The first ‘new’ (well 2015) Moorcock I’ve read in years - and it’s everything I’ve always loved: witty and deep; fast paced and absurd; flitting from autobiography to pulp fiction to meditations on politics and loyalty at the blink of an eye. And like Bob Dylan jumping from profound poetry to doggerel with barely a wink. I dearly look forward to the next volume, The Woods of Arcady. ( )

I can only review the first 140 pages, as I couldn't read any further.

This book was filed as a fantasy novel in the library where I picked it up; I had no idea it was autobiographical as well. If I'd known this I'd have left it on the shelf. I like a bit more fantasy in my fantasy novels than this. Most of what I read was over-written and over-indulgent and got in the way of what might have been a pretty good story, albeit one I was finding had passages that made very little sense to me. The first few pages came across as nothing but bragging and it was a chore to read; it did nothing to benefit the story. By the end of what I read I was starting to forget what the story actually was. It's a shame, as I quite liked the fantasy location. Disappointing. ( )

That was a very interesting read. He hasn't missed a beat. Loved the autobiographical parts ( )

That was a very interesting read. He hasn't missed a beat. Loved the autobiographical parts ( )

Have you often thought there could never be enough navel-gazing autobiographies by middle-aged white dudes about the food they ate, the places they traveled, the brilliant books they wrote which no one properly appreciated, the beautiful women dying to have sex with them, and how wonderful they are though no one seems to recognize it?

And can you also never get enough of fantasy novels of other realms that intersect with our own, full of passion and adventure, where our swashbuckling hero of humble origins (always a hero in these books) is destined to save that world with a previously unknown magical gift?

Well, you are in luck, because this is both of those books in one package.

I forced myself through at least 150 pages of Moorcock writing semi-autobiography about his own literary brilliance, sexual escapades, musical genius, adoring and beautiful wife, and what a champion profeminist he was though women always wanted him to take charge, because women are like that. I ground through it thinking it would have to pick up steam when he entered the magical realm for real, but no. He writes about the guilt he feels about abandoning his children and the amazing sex he's having with the much younger woman he finds in Alsacia. I'm sure at some point he'll turn out to be the hero they need because of his previously undiscovered magical gifts, but how many hundreds of pages do I need to wade through to get there, and why would I, when the main (autobiographical) character is so unlikable in so many cliched ways?

I gave up at p. 220. This was billed as the first book of three in 2014, but I'm guessing the reception was poor enough that there won't be another. ( )