Over the past four years, I have been reading various bulky books about the history of London, and I imagined that this book would serve well as a description of the most recent section of modern contemporary history of London. The subtitle of the book, nl. “9 Excursions into the Secret History of London” seems to hint at that. I am familiar with Iain Sinclair's writing and style, and was looking forward to a fresh look on the City, as blurb texts also promised.

However, this was very disappointing. There is a lot of namesdropping, and the book isn't really about anything. Looking back a few days after reading, I cannot even say clearly what it is about, even whether it was about London at all.

It is long and repetitive, some references to Sinclair's own, other work coming back several times in exactly the same words like a recurring mantra. There are historical references, but they do not really tie up with the present, and much of what Sinclair writes about is highly obscure. ( )

Perhaps it is simply Sinclair overloard (1000 pages of his in two weeks), perhaps the concurrent surfeit of images from London dissuaded me. I felt this text was inferior to London Orbital; I also collapsed to a minimal degree per some of Sinclair's personal bifurcations (to cite Roubaud) which I felt flat. His poetic waxing on pitbull culture was an ever-so-prescient for a rasher of recent events. Sinclair's stories overflow with woe yet they amaze and elicit. ( )

you never finish reading Iain Sinclair.

Please see review on my blog: Underground Man
http://undergroundmangeomatt.blogspot.com/2009/02/book-review-lights-out-fot-ter... ( )

It took me forever to read this book, and I don’t think I ever got a handle on it. Subtitled “9 Excursions into the Secret History of London” I imagined it would be the authors thoughts on nine walks about the city. That may be true for the first chapter – a fascinating reading walk of graffiti – and a few other parts, but much of the book is deeper reflections on all aspects of London life such as its contemporary artists, film makers and writers. Experiences come in both diary entry format and long ago events in Sinclair’s life with no linear narrative. And Sinclair’s prose is dense, not unlike Umberto Eco, although thankfully without Eco’s overbearing arrogance. Sinclair writes entire essays returning to the motif of one word whether it be “dogs” or the name “Robinson.” He also makes allusions and drops names nearly every paragraph, so much so I imagine that a life long Londoner may not recognize everything he mentions. This was a challenging book to read, and I’m not sure I grasped it all, but I am glad I read it.

“These days businessmen take their cellphones out to lunch, instead of their mistresses.” (p. 91).

“Museums have got above themselves, touting for funds, when they should remember their origins as mere cabinets of curiosities. Boxes of tricks, bits of animal skin, fossils, plant freaks: blood cargo. You can’t make this pillage acceptable by enclosing it in a fancy building – with an outhouse for the sale of postcards and embossed postcards.” (p. 181) ( )