S E-G-Hopkin

Just as Alec Guinness resented being seen as Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of his life, Ian Richardson might have resented Francis Urquhart, the Machiavelli of Michael Dobbs’ House of Cards trilogy, whose catchphrase gives this book its title. Just as Alec Guinness resented being seen as Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of his life, Ian Richardson might have resented Francis Urquhart, the Machiavelli of Michael Dobbs’ House of Cards trilogy, whose catchphrase gives this book its title. Urquhart was a much better part to be identified with, of course; but it is a pity that an actor of such versatility and presence should be remembered only as a ruthless political operator.

‘For my generation of Essex teenagers, Dennis Wheatley’s novels represented the essential primer in diabolism,’ Ronald Hutton, the historian and expert on paganism, recalls. ‘For my generation of Essex teenagers, Dennis Wheatley’s novels represented the essential primer in diabolism,’ Ronald Hutton, the historian and expert on paganism, recalls. It wasn’t peculiar to Essex. In the Sixties, reading Dennis Wheatley was something one did to prove one’s daring — and to get the atmosphere right for spooky parties.

‘There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.’ The Graveyard Book has one of the most arresting opening sentences one could imagine. Fortunately, Neil Gaiman then leaves melodrama for something much more interesting and thoughtful. By chance, as a toddler, Bod, the central character of the story escapes the assassin who has killed his family, and wanders into a graveyard, where he is adopted by the ghosts. Gaiman observes one of the principal rules of fantasy, which is to have rules — nothing is duller than a dream-world where anything can happen. The ghosts of his world stay as they were at the moment of their deaths, and cannot usually leave the place where they were buried.

Magic and fantasy seem to occupy an odd tract of land in the world of the novel. Despite an honourable lineage that includes William Morris, Lord Dunsany and J. R. R. Tolkien, there persists a feeling that fantasy is really for children and geeks; it is not a serious art. Perhaps this is why publishers put out editions of Terry Pratchett and J. K. Rowling with more sophisticated cover art, so that their readers will not be embarrassed on trains. Diana Wynne Jones was at Oxford in the days of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis and learnt a great deal from them about the power and durability of myth (though not their Christian agenda — she is also free of Philip Pullman’s soapbox atheism).

The late Alan Coren once called a collection of articles Golfing for Cats, in order, he claimed, to maximise his sales by tapping in to two profitable markets at once. Michael Moorcock has lavishly adopted this stratagem. The cataloguing data for this book defines it as: ‘1. Detective and mystery stories. 2. Fantasy fiction.’ The author himself claims it as a tribute to the Sexton Blake series (for which he wrote his first published novel), but there is hardly a tree in the orchard of pulp fiction from which he has not scrumped: the Western story, the gumshoe, the horror. For each he finds an answerable style, even to the occasional vulgarism and clumsy piece of exposition. The hero is allowed omniscience and his favourite brands of tobacco and alcohol.