The Terror (2007) by Dan Simmons

The Terror lay heavily on my mind for a very long time before I had the courage to pick up a copy for myself. At the best of times, I feel a sort of grim obligation to read and review any and all British Empire-themed books and films I come across, which of course means that I end up reading a lot of dross, and also that my shelves are fairly creaking with as-of-yet unread volumes. But The Terror… that was a step beyond. It takes a special kind of commitment to begin a thousand-page epic about frostbite, scurvy and the general grimness of 19^th-century Arctic exploration, and know that you’re going to see it through to the bitter end. And, to be sure, the end wasgoing to be very bitter. Like I say, The Terror lay heavily on my mind… perhaps as heavily as the upcoming 1845 Arctic expedition to force the Northwest Passage must have lain on the mind of its commander, Sir John Franklin.

But I sure am glad that I did pick it up.

Once in a great while you come across a book that thrusts you into a world and a subject that obsesses you: The Terror is such a book.

The Terror tells the story, in a fictionalized form, of the doomed Franklin Expedition. Once a Victorian cause celebre, it is now a largely forgotten event. I had certainly never heard of it before reading the book, but I was intrigued to find that my mother had memories of singing a song known as Lady Franklin’s Lament, a balled composed about this event just a few years after it happened.

So, what was all the fuss about? Well, as you may be aware, frost-bitten seamen had already been killing themselves north of Greenland for centuries searching for a safe way to sail over the top of the world: the fabled Northwest Passage. If found, such a route would allow ships to trade with the Far East without going around the infamous Capes. The thought of all that lovely trading and money had long convinced sailors that the Arctic ice must surely have been a relatively narrow band, with an easily-navigable (and completely mythical) ‘open Polar sea’ available to anyone who was brave enough to get to it.

Well, we’ve made some pretty sizeable dents into the Arctic with global warming since those days, but there still isn’t and never has been an open Polar sea. The net result is that pretty much all voyages with this goal became grim records of utterly futile horror and death. And into this litany of woe stepped Sir John Franklin in 1845, as he planned an ultra-modern expedition of over one hundred men and the latest in ice-worthy ships, the Erebus and the Terror, to force the Northwest Passage.

Sir John Franklin

Simmons’ weighty tome takes on this story from about a year into the expedition, when the two ships had already been trapped in ice for some time, and the proud Sir John was only just beginning to admit that he probably wasn’t going to realise his goal. Soon into the proceedings, it becomes pretty clear that even getting home alive would be quite an achievement for the team.

The day-to-day horrors of life at the frozen north are brought home with terrible clarity. Scurvy, starvation, rationing, and having metal objects such as pistols and telescopes tear off chunks of flesh whenever they touch bare skin are all common occurences for the crew of the Franklin Expedition. And yet, despite the unrelenting grimness, there is a kind of strange positivity to the whole thing. Somehow, Simmons makes you like and admire the characters. I won’t say there’s hope in the story, as pretty much every character seems to know that he’s doomed from the beginning, but there’s a certain dignity and respect for man’s determination to survive to the proceedings.The extraordinary level of detail of their ordeal, helped by the sheer length of time the reader spends with them, makes them  knowable and somehow admirable.

Simmons focuses largely on an officer called Crozier, an Irishman who has been passed up for promotion countless times because of his origin, despite being an extremely capable veteran of many polar expeditions. Crozier is a great hero, and a character who seems to have been extremely interesting in real life; Simmons depicts his redemption from hopeless achoholic to driven leader (upon the death of Franklin) with a panache that wrings real emotion from the reader. I seldom warm to a character as much as I grew to like Crozier: he’s a believable hero. He’s not perfect but he does the right thing, even under extraordinary circumstances.

Francis Crozier

 And it’s the extraordinary circumstances that I expect will make or break this doorstop of a novel for most people. For, in a genre-bending move, Simmons makes the most immediate threat to the crew not any of the above troubles, but instead a seemingly-supernatural creature, barely seen, that stalks them from the ice. It’s a weird twist indeed, changing the book from being a strictly historical thriller to a speculative pseudo-horror story. It’s a trick that works best towards the beginning, when we’re still unsure whether or not the creature is real or if it’s a product of madness and superstition. Inevitably, Simmons overplays his hand and is forced to ‘show’ us more and more of the monster. It still works as a decent thriller, but the mystery and horror elements do get somewhat watered down the more frequent the monster appearances are. I’m not going to indulge in a ‘don’t show the monster = better horror’ debate, but there are works that make me think that there's something to be said for the theory.

