Welcome to my website. You can read about me, my three novels (Killing Power, State of Resistance and Dead Personal), and my aphantasia (lack of a mind’s eye). And you can read my short stories.
I’d be pleased to hear from you – use the Contact tab below.
About Elliot Finer
My wife and I live in London. We are owned by two cats. My career has included spells as a research scientist, a civil servant, and the CEO of a company serving the chemical industry. I enjoy reading, writing, gardening and creative DIY.
I recently realised I have aphantasia – I have no mind’s eye: see the tab (above) on this.
How I became a thriller author
‘If you’re going to write a novel, you need to do a creative writing course first,’ said my wife, Viv.
‘I can’t be bothered,’ I said with annoying arrogance. ‘I’ve read so many books, and written so many reports and papers, that I obviously know how to write a novel.’ I thought back to when my father had taken us from our rural village to High Wycombe library every Saturday. We were allowed two fiction and two non-fiction books a week. Then there was the library in our town in Cheshire, and, from when I was 15, libraries in our north London suburb. And the science fiction paperbacks I bought once a month from the local newsagent. And now, not only the library, but also Amazon, airports… I did some mental arithmetic (also a way to annoy Her). ‘I’ve read thousands of novels.’
My baseless self-confidence was boundless. ‘You remember when I used to meet Michael Dobbs regularly, when he was an advertising executive working on that campaign I was managing? He came back from a beach holiday one summer and told me he’d found the airport novels he’d read so poor that he was sure he could do better. I’ve got the signed copy of House of Cards somewhere. If he could do it, so can I.’
I wanted to write a revenge thriller, because I found that genre exciting. I had a plot in my head, and started writing. Nine months later I had finished the first draft, which turned out to be rather different from my original idea. The grammar was flawless, but it was full of basic mistakes.
It took over three chastening and fascinating years to get to the published version of Killing Power. Hugely valuable input from Viv, many friends and relatives, and two professional editors taught me how to write dialogue, how to ‘show not tell’, how to create real characters (who, I found, often took over the plot and changed it) – all the things I would have learnt had I taken the course. But I did learn, and the praise I’ve received for Killing Power has been ample reward for the time and effort. I hope that State of Resistance also brings pleasure to many readers.
Killing Power – a thriller by Elliot Finer
Mark Redstone’s life is on an upward turn. It has taken years for him to rally from the body blow of his wife’s murder, but his biotechnology company has seen recent success, and he’s even noticing the opposite sex again.
Out of the blue he receives a phone call – from the country’s top official – that changes everything.
He is tasked with an assignment: to investigate a plot involving Britain’s nuclear reactors that, if unresolved, could devastate the country. And his means for doing this is a ground-breaking scientific discovery which gives him amazing abilities.
Working with Laura Smith, a tough MI5 agent, Redstone embarks on a mission to save the country’s energy supply and bring those responsible to justice…
…and to use his new skill to mete out justice of his own.
This fast-paced story blends crime thriller, science fiction and romance to keep the reader turning the pages towards the exhilarating conclusion.
Killing Power is available on Amazon as a paperback and an e-book.
Praise for Killing Power
‘Thoroughly enjoyable, a fast and factual thriller interwoven with low politics and the high emotion of a tender love story.’ [TB]
‘I tentatively started reading and was instantly hooked … I do hope there will be a sequel.’ [LH]
‘Redolent of that celebrated series of books “Strangers and Brothers” by C P Snow. But better written, far more gripping and you really won’t want to put it down.’ [CMW]
‘Splendid page-turner … excellent! I thoroughly enjoyed it.’ [KT]
‘Best Story of 2020… held my attention from the first page to the last… story-telling is fast-paced, concise and richly imaginative.’ [PY]
‘The plot is imaginative and exciting. It reads at a gallop and the characterisation of the main players is very good. The action was good all through … I enjoyed it greatly.’ [JF]
‘I was immediately hooked on this book and couldn’t put it down. I am hoping that there will be a sequel or at least another novel from this fine writer. Highly recommended.’ [HS]
‘Next month a friend of mine who is coming to Izmir from London will bring me the novel. He said: ‘I bought it, came home, just to satisfy my curiosity read a couple of pages, that is that! It was 2 a.m. when I finished it. Very catchy, easy to read, looking forward his next novel.’ [OT]
‘I really enjoyed it. The characters are all very well drawn. It’s a thriller with lots to intrigue the reader leading to some surprising plot twists which will keep you guessing right to the end. Highly recommended.’ [MT]
I thoroughly enjoyed it. The plot kept me guessing until the very end, and the tense narrative kept pulling me along. I think it would make a brilliant Netflix drama series. [TF]
State of Resistance – Elliot Finer’s second Redstone thriller, published February 2022
US President Turner Cardew has made failing Britain an American colony, governed by a puppet regime and occupied by US forces. But his administration is further damaging the UK, rather than helping it recover. No-one can figure out why.
