![]() ![]() I’m not sure what pulls me back, and I never seem to find it. I admit, I’m afraid of what might happen. The “In” and the “Nights” books are where it’s at.Īnd now, I’m told, we can return there one last time, in You Should Come With Me Now, in Jack of Mercy’s. For me it was always a series of two halves. Immersed myself in the graphic adaptations of Ian Miller and Dieter Jüdt. And reversed my way through this series of books: Viriconium Nights, In Viriconium (The Floating Gods), A Storm of Wings, The Pastel City. ![]() I’ve returned to The City often, sometimes in Amsterdam. I dreamt so many dreams, those seven Viriconium Nights. A city that wears its heart on its sleeve, but plays cards close to its chest. Genever in coffee shops and women at windows. ![]() Canals, and pools, and streets with strange, familiar names. Or something.” I bought the book, we boarded a train. Simon said “M John Harrison: he’s friends with Michael Moorcock. Except there was a bookshop, selling sci-fi. The old one of tunnels, caves, and condensation in huge waiting rooms. Through a portal in one of those London termini, I’d almost swear it was St Pancras. The City, and the city, and city …of dreams. ![]()
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