the others banged the left-hand side of his boat. Nothing. Big male swims back, looks at Gilbert for a while and repeats his manoeuvre. Eventually he understands they want him to  follow them so he decides to do it, even though he is convinced they will maroon him on the mountain.

Two days later there is no sign of the peak and they smile their dolphin smiles and leave him. At this point he realizes that the mountain had been marked in the wrong place on the chart and that the dolphins had guided him away from certain disaster. They knew two days ahead. They must have thought he was a slow learner since it took them so long to convince him what they wanted him to do.. Lots of other aliens on our planet, and we know so little about them,  though I suspect they know quite a lot about us….

  I do hope you are able to glean some rewards from your new burst of creative energy and that someone with money can see the possibility of turning “Disestablishment” into a film, where it would be sure to find a huge audience.

                                      Yours,

A and M xx

***

Bernard Moitessier was a renowned French yachtsman and author of books about his voyages and sailing.

A personal Note

With the help of my son, I have set up an Authors Facebook Page to coincide with the release of my latest book The Disestablishment of Paradise . Feel free to ‘Like’ the page, make suggestions, leave comments and share your thoughts

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Phillip-Mann/145385802288735

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Hi Everybody,

With the help of my son, I have set up an Authors Facebook Page to coincide with the release of my latest book The Disestablishment of Paradise . Feel free to ‘Like’ the page, make suggestions, leave comments and share your thoughts

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Phillip-Mann/145385802288735

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      The following are my replies to questions put to me for inclusion on the Gollancz website to coincide with the publication of the book.

*

How did the idea of Paradise come to you?

    Like many people, I have the sense of a time, long, long ago, – so far ago indeed that it blurs into mythology – when man lived in harmony with Nature. To live then was to live in Paradise. Nowadays, this is a somewhat misty ideal, obscured by the reality of what we have done to this lovely earth of ours, but potent none the less because respect for Nature is the foundation of all our ethics. Love and nurturing are as real in their own way as birth and death.

    It was thoughts such as these which were in my mind when I came to write The Disestablishment of Paradise. Undoubtedly my own love of Nature informs this alien world, but I was reaching to go beyond Earth. I wanted to discover a new place which, while it may resemble Earth superficially, is profoundly different in all the ways that matter. I had no idea at the outset that the story would become so complex, and it is, in some ways, the most satisfying book I have written. I enjoyed the freedom of writing about so many different lively characters and in creating so many strange creatures!

    My desire as a writer, was (as ever) to entertain, to carry the reader into this new world, and reveal, the truth of things as I see it. The name Paradise bothered me a bit, but it seemed the right name. However, I wanted to avoid any too direct biblical associations as they would be misleading. Nor is the book an allegory, at least not consciously, though it may be seen as a warning.

    Paradise is both a name and an ideal. At its simplest, it is just the name given to the planet by the people who first discovered it and signifies little more than a pleasant and stimulating place to live, though there are people, mainly women such as Hera or Sasha, who sense a deeper reality. Paradise satisfies some of their deepest spiritual yearnings.

    As an ideal, Paradise relates to our present situation on earth. We are, in a way, disestablishing our own Paradise. The sad truth is that our world is already damaged and polluted: this is evident to anyone who reads the news or walks along a beach. We live with the monstrous threat of climate change hanging over us. Of course, the climate has always been changing as the world shifts from snow ball to desert and back again, but it is the speed of change that matters. I do not think there has ever occurred before as radical an intervention in Nature such as we provide – unless one includes the earth being hit by a large meteorite. (See end note)

    On a physical level, the planet Paradise has great similarities with the deep green native bush of New Zealand. When you walk there, especially if you are alone, you can feel the immense presence of Nature. It is present in the bird song, in the creak of branches, in the smell of gum and the constant presence of water, whether in a tumbling stream or a quiet lake. The mysterious North Yorkshire Moors where I grew up are also present in the book, as is the desert in the heart of Australia. The truth is, of course, that you can encounter Nature almost anywhere where you can be alone and able to listen, as it were, to the silence. However, lest all this seem too fey, let me add that I am quite down to earth and scientifically minded – I have a microscope beside my desk and that is a constant source of wonder and inspiration, whether I am studying the sting of a wasp, a torn leaf or the fleas from my cat. At day’s end, it is the mystery of it all that intrigues me most…. and that I try to communicate.

