The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock review – monks and molls in London’s secret heart

A mashup of fiction and memoir recounts how Moorcock was torn between his suburban life and Alsacia, an inner-city realm which exists outside time and space

Michael Moorcock never saw a boundary he didn’t want to cross, blur or dispense with altogether. So it stands to reason that, having played around with notions of time, space and genre, he should do the same with reality and fiction. The reality in The Whispering Swarm is the life and career of one Michael Moorcock, writer, guitarist, Londoner and working-class hero, plus the magnificent city in which he grew up. The fictional elements of the book are, confusingly enough, about exactly the same subjects. It’s fitting indeed that Michael Moorcock should become his own unreliable narrator.

Moorcock’s first memories are of the Blitz and a childhood spent in the tangle of streets that mark the border between the City and the West End. Few children, he writes, could have enjoyed growing up as much as he did. From the printing presses around Fleet Street to the coffee bars of 1950s Soho, young Michael received an eclectic education on the streets that saw him become, by the age of 16, a published author, aspiring skiffle musician and editor of Tarzan Adventures magazine. And this, as they say, is where the story really starts.

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