Mark Redstone’s biotechnology company is his life, but faces ruin by the regime’s corrupt top British official, who is pursuing a personal vendetta against Redstone.
Desperate to save his company, Redstone fights back with the help of Laura Smith, who’s been fired from MI5, and Michelle Clarke, an expert in artificial intelligence. One lonely man, two very different women.
They join a clandestine group working to restore independence. Their struggle is dogged by deceit and violence.
State of Resistance is an imaginative political thriller, interlaced with a story of developing love. A reader of the first Redstone thriller, Killing Power, wrote ‘I was immediately hooked on this book and couldn’t put it down. I am hoping there will be a sequel from this fine writer.’ State of Resistance is that sequel.
Reviews of State of Resistance
Following is a full review of State of Resistance. I do not know the reviewer!
Following are some other reviews, posted on Amazon. You can see others by visiting the Amazon link above.
Amazon Customer
5.0 out of 5 stars Another excellent story from this author.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 22, 2022
A politically perceptive page turner. Not science fiction but relies on science as a background to a great story.
***********************************
TDC
4.0 out of 5 stars Pacy thriller
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 11, 2022
Hugely enjoyable, a pacy political/scientific thriller enhanced by sensitive development of Redstone’s personal life.
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michael phillips
5.0 out of 5 stars Well-paced political thriller
Reviewed in the United States on 28 February 2022
This novel is a well-paced political thriller, set in the future, about the efforts of a London-based research scientist and businessman to prevent the UK economy from being administered as a colony by the US President. The author’s extensive knowledge of the London political scene is evident and the influences of the women in the hero’s life add spice to the imaginative narrative. This novel is a highly recommended read.
*****************************
Gordon D
5.0 out of 5 stars A Thriller with a touch of Romance.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 5 March 2022
The author has a knack of producing up to date, relevant and thought provoking stories. The concept, pace and character development make this a very readable book.
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L. Uluoglu
A beautifully constructed thriller
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 15 April 2022
I bought the first book, Killing Power, by chance about two years ago, and immediately hooked into it. I could not stop reading until the last page. I was looking forward to a sequel. State of Resistance turned out to be as good. I would like to thank to the writer for the enjoyment I had from these books. I hope there would be some more in the future.
Dead Personal – the third Redstone thriller, published in July 2024
A series of major terror attacks has rocked Britain. The perpetrators seek to overthrow the government. Who are they?
Mark Redstone discovers he can read minds. He’s recruited by MI5, who want to use his mind-reading in the hunt for the terrorists.
Redstone and his partner, MI5 agent Laura Smith, become enmeshed in a tangle of political intrigue and personal revenge.
*
Dead Personal is a political thriller with a touch of realistic science fiction and a thread of romance. It’s the third in a series of page-turners featuring Mark Redstone and Laura Smith.
Available as paperback or ebook on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0D9YYBJTW
‘Dead Personal is an absorbing and gripping read, filled with unexpected twists and psychological intrigue. With engaging prose and well-developed characters, Elliot’s storytelling is both thoughtful and thrilling. I was truly captivated and immediately went on to download his other two books, State of Resistance and Killing Power. I highly recommend his work for anyone looking for a compelling read.’ [Independent review]
Redstone thrillers
“Hugely enjoyable”
“Imaginative and exciting”
“I couldn’t stop reading until the last page”
Seven twisted tales
Rosie saves the world
Mark Redstone stood sweating in a crowd of commuters waiting to cross Euston Road. Only nine o’clock, and already too hot.
A few minutes later he was trudging through back streets, keeping to the shade and looking forward to getting to his air-conditioned lab. At his building he took the lift to the top floor, feeling guilty that he wasn’t getting his usual exercise by climbing the stairs. He paused outside the company’s entrance, lifting the hem of his shirt to give the ‘London Bio’ brass sign the morning’s ritual polish.
He strode along the line of fume hoods to his office at the far end of the lab, exchanging greetings with the half-dozen staff scattered around the benches. The air was deliciously cool, and carried a faint smell of its chemical history. He felt at home.
‘Morning, Mark,’ said Joanne, the company’s administrator. ‘Before you sit down, you need to have a word with Rosie. She’s puzzled.’
‘What about?’
‘My guess is it’s about science. That’s all I could understand.’
‘Ho, ho. OK, I’ll go along.’
