BOOKS IN REVIEW
Unreal Rhetoric
Christine Brooke-Rose. A Rhetoric of the Unreal: Studies in Narrative and Structure,
Especially of the Fantastic. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1981.
446p. $57.50
The author of this enormously expensive volume is a critic and novelist whose
earlier work on Ezra Pound offered a number of valuable insights into that sometimes
intransigent poet. For the past several years, she has been publishing in various
theoretical journals the essays that make up the bulk of the present volume, which focuses
on the various codes and mechanisms of realistic and fantastic narratives and how they
interact. The book contains a useful discussion of the methodology of genre studies, some
extended and insightful discussions of Henry James's The Turn of the Screw, less
enlightening discussions of Tolkien and two SF works (by Joseph McElroy and Kurt Vonnegut,
Jr), and a provocative concluding section on Robbe-Grillet, Sukenick, and other modern
"metafictionists." It also contains hundreds of sentences like the following,
which alludes to Rip Van Winkle:
But in the case of the ambiguity that must remain unresolved in the pure fantastic,
this dialogical metatext is clearly generated by the underlying balance of the
over-determined and under-determined unresolved enigmas, whereas the marvellous
(supernatural accepted, as in Rip), in which this particular ambiguity does not
exist, will contain only a minor (and over-determined) hermeneutic code, which can
generate only a monological and minor metatext, although the underdetermined other codes,
often symbolic, can generate other metatexts. (p. 123)
This is not an especially bad example, chosen for effect; it is rather a taste of what
the reader is up against for more than 400 pages, and at the cost of a fine pair of
trousers. Brooke-Rose seems to be an adherent of the Boolean algebra school of criticism,
which seeks to reduce literary discourse to a series of manipulable propositions, but her
verbal instincts invariably get the best of her, with resulting prose that sometimes reads
like whole computer programs stuffed into single complex sentences. At worst, this results
in sentences like the one above or in incomprehensible notations, such as a diagrammatic
discussion of the above-mentioned Rip Van Winkle which soon careens into a manic
counting of "s.t.s.p." 's versus "s.t.c."'s ("suggestion of time
supernaturally passed" vs. "specific time codes"). Order in this maze is
nominally imposed by the kind of decimal numbering so appealing to quasi-scientific
critics, but even this soon yields sections with numbers like "2.2.1.2.1.,"
which gave me, at least, a chilling feeling that I might never find my way out again.
What is most puzzling is that in the midst of all this occur occasional flashes of real
wit and disarming commonsense which suggest that Brooke-Rose can be a skilled writer. It
is equally frustrating to find many good ideas embedded in such poured-concrete prose.
Brooke-Rose brings to bear upon fantastic literature a number of critical methods that
deserve wider attention--not only those of Barthes and Todorov, but also the system of
procedures in realistic fiction described by Philippe Hamon and the dialogue of metaphoric
and metonymic modes suggested by David Lodge. As a guide to such methodologies, the book
is of value to anyone seeking new ways of discussing the fantastic, although Brooke-Rose's
specific applications are sometimes questionable, especially as applied to a genre of
fiction with which she seems to have limited familiarity. When she classifies Le Guin
along with Tolkien as the "pure marvellous," for example, one can only conclude
that she has read little beyond the Earthsea books. Samuel R. Delany is
repeatedly called "Delaney," and his novel invariably called Dahlgren.
Brooke-Rose's strongest chapters are those that deal with Henry James and with
post-modernist fiction. Her discussion of Tolkien, which sets out to demonstrate how
techniques of realism may be used to support the purely marvelous, makes an extensive case
for why The Lord of the Rings shouldn't work without once addressing the fact
that, for many readers, it does. Her discussion of SF rather idiosyncratically treats
Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan and Joseph McElroy's Plus as
representative of "the new science fiction," with little reference to the
pulpish satire of the former or the fact that the latter really bears closer relations
with post-modernist fiction than with the genre at large. The work of Philip K. Dick might
more adequately support her points about the confusion of referential codes in SF, but she
seems familiar only with The Man in the High Castle, which gets a passing
mention.
