London is a city of ruins and rubble: in fighting against a police state Britain has become almost a police state itself. Rationing is still in place, the black market is thriving, medical shortages have resulted in antibiotics being watered down. Though Britain was possessed of great decency there was a limit to what it might be expected to bear after suffering six years of war. The barbarities of war had changed peoples’ attitudes; nobody thought of foreigners in terms of human beings.

The Metal Mountain

Lulled by a series of swift and sure dissolves, in an apparently orthodox romance of Irish immigrant life in post-war London, we are seduced by an immersive poetic, when John Healy conjures his magical transformation around the sensory overload of a women’s laundry. The skies darken. An urgent, brutal and ultimately tragic resolution is waiting in the railside scrapyard of The Metal Mountain. This glittering alp of damage, an unsorted mound heaped from the discarded toys of capitalism, is as potent a symbol for our contemporary confusions as the dust heaps of Dickens. Nature is avenged and Healy has given us a brave sequel, as genuine fiction now, to The Grass Arena. — Iain Sinclair.

New release available in store and online.

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