*

Did you sit down and work out all of the details before writing, or did you see what your mind came up with as you were working, and then tidy it all up afterwards?

    The book is revealed in the writing. My starting point is always an event which, for some reason – not always clear – matters to me. This event might later prove to be the climax of a novel, but is always a turning point in the narrative to be. It is, in a word, crucial.

    In the case of The Disestablishment of Paradise, there is a moment when Mack and Hera are looking for the Dendron and they finally see its footprints in the desert sand. That event, which occurs about halfway through the book, was one of the starting points. The question I faced (and always do in my novels) was how do the characters get to that point, and what happens then?

    Incidentally, that event also occurs in a short story that I wrote many years ago and that I put away in the drawer unfinished, and never thought about again. I was not ready to embark on a book such as the D of P at that time, and timing is important. As with athletes wanting to run a marathon, so writers too have to build up their experience in order to write a big book. Well, I re-discovered the story just a few months ago, and there, staring at me was the name Dendron, and the footprints in the sand made by a creature in need, and a human being, a man, who was prepared to risk his life to save it. So, the imagination and the memory work in mysterious ways their wonders to perform.

    Years after writing that incomplete short story, the time was right for me to have a go at writing the novel with the footprints in the sand. The idea which they express became very important to me, very passionate, very alive.. As Hera says, when she is talking to Mack and trying to persuade him to stay with her and help save the Dendron: “Well… there may be one such creature still alive. One. One only. ONE in the whole of the entire universe. ONE. Think of that. One. The last. The only. The never, ever, ever to be repeated. And you and I are here to help it.”

    So, the starting point is an event which (for whatever reason) matters to me. The next thing I discover is the first line which is more or less a gift. I have no idea where it comes from. But one line leads to another, and suddenly I find that incidents are taking shape and new characters are suggesting themselves or even marching boldly into the story and demanding to be heard. At times the writing can be like taking dictation. It is as if the story has started to tell its self.

   I know this may seem a strange procedure, but this is more or less exactly how my novels are made. Of course there is a controlling intelligence (mine) and I am very strict with myself and I do a tremendous amount of research… but the novel-to-be generates its own momentum. After a certain point the shape of the plot becomes very clear, and that is when I begin to make notes to myself. Ideas about the future development come thick and fast, but there is always an element of the unknown, and the unpredictable.

    Two last things. First, I do not believe in making plans and character sketches etc. I did once try to plan a novel and it just did not work, it felt like trying to do a painting while wearing a straight-jacket. Second, (and here my practice is at variance with the ideas taught in writing classes,) no matter how long it takes I do not leave a chapter unfinished before moving on to the next one. If I hit a problem, I never say “I’ll come back and sort that out later.” Just occasionally I have to go back and start again, but not often. Some writers I have talked to write drafts which they then correct when the book is finished. I can not do that. If I were to do that I would end up writing a new book.

    In the D of P, I found myself completing chapters and then turning aside and writing the sections which I have called “Documents” These were written in different voices. So the novel grew in a strange way. I once watched someone making a carpet. They did not do the whole thing from bottom up, but worked in different blocks of colour. Well my practice resembles that. My ideal and my practice is to have, at the end of a day’s writing, several pages that are more or less finished. The next day I read them and tune in to the novel. It is not unusual for me to forget exactly what I have written on the previous day – which is a bit strange, I admit, but is something to do with concentration, I think. The novel takes place in a world of its own, and one gets back into this world by reading the last few pages one has written. Then I place the pages face down to one side – and I take pleasure in watching the little pile grow as the weeks pass.

    To me it is important that I do not think of my pages as temporary or incomplete – for me they are building blocks and they have to be finished if they are to take the weight. As a consequence it takes me quite a long time to write a novel, but I rarely have to make major changes… that is until the editor gets to work.

*

Would you like to live on Paradise, or in the future you’ve invented?

    Yes. I would love to have lived on Paradise in its early days, especially if I could have someone like Sasha Malik to guide me… but I have lived there in a way. The imagination can be very real and it is not unknown for writers to fall in love with their characters. It would be nice to bathe in that warm sea and hitch the occasional ride on a passing Dendron or watch a Michelangelo Reaper perform its magic – from a safe distance of course.