There are always pacing problems with a novel this size. I do personally value brevity and efficiency in fiction, and I feel that it takes a real master to justify the ludicrous page length of, say, the average Stephen King novel. And Simmons, while exellent, and a better writer than most, doesn’t quitesustain my interest at its initially high level. Which is a light criticism, but describes a problem which the author could easily have remedied, if he’d exercised a little more restraint. For the first 300-odd pages, I was completely hooked, entirely obsessed with the minutia of polar exploration. And what a feeling that was… I exhaustively researched the Franklin Expedition and its predecessors, sourced folksongs and stories dealing with Franklin and his crew, and generally bored everyone around me stupid with Arctic exploration stories for about two weeks (which is how long it took me to plough through this monster). The Rogers Stan song Northwest Passage in particular gave me chills the first time I heard it, and when he mentions Franklin in the chorus I felt as though he was singing about someone I had known and shared hardships with.

Compared to this, I found the monster stuff less interesting, though it was well done. Perhaps it's a sign that I'm getting older, that I prefer the historical stuff to the supernatural. Who knows.

There are very few books that obsess you, and for that reason I shall place The Terror proudly beside the few others on my shelf that have done the same. But the initial high did wear off about halfway through, and though I was never bored, there were times when I wondered how I would have felt about the book if it had finished while still rocking my world.

Stay frosty.

Eastern Approaches by Fitzroy Maclean

Who did you want to be when you were ten years old?

It isn’t a trivial question- you can tell much about someone based on who they admire. (For example, if it’s Jeremy Clarkson, then we’ve learned that this conversation is over). But there are different levels of ‘heroes’. I mean, in a very superficial way, most people wouldn’t mind being a rich heir(ess), and most guys have though at times that being Hugh Hefner would be pretty decent. But these fantasies satisfy merely the most shallow of our needs- they do not answer our burning needs to prove our worth or live meaningful lives- and what people find ‘meaningful’ will of course vary.

Some of my heroes include writers like Arthur Conan Doyle- those who created characters and ideas that have become a part of the public consciousness. But while I would be thrilled to be as talented as them, it isn’t their lives particularly that I would wish to emulate…

That lofty rank would be filled by characters like Percy Fawcett, Harry Price, Richard Burton, Tom Crean and David Livingstone- regardless of personal fame or success, they lived extraordinary lives, each endeavoring in his own way to push back the boundaries of knowledge. Whether they explored the forgotten corners of the world’s jungles or the borders of belief, they reminded us ordinary plebs that the world was a place that was still full of adventure; a place where fantastic things can still happen. Lost civilizations, haunted houses, cannibal tribes and giant anacondas- these are the things that make life worth living (or at least worth reading about).

My recent reading of the book Eastern Approaches has immediately catapulted its authur, Fitzroy Maclean, into this exclusive club. Good God, the man’s credentials are absolutely impeccable; it’s almost obscene that he hadn’t come to my attention previously. If even ten percent of what Maclean wrote about is true, the man was the greatest legend who ever blagged his way through a Soviet checkpoint- a real-life Flashman who seemed always to blunder onto the scene whenever epoch-making historical events were getting underway.

Eastern Approaches begins by chronicling Maclean’s exploits in the years immediately preceding World War 2. A member of the early 20th Century British aristocracy, he was already moving in notable circles (Winston Churchill and Evelyn Waugh were good friends of his) when his diplomatic career begun in Paris. Maclean immediately works his way into my good books by decrying his enviable lifestyle there as ‘boring’. Easy work, good pay, lots of high society champagne parties and warm summer nights on the Champs Elysee do become so tiresome, after all. So, to the amazement and delight of his supervisors, Maclean opts to be reposted to Moscow- something no British diplomat has ever willingly done. No real reason is given for this, except that he fancies a bit of adventure, and wants to find out a bit about the mysterious land of Uncle Joe.

After some time in Moscow, he decides to travel through the forbidden territories of Central Asia, which few Europeans had ever seen (especially since the birth of the USSR). Just for a bit of a laugh. Samarkand and Buhkara sound like exotic, difficult-to-get-to places, and this more than than justifies to him the dangerous journey he intends to take. I agree. This he achieves with an astonishing mix of bravado and luck. The NKVD (precursors to the KGB) follow him everywhere, but because he’s such a legend, their agents often become friendly with him (usually over a bottle of vodka, too). Maclean moves through the various ‘stans, avoiding the usual Soviet red tape by simply not informing the NKVD where his next destination is going to be, and by spoofing to border guards when necessary. This entire section of the book reads very like a real life version of Flashman at the Charge.

