#98 = Volume 33, Part 1 = March 2006
Brooks Landon
A Cultural History of a Hybrid Genre
Roger Luckhurst. Science
Fiction. Cultural History of Literature.
Cambridge: Polity, 2005. vii + 305 pp. $24.95 pbk.
Hybridity is a concept that has steadily gained purchase in a wide range of
critical discourses over the past twenty-five years, adding cultural and
aesthetic dimensions to its initially largely biological meanings. In
postcolonial studies, sociology, political science, art, and numerous other
areas of critical inquiry, hybridity has been accorded more and more positive
connotations as a transgressive or resistant phenomenon; the term itself has
become one of those ubiquitous buzzwords whose time has come. “Hybrids” now also
refers to mixed-technology automobiles and the term has even become prominent in
car advertising—both sure signs of its near-meme status and its appropriation by
some of the hegemonic sources to which it previously signaled resistance. So it
should come as no surprise that a new study of sf should be organized around
this concept, as is Roger Luckhurst’s Science Fiction. Indeed,
Luckhurst’s quiet but insistent argument is not only that science fiction is an
inherently hybrid enterprise, but also that this has been the case since the
meaningful codification of sf in the 1880s. And, while hybridity sightings have
become something of a critical commonplace, Luckhurst’s discussion of the
importance of the concept to our understanding of sf as a cultural force is as
welcome as it seems overdue. Science Fiction offers sf readers and
scholars a valuable culturally oriented context in which to test and rethink our
numerous narratives of the genre. This book is not—nor was it intended to be—the
definitive cultural history sf, but it is a fine cornerstone on which much
future scholarship should and will be built.
Science Fiction continues the move toward a cultural history of sf
suggested by a large number of critical works published in the past fifteen or
twenty years, each of which explored reciprocal relationships between the body
of texts that comprises sf and the cultural concerns shaping and frequently
shaped by those texts. Luckhurst centers his focus on the cultural debates
attending technological modernity—as differently articulated in Great Britain
and the US—using the antique but capacious umbrella term “Mechanism” to subsume
the impact of technology on cultural life. Casting sf as “a literature of
technologically saturated societies,” he offers his study as a cultural history
rather than the cultural history of sf, specifying:
A cultural history of science
fiction will situate texts, therefore, as part of a constantly shifting network
that ties together science, technology, social history and cultural expression
with different emphases at different times. SF will not conform to a particular
literary typology or formalist definition: rather, it will be marked by a
sensitivity to the ways in which Mechanism is connected into different
historical contexts. (6)
Accordingly, Luckhurst sets himself the task of charting sf’s “own kind of
surrogate public history” (2) from 1880 through the 1990s. As he tracks the
unfolding of this surrogate public history, he attempts to investigate the
factors that have repeatedly relegated sf to low culture and marginal status. He
unpacks and refutes the notion of some aesthetic given that inexorably judged sf
so harshly. Instead, he offers an analysis of the misturns and missed
opportunities by sf’s advocates, including the adoption of legitimizing
strategies, from Wells through Suvin and beyond, that actually worked to the
genre’s disadvantage. Luckhurst offers no brief for overlooked or misjudged
aesthetic quality in sf—and even reminds us that the New Wave, frequently
claimed as an aesthetic high point, contains some really bad writing. However,
one of the many important arguments Luckhurst makes is that sf’s early and
long-continuing relegation to low status has little to do with actual aesthetic
quality and much to do with the genre’s positions in cultural debates over the
implications of Mechanism.