    However, I could not survive in the world which Paradise becomes. It is a catastrophe. I would be torn apart in minutes. It is what happens to civilization (or innocence too) when things break down, when the tipping point is reached, when sanity gives way to madness.

     I have no idea what is happening on Paradise right now. I can tell you that a battle is raging. It is tragic really because the roots are now polluted and harmony has become chaos

    The question you pose is intriguing. It is tempting for a writer to create happy endings, or false endings to give a sense of completeness or hope. But it is a temptation to be resisted. While writers may fall in love with their heroes and villains, and the imaginary worlds they create, at the same time, they must be ruthlessly objective. Ultimately, we are always writing about the only world we really know – our own lovely Earth.

    Make no mistake, to be in love and objective at the same time – that is hard but  necessary. No wonder some writers are a bit dotty.

*

Dr Hera Melhuish is a complex and sometimes difficult character. Do you think you would like her if you met her in real life? If she lived in 2013, what would she be doing?

    Yes I would like her very much. She has endured a great deal of sorrow, and yet she retains a ready wit and a sharp intelligence, a bold spirit and a capacity to love unconditionally. Such women have much to teach us and I would have lots of questions to ask her.

    It intrigued me when I was writing the book that it was becoming a book about and by women. They are the main characters. In fact there is only one man of substance, Mack, and he is important but he does not drive the novel. It is the women who make the hard decisions and who live with the consequences. This was not planned, but it is what happened. And I was very happy about that.

    When I was writing The Disestablishment of Paradise, I read a wonderful book called Man on Earth by Jacquetta Hawkes. That book influenced me greatly and I can not recommend it too highly. Jacquetta is (was) well-known as an archaeologist – she died some years ago – and in her book she speaks of the wonder of life and the achievements of our finest artists and thinkers. She was married to J. B. Priestly. I did not realize it at the time of writing, but I think Jacquetta’s bigness of mind influenced my portrayal of Hera. Both are women of great intelligence, great wisdom and great passion.

    If Hera were alive now she would either be a leader in Greenpeace battling to save the whales in the Antarctic ocean or a doctor caring for children caught up in any one of the many wars taking place round the world at present. She would also have a house with a splendid untidy garden and high walls behind which she could retire and let her hair down when exhausted.

*

What brought you back to prose writing? Do you have any plans for the future?

    I have had three careers which have sometimes existed simultaneously: as a theatre director, as a teacher of drama and as a writer. My four books Escape to the Wild Wood, Stand Alone Stan, The Dragon Wakes and The Burning Forest each of which is an episode in a tetralogy called A Land Fit for Heroes had emptied me of ideas. I actually felt empty when I finished the last one. All my knowledge and feelings had somehow been poured into those books. For a while, I thought I had nothing more to say. I was also saddened that those books had not do not been widely read even though they were well reviewed. Perhaps their day will come. If readers enjoy The Disestablishment of Paradise, then I am very sure they would enjoy A Land Fit for Heroes.

    Anyway….  It took a while before I felt the urge to write again. I went back to working in the theatre. At the same time, I read widely and voraciously. Wrote some poems. Taught creative drama. Fiddled in the garden… and was on the whole, happy. But then, little by little, ideas started to come to me. I was worried about climate change and the seeming inability of our governments to deal with it effectively. I was horrified at what was happening to our wild-life especially the wanton killing of animals such as elephants for their ivory and rhinos for their horns. I thought about the death of species. I remembered the image of a lonely creature blundering into the desert, leaving only its footprints…. And then one day I simply started to write again. It just happened. I probably thought it was another short story starting up – but the writing took off. I actually began at what is now Chapter 2 of the present ms. at the point where Hera is on Paradise and planting at sea.

    Quickly the story became complex, and the voices of the characters became clear. The story outline developed. I decided to use a story teller as I had done in The Eye of the Queen and Wulfsyarn, A Mosaic and this seemed to make the telling easier. I also had the idea that I wanted to write special ‘documents’ to make the story more plausible. Almost without knowing it, I was writing again and very happy to be doing so. Simple really… well not quite. But that is another story.