It is clear that Brooke-Rose has a great deal to say, and her bibliography is
wide-ranging and eclectic enough to be of considerable value in its own right. Her
discussions of Todorov, Hamon, and others are stimulating and insightful, but the very
wealth of theoretical machinery she brings to bear often overwhelms the fictional texts
she chooses to discuss. Henry James can survive this sort of processing rather well,
Tolkien less so, and most popular genres of fiction not at all. As with Todorov, it often
seems the theoretical construct at hand permits an artificially narrow range of texts; the
texts in fact become tools of the tools ostensibly developed to elucidate them. The
territory Brooke-Rose has begun to explore is worth exploring, and some of the maps she
has given us are useful, but not all critics will want to spend much time there.
--Gary K. Wolfe
Elements of the
Gothic
David Punter. The
Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the
Present Day. London & NY: Longman, 1980. 449p. S14.95
More appropriately, the subtitle of The Literature of Terror should be "A
Marxist Reading of the Gothic." Although David Punter states in the Preface that this
is the approach he is taking, he does not again overtly allude to it until the final
chapter, when he interprets elements of the Gothic he discussed in the previous
"history" chapters. By analyzing formal and social aspects of "Gothic
Fictions," he thus works up to the thesis of the Gothic as a genre addressing
important issues, not just one interested in creating spine-tingling terror: therein lies
his contribution to studies of the Gothic.
This history includes discussions, albeit short, of poems and films in addition to
those of novels and short stories, the main vehicles for the Gothic. The poetry section
includes only the Graveyard Poets of the 1700s (Edward Young, Robert Blair, James Hervey,
and Thomas Gray, for example) and the Romantics. If Punter believes that elements of the
Gothic disappear after Keats, he should have so noted, instead of leaving us wondering
about the fate of the Gothic in poetry in the rest of the 19th and in the 20th centuries.
Although this history, like previous ones, is limited to Gothic works in English (and
implicitly only those in England and America), it does include an interesting discussion
of the influence of German writers during the Romantic period and that of the early
Russian and German film makers. The Literature of Terror, on the other hand, is
more expansive than its predecessors (e.g., Summers's The Gothic Quest and
Birkhead's The Tale of Terror) in including works written after the
Romantic period, the traditional cut-off date for histories of the genre. "An
introduction to Gothic fictions for the student and for the interested general
reader," Punter's book is scholarly in its approach in terms of documentation and
tone. It includes a comprehensive bibliography of primary and secondary sources. Although
it is generally quite readable, one tires at times of the numerous lengthy quotations from
primary sources, offered in an attempt, I suspect, to give the reader a feel for the
Gothic. Whereas one can justify plot summaries of the mostly unknown works which form the
bulk of Punter's discussion, one cannot as easily defend such excessive use of quotations.
Framed by chapters on review of research and a theory of the Gothic, The Literature
of Terror devotes 12 chapters to literature and one to film. Although Punter is
generous in his treatment of lesser-known writers of the Gothic, he also includes the
Gothic works of major writers such as Dickens, James, Hawthorne, and Poe, though he is by
no means exhaustive, especially in his discussion of the latter two. Punter also
re-evaluates the works of underrated writers of the Gothic like Arthur Machen--a proper
and necessary task of literary historians. In the chapter on Ann Radcliffe and Matthew
Lewis, the author explores how their novels question the reliability of the characters'
perceptions and the reader's role vis-à-vis the characters and the narrator,
recurrent themes of the Gothic novels. Punter makes sense of the great variety of works
that may be considered Gothic by organizing the survey chronologically and within that
chronology, thematically and structurally: like the skillful historian, he makes the order
he has imposed on that body of information coherent and intelligible.