Maclean provides an absolutely fascinating document of Soviet life during the 1930’s. Though he deplores the Soviet system, he is never jingoistic or partronising. In fact, he pretty much never has to say a bad word about the Soviets, as the facts of the case speak for themselves- everywhere he goes, movement is restricted for both locals and foreigners, NKVD are an oppressive presence, peasants are relocated en masse and treated like prisoners, and shops are empty as food shortages are standard. He enjoys the company of pretty much every nationality he meets, having good things to say about Afghans, Tajiks, Uzbecs and other unfortunate citizens of the great Soviet experiment. And for an upper-class Brit, Maclean appears to have been remarkably laid-back, especially considering the time. Not a page goes by that he isn’t cheerfully slumming it over a bottle of vodka with a couple of Kyrg peasants in the back of a truck or train.

One other thing needs to be mentioned- Maclean occasionally notes the presence of attractive ladies he meets along the way. After noting them in the text however, they shortly fade form the narrative, seemingly without function. Is there something here that needs to be read between the lines? Something that the author couldn’t make overtly clear when the book was published? At these times I tend to turn to the only picture of Maclean included, at the front of the book-



-and then I just know he tapped that.

My absolute sole criticism of this portion of the book is that it contains one chapter so gripping and terrifying, it stops the narrative dead in its tracks- a detailed description of Stalin’s show trials. After much light-hearted bouncing about Central Asia, this chapter comes as a bit of a shocker. Maclean finally lets a more serious tone creep into his writing, which is fair enough given that he's dealing with one of the most blood-chilling aspects of Stalin's reign. Given a ringside seat, as it were, Maclean reports the trials lucidly and without colour. Former high-ranking Party officials are hauled bleary-eyed into the court to testisfy to absurd (and often impossible) crimes. According to this testiomony of the damned, the Soviet Party was riddled, almost from before its conception, with traitors and conspiracies. Any citizen who was ever known to have dealings with foreigners was a spy; every food shortage was deliberately caused by malicious inside jobs, not government mismanagement. Maclean's narrative deepens considerably here as he leaves high-spirited hijinks to one side and instead delivers a fascinating physocological deconstruction of the Soviet regime. He tries to explain how living in a state of constant terror and misinformation has made it possible that, in some horrible doublethink manner, the audience (and even the accused) actually do believe the absurd deceit they are constructing. Positively chilling.

After this exercise in real-life horror, the madcap central Asian backpacking that Maclean indulges in over the next few chapters seem a trifle thin.

Strangely, the other 2/3rds of the book didn't strike me as being quite as interesting. Perhaps if they had been published separately, they might have had more impact. Anyway, when World War 2 begins, Maclean turns down his position as a local politician, and sign up for the army. Despite his privileged background, he willingly joins as a private and gets sent to North Africa to fight against Rommel's troops. Cue lots of strangely repetitive missions sneaking into desert cities and bluffing past German and Italian troops.

After this, in a truly Flashman-esque move, Churchill himself asks Maclean to parachute into Bosnia to meet the mysterious Tito. Tito is the leader of the Partisans, a guerilla movement who are fighting the Nazi occupation. Trouble is, nobody outside Yugoslavia knows who Tito really is. When Maclean finally meets him, he is impressed by Tito's leadership skills and independent streak. Maclean hides out in the Yugoslav hills for several months, fighting with the Partisans and trying to talk Tito out of his Communist ideals. Again, Maclean does not come across as a condescending, jingoistic Brit- he really does respect Tito, and his fear of Communism is based on experience, not xenophobia.

Even if his WW2 adventures were less interesting to me than his Central Asian odyssey, Fitzroy Maclean is never less than entertaining, and he has solidified his position as one of the great characters of the 20th century.

Fantasy, Generation X and Backpackers: The Beach

Ever spent a little time away from real life? Ever lived far from home, immersed in an alien culture in which you can be a new person? In such circumstances, do you reckon you’d be attracted or repulsed by thoughts of home? In Alex Garland’s The Beach, young travelers escape from the troubles of The World by retiring to a place that, oddly, is not made to seem much more pleasurable than the world they left behind.