    For the future: I have found that the ideas I developed in The Disestablishment of Paradise remain very strong in me. As a result, I have written a version of the story for younger readers called The Paradise Mission. The story is told by a young woman called Hetty, who is an Explorer. She has arrived on Paradise to look for a young man called Crispin. He was the first human to reach Paradise, but has now gone missing. It is her mission to find out what has happened to him and to rescue him if possible. In fulfilling her mission, she encounters Paradise in all its wonder, danger and exuberance. What happens to them is, for the time being, a secret – but I hope the story will be published soon.

    I am also at work on a new novel – a dark comedy called The Headman – but there is not much I can tell you about that except that the story keeps changing. It has not yet found its form and seems to be quite different to anything I have written before though the theme of renewal is familiar. I bring back to life some very misty characters from mythology.

*

End note. One of the finest texts I have read on the topic of climate change is the recently published Apocalyptic Planet by Craig Childs. Pantheon Books New York. 2012. The book is both an adventure story and a scientific report documenting the author’s travels to some of the  most remote and extreme parts of our planet, in order to find out what is happening. His conclusions have as their backdrop the history of our ever changing, ever ending and renewing world. Beautifully written.

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Today is rather special for me.

Today Victor Gollancz have published my latest novel  The Disestablishment of Paradise. It has been a long  journey for me – indeed: it is 12 years since I published my last book, The Burning Forest, and that is a long time in any writer’s life. I hope that any of you reading this will take a look at the small section of The Disestablishment of Paradise that I posted on this site some time ago: I hope too that some of you will be moved to buy it.

I am not being unduly mercenary in saying this. The fact is that if a book does well, or even reasonably well, it gives the publisher confidence to go on with that writer. It was the catastrophic ice-age which descended on me after I had written A Land Fit for Heroes that almost ended my writing career. That tetralogy was described to me by one editor as a ‘catastrophe’ even though it had been very well reviewed. What the editor meant was that the book had not sold well. And why had it not sold well?   Opinions differ. In one view, Gollancz was in turmoil. It had been sold and on-sold and my work belonged to the old days. In another view, it was simply that the final book in the tetralogy, The Burning Forest, was not really given  support in publicity or distribution. Why? Well. publishing was in the doldrums and middle list authors such as myself – that is authors who are well reviewed but who have never had a block-buster success – were being squeezed out of existence.  “Write a best seller” I was told. To which I could only reply, “I would if I could.”

To this day I remain convinced the four volumes of A Land Fit for Heroes are among my best works. It is an epic tale  and   in some ways it is even more apposite today than when it was written.  Its day will come  – hopefully before I am pushing up daisies. Looking back on it now, I can hardly conceive how I managed to write it… but I did, and it still makes me laugh.

This new book, The Disestablishment of Paradise, has a special place in my mind because I enjoyed writing it so much.  In part this was because I was returning to the kind of experiences which I tried to convey in my first book, The Eye of the Queen – the discovery of new worlds, a challenging environment leading to deeply personal discovery – but with one significant difference: whereas in The Eye of the Queen, all the main characters were male; in the Disestablishment of Paradise, all the main characters are women. This was not intentional – it just happened, and I am glad it did.

So: the new and the old. Here is a memoir of how I got started more than 30 years ago, and how I got started again, today.

Look at this photo.

I am indebted to  Andrew W. MacDonald  (www.zardoz.net)  for permission to use this photograph. 

It shows the sad state of this famous publisher’s house as it was in the Nineteen Nineties after the departure of Gollancz and before the building was upgraded. The figure asleep on the curb side reminds me of one of Gollancz’ most famous authors, George Orwell, who wrote a memoir in 1933 called Down and out in Paris and London – this being his first full length work.  In this he detailed his own experiences of poverty in the two named cities.

Today, 14 Henrietta St, retains its façade, but the interior has been completely stripped and refurbished. Now the building serves as a modern conference and meeting centre. How different to the busy, cluttered, Dickensian building I recall! I hope some of the old ghosts remain.

***

It was 1980.