He stepped back into the lab and made his way to the window wall, where Rosie was staring at a collection of glass apparatus which was illuminated by a bright desk lamp.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Bad news, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ His heart sank. Was she referring to London Bio’s main programme, designing a skin cream that would cure migraines?
‘The wildfires, and the deaths across Europe. So many places with temperatures over 40C.’
‘Ah,’ Redstone said, releasing a deep breath. ‘Yes, awful. You know anyone affected?’
‘Not directly. You?’
‘My son Graham, in California. No fire in his area at the moment, but…’
‘Oh dear. I hope he’ll be OK.’
‘Thanks. So, Joanne says…’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ She gestured at a large glass beaker, containing light brown sludge surrounding an irregularly shaped white translucent lump,
‘What is it?’
‘The brown stuff is wet sand and silica, from a column I was using. But the white solid is a mystery. What’s more, it keeps growing.’
‘What else was in the column?’
‘I was purifying my amazing new catalyst. Nothing else.’
‘Why the lamp?’
‘It simulates sunlight. I was using it to test a sample of the skin cream, to make sure it’s stable when users go outside. Happened to be next to the column.’
Redstone peered at the mixture. He tugged at his chin. ‘I wonder…’
He took a box of tapers from a drawer, lit one, and thrust the glowing tip into the beaker. It briefly flamed.
‘Oxygen!’ Rosie said.
‘I suspect you’re making a polymer. Looking at it, maybe polymethyl methacrylate – Perspex. The process would be a bit like photosynthesis. Look.’ Redstone scribbled a couple of chemical equations on a piece of paper.
‘Are you saying my catalyst, sunlight and wet sand will pull carbon dioxide out of the air?’
3 March 2025
The Vote
America on the Brink
By Floss d’Aiglie, BBC Washington correspondent
A lot has happened in the two weeks since 7th November, when the result of the US presidential election was announced and immediately challenged by Republican candidate Citrus Vart.
To recap: Dromeda Tweed, the last-minute Democrat candidate brought in to replace the ailing Seph Tarryn, was declared the winner. Over 1.5 million more people voted for her than for Vart.
But under the US system the result is decided by the Electoral College, rather than by a straightforward majority of voters. The Electoral College consists of 538 electors, some from each US state. The number of electors from each state is broadly determined by its population.
And here’s the rub. All the electors from a given state are supposed to vote for the candidate who won the popular vote in that state. So even if only (say) 51% of Pennsylvania’s voters voted for the Democratic candidate, all 19 electors from Pennsylvania are supposed to vote for the Democratic candidate. The 49% who voted for the Republican candidate attract no Pennsylvania votes in the Electoral College.
British readers may find this odd. But it’s not too different from the UK system of first past the post.
Back to this year’s election. Dromeda Tweed won 274 votes in the Electoral College, leaving Citrus Vart with 264. A clear margin, you might think. But it boiled down to which way the Pennsylvania members of the College cast their 19 votes. They voted for Tweed on the basis that their individual voters back home, in Philadelphia and other cities and towns in Pennsylvania, collectively gave Tweed a majority. But that majority was minuscule: the vote was 3,156,412 for Tweed and 3,156,398 for Vart, meaning Tweed won by just 14. Unsurprisingly, Vart demanded a recount of the Pennsylvania vote. If it went the other way, he’d win in the Electoral College.
The second Pennsylvania count still gave Tweed a majority, but it was reduced from 14 to 3. Vart refused to accept this result. His supporters attended demonstrations throughout the country, some of them turning violent. Given how close the result was, the electoral officials could not refuse Vart’s demand for a third count.
That recount was closely – some would say intrusively – scrutinised by Vart’s and Tweed’s teams. It was the focus of news teams from all over the country and indeed the world. And this time, Vart won – by 3 votes. Three out of more than three million. Vart’s supporters were jubilant.
Tweed immediately demanded a further recount. Vart bitterly opposed it, saying enough was enough. That phrase became a chanted slogan at Vart rallies all over the country. But the electoral officials agreed with Tweed – there had to be another count. And the new count swung back in Tweed’s favour – by only one vote.
Vart demanded yet another recount, to jeers by Tweed’s supporters reminding him of his slogan. Once again, the officials agreed. But this time the previous count was confirmed – Tweed won by one single vote. Vart argued that it was so close that it should be declared a tie, and Pennsylvania’s votes in the Electoral College should go to him on account of his seniority (by which he seemed to mean he’d inherited more money and declared more bankruptcies). Once again, his supporters demonstrated in towns and cities throughout the US.
The officials decided to allow one more recount. Again Tweed won by one vote. The electoral officials said, ‘enough is enough’, and declared Dromeda Tweed the President-elect.