From a theoretical standpoint, the most interesting chapter is the last one,
"Towards a Theory of the Gothic." Punter defines the Gothic as (1) in some way
reflecting paranoia, (2) having "intimately to do with the notion of the
barbaric" (pp. 404-05), and (3) approaching "areas of socio-psychological
life" which we often consider taboo (p. 405). We should note the absence here of the
usual elements associated with the Gothic (cf. the definition of the Gothic novel in A Handbook
to Literature by Thrall, Hibbard, and Holman: "A form of NOVEL in which magic,
mystery, and chivalry are the chief characteristics"). Although Punter does not
ignore those traditional elements associated with the Gothic, he is obviously more
interested in analyzing how those elements work within social and psychological contexts.
Not concerned with sensationalism for its own sake, the Gothic writer, according to
Punter, finds himself writing "between two structural poles"; rejecting
realism's account of the world, he resorts to establishing the validity of his writing
"within the text itself" (p. 408). This reflexivity intensifies the main
characters' alienation from society in general and from fellow human beings. If one is to
assign any value to the Gothic, it lies in this tension. Thus the Gothic novel is not to
be considered an inferior version of the realistic novel because the aim of each is
different: the "Gothic defines itself on the borderline" or "'middle
ground' of bourgeois culture" (p. 417). The alienated man of 19th and 20th-century
society can make sense of his existence only in the world depicted in these novels.
Punter, then, does for the Gothic what other Marxist critics have done for the literature
of the past 200 years; his argument is very persuasive and forces us to re-examine the
Gothic in a more serious, thoughtful manner than hitherto. I am not sure, however, that a
Marxist reading of Gothic fictions gives us the whole picture, whatever that may
be.
Like SF, the Gothic has always been outside the mainstream of traditional literature;
both reject "realism" as a valid way to examine "la condition humaine."
The Literature of Terror should be of interest to SFS readers also because Punter
discusses the Gothic elements of some works of SF, such as Wells's The Island of
Doctor Moreau and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, along with some horror movies
of the 1950s and 1960s. Overall, his study is a thorough, engaging history of a minor
genre.
--Gisela Casines
Precarious Bridges
George E. Slusser, George R. Guffey, and Mark Rose, eds.
Bridges to Science Fiction. Carbondale
& Edwardsville: Southern Illinois UP, 1980. viii+168p. $9.95.
Stanislaw Lem once pointed out how readers and writers of SF mimicked the "real
world" of social acceptance and scientific inquiry by holding conventions and
publishing fanzines, preaching in effect to the already converted. While I have some
reservations as to how "real" the world of any kind of conventions may be taken
to be, I can't help thinking that academics involved in SF study are subject to the same
charge. We gather together in mock solemnity at special sessions of the Modern Language
Association and the Popular Culture Association, have our own Science Fiction Research
Association, and otherwise engage in at least two annual academic get-togethers, in Boca
Raton, Florida, and Riverside, California, both of them in the dead of winter. We also
produce "academic fanzines" like the one you are reading, and such special
issues as Bridges to Science Fiction, to give permanent body to the thoughts we
have expressed, some of which might better have remained fugitive.
The University of California began its annual Eaton Conferences in 1979, the organizers
hoping it would demonstrate that academic respectability for the study of SF had already
been achieved. Alternating SF with fantasy, literature with film, this relatively small
conference (attendance: 50-100) includes at least one prominent critic and one well-known
fantasy/SF writer annually. Publication of the proceedings, or at least selected papers,
is regularly anticipated, with the result that academic prose and academic analysis are
preferred in the papers, sometimes over whether they actually have anything to say about
SF or fantasy.
The present volume includes most of the essays from the First Eaton Conference, the aim
of which was in part, as the introduction declares, to "provide intellectual bridges
linking science fiction to the main body of Western thought." Whether this aim was
accomplished is open to question, as is the blurb's further claim that the papers
contained "dispel forever the concept of science fiction as an alien aloof island
isolated in a world of culture." What we do have before us are some attempts to show
the relevance of SF to philosophy, science, religious experience, and such literary forms
as fairy tale, epic, Gothic, and historical fiction. Half the time, however, the authors
are more involved in emphasizing what SF is not, and some of them seem to have rather
rudimentary ideas about what it is.
