Review: 'The Player of Games' by Iain M. Banks

I've always been a big fan of science fiction: those of you that know me will attest to this. Seeing Star Wars as a kid ignited my passion for the mysterious future: the idea that someday we may able to do things that seem impossible now. Visit life on other worlds, travel across the galaxy within a lifetime, eliminate disease, or ultimately cheat death.

Banks' 'Culture' novels are set in a utopian future society, where humans symbiotically exist with like-minded robots. The society is described as being 'post-scarcity', where the need for fuel and energy is virtually arbitrary: technology has become so advanced that there is no longer a struggle for survival or resources. This brings the Culture, as it it known to its citizens, to a kind of world where expense and value become meaningless: currency does not exist, and people simply live for the purpose of living. Certainly an exciting, or terribly boring, prospect, depending on how you look at it.

The Player of Games is the second book in the Culture series, and often described as the best book to start with if one wants to dip into the series. So I was thrown into the fictional universe head-first with the introduction of the protagonist: Gurgeh Jernau, the best game-player in the Culture. Gurgeh is blackmailed into working for the Culture's secret service, and infiltrates a distant Empire, one which is completely based around a game. This game, Azad, forms the cornerstone of society. It is played so much, and has grown up with the Empire, that it is essentially a condensed form of the Empire's ethos. So much so, that the best players of the game get offered the best jobs.

What I found interesting about the book. besides the fantastic ending (the majority of the book was so-so, up until the climax), was Banks' silent mocking of his own creation, the Culture. The Empire is described by Culture denizens as barbaric, base and abhorrent. It would seem so to us as well: they rape and pillage any other societies they come across; the upper echelons of society enjoy a disgusting hedonism of horrible mixes of sexual and violent entertainment; and they are completely opposed to and offended by any other society that thinks in contrary to them. However horrendous they may seem, however, the Empire of Azad has a lot to compare with our Western civilization on Earth. We pride ourselves in being tolerant and diplomatic, yet deep down, as individuals, we are all terribly primal (think about Lord of the Flies).

The Culture is seen by the Empire as this boring, benign entity that lacks the passions of battle and crimes against nature, and in that respect I think they are right. I, for one, would loathe to be part of a sterile world where death plays no part, and events during life become ultimately useless with a lost sense of time and importance. Part of the excitement of life for a lot of people comes from recognising one's own mortality, and grinning at it, mocking. I definitely subscribe to this, at least in part.

If you don't like sci-fi, don't read this book, and if you think you might like sci-fi, don't read this book. Read 2001 or something equally as immersive. If you like sci-fi, you've probably read this book. If you like sci-fi and haven't read this book, consider it if you want a good yarn and a chance to be disgusted at yourself.

This Is Us

A fine dust blows round at my feet
and slowly circles round to meet
a crumpled paper frayed to bones
that lives its life upon the streets.

A cocky man grim leers at me
and laughs as I shift up to meet
his wrinked mug and beer-stained breath
that I scrounge my memories to delete.

A pint of piss costs less than bread.
I'll pour the liquid on my head
and dance like I don't have a job,
then pull my mate, she's just as dead.

A grand old town, its folk shut up,
its affect flowing from a cup
of grandiose haught and pride of show
that's lost in piles of junk and muck.

See all the skanks line round the wall
to bust their chops in Satan's hall.
Their lads surround a mate of theirs
to slay his corpse and bear his pall.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then puke up blood that Jesus bled.

You pass a homeless man outside
who shakes his head as you start to slide
upon the slabs that spit and sperm
choose, over dustbins, to reside.

And when you finally get home,
where covers drape your weary bones,
you'll laugh and howl about that time
some tit was dancing on his own.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then go to work, pretend you're dead.

Meh

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A coffee, laced with amphetamines,
weed-killers, crop-killers,
money, whip-crack and rape.
A bowl of cornflakes,
concocted with cardboard.
Every flake looks the same
as I ladle them in.
Spoon after spoon.
Slurp after slurp.
I brush off the drips
and I cough
and I burp.

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A quick splash shower
in a grime-ground tub.
Lukewater warm dribbles drip on my head.
I grope for the soap.
A fluorescent nightmare.
Squeezed from the arse of Mr Tesco's
chained-up, holed-up,
radioactive soap monster.
I brush off. Towel down.

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A fat man gets on the bus before me.
Coin slinks in the coin slot.
He's so fat, I don't know why.
I stare at his fatness
for a little look longer.
Read the rag.
Glance at the fat man.
Think about the receptionist.
Think about the secretary.
Get off the motor.
Revolving work doors.
Spinning. Loping. Again.

Immortal Remains

It was midnight when I left the path to visit the river below. The argentine lunar light just illuminated the rocks I walked on, enough that I could avoid nettles and patches of glistening, wet moss. A few moments later, when I had lowered myself down from a high boulder, I was level with the water. It spun rapidly past me, with the velocity of a Bedlam escapee, and tumbled across the stony bed, sending white flecks of rabid froth up to the shingle.

The beautiful, majestic Dean Bridge arced above me, sheltering me and my surroundings slightly from divine strikes. It provided us with a pitch black divide in the deep blue witching sky, allowing for a slight degree of spatial navigation in the dim light. I heard the clack and split of a trap crossing above: some late night reveller returning from a gay party, no doubt.

Birch, beech and hazel waved their boughs at me as a thin gust spiralled westward through the deep valley. I pulled my long coat tight about me and shivered – I was going to meet him again. An ancient man. He would have to travel a while from the coast, but the gentleman would be here, soon, to dispense his watery wisdom.

I let my haunches sink onto a silt-smoothed piece of basalt, and glanced to the other bank. The hill rose steeply to meet the new houses on the other side – a great, but treacherous back garden for the fortunate rich. My leather knee-highs made a satisfying crunch in the fine, moist pebble grit as I shoogled them about. Reaching for the watch at my breast, I noted that he was late.

As I thought this, there was a sudden cease in all sound. The babble of the river stopped. The playful leaves grew reverent. The cart had paused in its midnight traverse. I looked to the water, and there he rose from it: glistening with trapped moonshine. He flexed and rippled with glorious fluidity in front of me and came to set by my side, laying his trident on some weeds.

We conversed for some time, it seemed days, about numerous things: his life back at his home; the state of the New Town, his small Athens; other worlds; the movement of the heavens, other eternal happenings. Then the time came for me to ask him the question I had come to ask. To the eerie transparent avatar in front of me, the moonbeams within him refracting and reflecting, I gave my query: ‘Are you happy with it?’

He paused. He looked down – his coral crown shifted about his head. Minutes passed, but the silence remained. The water in the river was still as artisan-blown glass, remarkable in its seeming solidity. An aquatic face rose to meet mine. He gave his answer. It was lengthily vague, but I gleaned this much: it was not positive. The Enlightenment had stalled much of his work. Many Grecian projects had yet to be completed. Towers and monuments to others overshadowed his. I was given much to think about: pleasing a deity is not simple. I still had others to consult, however. The possibility of my reward was still plausible.

You're My Pride and Joy, etc

The sleeve, it fell down,
and the record did spin
and the teenager bounced to her bed once again.
The rattle of beads.
The sun through the glass.
The RPM RPM forever farce.

A ray through the clouds
to the newest of hearts.
A ray from a tower, projecting the arts.
Spiralling bliss
not made to forget.
Beautiful, bright, bold and bad pirouette.

Fornicate to me,
a thin plastic sheet,
all rattled with grooves and all laid out all neat.
The sleeve, it fell down,
and the record did spin
and the teenager bounced to her bed once again.