The novel takes the form of a classic adventure story. In a Bancock hostel, Richard, a young English Generation X-er, is entrusted with a map by a suicidal Scot who calls himself Daffy Duck. The map supposedly leads to an Eden-like island off the coast of Thailand where a group of backpackers, or ‘travelers’, as they like to be called, have set up an idyllic community. Richard hooks up with two French youths, Etienne and Francoise, and all three head off to find the Beach.

The book feels like a slight read- slighter by far than the classics to which it’s often compared, Heart of Darkness and Lord of the Flies. If there’s a deep lesson here about man’s endless quest for unspoiled paradise, it’s hard to spot it amid the breezy writing and endless joint-rolling. Garland’s prose fairly flies off the page, making The Beach a literal page-turner. On a sentence level, he’s an extremely skilled writer.

As narrator, Richard’s thought processes are extremely natural, and it’s easy to identify with the little mental games he plays constantly. Trailing through the jungle at night, he pretends that every snapped twig costs him a video game-inspired ‘life’. Avoiding dope-guards, he pretends that they are Vietcong soldiers. As a Generation X kid, he’s been brought up on a diet of videogames, movies and pop-culture that colours how he interprets the world. He frequently likens his Thailand adventure to the Vietnam war- not the real Vietnam of course, but the glorified cinematic version pedaled by Oliver Stone and Stanley Kubrick. If he can liken his own situation to a situation from movies or TV, he is likely to lose his already-fragile handle on reality. This tendency goes so far as to cause him to take serious risks and make questionable decisions. Hey, if the A-team could swim through shark-infested waters, so can Richard, right? He’s such a relatable character that it takes the reader some time to realize that he’s actually a bit of a dick.

There’s a lack of irony throughout that is refreshing. Garland has little criticism for backpacker culture, probably because he’s a fan of it in real life. I wonder how Richard and his gang would fare if they met up with the small-minded backpacker twerps from Are You Experienced (another classic 90's travel story, written by the deeply cynical William Sutclife). Much potential ridiculousness is avoided due to the lack of any of the New Age nonsense that often comes with this territory. In fact, Garland is very clear that the Beach community have no philosophy whatsoever. They just work, eat and have a good time.

A serious flaw with the novel is how the Beach itself is viewed by Richard and the others that live there. For starters, they are already all feckless travelers, having traipsed across Asia, Africa and Europe to a man. They’re not exactly buttoned-down cubicle-jockies, and even before they reach the Beach they weren’t exactly living in what might be called the ‘real world’. Little detail is given about Richard’s life in England, but we are given no reason to suppose that he is unhappy there or in need of escape from anything. Beautiful and isolated as the Beach is, there seems little contrast between the characters lives there and their lives before, making the plot escalation about the impending destruction of life on the Beach a little underwhelming. They enjoy living there, but it doesn’t seem to have changed them in any way. Swim, catch fish, eat. Meh.

They scorn what they call The World, but they have failed in any meaningful way to live apart from it. Beach life is notably non self-sustaining, as they are reliant on occasional trips to the mainland to purchase rice, as well as the batteries they need for their Gameboys and other ‘essentials’. Seriously- much of the text is given over to who has the Gameboy, what their high score is, and when they're getting their next shipment of batteries. We are meant to accept that the Beach, at least at first, is the ultimate getaway from the world, but at the same time the characters there seem not to have lost their interest in it. Richard frequently doesn’t seem too pushed about whether he continues living there or goes home, and when he finally makes the decision to leave, he convinces several others to accompany him with almost pathetic ease. So when the shit does hit the fan and the community collapses, it’s sometimes hard to feel that much has been lost.

Of course, it’s possible that this is deliberate, and that the point of the book is actually how jaded Generation X are, and how they have it so easy that they don’t really appreciate anything, and how pop culture means more to them than real life. In this interpretation, by portraying the Beach as not being completely awesome, Garland sacrifices making the book work as an adventure story in favour of providing some deep social commentary. But somehow I doubt that that’s what he meant.

The Beach is definitely worth a read. Find a battered old copy in a second-hand shop and stick it in your bag alongside Lonely Planet and some pre-rolled joints, and you probably won’t be disappointed. Millions weren't. All the same, I have some deep reservations about anyone whose ultimate fantasy island getaway-situation involves a Nintendo Gameboy.