The most misguided effort is the contribution by critical guest of honor and keynoter,
Harry Levin. A distinguished scholar and critic with admittedly little knowledge of SF, he
rambles on about ways in which science and literature have been related over the centuries
in Western literature. In a seemingly endless catalogue of names and dates, he
misidentifies "light-years" as a measurement of time and suggests
indiscriminately that every work of fiction is an "extraordinary voyage," while
providing at best a vague context for what is to follow.
As if given leave by Levin, Kent Kraft then discusses Classical and Medieval fables set
off-planet, relating them to SF through the 20th-century fantasies of David Lindsay and
C.S. Lewis. Citing Darko Suvin's "cognitive estrangement," he shows the term's
uselessness for making discriminations if it can apply effectively to Plato, Cicero,
Martianus Capella, Chalcidius, and Bernardus Silvestris.
Science in SF occupies Stephen Potts and Gregory Benford. Potts's discussion of Lem's Solaris
argues that it presents an insoluble challenge to the positive assumptions of
science. Nominally concerned with "the alien" in SF, Benford dismisses out of
hand whole categories of SF aliens as all too knowable. In response to the successful
evocation of the "unknowable" in Lem and Clarke, however, he points to modern
physics and his own SF writing. Both he claims are more intuitionist than positivist,
making room for the new (unknown but not unknowable) by expanding our categories of
thought.
Four pieces consider aspects of fantasy in SF, suggesting formal affinities as well.
Robert Hunt discusses works by Ian Watson, Philip K. Dick, and Robert Silverberg as
illustrations of the appropriate use of SF to depict visionary states and religious
experience. Eric S. Rabkin laboriously parallels elements in fairy tales and SF stories,
seeking to establish a "clear line of descent." Patrick Parrinder finds
similarities to epic poetry in those stories of man's confident expansion into the galaxy
which characterized much SF of the first half of this century, but he sees the epic as
incomplete or "truncated," and more akin to prophecy than to historiography,
with which it is often aligned (as "future history"). Thomas Keeling contrasts
SF with the Gothic romance: though they share displacement, they differ significantly in
terms of their use of demonic possession, pandeterminism, moral perspective, environment,
and modern science.
Using the works of Dick as a wedge, Carl Malmgren discourses on the nature of SF
worlds, in a topological exercise that substitutes "actants" for characters,
"topoi" for settings, showing both of them and natural laws as key variables for
setting up such worlds. In another exercise in semantics, Thomas Hanzo circles in Jungian
style around the theme of the future as past, an inevitable reversion to historical and
psychological antecedents. SF differs from historical fiction, however, in that futurity
is connected to us dynamically, posterity simply valued for its otherness.
If fox-hunting is "the unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible," much of SF
criticism may be characterized as little more than "the unintelligible in pursuit of
the indefensible." It is hardly surprising if SF, or any other kind of contemporary
fiction, exhibits elements of fairy tale, epic, Gothic, historical fiction, or visionary
states, or that it differs from each of those in various ways. Far from reaching "the
main body of Western thought," these bridges provide connections between islands
which may themselves be as imaginary as the worlds connected by Wagner's "rainbow
bridge" in Der Ring des Nibelungen. At best, they provide some intellectual
stimulation, which I believe the Eaton Conference does better than most other assemblages
of SF scholars. But the book speaks mainly to scholars, as a stirring of materials already
familiar or of dubious relevance.
--David N. Samuelson
Asimov Summarily Considered
Jean Fiedler and Jim Mele. Isaac Asimov. NY: Frederick Ungar, 1982.
122p. $5.95 paper
The first sentence of the preface to this book expresses the authors' "desire to
give a coherent account of Asimov's development as a writer of Science Fiction." In
the short space of 122 large-print pages, Fiedler and Mele pack biographical information,
details about publication and public response, plot summary, and critical interpretation,
all supposedly designed to bring out some sort of "sense of development." But
while there is a sense of chronology here (the book begins with early Asimov and ends with
late), there is little sense of development. The reader comes away with no clear
understanding of how Asimov's fiction has changed over the years.
