1. Two books I got halfway through before deciding to quit, V.E. Schwab’s A Darker Shade of Magic, and James Hawes’ The Shortest History of Germany. Both are covered with mainstream media praise, e.g.  “Marvellous” (Publishers Weekly), “Smart, Funny and Sexy” (Independent) for Schwab’s, and “Sweeping and confident” (Observer) and “Authoritative” (New European) and “A must-read” (Economist) for Hawes’. Both books were gifts, and I found both depressingly mediocre and unauthentic.

I knew Hawes from a similarly disappointing book of his, Rancid Aluminium, which was likewise touted as “a laugh outloud rollercoaster, best novel in 30 years, I couldn’t stop laughing, comic genius” etc etc., but which I found mildly readable and utterly unamusing, 20 years ago.

The Shortest History of Germany is okay enough but reads like a contractual obligation with little in the way of historical understanding or even interest. When I gave up (p 136 out of 226) it had become steadily more & more Progressive, with frequent huffings about anti-semitism and Prussian militarism, and I got the feeling this would be the “theme” of the remaining half, with everything tied to the Holocaust and no doubt he would triumphantly conclude that this is why we need all European nations – indeed all nations- to be dissolved into a totalitarian stucture called the European Union or the World Union, ruled over by a few Rothschild bankers. I could be wrong but don’t care – even if Hawes somehow veered from Cabal talking points I doubt it would be interesting enough to justify another three hours. Some people are just inherently tedious, no matter their opinions.

A Darker Shade of Magic is similarly mediocre. It’s by no means bad, it just feels like a 20-year-old English Lit student wrote it over the summer hols. It’s standard Fantasy but very Young Adulty, specifically female Young Adulty. It reads like a very young woman’s idea of the adult world with a wishy-washily romantic, tea-stained adventure story and very stock characters. I get the feeling it was rewritten by an editor, or Schwab was at least partially aware of her inadequacies and then tried to inflate and colour certain aspects of the book. The result is an implausible, juvenile Fantasy world, flat characters, with occasional and incongruous brutality and attempts at “depth”. For all that it’s set in a kind of London, it feels very much like a young American woman’s idea of Europe, with quaint ye olde taverns run by gruff barmen (with hearts of gold), dashing young lady thieves (with hearts of gold) who live on their wits stealing from everyone, etc. etc. etc.

2. When I read Rancid Aluminium, about 20 years ago, I wondered if I just lacked a sense of humour since I didn’t so much as smile, let alone “laugh outloud every page” as per the mainstream media blurbs. My feeling now is that Hawes and Schwab are both Cabal-approved little writerlettes or Schreiberlings if you prefer, and anything they produce will be immediately published, lauded by other Cabal puppets, and pushed in the bookstores and online. Hawes’ first, mediocre, book was published when he was 36, Schwab when she was 26. Here’s a picture of Schwab.

It is virtually impossible for a 26-year-old “out of nowhere” to begin a successful publishing career. You need personal connections, and to pass the globohomo sniff test: to be in favour of open borders, mass migration from the 3rd World, socialism, and of course a supranational totalitarian government fronted by men like Guy Verhofstadt, with dollops of censorship and jail time for anyone who disagrees (“Nazis”). What you don’t need are good ideas or writing craft or hard work, as we see with both Hawes and Schwab.

3. Years ago, I rarely gave up on books. Even a bad book has something of value. But I’ve come to recognise the globohomo and, as one would expect, it tends to homogeneity of perspective & expression. Those who serve the globohomo and its vision of a flattened, manageable world are, appropriately, those without much in the way of individuality – for all their cultivated eccentricities, their sexual perversions and dyed hair and drug/drink habits, their zany & quirky & Wes-Anderson-esque whimsy, they possess no deep individuality or privacy. They are tedious people. Their opinions are tedious, and not even theirs, merely a school-of-fish response to the latest Guardian and BBC talking points. And, naturally, their books are hailed as “marvellous”, “dark and gorgeous”, “must-read”s, “sensational”, “book of the year”, “essential” and so on and so on.