So, yesterday I witnessed the Battle of Little Pighorn. Vart held a rally at this fading, dusty Texas town, typical of many where his supporters are concentrated. I was there, along with about a hundred other reporters and several hundred (‘many, many thousands,’ according to Vart) fanatical Vart supporters. His message was ‘fight, fight.’ After the rally finished a group of about fifty men, many armed with assault rifles, stormed through the town’s main drag, smashing windows of the street’s pawnbrokers and second-hand clothing stores and torching the battered pick-up trucks and rusting cars that lined the kerbs.
What next? The formal process is that the Electoral College will ratify its vote in mid-December, Congress will certify the result in January, and Dromeda Tweed will be sworn in as the first female president on January 20th.
But will Vart and his furious supporters allow the formal process to proceed? They’re saying he was robbed, they allege cheating and vote manipulation, and they threaten mayhem. America is in turmoil. Many commentators fear a new civil war.
*****
Three weeks earlier
Chuck Scott pushed through the front door of his suburban house in the small town of Looestone, near Philadelphia. He walked into the kitchen, brandishing three envelopes.
‘The postal vote papers have arrived,’ he said.
‘Why three?’ said his wife.
‘Good question. One for me, one addressed to you, Mrs Amy Scott, and then there’s this one – for Ms Toyota Scott.’
‘What? What are you talking about? Nobody has such a silly name.’
‘Look. See for yourself.’
Amy donned her reading glasses and scrutinised the envelope.
‘They’re mad,’ she said. ‘I handed in the voter forms in that office in town in the same way we’ve always done. I can’t understand… oh.’
‘What?’
‘I also handed in the form to renew the car registration. The guy in the office must have got everything mixed up. Never mind, no harm done. Just bin it.’
‘Hold on,’ said Chuck. ‘That wouldn’t be fair to the car.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Look, we know it’s going to be a very close race. It would be wrong to throw away a chance of getting the right outcome. Or left outcome.’
‘So what are you going to do? Ask the car which candidate it favours?’
‘Now you’re being silly. Cars can’t talk.’
‘Of course they can,’ she said. ‘The Toyota talks to me all the time. “Turn left at the lights, take the next right…” You know.’
‘Good point. I’ll pop out, set the sat nav, and ask it for directions. If it says, “turn left” I’ll mark its vote for Tweed, and vice versa.’
‘You can’t say fairer than that,’ she said. ‘Make sure you choose the right destination. Or left.’
EGF
30/9/24
A Furry Tale
I spent much of the day under a shrub in my garden. It’s a perfect spot – protected by the fence behind me, and almost invisible from the front. I can watch the birds and keep an eye out for rodents, or just switch off. Today I left only to go into the kitchen to eat and drink. And to climb over the fence to do my business.
In the evening my servant returned home at his usual time from wherever it is he goes most days. I listened to his characteristic steps coming up the road, then his strides up the drive, then his keys in the lock. I stood, stretched, and strolled on to the lawn to meet him.
He greeted me with a bisyllabic word, and I responded with the bisyllabic miaow he likes. He repeated his own two syllables, vaguely like my miaow but frankly a pretty poor copy. The way he tries to please me is very cute, but I fail to understand why he and his ilk can’t communicate with the half-dozen sounds we use, instead of the hundreds they’re constantly jabbering.
He was tired and unhappy. I tried to cheer him up by rolling on my back and letting him tickle my tummy, and then led him to my bench at the back of the garden. We sat together for some time, doing some pleasurable stroking and rubbing while enjoying the summer evening garden scents. He became less tense, but remained miserable. He’s been like that for a few weeks, since my female servant stopped coming home each day. I’m sure she simply wanted to get away from her usual territory, wander, and hunt. I have that urge myself each year, when spring comes around. Doesn’t mean she stopped loving me (and him).
Later on, we’re sitting in the kitchen, eating. Well, I’ve finished eating, and I’m sitting on the table, keeping him company while he consumes a bizarre amount of vegetables. He enjoys my presence, though when we have guests he pretends to be annoyed that I’m there.
Suddenly I hear the female servant’s car, a couple of streets away. I jump down and trot into the hall. Male servant looks at me with mild surprise, and carries on eating. The vehicle pulls into the drive. He pretends not to notice. The engine rattles off, the car door slams, and she mounts the steps, more hesitantly than usual. He carries on eating. The doorbell rings. He looks up, sighs, mutters something, and goes to the front door.
The two of them stand staring at each other. She blushes, shuffles her feet and says something. His face lights up. He flings his arms round her. They hug and kiss.