Given their limitations of space and the sheer bulk of Asimov's work, the authors
should have more narrowly focused their study. They might have examined, for example, the
development of plot or style or characterization or theme, or perhaps they might have
traced Asimov's changing attitudes toward his work or the way the public and his editors
helped shape his changing fiction. Instead, they try to touch upon all of these,
and more, and the result is a lack of detailed analysis and a progression which is
frequently tedious. Take the story "Nightfall," for example, one of Asimov's
most widely read and acclaimed tales. There is a two-and-a-half page discussion of the
story, yet out of 11 paragraphs, eight and a half are devoted to plot summary and to
describing the story's reception, and only two and a half paragraphs to any sort of
interpretation or discussion of how the tale fits in with his overall development.
Critical interpretation is limited to a suggestion that Asimov "exploit[s] the least
obvious implications" of his quotation from Emerson and to the comment that the
story's "strength and power... lie in Asimov's imaginative conception of how human
beings would react to the revelation of the Universe's vast proportion and their own
world's insignificance...." (p. 10). In a developmental context, Fiedler and Mele
suggest that in "Nightfall," Asimov, for the first time, "began to think in
terms of the rise and fall of civilizations (p. 11). The phrases just quoted represent the
authors' complete commentary on Asimov's "best short story" (p. 9). Their
treatment of "Nightfall" hardly bears comparison with Joseph Patrouch's
excellent examination of it in The Science Fiction of Isaac Asimov (a similar
sort of all-encompassing, albeit longer analysis of Asimov's SF). Patrouch devotes 10
pages to "Nightfall"; yet barely half of one page could be termed summary. The
advantage of his sense of priorities is that Patrouch is able to give us detailed insight
concerning the background of the story (its publication history, etc.), the problems of
the tale (including specific weaknesses in its use of language), and its characterization
and its plot; and he offers finally a convincing discussion of what gives the tale its
compelling power. Reading Patrouch, we learn a great deal about the strengths and
weaknesses of "Nightfall," and can thereupon compare these with those strengths
and weaknesses Patrouch ascribes to Asimov's later work. On the other hand, through
Fiedler and Mele, we learn nothing of the limitations of the tale and little about what
makes it powerful. We know that it has been considered his best story and that it
contributed significantly to his reputation, but we have difficulty situating the tale
within the context of Asimov's developing fiction. The limitations of Fiedler and Mele on
"Nightfall" exemplify much of the rest of their- discussion of Asimov's work.
There is too much summary; the discussion is too frequently cluttered with biographical
and other details; and criticism is generalized to the point of superficiality.
The apparent weaknesses of such criticism are typified by the following passage, in
which the authors discuss Asimov's style in the Foundation series:
Asimov's style in the Foundation, as in most of his work has a positive
quality that is frequently overlooked. Commendably direct, his writing never gets in the
way of the story, yet rarely seems unequal to its task. He always opens with a moment of
crisis, and even if his characters indulge in long explanations, there is always the
illusion of action. Despite the overall length of the series, the reader easily moves from
story to story. (pp. 66-67)
Once again I have just quoted the entire discussion of style included in the chapter on
the Foundation series. The authors suggest that there is a "positive"
quality in Asimov's style that is "frequently overlooked." They imply that this
quality is "direct[ness].'' Yet is this enough? What exactly do they mean by
"direct," or by the suggestion that the writing "never gets in the way of
the story"? We need more explanation here--perhaps examples to make the assertions
meaningful. And if Asimov's style in the Foundation series is the same as in
"most of his work," what does this suggest about his development as a writer?
Has his style remained consistent throughout his career or only from the point of the Foundation
series onward? The authors were undoubtedly constrained by limitations of space here,
but they might better have left comments as generalized as these out of the discussion
altogether, making room for more detailed analysis in some other area.