At each period in his cultural history of the genre, Luckhurst situates sf
texts that “speak to the concerns of their specific moment in history” in “a
broad network of contexts and disciplinary knowledges” (2) ranging from
evolutionary/devolutionary theory and British literary debates through the
American engineer paradigm and the technological sublime. He surveys the various
exhaustions of British imperial melancholy, nuclear malaise, the dead ends tied
to genre forms rejected by the New Wave in England, and the patriarchal
assumptions rejected by women and feminist sf writers in America. The larger
concern of this tracking is always on ways in which sf might be seen as
contributing “in a new and significant way to the history of the constitution of
the modern subject” (3) with specific reference to responses to and implications
of Mechanism—the central aspect of modernity—as it is shunned by high culture
and engaged in complicated and ambivalent ways by sf. If there is a persistent
sub-theme or thesis in Luckhurst’s efforts to chart the impact of sf’s metaphors
and allegories on larger cultural formations, it is that sf is more a voice of
the melancholy and trauma of technological modernity than a celebration of
technological liberation or transcendence. In the significant strand of sf texts
“in which the human subject is pierced or wounded by invasive technologies that
subvert, enslave, or ultimately destroy,” Luckhurst shows sf persistently
shading “into horror or Gothic writing” (5). This is one of the signs of sf’s
hybridity and an important sign of its ambivalence toward Mechanism.
Acknowledging the limitations of his analysis (little attention to media, no
global perspective, no engagement with the discourses of fandom, and no real
attention to Gothic or fantasy), Luckhurst offers his study not as a new
normative attempt to carve out a respectable canon but as a descriptive effort
to record some of the complications and contractions of the relationship between
sf and culture:
Historians of SF need, in my
view, to be less judgmental and prescriptive. We need to be just as interested
in how fantasies about Mechanism can, for instance, prompt eugenic and
proto-fascist scenarios in the 1910s and 1920s (fantasies that periodically
return), or idolize a fundamentally anti-democratic Technocratic elite as a
solution to the crisis of liberal democracies in the 1930s and 1940s. Cultural
history needs to understand the appeal of breathlessly paced interstellar pulp
fictions as much as the self-consciously Modernist prose adopted by
counter-cultural SF in the 1960s. (9)
Of course Luckhurst must single out some texts as he goes about this
ambitious task while ignoring most others, but his general approach is not to
“lift” an sf text or a writer out of received or ignored historical accounts of
the genre as it is to “resubmerge” a text or writer in richly textured cultural
and literary discourses, characteristically complicating our understanding of
the relations between text and culture. In this rhetorical strategy, frequently
(but not always) dialectical, Luckhurst would seem to be following the originary
guide he attributes to H.G. Wells in his writing before 1900 in which, as John
Huntington has observed and Luckhurst underscores, “a carefully constructed
architecture of ambivalence ensures that every force has a counter-force, every
assertion a negation, with Wells delighting in ‘the irony of contradiction
itself’” (39). Luckhurst consistently complicates received associations and
oppositions alike, as when he points to affinities in the work of C.S. Lewis and
Arthur C. Clarke or suggests a counter to cyberpunk erasure of embodiment in the
body horror fictions of Clive Barker and Octavia Butler. I found this one of the
book’s primary delights and an important source of its value—although it is
precisely what makes the book difficult to describe and almost impossible to
summarize.
While the book loosely presents a chronological overview of sf from 1880
through 2000, this chronology is complicated by Luckhurst’s need to switch focus
between English and American sf, and his double focus is further complicated by
his insistent refusal of both ruptural histories and narratives of genre
“progress” or “maturation.” His own apparent delight in “the irony of
contradiction itself” (or at least of complication) leads every chapter through
twists, turns, and reversals that inexorably undercut the notion of strict
chronology: the Luckhurst time machine is always on the move. At each turn in
this cultural history that feels more like a hypertext, it seems to me that
Luckhurst is interested in constructing a cultural history that can map five
broad concerns, although this is my identification and not his.
1. He wants to compare the codification and characteristic concerns of English
and American sf as variously shaped by evolutionary, engineering, and what might
be called nuclear/cybernetic paradigms.
2. He wants to locate efforts to valorize or to attack the genre within larger
cultural discussions and debates, usually recasting aesthetic or literary
judgments as consequent to broader philosophical or ideological concerns.
3. He wants to chart the genre’s responses—usually ambivalent, if not
contradictory—to the ever-expanding and deepening implications of Mechanism.
4. He wants to resituate the genre’s critical/theoretical standing as the nature
of cultural critique/theory changes, so that the cultural value of sf is never
monolithic or intrinsic, but contingent on extra-literary factors.