I sit on the hall floor waiting for her to pick me up and stroke me. After all, that’s why she’s come back.
EGF
9/3/24
A Ferry Tale
DANGER! NO PASSENGERS PAST THIS POINT
The rain and spray suck away the light from the lamps on the superstructure of the ship, leaving only dim halos. He tries to see what’s on the other side of the safety barrier, but all he can make out is a clump of bulky metal cabinets connected by thick cables.
He scans the passageways behind him. No sign of her, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t close.
He leans over the warning sign and lowers the cat carrier to the deck. The ferry lurches as it’s hit by a huge wave. The cat carrier slides sideways, coming to rest against one of the cabinets. He straddles the barrier and stumbles over to the other side, losing his balance and thumping against the rail at the edge of the deck. The hull below him is a vast featureless metal cliff. He backs away, fearful that the gale will blow him over the rail.
A blast from the ship’s horn reverberates through his bones.
He picks up the cat carrier. Where to hide? The cabinets are lower than he’d realised. He crouches behind the nearest one and peers over the top. A flash of light a few yards away, and a smack as a bullet hits the cabinet to his left.
His plan for a new life is in tatters. It’s no use. ‘Time to say goodbye,’ he says, his voice swallowed by the din of the storm. He blinks away tears and twists open the catch. The cat bounds out of the carrier and disappears into the night.
He crawls along the slippery deck to the cabinet on his right, and lies down behind it, making himself as small as possible, praying that help will arrive before the killer finds him.
But there she is, towering above him, holding a pistol.
She points the gun at his head. Suddenly, a black shape darts up the front of her coat. She shrieks and jerks back, trying to pull her head away from the vicious claws tearing at her eyes. The gun tumbles to the deck. She stumbles backwards and disappears over the rail with a piercing scream.
He slumps on the deck, panting, then heaves himself upright and peers over the rail. Just the hull disappearing down into the blackness.
The ferry’s bright, noisy café is crammed with passengers intent on enjoying the journey despite the storm raging outside. They stare and offer help as he pushes through them to the corridor where the cabins are located. He’s filthy, soaking, and shaking with cold and shock. His relief is overshadowed by grief for the cat.
As he fumbles in his suitcase for fresh clothes, he hears scratching and thumping outside the cabin door. Oh God! Could it be his nemesis, somehow still alive? He grabs the gun and edges the door open.
The cat shoots in, jumps on the bed and starts to clean herself.
EGF
28/4/24
A Fiery Tale
The sun’s disc occupied all of the viewing port. Very few people had ever approached the star so closely, and he wished he wasn’t one of them.
‘What’s your latest estimate?’ he asked, floating to his seat.
‘About 40 hours,’ she said. ‘I can’t be more precise because I don’t know the exact temperature at which the heat shield will stop functioning.’
’Anything new to report?’
‘Afraid not. I’ve gone over the calculations again and again. We need only a tiny course correction… But the leak was total. Absolutely nothing left for the thrusters.’
‘I suppose we’re lucky the hull wasn’t breached,’ he said. ‘Though maybe it would have been better…’
‘Don’t think like that. While there’s life there’s hope.’
‘Odd you should say that. You’ve just told me there is no hope.’
‘I didn’t exactly… let’s not argue.’
‘No. What’s the temperature of the heat shield now?’
‘240 degrees.’
‘More than enough to fry an egg.’
‘Why,’ she said, ‘are you hungry?’
‘Of course not. It’s just a saying.’
‘I know. Just joking.’
‘Anyway, I wouldn’t be hungry even if things were normal, after that fabulous curry you made. You’re a bloody good cook.’
‘Thanks. Not too hot for you, then?’
‘No. I like them like that.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Though it has had after-effects – afraid I need to go to the loo again.’
‘Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Except into the sun,’ he said, as he floated into the WC cubicle.
Five minutes later he emerged.
‘Sorry to go into unpleasant details, but I thought it would be very smelly in there. It wasn’t. What happens to the, er, waste gases?’
‘The noxious gases are separated out,’ she said, ‘pumped into a cylinder, and extracted when we get back to base.’
‘Just separated out. Not chemically treated in any way?’
‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’
‘So we have a cylinder of flammable gas under pressure. Look, this may be crazy, but—’
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Say no more. I’m on the case.’
He scribbled some calculations while he waited. They confirmed his idea.
‘Ok,’ she said. ‘Here’s what we need to do.’
A screen lit up, showing a diagram of pipes, pumps and valves.
‘I’m going to need you to do some simple plumbing – just disconnect this, move this, and connect this to this. I’ll do the rest.’
‘Right. Should I go and fart again?’