There is a strange
form of repetition which adds to the monotony of reading this text. A story is discussed,
then later it is mentioned a second time, but as if it had never been brought up before.
Take "Hostess," for instance. On pages 16-17, Fiedler and Mele summarize and
discuss it. They then move on to other material, but return to "Hostess" on page
25: "In one of his most interesting early stories, 'Hostess,' Asimov takes a
startling view...." The mention of this story eight pages after the first discussion
comes in as if it were the introduction to an as-yet-undiscussed tale. The same sort of
thing happens with "Nightfall." The second time they take it up, the authors
laboriously re-cite the epigraph from Emerson and also reiterate their interpretation of
Asimov's theme. To make matters worse, they at times interrupt their discussion of a
series of works to glance back at some text(s) that have already been elaborated upon, and
more often than not do so for no discernible reason. Chapter five, for example, is
concerned with "The Future Histories," yet three pages of the chapter focus on
"Nightfall" and Foundation. This disjointedness results in confusion.
There are also other kinds of incongruity. In their discussion of the "vivid,
tight, and evocative" (p. 44) descriptions of The Caves of Steel, the
authors cite a lengthy passage from it which they claim is a "well-crafted
combination of simile and carefully chosen sensory detail." There are sensory details
in the passage; but I can find no similes in it, only one metaphor. The misnomer is
somewhat bewildering. So too, is a point early in the book, when the authors, writing of
the way machines escape the control of their makers, refer to "a situation just as
chilling as Frankenstein destroying its creator" (p. 35). Presumably they mean to
allude to Frankenstein's monster; but mistakes like that are annoying and generally
detract from Isaac Asimov's authority.
Fiedler and Mele could have written a much better book. They do provide some
interesting insights into Asimov's SF. Thus, writing of Foundation, they observe:
"Asimov's dramatic future history makes the cogent point that the true tools of
empire-building are economic and socio-political development" (p. 57). This is an
important perception: surely one of the fascinating aspects of Foundation is its
illumination of the behind-the-scenes machinations by which economic and socio-political
forces are manipulated (or are seemingly manipulated). Fiedler and Mele's discussion of
the robot stories, too, manages to give some sense of how, through the course of them,
Asimov came to a "basic themes[,]...an emotional argument for technology as a useful,
practical tool that cannot succeed without human direction" (p. 41). The authors'
analysts of the charisma of the Mule is well taken also, as is their examination of
"The Bicentennial Man." Yet the problem throughout remains their loose focus and
their reliance on a plot-summary type approach without sufficient analysis to sustain it.
Inevitably, I have trouble envisioning an audience for this book. Although it is short
and rather "easy" reading (typographically speaking, that is), it is frequently
tedious. It is not nearly as insightful as Patrouch's study; and the essays on Asimov in
the Olander-Greenberg "Authors of the 21st Century" volume are more valuable
than the individual chapters in this book. To be sure, Fiedler and Mele's Isaac Asimov
will probably have a certain bookstand appeal. With its picture of Asimov framed by
his name in block letters on a star-filled background of blue, and with its promise of big
returns (All You Ever Wanted to Know About the SF of Isaac Asimov) for a minimum of
reading effort, the book may sell. Its buyers, however, will almost certainly be
disappointed with their purchase.
--Michael Tritt
(No) Comparison
Lahna Diskin. Theodore
Sturgeon (Starmont Reader's Guide No. 7). Mercer Island, WA:
Starmont House, 1981. 72p. $3.95 paper. Lucy Menger. Theodore Sturgeon. NY: Federick
Ungar, 1981. viii+136p. $5.95 paper
The form of the Reader's Guide book and, in this case, the subject of Theodore Sturgeon
have both become so central to the needs and to the future of SF that it would be
difficult to step back and assess what clear distinctions exist between the Diskin and the
Menger studies if it were not for the quality of the writing and the quality of the
scholarship. Both books take up most of Sturgeon's canon in a systematic and integrated
commentary. Both books contain some biographical narrative on the variety and sensitivity
of Sturgeon's life. Both books conclude with primary and secondary bibliographies, the
Diskin annotated, the Menger a more complete listing of Sturgeon's works. Menger's
secondary bibliography, however, is loaded with irrelevant entries and at the same time
omits important pieces. Perhaps there, then, in the scholarship, is an indication of how
widely these two studies actually differ.
