I was blown away when novelist and Twitterer Scarlett Thomas invited me to Islington for the launch of this, her new novel, and then, after citing the obligations of parenthood, to send me a free copy of the book. And all for simply being aware of William Gibson! I knew science fiction wasn't a waste of time. So of course I'm trepidatious about appearing ungrateful, or of hurting her no doubt battle-hardened but nonetheless ever present feelings when I say I'm not sure I understand this novel.
To perform a customary synopsis, we begin with the death of Great Aunt Oleander, owner of the Namaste House retreat and matriarch of a rangy spread of Gardeners (capital G to indicate proper noun) who, whimsically, are also botanists. The news is greeted by family friend and Oleander's protege Fleur, gently supping an opiate-spiked tea, with in retrospect the amusing salute, "Oleander is dead. Long live Oleander."
From this tangles the off-shoots of familial introductio…
To perform a customary synopsis, we begin with the death of Great Aunt Oleander, owner of the Namaste House retreat and matriarch of a rangy spread of Gardeners (capital G to indicate proper noun) who, whimsically, are also botanists. The news is greeted by family friend and Oleander's protege Fleur, gently supping an opiate-spiked tea, with in retrospect the amusing salute, "Oleander is dead. Long live Oleander."
From this tangles the off-shoots of familial introductio…