I had returned to England after spending two years working in Beijing as an English ‘polisher’ for Xin Hua Shi – The New China News Agency.  In my luggage I carried the ms. of  a novel  called Thorndyke which I had written during  the daylight hours when I was working night-shift in Beijing: this being the first time in my life that I had enjoyed the kind of job that had fixed hours. At Xin Hua Shi you worked, and then you stopped: there was no possibility of  slipping-back-to-the-office to finish a piece of work.

Night shift was special – always exciting and the news unpredictable – and it led to a new pattern of life for me. In the mornings I slept late. In the afternoons,  I  wrote. And when I was not writing, I explored the narrow back-streets and lanes of Beijing on my old sit-up-and-beg woman’s bike that I had inherited from the artist Frank Wylie. In the evening and well into the night I was at my desk ‘polishing’ the English for news broadcasts to the rest of the world.  Increasingly, however I found myself  writing more and more in the afternoons – and thus the hours and days slipped away and the seasons changed.

When I came to what proved to be the final full stop, I felt empty.  True  I had satisfied a private ambition and had proved to myself that I could write over 100,000 words on one theme: but that hardly seemed important. As I was soon to discover, the thrill of finishing a book is short-lived, and it is the next one that suddenly comers knocking at the door, demanding all one’s attention.

If this seems a bit naive, it is because becoming a writer was never my ambition: it just happened, and I am wholly self-taught. However, let me not give the impression that I was a complete neophyte when it comes to writing. I was 38 years old. I had travelled widely.  I had written many short stories that had been well received, and I had completed plays. More privately, I  had managed to keep up a steady flow of poetry but without ever seeking to publish it.

***

So, with China behind me, I eventually found myself  back in the North of England, close again to the rough North Sea and the wild Moors that are filled with so many happy memories.  My mother still had a little flat in Scarborough (“Just so there’ll always be a roof over your head, lad.”) The big question was to whom  should I send the manuscript of Thorndyke.  I did  not know any publishers in England. I had shown the ms. to one publisher in NZ, who had told me that there was not much market “for a work of speculative philosophy.”  That had rather dampened my ardour.

At my mother’s suggestion, I nipped down to Scarborough library to borrow a copy of  The Writer and Artist’s Handbook. The Library building has a lot of history for me as it was here that I had first encountered the Theatre in the Round under the direction of Stephen Joseph. I was also reminded as I strolled beside the shelves of the times my mother had come home, staggering under the weight of books she had borrowed, many of which had a bright yellow cover. Indeed, that yellow dust-jacket, the trademark of Victor Gollancz books, had figured prominently in my youth as a symbol of excellence. I had never read a disappointing book with that cover and I associated it with SF writers such as Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke and Clifford Simak. 

The Gollancz entry in the Writer’s and Artist’s Handbook, proved very tempting. Unlike many publishers, Gollancz were prepared to accept submissions directly from writers. In other words, you did not have to have an agent.  That decided me, even though I thought I was walking with giants.  “After all, “as I explained to my mother, “there’s no shame in being rejected by the best, is there?”

“It’s the only way,” she replied. To this day I have no idea what she meant.

***

So, following the directions in the handbook, I composed a letter explaining (briefly) the plot. I enclosed a copy of the  first few pages as well as a stamped self-addressed  envelope for return of the pages, and dropped the small package in the post. Then I did the best I could to put the matter out of my mind. Some days later I received a note from Gollancz stating that the pages had been received and inviting me to send the rest of the text, which I duly did.

Being asked to send the rest of the book had a strange effect of me. I realized that I would not mind being rejected, for I knew that was the fate of most new books, but I was pleased that at least the book would be read. I was warned in the note that the process could take some time. “Take as long as you want,” I thought.

***

The weeks passed. I wrote a play (since lost). I composed some short stories (also lost). In short, I got on with living. After about 6 weeks I received another formal post card saying the book was still under consideration. This arrived shortly before I was due to return to NZ. I did not read anything special into this post card. As far as I was concerned, Gollancz was behaving as a decent publisher should: keeping one informed, but without creating false hopes. I certainly did not get very excited but I did think that when the book was finally rejected, I would receive a decent critique explaining where I had gone wrong. That alone would be encouragement.