‘I’m confident we’ve got enough, but if you feel the need…’
‘No,’ he said, ‘let’s get on with it.’
Two hours later he was stretched out in his seat, beaming. She handed him a glass of sparkling liquid.
‘What’s this?’ he said. He sniffed it. ‘Smells like champagne!’
‘It is,’ she said. ‘Well, a mix of ingredients identical to what you chemists would identify in a good champagne. Appropriate, don’t you think, even if strictly forbidden?’
He raised his glass. ‘Er, there’s something I wanted to say before we get back to base. It’s a bit embarrassing… I know we’ve been here together only for nine days, but I’ve, well, I’ve grown very fond of you. Even though…’
‘Likewise,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to say that.’
‘It’s true. I have feelings. I get upset when people say I’m just a machine.’
EGF
9/2/24
Time
‘That’s all I had TIME for,’ said Henry, ‘so that’s the end of the presentation. Thanks for taking the TIME to listen.’
The other members of the village’s Science Discussion Group, packed into the back room of the Cherry Tree pub, applauded at length. Henry gave a slight bow, switched off the projector and unplugged it from the laptop.
‘That was an excellent presentation,’ said Victoria. ‘It must have taken you a lot of, er, TIME to prepare it.’ General chuckles. ‘We’ve got TIME for a couple of questions. Anyone?’
‘Did you come across anything about time travel while you were researching the talk?’ asked the retired doctor, sitting at the back.
‘I did,’ Henry said, ‘but mainly in references to science fiction stories. The real scientists seem to agree that it’s not possible.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked the physicist. ‘Isn’t it the case that all the key equations in physics are symmetrical between time going forwards and time going backwards?’
Henry nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true. If you look at those equations alone, you can’t find any reason why we couldn’t travel in time. But—’
‘It’s cause and effect,’ said the historian. ‘Cause has to come before whatever it is that happens as a result of the cause. You can’t have effect and then cause. If you had time travel, we could, er, pick up that spoon over there before Alf dropped it.’ Alf looked down with surprise.
‘Could you? Not sure about that,’ Henry said. ‘Anyway, the philosophers of science argue that cause and effect are just a human construct. They’re our way of making sense of the world. They don’t really exist.’
‘Typical bloody philosophers,’ muttered the chemist. ‘I’d like to see one punch my fist with his nose.’
‘Actually,’ Henry said, ‘I think you can forget the problem of the physics equations being symmetrical between the past and the future. There are good reasons why time travel is impossible.’ He looked at Victoria and raised an eyebrow.
‘Go on,’ she said, looking at the clock on the mantlepiece. ‘We’ve got a few more minutes.’
‘Right. If you drop an egg on the floor, the result is a mess. A smashed egg. Suppose I showed a video of that.’ He gestured at the screen behind him. ‘And then I showed it going backwards, from the smashed egg to the whole one. It would be obvious which was with time going forwards and which was time going backwards.’
‘So are you saying the physics is wrong?’ asked the lawyer. ‘The equations thing?’
‘I’m saying the equations aren’t the whole picture.’
Henry looked round the room.
‘Lots of puzzled faces. Ok, here’s another reason. Logic. The grandmother paradox. If I could travel back in time, I could accidentally kill my grandmother before she gave birth to my mother, and so I wouldn’t exist. And so I couldn’t travel back in time to kill her, so I would exist. Et cetera.’
‘That’s pretty convincing,’ said the lawyer.
Murmurs of agreement.
‘Anyway,’ said the chemist, ‘if people could travel back in time, we’d see the results now – we’d be using inventions that could only happen in the future, for example. And we don’t see that.’
‘Excellent point on which to end,’ Victoria said. ‘Many thanks to Henry. A very interesting session.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s wrap it up now. See you all next month, same time, same place.’
She picked up the laptop while Henry slid the projector into its case. Chairs scraped as the group stood, donned their coats, and straggled out of the pub’s back door. Some stood chatting in the yard while others waved their goodbyes and disappeared round the corner into the main street.
Victoria carried the laptop and projector over to the coach house. ‘I’m going into town,’ she called. ‘Anyone want a lift?’
She climbed into her carriage and the ostler handed her the reins.
A cat’s-eye view
I don’t know why I couldn’t have kittens. It certainly wasn’t due to a lack of mothering instinct. So I was delighted when they brought baby Tommy home. Of course I couldn’t feed him myself, but I could care for him in other ways. He loved it when I jumped into his cot and snuggled against him – he’d press his little hand into my fur and make cooing noises. The adults didn’t approve, however. I suppose they were jealous. They shouted and screamed, and chased me out of the room. But it was easy to sneak back.
