Benjamin Evans - Author

A classic science fiction novel from the best of the science fiction writers, Wyndham spins a highly intelligent, beautifully concise tale of alien invasion in pastoral England. The brilliance here is in the relentless normality of the prose. The basis of good science fiction is in its credulity. It is all very well thinking up a scenario, but if it does not strike the writer as something that could happen, something that could turn up tomorrow or could be happening right now, then there is no effect, no sense of tension or interest. Good writing makes us think about the world and about ourselves and this is what Wyndham has achieved. The fictional situation is that over the space of one day, all the village of Miswich is placed in a mysterious trance. No-one can enter, no-one can leave and all inside are paralysed. After the 24 hours are up, all the occupants return to normal and it is as if nothing has happened - aside from one thing - all the women of the village are pregnant. So fa

For the last couple of weeks I have been cycling up and down the Alps in Switzerland. It was an incredible experience as you can imagine, but in particular because of the sheer size of the climbs that you encounter. Here I try to describe what it feels like cycling a 9000 feet mountain pass. ‘Has it started? Is this it? I’m sure the last sign said 20km to go. It can’t have started already?’ Change down. 2 nd Front Cog, Gear 3. ‘I’m not changing down to the 1 st Cog yet. I have energy. I must stay in a higher gear as possible. It will make it seem easier when it gets harder later.’ A throb of fatigue hits the thighs, like they have been struck with an iron mallet. ‘I’m getting warmed up. That’s all that is, just warming up.’ I change down to cog 1, then up to gear 4 to compensate. The gasps for breath get deeper and longer. ‘There we go, that’s it. Keep the toil going. Just relax, and keep pushing. That’s all you need to do.’ I stand up on the bike

In my suitable after-the-event way, I am posting today with my thoughts on the England football team, why they brushed aside Bulgaria and (watch out tabloids) ROLLED over the Swiss, but yet when they come up against the might of Albania and the USA in major tournaments, drop out with barely a whimper. I really wasn't going to write this, but have to hear so much guff written and said about football every day, that I feel someone had to make an effort. So what reasons do we have so far to explain England failure? They don’t care about playing for their country. They don’t play as a team They don’t have the talent They don’t want to play for the manager. And so on and so on. All of these may have some element of truth, but all of them miss the key elements of the problem. Yes, when they went down against Germany they didn’t seem to care; yes, there seemed to be a reaction against the manager’s disciplinary regime; and yes, they seemed to be playing as individuals rather than a team –

I have recently taken up the lifestyle of the professional runner. I get up each morning, run for 40 minutes, then go to work, come home, run for another hour and a half, eat, read, sleep and go to bed, over and over, seven days a week. Each time I get better at it and soon I will run a big race when I will do pretty well. Running is great like this. Everyone thinks I’m amazing. I get medals and applause. People aspire to do what I do. For five years now I have spent hours and hours of every day writing. Each I’d do a little more and each day I’d think that I’d done a little better. Then I’d go to bed, happy with myself and think I’d added to what was certain to be a masterpiece, when finished, which I’d be delighted with and which everyone would love. Then I’d finish the work, after years and years of effort. No-one would care. People would read the first chapter and then not continue. They’d be too busy, find it all a bit weird. Then I’d read it again and decide that I didn’t like it

Byatt is a writer who considers so called universal themes - love, growing up, childbirth - in the backdrop of historical change. For her it our emotions and our choices are drawn from the influences around us - political and ideological - and her characters react as such. This seems very typical of a writer from a background in literary study - always expertly constructing around a social context, deconstructing the world through her characters and their predicaments. This has never been more obviously so than in The Children’s Book – half an ensemble family drama, half a social history of the end of the Victorian age through to the Great War. Initially we see this as a book of escapism – a family living away in the woods of the Kent countryside, beautifully depicted as a rural idyll of downs, marshes and cycling inhabitants. They are seen through the eyes of Philip, a young boy from the working classes, who is taken by this Fabian group and thrust into the frivolities of midsummer pa