***

I returned to New Zealand. I had been invited to direct Nicolai Erdman’s superb play The Suicide (1928), described in Wikipedia as, “a spectacular mixture of the ridiculous and the sublime”, and “universally recognized as one of the finest plays written during the Soviet period.” Indeed it is. Originally the play was banned by the Soviet censor.  It was only after the great Constantin Stanislavsky had written a letter to Stalin in person, pointing out the virtues of the play, that permission was finally given for a performance … only for that to be withdrawn again just before the opening night. Those were sensitive days in the Soviet Union with many writers, artists and musicians bullied into submission… or worse. Erdman survived – he died in 1970 – but many who had collaborated with him such as the brilliant director Vsevolod Meyerhold and the playwright/poet Mayakovsky did not. Thus the play had  a significant theatre history which I wanted to honour. But I digress…

I more or less forgot about Thorndyke, my attention being focussed on the hurly-burly of rehearsals.  I did receive another post-card more or less saying the same thing as the earlier one, and, as before, I assumed that this measured pace was how things were done in the publishing world – quite unlike the back-stage frenzy I was used to. The opening night of The Suicide was approaching rapidly.

It was the night of the technical rehearsal… For those of you who do not know, let me just say that this is arguably the most stressful rehearsal in the whole production process. At Downstage in Wellington we had a three or four-day turn over between plays.  During this period, the set from the old production was dragged out and the new set shifted in; the lights were stripped, checked and re-hung in their new positions; the dressing rooms were cleaned; costumes completed etc.  The whole production comes together at the ‘technical,’ and if there are problems, they have to be fixed on the spot, and with the clock ticking.

Let me just say that I have been through far worse technical rehearsals than the one we had for The Suicide. I think I was quietly confident that the production would ultimately come together – though I would never say that! We had a fine cast and crew.  I trusted we would have a good dress rehearsal and then… well, no-one will predict the opening night. In fact one does not talk about it. As Hamlet said,  ‘the readiness is all.’

It was well after midnight when I finally got home from the tech. rehearsal. I was surprised to find that my wife was still sitting-up. Normally, I prefer to come down from the tension of a ‘tech’ alone, except for a beer or two – and she knows that.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Not bad,” I replied. “What are you doing up?”

“There’s a…”  She paused.

“Well go on. There’s a what…?”

“There’s a call coming in from England.”

“Oh heck. Is it my  mam? Has something happened?”

“No. No. She’s fine, as far as I know. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Oh for f….” and at that moment the phone rang.

I picked up the receiver, all the while staring at my wife who was looking on with a mock-surprised, innocent, “I know nothing” look on her face. “Hello,” I said, and in reply I heard this rich, sporty, Oxbridge  English voice say, “Hel-low. Is that Phillip Mann, the writer?”

“Er… Yes, its Phillip Mann.”

“So glad. John Bush of  Victor Gollancz here. We’ve been trying to reach you. We rang your mother but she said she didn’t  know where you were.”

“What?”

“Yes. We want to publish your book. We love it.”

“You… you’re not joking are you?”

Unbelievable as it may seem, I actually said that. I don’t know why. Perhaps I thought a friend was pulling my leg, though it would have been a cruel thing to do. John Bush was clearly a bit surprised by my question.

“No, not at all. We love it. Is that all right? We’ll get a contract to you straight away if you will give us your address.”

“Yes. Yes. That’s…. fine.”

He then went on to mention a few more things, but my memory is hazy. He was wonderfully cheerful, I recall. He told me the editor, Malcolm Edwards had some suggestions and that he would be in contact with me shortly. And that was that. I put the phone down.

I didn’t get much sleep that night, I can tell you. But I did one thing. I rang my mother.

“Mam. Mam. “

“Oh  hello Pip. What’s up?”

“Mam. I’ve just  had a man called John Bush on the line from Victor Gollancz. They want to do my book.’

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Yes but he said he’d rung you, and you’d told him you didn’t know where I was. What the hell were you playing at?”

“Oh, it was him was it? I thought it was the police, so I wasn’t going to give you away, son.”

!!!!

Thus began a steep learning curve.