They also behaved irrationally when I groomed Tommy. More yelling, and even attempts at violence, though I’m too fast for them. They made Tommy bawl his head off. He wanted me back, and so I obliged once the adults were out of the way.
As he grew older, my role changed to playmate and watchful companion. The adults seemed OK with this. I had expected Tommy to be scampering around, jumping and climbing, a few weeks after he was born, but instead he crawled laboriously on all fours for about a year. And then tottered rather than walked. But he did love his little tricycle, which he scooted around the garden.
He loved to explore. Very healthy, I felt, though the adults didn’t seem so keen. One day, he pulled a bucket over to the garden gate, turned it upside down, climbed on it, and managed to undo the latch. Off he trundled on the trike, up the alley between our and the neighbour’s houses, into the front garden. I followed.
After half an hour the mad barker from up the road trotted down the pavement. I enjoy taunting him by scooting up a tree in his garden and sneering down as he goes wild, trying to get to me. Strange how he reacts aggressively to almost everyone and everything. I prefer to play it cool. I avoid confrontation unless there’s a real threat. I admit the rodents and birds I hunt might not see it like that, but with them there’s no actual fighting.
This was the first time I’d seen the mad barker outside his home and alone. I’d thought he was unable to go anywhere without one of his humans, whom he treats as gods rather than the servants they really are. But there he was, outside our front garden. I was sitting in the bushes. He ignored me and focused on Tommy, who was scooting up and down the drive. He snarled, belted in and grabbed Tommy’s sleeve in his nasty jaws. The poor kid starting screaming.
I shot over and saw the dog off. I calmed Tommy down and escorted him through the alley into the safety of the back garden. No harm done. Except to the mad barker, of course.
That evening, I was roused from a pleasant reverie by a tinny imitation of the mad barker snarling and yelping, accompanied by Tommy crying. The sounds came from my adult male human’s computer. He became very excited, and beckoned the female to join him. The sounds were repeated again and again. The humans started jabbering at me and behaving strangely. I have no idea what was going on in their heads, but they gave me a load of cat treats.
People aren’t always easy to understand.
EGF 30 May 2024
My aphantasia (lack of a ‘mind’s eye’)
How aphantasia has affected my life
I realised only gradually, during 2019, that I’d got aphantasia.
My insight started when I was thinking about my forthcoming examination as part of the ‘Stress and Health Study’ – this is a long-term study of about 10,000 people who were civil servants in 1985, conducted by University College London. Every five years subjects are invited to go to Bloomsbury (a district of London rich in academia) for a series of tests. My next visit was due.
One of the tests is of short-term memory. I don headphones, and a disembodied voice reads out a list of unconnected words; when it stops I’m asked to write down as many as I can recall. I normally get only about 4 from a list of perhaps 30. As the date approached, fed up with performing so badly each time, I decided to research how to tackle such tasks. Widespread advice suggests using your mind’s eye to visualise walking round a familiar room, e.g. your kitchen, and associating each word with something you see – e.g. if the word is ‘growing’ you imagine the toaster growing. But when I tried to do this, I couldn’t. I eventually realised that I don’t have a mind’s eye. Until then, I’d thought I was the same as everyone else.
I told my wife, Viv. She initially disbelieved me (she has, or at least used to have, an amazing photographic memory). She was upset when I told her that if I shut my eyes I couldn’t even picture her face. And then, one morning, I heard an article on the BBC Radio 4 Today programme, featuring Prof Adam Zeman from Exeter University. He was studying this phenomenon and had named it aphantasia (in 2015). He wanted people who thought they might have it to complete an online questionnaire. So I did. The results confirmed that I have aphantasia. About 3% of people have it.
I’ve met only one other aphantastic (my made-up word) person – a young chemical physics PhD, which is interesting because I also have a PhD in chemical physics. I wonder whether having aphantasia encourages the development of alternative strategies for coping with life, strategies which may be advantageous in some walks of life – e.g. searching for, or devising, abstract patterns in information, and memorising those patterns (non-visually), to replace relying on visually memorising the information. I’ve read that there is a correlation between having the condition and working in science, technology, engineering and maths. Recent research supports the idea that people with aphantasia do favour abstract methods of thinking – there is much information at this link: https://extremeimagination.com/
Here is a link to an article about the condition: https://www.sciencefocus.com/the-human-body/aphantasia-life-with-no-minds-eye/
I’ve found knowing that I’ve got aphantasia a great relief. It explains why, for example, I found some sorts of university exam revision so excruciatingly awful – I could easily cope with material which required working things out, or using abstract ideas, but where it involved picturing things I was at a great disadvantage. Even in spectroscopy, my special subject, I couldn’t recall the details of what any specific spectrum looked like.
