Genre Fiction
![John Wyndham - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AQ6YQS.jpg)
The Midwich Cuckoos
A genre-defining tale of first contact by one of the twentieth century's most brilliant-and neglected-science fiction and horror writers, whom Stephen King called "the best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."
"In my opinion, [John] Wyndham's chef d'oeuvre . . . a graphic metaphor for the fear of unwanted pregnancies . . . I myself had a dream about a highly intelligent nonhuman baby after reading this book."-Margaret Atwood, Slate
What if the women of a sleepy English village all became simultaneously pregnant, and the children, once born, possessed supernatural-and possibly alien-powers?
A mysterious silver object appears in quiet, picture-perfect Midwich. A day later, the object is gone-and all the women in the village, they will come to learn, are now pregnant.
The resultant children of Midwich are shockingly, frighteningly other. Faced with these unfathomable and potentially unstoppable children, the question arises: What will humanity do when faced with the threat of the unknown?
"In my opinion, [John] Wyndham's chef d'oeuvre . . . a graphic metaphor for the fear of unwanted pregnancies . . . I myself had a dream about a highly intelligent nonhuman baby after reading this book."-Margaret Atwood, Slate
What if the women of a sleepy English village all became simultaneously pregnant, and the children, once born, possessed supernatural-and possibly alien-powers?
A mysterious silver object appears in quiet, picture-perfect Midwich. A day later, the object is gone-and all the women in the village, they will come to learn, are now pregnant.
The resultant children of Midwich are shockingly, frighteningly other. Faced with these unfathomable and potentially unstoppable children, the question arises: What will humanity do when faced with the threat of the unknown?
Editorial Reviews
Praise for John Wyndham
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
Readers Top Reviews
Jenny Twistjohn bust
One of my all/time favourites. Beautifully/written, great characterisation, stunningly original plot. I'd be wary of the Rosetta version, When I downloaded Day of the Triffids by this publisher it had been severely cut, I therefore downloaded the Penguin version of this book which seems to be unavailable in the US. It also had NO typos or other proof errors.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
No Entry to Midwich
One of the luckiest accidents in my wife's life is that she happened to marry a man who was born on the 26th of September. But for that, we should both of us undoubtedly have been at home in Midwich on the night of the 26th–27th, with consequences which, I have never ceased to be thankful, she was spared.
Because it was my birthday, however, and also to some extent because I had the day before received and signed a contract with an American publisher, we set off on the morning of the 26th for London, and a mild celebration. Very pleasant, too. A few satisfactory calls, lobster and Chablis at Wheeler's, Ustinov's latest extravaganza, a little supper, and so back to the hotel where Janet enjoyed the bathroom with that fascination which other people's plumbing always arouses in her.
Next morning, a leisurely departure on the way back to Midwich. A pause in Trayne, which is our nearest shopping town, for a few groceries; then on along the main road, through the village of Stouch, then the right-hand turn on to the secondary road for-But, no. Half the road is blocked by a pole from which dangles a notice, road closed, and in the gap beside it stands a policeman who holds up his hand. . . .
So I stop. The policeman advances to the offside of the car, I recognize him as a man from Trayne.
"Sorry, sir, but the road is closed."
"You mean I'll have to go round by the Oppley Road?"
"'Fraid that's closed, too, sir."
"But-"
There is the sound of a horn behind.
"'F you wouldn't mind backing off a bit to the left, sir."
Rather bewildered, I do as he asks, and past us and past him goes an army three-ton lorry with khaki-clad youths leaning over the sides.
"Revolution in Midwich?" I inquire.
"Maneuvers," he tells me. "The road's impassable."
"Not both roads surely? We live in Midwich, you know, Constable."
"I know, sir. But there's no way there just now. 'F I was you, sir, I'd go back to Trayne till we get it clear. Can't have parking here, 'cause of getting things through."
Janet opens the door on her side and picks up her shopping-bag.
"I'll walk on, and you come along when the road's clear," she tells me.
The constable hesitates. Then he lowers his voice.
"Seein' as you live there, ma'am, I'll tell you-but it's confidential like. 'T isn't no use tryin', ma'am. Nobody can't get into Midwich, an' that's a fact."
We stare at him.
"But why on earth not?" says Janet.
"That's just what they're tryin' to find out, ma'am. Now, 'f you was to go to The Eagle in Trayne, I'll see you're informed as soon as the road's clear."
Janet and I looked at one another.
"Well," she said to the constable, "it seems very queer, but if you're quite sure we can't get through . . ."
"I am that, ma'am. It's orders, too. We'll let you know, as soon as maybe."
If one wanted to make a fuss, it was no good making it with him; the man was only doing his duty, and as amiably as possible.
"Very well," I agreed. "Gayford's my name, Richard Gayford. I'll tell The Eagle to take a message for me in case I'm not there when it comes."
I backed the car further until we were on the main road, and, taking his word for it that the other Midwich road was similarly closed, turned back the way we had come. Once we were the other side of Stouch village I pulled off the road into a field gateway.
