Читать книгу Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith - Страница 6

There is an audacity we possess when we are young, a cockiness and a knowledge that stems from, I suspect, two very different things: firstly, we don’t care what the rules are (we don’t even know what the rules are that we are breaking, as we break them. We want it all). Secondly, we may not have much time, we don’t know: if we are going to scrawl our names on the walls of the world we must do it in letters of fire a thousand feet high, and we must do it now.

So when you are a young writer, you put in everything you’ve got.

In the case of Michael Marshall Smith, also now sometimes known as Michael Marshall, you write something that manages to be, at the same time (or at least, in the same book), a work of futuristic parodic science fiction, a jaded and bitter private eye novel, a work of magical realism, a realistic psychological novel, and which contains in itself one of the most excellent pieces of dream fiction ever constructed.

Only Forward starts with a bang. It moves off with a series of even louder bangs. We meet Stark, and watch as he takes a job (it’s a dame, of course. It always takes a dame to start a story like this). Stark’s world-weary voice is irresistible (and to whom is he telling this tale? to us? to himself?) and it allows Smith to give us all the information he needs to (and to palm all the cards, coins, doves and cats he needs to). The story takes us to The City and to such neighbourhoods as Colour, Red, Stable and, my favourite of them all, Cat. Comic book, pulp places, each of them recognizable, each with its own dangers and joys.

Stark grows up as the novel goes on, because most first novels are, somewhere deep inside, coming-of-age novels. He moves from adolescence to responsibility in two very different ways.

Despite the gallimaufry of genres and of kinds of content in here, Smith, holding onto his novel, is always in control of his material, even if, sometimes, he seems to be wrestling it into submission, like a man clutching a fire hose as it bucks and sprays. But, once the possibility that this is all a dream, or a form of wish-fulfilment, is allowed out, it never goes away. It becomes harder to read the second half of the book literally, and easier to see it as a solo fugue, in which nothing is occurring outside Stark’s head.

Publishing Only Forward was a glorious flare that went up to let the world know about the arrival of a writer of talent and facility and a little genius. It won the British Fantasy Award and, six years later, when it was published in the US, the Philip K. Dick Award, doubly appropriate because it is a work of profoundly Dickian fiction: snarky gadgets, argumentative places, frangible realities and all.

Twenty years on, Michael Marshall and Michael Marshall Smith are twin stars who are continuing to burn brightly and with power. He’s more selective now about what he puts into his books, although the emotional power and the ability to plot have never let up or slackened. But this book was where it started. It’s impossible to forget the ending, and it has a very odd beginning, too. Did I mention all the stuff that happens in between?

Neil Gaiman