I write science fiction. My novels are Reckless Sleep, Dark Heavens, Icarus (all published by Gollancz), and my latest is The Rig (published by Titan, 8 May 2018)
"A superbly confident work by a new novelist" (SF Site)
"A fast moving, streetwise, intensely paranoid SF thriller" (David Langford)
"The plot twists and turns. . . the atmosphere inside the ‘game’ and back in London is genuinely menacing" (Concatenation)
"A tightly plotted page-turner, well up to the standard of its predecessor and and once again combining state-of-the-art sleuthing with a convincing picture of a high-tech society slipping into chaos" (Tribune)
"Dark and gripping, challenging and suspenseful, this fine novel is a worthy followup to Levy's impressive debut, and should help establish him as one of the more original voices in British SF" (SF Site)
"As strong a sf voice as any writing in Britain today" (Vector)
"An impressively solid, hyper real novel about greed, corruption and violence, and surviving the near impossible" (SFX)
"A good, propulsive tale. . . and is at times really sadistic (Levy is a dentist)" (The Telegraph)
"Roger Levy's ability as a world builder was apparent in his previous novels, and it's on display in this one as well" (SF Site)
"An 'sf writer's sf writer' … unafraid to demonstrate his command of the genre's architecture" (Vector)
Icarus was shortlisted for BSFA Best Novel 2006.
A small true story
I first saw the Spanish edition of Reckless Sleep some time after its publication, when I was in a bookshop in Spain. There was an author photo inside the front flap, except that it didn't seem like me at all. I tried to work out when it could have been taken, because of course it had to be me. It took me a second or two to accept that it really wasn't a photo of me.
Someone had, I assumed, found a photo of a Roger Levy online and used that. I sometimes wonder if that Roger Levy ever came across a copy of the book, picked it up, thought, 'Hey, how weird, some other guy with the same name as me wrote a book,' and opened it and found a photo of himself. Would he, for a fraction of a moment, have wondered if he actually might have written it, just as I, for that moment, had tried to persuade myself that his photo was of me?
And Reckless Sleep (as much of my work) is concerned with reality and truth. Do we believe our own eyes? Can we trust our memories?
A curious extra is that I later told this story to a friend, an academic and writer. He replied that he'd once been at a conference about identity, and the speaker, a man called XX, mentioned that he was often mistaken for a writer of the same name, whereupon a man stood up in the audience and said, 'I am XX.'