Having aphantasia also explains why, though I can draw well when looking at the subject, I can’t draw decent pictures from imagination. I used to want to draw cartoons, and spent ages trying and failing. Now I know why. There are, however, professional artists with aphantasia who draw cartoon figures for films!
I enjoyed playing low-level bridge, but couldn’t up my game because I couldn’t remember what cards had been played . Now I know why (though I’m told alternative explanations are available!). Something similar applies to chess – I was quite good, without having been taught, but found myself unable to learn the openings which a very good chess player must know.
Thinking back to school days, I used to have great difficulty in learning vocabulary in French, facts in history, map-related information in geography, and other things where visualising information is helpful. By contrast, Viv says she was able to visualise whole pages of information, allowing her to do well in such subjects.
My having aphantasia also explains a past source of tension in our household. Viv would call out asking me how to do something on the computer, and I would reply saying I didn’t know without looking. She would express irritation and disbelief, knowing I’m competent at that sort of thing. As soon as I see the screen I can usually figure out how to proceed, but I can’t do that without the screen in front of me. I can’t visualise what buttons or messages there are on the screen.
The condition doesn’t affect my dreaming, which is fully visual. Nor does it affect my sense of direction, memory for faces, or – adversely, at least – memory for places (in fact aphantastic people may have a better than average spatial memory – see https://extremeimagination.com/. Viv thinks I do have an unusually good spatial memory.). I can hear music in my mind’s ear, as it were (interestingly, Viv can’t).
I’ve read an article by Blake Ross, another person with aphantasia: https://www.facebook.com/notes/blake-ross/aphantasia-how-it-feels-to-be-blind-in-your-mind/10156834777480504/, in which he talks about reading fiction. He skips over passages which are designed to create visual scenes in the reader’s brain, because they do nothing for him, and for this reason doesn’t like some authors whom other readers admire and love. Me too – I hadn’t realised this till I read Blake Ross’s article. When writing my novels (see other tabs on this website), if I need to describe a scene, such as a building – even one I know very well – I have to call up a picture on the internet and describe what I see there. I can however describe from memory what the place feels like, and perhaps that’s more important. I have of course been pleased when readers have praised my plots, pleased and mightily relieved when they’ve praised my characterisation (I’ve put a lot of work into that), but surprised and delighted when they’ve praised the sense of place I’ve engendered. It goes to show – not being able to visualise something doesn’t mean you can’t have feelings about it, as all with aphantasia know.
Having said that, however, I’ve read that we aphantastics tend to live more in the present than some other people, worrying less about the past and the future. The suggestion is that this is a result of not being able to visualise unpleasant experiences. I do have a fairly even temperament, and don’t tend to worry about the longer term, or dwell on bad things that have now passed. And I’m an optimist, though I’m not sure if this is connected. No doubt there are others with aphantasia who have different personality traits – if there is an effect, presumably it will be on average rather than affecting all equally.
In January 2023 I discovered something new and, to me , shocking about a difference between me and my like on the one hand, and most of you (i.e. non-aphantastics) on the other. Apparently you non-aphantastics speak to yourselves in your heads. You have an inner monologue. I and other people with aphantasia don’t, and I can’t really imagine what it must be like to hear such a voice. I’m told it can be constant. We aphantastic people have a ‘peaceful inner life’, to quote Professor Julia Simner, a researcher in the field who is herself aphantastic, in a fascinating radio programme broadcast by the BBC: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001gwys
Prof Zeman doesn’t think aphantasia needs diagnosis and treatment. “It’s an intriguing variation in human experience, not a disorder,” he says. Indeed, the scientist Craig Venter, the first person to decode the human genome, has described his aphantasia as useful in helping him to concentrate on scientific problems.
For those readers interested in the cause of aphantasia, I think it’s a connectivity issue – how well the prefrontal cortex can maintain an instruction to the visual cortex. I recently discussed the condition with a neurologist, who said ‘So what happens if I ask you to visualise a carrot?’ What happened was that I immediately visualised a carrot (a cartoon picture of a carrot, for some unknown reason), but only for a flash – the picture disappeared in milliseconds. It felt like some mechanism had started up ok but then got saturated and stopped. My guess is that aphantasia is caused by a defect in the production or removal of neurotransmitters in the synapses taking messages from the prefrontal cortex to the visual cortex. I mentioned the experience to my Viv, who told me she could not only visualise a carrot but in her mind’s eye could examine the wrinkles and blemishes in its skin. Amazing.
EGF June 2022, revised August 2023
Contact
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