Hashish

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I came upon a reference to this book at the Cruising Association’s marine library in London’s Limehouse. It was in a pilot for the Red Sea and it has taken me until now to find a copy. It was worth the wait.
Tintin and Malto Cortes were influenced by Henry de Monfried, an adventurer and later a prolific writer, and it was great to discover one of their original sources.
This is a fantastic adventure yarn with descriptions of natural occurrences that are often as beautiful as they are wild. Monfried is an elegant and entertaining writer and possessed of a wisdom that is Oriental, even while he is a very modern man.
You learn much about the Arabian Red Sea from Djibouti, Aden, then on past Eritrea, and Yemen and on to Egypt. He writes of a time before World War II that is accessible and human, full of conceit and treachery but also of courage and nobleness where disaster is never far off.

A warm story teller, illuminating a reality of — as yet! — not fully exploited potential, which he strode in the best tradition of Sinbad the Sailor; utterly captivating.

See the book at https://store.kobobooks.com/en-GB/ebook/hashish?utm_campaign=BookReviewAdr&utm_medium=Social&utm_source=App_Acq #KoboReview #BookReview

Knows

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I awoke,

With Mountains in their heights,

That spoke,

Of memories that wove,

Through knees, thighs and pubic bone —

To the inky waters of the lake below.

 

In that cabin, where the sable pines

Enclose,

And all about,

From coral-white

To greyish, turquoise-blue,

Snow.

 

That scene:

On the edge,

Where the stillness

Knows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fakir Flake Fake

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Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings ov’e butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now, grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam’s sons; Eve’s daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories;
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford:
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law;
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies…

A voice, Mercer’s,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in;
Al Jerry’s, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart, My Child, now its imitation.

Ubik

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Review by Ashley Chapman

Ubik (1969) by Philip K. Dick has that deceptively straightforward prose style that is as once as engaging as it is profound, a rare combination of a voice that is guile-free but coloured with a zany irascible humour.

‘Dick is comfortable with ideas like psy-phenomenon, the parapsychological, telepathy, precognition, psychokinesis and near-death, in his hands, all made so innocuous you begin to feel at ease with the non-living.’

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