"This," I said, "has a very odd smell about it. Shall we cut across the fields, and see what's going on?"
"That policeman's manner was sort of queer, too. Let's," Janet agreed, opening her door.
What made it the more odd was that Midwich was, almost notoriously, a place where things did not happen.
Janet and I had lived there just over a year then, and found this to be almost its leading feature. Indeed, had there been posts at the entrances to the village bearing a red triangle and below them a notice:
MIDWICH DO NOT DISTURB
They would have seemed not inappropriate. And why Midwich should have been singled out in preference to any one of a thousand other villages for the curious event of the 26th of September seems likely to remain a mystery for ever.
For consider the simple ordinariness of the place.
Midwich lies roughly eight miles west-northwest of Trayne. The main road westward out of Trayne runs through the neighboring villages of Stouch and Oppley, from each of which secondary roads lead to Midwich. The village itself is therefore at the apex of a road triangle which has Oppley and Stouch at its lower corners; its only other highway being a lane which rolls in a Chestertonian fashion some five m...
No Entry to Midwich
One of the luckiest accidents in my wife's life is that she happened to marry a man who was born on the 26th of September. But for that, we should both of us undoubtedly have been at home in Midwich on the night of the 26th–27th, with consequences which, I have never ceased to be thankful, she was spared.
Because it was my birthday, however, and also to some extent because I had the day before received and signed a contract with an American publisher, we set off on the morning of the 26th for London, and a mild celebration. Very pleasant, too. A few satisfactory calls, lobster and Chablis at Wheeler's, Ustinov's latest extravaganza, a little supper, and so back to the hotel where Janet enjoyed the bathroom with that fascination which other people's plumbing always arouses in her.
Next morning, a leisurely departure on the way back to Midwich. A pause in Trayne, which is our nearest shopping town, for a few groceries; then on along the main road, through the village of Stouch, then the right-hand turn on to the secondary road for-But, no. Half the road is blocked by a pole from which dangles a notice, road closed, and in the gap beside it stands a policeman who holds up his hand. . . .
So I stop. The policeman advances to the offside of the car, I recognize him as a man from Trayne.
"Sorry, sir, but the road is closed."
"You mean I'll have to go round by the Oppley Road?"
"'Fraid that's closed, too, sir."
"But-"
There is the sound of a horn behind.
"'F you wouldn't mind backing off a bit to the left, sir."
Rather bewildered, I do as he asks, and past us and past him goes an army three-ton lorry with khaki-clad youths leaning over the sides.
"Revolution in Midwich?" I inquire.
"Maneuvers," he tells me. "The road's impassable."
"Not both roads surely? We live in Midwich, you know, Constable."
"I know, sir. But there's no way there just now. 'F I was you, sir, I'd go back to Trayne till we get it clear. Can't have parking here, 'cause of getting things through."
Janet opens the door on her side and picks up her shopping-bag.
"I'll walk on, and you come along when the road's clear," she tells me.
The constable hesitates. Then he lowers his voice.
"Seein' as you live there, ma'am, I'll tell you-but it's confidential like. 'T isn't no use tryin', ma'am. Nobody can't get into Midwich, an' that's a fact."
We stare at him.
"But why on earth not?" says Janet.
"That's just what they're tryin' to find out, ma'am. Now, 'f you was to go to The Eagle in Trayne, I'll see you're informed as soon as the road's clear."
Janet and I looked at one another.
"Well," she said to the constable, "it seems very queer, but if you're quite sure we can't get through . . ."
"I am that, ma'am. It's orders, too. We'll let you know, as soon as maybe."
If one wanted to make a fuss, it was no good making it with him; the man was only doing his duty, and as amiably as possible.
"Very well," I agreed. "Gayford's my name, Richard Gayford. I'll tell The Eagle to take a message for me in case I'm not there when it comes."
I backed the car further until we were on the main road, and, taking his word for it that the other Midwich road was similarly closed, turned back the way we had come. Once we were the other side of Stouch village I pulled off the road into a field gateway.
"This," I said, "has a very odd smell about it. Shall we cut across the fields, and see what's going on?"
"That policeman's manner was sort of queer, too. Let's," Janet agreed, opening her door.
What made it the more odd was that Midwich was, almost notoriously, a place where things did not happen.
Janet and I had lived there just over a year then, and found this to be almost its leading feature. Indeed, had there been posts at the entrances to the village bearing a red triangle and below them a notice:
MIDWICH DO NOT DISTURB
They would have seemed not inappropriate. And why Midwich should have been singled out in preference to any one of a thousand other villages for the curious event of the 26th of September seems likely to remain a mystery for ever.
For consider the simple ordinariness of the place.
Midwich lies roughly eight miles west-northwest of Trayne. The main road westward out of Trayne runs through the neighboring villages of Stouch and Oppley, from each of which secondary roads lead to Midwich. The village itself is therefore at the apex of a road triangle which has Oppley and Stouch at its lower corners; its only other highway being a lane which rolls in a Chestertonian fashion some five m...
