To join the Week 3 theme of Novellas in November, “Broadening My Horizons,” with Science Fiction Month (celebrating a genre I still struggle with but occasionally enjoy), I decided to pick up a short rediscovered dystopian classic. Originally published in 1977, They: A Sequence of Unease was reissued by Faber Editions last year. I had never heard of its author, Kay Dick (1915–2001), a lesbian bookseller and publisher who lived in London and Brighton and wrote seven works of fiction and three biographies.

Although I can think of a few dystopian novels that I have loved, it’s not a mode I gravitate towards. This makes me out of step with the zeitgeist, I know, because dystopian stories are only rising in popularity as current events converge with premonitory visions of the future.

The specific problem I had with They is one I’ve had with some other speculative works: vagueness. I can’t stand it when allegorical books are set in a deliberate no-place, or a made-up country (I’ve not yet succeeded in reading a J.M. Coetzee or José Saramago novel, for instance). I gave up on the Giller Prize-winning Study for Obedience when its first ten pages gave no clear sense of its geographical or temporal setting. When there’s no detail to latch onto, disorientation usually leads me to turn to another more realist book in preference.

They is, in fact, set in an ironically idyllic Britain. There are lovely descriptions of the land during different seasons: roses, sunsets, wheat fields, birdsong. This is in contrast with the disquiet permeating the narrator’s everyday life. She is part of a dispersed, itinerant creative community whose members come and go, hiding their work and doing their best to avoid the nameless enforcers who patrol the country to destroy art and quash emotion and individual endeavours. Certain artists of her acquaintance have been maimed or disappeared. For all the public enshrinement of teamwork, the normies the book portrays seem purely mean-spirited: children torture animals for kicks.

A case could be made that Dick was aiming at universality – this could happen anywhere – but the combination of imprecision and flat, declarative sentences left me cold.

“We’re all frightened. We must live with it. Russell and Jane will be here tomorrow. They got through London. I’ll be sleeping in the room opposite yours tonight. You are over-tired; it’s the strain.”

“Subscribing to current social fashions, I gave a small party, inviting all my neighbours. They all talked at the same time. No one listened to anyone else. No one laughed. Only Tim and I smiled at each other. They felt uneasy because there was no television set.”

In terms of world-building, everything is either unexplained or revealed abruptly through unsubtle dialogue. I came away with no sense of the narrator or any of the many secondary characters, who are little more than a name. Funny that the most consistent presence is that of her dog, who is never given the dignity of a name. (It’s only ever “my dog,” when a creature so important to her would surely be referred to as a friend.) While the two authors were probably poles apart ideologically, I thought I spied the ghost of Ayn Rand in the awe surrounding individual achievement.

It’s comforting to try to believe what Hurst says about the persistence of art – “We can all add to the treasure, however short the time left may be. It can’t all be destroyed. Some of it will remain for those who come after us” – but this portrait of underground artists in a parallel modern Britain failed to move me. (New purchase at sale price from Faber website) [107 pages]