by Widgett Walls
March 1, 2012
Wow. That’s what I think when I start perusing Michael Moorcock’s collection London Peculiar and Other Nonfiction, out from PM Press. It weighs in at over 360 pages, and may not seem like much (or I don’t know, maybe it does–depending on your fear of the written word (or perhaps just your reading speed)), but take a look at the table of contents and you’ve got a buffet of stuff here. Diary entries, book intros, reviews. He writes on people, politics and music. I am thin on my Moorcock–I admit it freely–but the really scary bit is that you get to the afterword and you find that this is mostly stuff from the last five years or so, and is a companion to a larger collection put out earlier (and with no input from the man himself). Criminy. Not to be missed, just to point out a couple: Moorcock writing about being a child at Christmas during the Blitz and his review of a couple of books on Elvis that’s just fantastic in its ability to transcend. Fans of Moorcock–this is a no-brainer for you. And honestly, if you want just good, sold non-fiction writing–no-brainer as well. Highly recommended.