It was an epiphany of a sort. For the first time I came face to face with the challenge of what it means to write, to be taken seriously, to go public. It began as self-examination. When the ms. of what was now called The Eye of the Queen (Malcolm Edwards came up with this title,) was returned to me,  I was horrified to see the spelling mistakes, the poor punctuation and the cramped style on almost every page. The mistakes glared at me, as too did the careful corrections and the little note suggesting that I should use more commas in future.

I vowed then and there, that I was going to learn to write properly and I would never submit a manuscript in that state again. This was, of course, before the advent of spell-checkers. Over the following days, it gradually dawned on me that if I wanted to write seriously – and I did – I would need to learn about and ultimately take responsibility for, the English language. I know that sounds a bit grand, but it is not:  it is actually the acknowledgement of an apprenticeship, one that has no end. It does not mean using long words or being pedantic, or clever, or erudite: but of finding the right words so that finally the words begin to disappear as the story comes alive.

One of my first acts was to buy a good dictionary, the best: The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, a giant of a book, published in 2 hefty volumes and with a magnifying glass in a little drawer – necessary since the print is so small. Nowadays this dictionary is available on a DVD, but in 1980, the act of looking up a word was a physical adventure. One does not use this dictionary for spelling – though one can – but more to discover the meanings of words, their etymology, and how they have changed over the ages, and how other writers have used them. Just to use a book like this makes one feel better.

One of my second acts was to buy a little book on punctuation. I was astonished to discover that punctuation is both simpler and more flexible than I had imagined, but vital if one want’s to make one’s meaning clear.

A third conscious act, and this is ongoing to this day, was to read critically in order to observe the craft, the style, the economy and the diversity of a text. This led me back to Herman Melville, whose prose rolls like the sea he loved; to Charles Dickens who can put more energy into a sentence than some writers achieve in a paragraph; and, last but by no means least, to Eric Arthur Blair  whose intelligence and wit is only matched by his social conscience. I mean of course George Orwell. These are just three names. I have plucked them out because they mattered to me at that time – and still do. All writers need other writers under whose shadows they can grow.

I could go on – and perhaps one day I will for the act of writing remains a mystery – but I now look back on those days while The Eye of the Queen was in preparation as a turning point in my life, and I have no regrets. I knew I had a second book to write, and I was hungry… so very hungry, to learn by doing.

***

The Eye of the Queen was published and received good reviews, especially in the Times where mention was made of C.S. Lewis and H. G. Wells. That was in the days when the Times ran a special column devoted to SF and their reviews could shape a book’s destiny. I was a bit out of things as I was in New Zealand.  Later I returned to England and was invited down to visit the Gollancz publishing house in Henrietta St and to meet Malcolm Edwards who had looked after the whole thing, and who – as I was later to discover – had plucked my book out of the slush pile. In the course of correspondence we had discovered a shared passion for cricket.

Why I mention these things now, apart from rambling down memory lane, is because history has repeated its self. Let me explain. I started this website, not only because I had a lot to say, but because I wanted to feel that I was still a writer. The rejection of my work had hit me hard and undermined my confidence. I know the wise people say “never give up” but it is hard to be a story-teller when no one is listening. I never expected the Website would become a two-way communication – but that has proved to be the case and it is lovely to receive reactions to the material on the site.

One day, I received a message from, of all people, Malcolm Edwards. He had left Gollancz in the late 1980s, but was now involved again in a management role. He had heard that I had died  – from whom or from what I had no idea – but was glad to know that this news was ‘greatly exaggerated’.  He told me about SF Gateway and wondered if I would be interested. I certainly was as I had been thinking about e publishing for some time, and we agreed to meet when next I was in London. At the meeting I tentatively mentioned that I had a new book; that I had already submitted it to Gollancz once and it had been turned down, but that I had reworked it again and would like to resubmit it. He looked at me a bit strangely. Evidently he did not know I had written a new book – and that is a bit strange since he had edited and help shape my first four books and one would have thought that normal courtesy would have meant that he was informed of a new work, even if he was not going to edit it.

To cut a long story short, I did resubmit the book. It was handed over to the new editor Marcus Gipps who liked it well enough and there we are: the process began. It is not quite how it was in the old days, but that does not matter. Words can not really express my delight in being published again… but I want to state my gratitude to all who have had a hand in this.

And lastly, I hope that you, the readers, will like the work too. You can let me know… via this website.

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