There's a strange quality to these stories. They have all the sturdiness of well-made Victorian pieces, yet they are dealing with modern life in a knowing and often very effective, not to say
affecting, way. Told often in very matter of fact styles, they contain an elegaic love for the best of the world and its people, while never ignoring the harsh realities of urban life. These are city stories by a confirmed urbanite. For a writer who started his career as a sort of souped-up Tolkien, this is refreshing, engaged and original in ways that are never flashy, always substantial and always full of the same affection for the marginalised and forgotten dwellers in the city's
sidestreets and quiet, unknown places where not only the old city survives -- but her old virtues. If you loved Mother London, as I did, and found King of the City a bit intense, you will be very glad to read and enjoy this book. It also contains a very informative essay at the end on all kinds of London writers who don't get mentioned by Peter Ackroyd in his biography -- which would make a splendid companion to this. Both Moorcock, Ackroyd and Sinclair celebrate the city which most people only get a hint of. Their habits of walking, talking and actually living in their city, observing its details, have some of the same application which made the romantic PreRaphaelites return to detailed reality. This is romantic, at root, but it has an underlying quality of common sense and common humanity which makes us fall in love with this generous, furious,
great-hearted English writer.