Diskin works hard at an intelligent and coherent explanation of the fictions; and even
though her book needs a more distinct conclusion, she offers her readers unified and
meaningful interpretations of Sturgeon's peculiar blend of philosophy, stylistic texture,
and narrative. We are comfortable with her readings; and although Diskin does not produce
a perfect book, she does provide a useful and appropriate impression of Sturgeon's work as
literature. On the other hand, Menger does not explain or interpret. In her section on The
Dreaming Jewels, for example, she hardly acknowledges that the work is an intelligent
extrapolation at all but rather rushes on to talk about details in the narrative as though
she were describing a soap opera--commonplace and ordinary. Menger also fails to offer an
interpretation of Sturgeon's fiction (in part or whole) beyond, perhaps, the most
superficial accusations of anti-intellectualism. Menger's book left me with the strange
impression of Sturgeon as not-quite-a-writer; hence, I suspect that there is something
wrong with the glass through which the subject is being viewed. This experience, in fact,
confirms my belief that literary criticism must be well-written commentary designed to
give a meaningful impression of a writer. Diskin seems to have that ideal in mind. Menger
makes a parody of it.
--Donald M. Hassler
An Indispensable Resource
Jack Williamson, ed. Teaching
Science Fiction: Education for Tomorrow. Philadelphia:
Owlswick Press, 1980. 261p. S15.00
Jack Williamson, one of the venerable old names in the field, has always demonstrated a
considerable skill and versatility in dealing with SF. He is one of the few individuals
who can boast a high level of expertise in both academic matters and the commercial side
of the genre. Having successfully worked in both arenas for a number of decades, he has
earned the respect of practitioners and consumers alike.
His recent contribution to the pedagogical side of the business is an admirable
addition to the more than five decades of production that preceded it. The work is
characterized by its scope and a keen editorial grasp of the subject. Not content to rely
on his own qualifications-- Williamson could easily have written this book by himself if
he had wanted to--he has assembled a well-rounded team of "experts" to
contribute to the project.
This task is not as easy as it might seem. True, there is no shortage of people
qualified to write commercial SF, and there is a gracious sufficiency of academics who are
willing to publish papers on the subject. But it is difficult to find people who are highly
competent in both areas. The professional level of each enterprise is sufficiently
demanding and specialized to require considerably more than merely a casual involvement.
Most academics, though well versed in their fields qua academic subjects, have
had little or no experience as professional writers. Those in the top ranks of the pro
writers, conversely, know the intricacies of their field, but few of them have any
appreciable expertise in the academic forum. (This is, of course, to distinguish the professional
educator from the writer who teaches occasional high school or college courses but
lacks the specialized training and set of experiences that constitute professionalism in
education.)
It follows from all of this that there exists only a small core of individuals who can
display a high level of competence simultaneously in the classroom and in the market
place. For a number of reasons--on both the supply and demand sides of the equation--this
places a strict limit on the number of meaningful books that can and will appear on the
subject.
The present offering is one of those few books, and it deserves the approbation of both
camps. The pro-SF community, especially those writers with a deep commitment to the genre,
can be sure that their field has been fairly represented. And educators can be sure that
their needs (which, like politics, are discussed by many but understood by few) have been
recognized and properly treated.
This is no small accomplishment, since the recognition of SF by academe is a phenomenon
only two decades old. Considering this relatively short interval, Williamson is to be all
the more admired for effecting such a smooth melding of specialized talents. In this
particular effort, he has drawn from his own strength. As a writer of commercially
successful SF, he is extremely knowledgeable in that field. As an educator of long
standing, he is intimately familiar with the limitations and exigencies of the classroom.
