Next is Nova Swing by M John Harrison. What a dreadful novel. Really. The prose is turgid and purple, the plot is a mess, the dialogue sounds as though it came off the back of a cornflakes packet.
Nova Swing is the real thing. It's an honest-to-god marvel. I am a huge fan of Harrison's work, all the way back to before I went to university and I devoured The Pastel City in a single sitting, the lovely A Storm Of Wings and then The Centauri Device. And then the Viriconium stories, which I thought were among the strangest and most wonderful things I'd ever read.
After that, apart from some short stories - of which `The New Rays' is unforgettable - I kind of lost track of Harrison until a few years ago when he published The Course Of The Heart, and not long after that Signs Of Life. I keep saying that Chris Priest's The Prestige is one of the best books written in English in the past fifty years, and I think The Course Of The Heart is another. It's an astonishing thing, really astonishing.
A couple of years ago, Harrison `returned' to science fiction (although he'd never really been away) with Light, which knocked my socks off and of which Nova Swing is a kind-of sequel.
As ever, Harrison's writing is completely beyond reproach. His prose is like no one else's. His dialogue is the best in the business. He manages to invest the most mundane things with strangeness, and vice versa - John Grant does that in The World, another book you should read - and he does some of the best names I've seen. Nova Swing has a sort-of-hero named Vic Serotonin and is set on a world named Saudade, in a city which has a lot in common with Viriconium.
My one quibble with it is that anyone who hasn't read Light - which itself came at you from kind of an oblique angle - will have a lot of trouble understanding this book. I've read Light and I have no idea what Nova Swing is `about.' I suspect I'm going to have to read it again a couple of times before it makes sense. I suspect I'm going to enjoy doing that.