![]() Which brings me to the collected edition of Von Bek, which I had the pleasure of reading just recently. One doesn’t so much read Moorcock’s books as travel through his world.Īnd every now and then you find yourself unexpectedly disconcerted. We can disagree about the actual quality of much of his early work, or indeed about whether some of his more self-consciously literary output isn’t just pretentious bibble-bobble ( The Condition of Muzak and Entropy Tango, I’m looking at you), but what’s certain is that this is a huge body of work. Moorcock’s workrate, when you put it like that, is impressive enough, but it’s only when you look at the ‘by the same author’ list at the front of a recent edition of one of his books and see the immense number of works recorded there that it really strikes home that this man is a cottage industry as much as a literary figure. ![]() Even taking weekends off (or possibly using them to edit New Worlds or hang out with Hawkwind) that translates into three modestly-sized novels every fortnight. ![]() ![]() ![]() There’s an old story about about Michael Moorcock, which I may have said before – as a young writer, he decided that he could routinely produce 15,000 words a day without it causing him undue strain. ![]()
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