Thus he has been able to cover all bases in producing a work whose deceptively simple
format conceals a wealth of information, expertly arranged and attractively presented.
Undoubtedly, a large part of Teaching Science Fiction's audience will be those
who are about to embark on their first SF course. For these prospective teachers,
Williamson has offered a very useful collection of resources. Some of the chapters are
narrowly targeted and have a "cookbook" flavor. Others are more abstract and
philosophical. Although at first glance this mix might seem ill-conceived, it is
well-suited to meet the needs of novice SF teachers.
Wide-eyed educators, newly emerged from Schools of Education and English departments,
have too often been given indiscriminate doses of theory and practice, with little or no
explanation of how the two interface. As the old salts can testify, however, theory
without a realistic grounding is practically useless, while cookbook material without some
philosophical foundation is at best an inefficient tool.
Alert to these pitfalls, Williamson has been careful to tell prospective teachers both
what to do and why. He has assembled papers by the best minds in the field and encompassed
all the important topics. In the process, he has produced a volume that is useful to the
old salts as well. It is a practical guidebook against which even the most experienced
educators can judge their theory and practice.
To insure currency, Williamson has selected previously published material that dates
back no farther than 1971, and he has included several pieces new to this work. And to
provide proper editorial balance, he has fashioned the papers of his various contributors
into a carefully assembled whole.
The book is divided into three sections. The first deals with "the Topic,"
the second with "the Teachers," and the third with "the Tools" of the
trade. The first section, which includes articles by Le Guin, Asimov, the Panshins, and
Susan Wood, covers the historical and social foundations of SF. Its function is to provide
a frame of reference within which SF can be seen as a product both of its history and of
the social setting in which it exists today. Among these useful essays is a list of short
biographies of notable SF writers, arranged chronologically and cross-referenced to a later
bibliographical chapter. As experienced instructors will be quick to note, a resource of
this sort can be very useful in designing a syllabus for a projected course.
The second and longest part of the book includes pieces by Vonda McIntyre, Barry
Longyear, Stanley Schmidt, Robert Myers, and Kate Wilhelm. It deals with the full range of
SF courses, from primary through high school and college, from the English to the science
department. The various articles in this section contain a wealth of practical ideas, many
of which can be translated directly into the classroom with little or no outside
preparation. Building on the foundation established by the first section, the articles
explore the mechanics of SF stories, the genre's role in and implications for the overall
curriculum, specific methods, and just enough "cheerleading" to keep it all
interesting.
These 14 remarkably varied chapters approach SF from all angles; from the perspectives
of history, sociology, psychology, and political science; applying the genre to all
departments into which it might productively fit, considering utopian and dystopic views,
and ranging from general discourses to lists of potential discussion questions and
modules. In short, this part of the book grounds the theory of teaching SF in a set of
concrete ideas about how to present the genre in the classroom. It gives direction to
those teachers who are designing new courses and provides enrichment for those who are
already teaching established courses.
The third section of Teaching Science Fiction deals with the tools of the
trade--the resources needed to make an SF course work. Four articles by James Gunn, Robert
Barthell, the Panshins (again), and Neil Barron detail the utility and relevance of
movies, local conventions, books, and library resources. This section does not merely
indicate where resources can be located, though. It provides an understanding of them--of
what SF-related resources really are, how they interface with a course, and how to apply
them in a classroom situation. Included here are lists of books, films (both instructional
and commercial), university libraries, and other assorted aids.
Clearly, these three sections taken together provide a valuable tool for those involved
in teaching SF at any level. Williamson's editorial skill and grasp of the genre have
enabled him to produce a major work that is at once well-conceived and well-executed.
Given the current interdependence of the academic and commercial sectors of the field,
this volume is a significant addition to the literature. Not only does it bring together a
number of important papers, but it also promotes the kind of cross-fertilization that will
necessarily have positive results in both arenas.
--C. Bruce Hunter
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