5. He wants to complicate rigid definitions of genre and normative/prescriptive
judgments based on well-rehearsed binaries such as English/American, sf/fantasy,
Left/Right, Modern/Postmodern, etc.
This makes Science Fiction a very busy, very ambitious book that deserves
and rewards very careful reading. In the context of the above concerns,
Luckhurst’s selection of authors and works for extended analysis is not meant to
valorize, much less canonize, as much as it is to identify useful touchstones
for exploring the reciprocal relations between sf literature and cultural
discussions. There is little effort on Luckhurst’s part to posit a literary
history or to make qualitative assessments of sf writers and texts. Not
surprisingly, however, many of the writers and texts he selects as touchstones
for cultural connections turn out to be the same writers and texts frequently
singled out for literary histories of sf, yet his principle of selection does
not necessarily imply that a writer or text represents the genre or should be
used to establish or extend genre boundaries. His selections do favor formal and
ideational hybridity, and the complications Luckhurst invariably introduces in
his analyses of writers and texts argue for a new understanding of sf that
embraces rather than attempts to erase its essential hybridity; his cultural
history may be the main point of his scholarship, but it also makes points.
Part I of Science Fiction consists of three chapters devoted to the
origins of sf, focusing respectively on the social and technological conditions
necessary for its emergence, the importance of the evolutionary paradigm to the
nineteenth-century British codification of the scientific romance, and the
importance of the engineer paradigm to the development of pulp fiction in
America. The purpose of this section is to suggest the paradigms that both
guided the development of sf in England and in America and positioned that
literature in larger cultural debates occasioned by Mechanism, or technological
modernity. The conditions making possible late nineteenth-century scientific
fiction are “mass literacy; new print vectors; a coherent ideology and emergent
profession of science” and, most important for this study, “everyday experience
transformed by machines and mechanical processes” (29). For Luckhurst, Wells is
the “embodiment” of these conditions rather than the inventor of British sf.
Somewhat paradoxically, he is at once a source of the emerging genre’s messianic
commitment to its ideational content (starting with the evolutionary paradigm),
and a source of what will emerge again and again as the genre’s self-loathing
over its poor artistry. Luckhurst focuses on Wells’s disastrous misreading of
and relation to an emerging literary establishment, on the separatist
consequences of his commitment to evolutionism, and on the ambiguity,
contradictions, and formal hybridity of his writing. Luckhurst suggests how
these aspects of Wells’s writing led to his setting many of the agendas for
British sf and for its critical reception before 1945; he even played a role in
structuring the claims of a “fall from grace” that insist on a qualitative
rupture between British and American sf. Rather than concentrate on Wells’s “use
of science” in his fiction, Luckhurst details ways in which Wells was as
influential in setting the cultural context for the devaluing of sf as he was
for its growth—by initiating its impure or hybrid nature. In his third chapter,
Luckhurst traces the rise of the boy inventor and engineer paradigms that were
as crucial in the formation of American sf as the evolutionary paradigm was in
England.
Once again, the success and influence of an embodying writer and editor—this
time Hugo Gernsback—are shown to create the conditions for the aesthetic
devaluation of sf as well as for its codification. Wells and Gernsback,
Luckhurst suggests, are as much responsible for the critical ghettoization of sf
as they are for the codification of the genre. And, once again, that
codification is represented in terms of hybridity rather than “purity,” as
“Gernsbackian technocratic advocacy is in intimate dialectical relation with
Lovecraftian ‘cosmic horror,’” with both deriving from “the same engineer
paradigm in America in the 1910s and 1920s” (64-65). Gernsback’s advocacy of
technocracy came at the expense of aesthetic validation, but Luckhurst shows how
Campbellian sf strove to “elide technocratic elitism with SF as an elite mode of
writing,” a more self-flattering attempt to validate sf as a means to
technocratic rather than aesthetic ideals (72). Thus, Luckhurst argues, the
American engineer paradigm actually can be seen to merge with the British
evolutionary paradigm, and the engineer (or the sf readership that closely
identified with the engineer) is reconstructed in some American sf—particularly
by A.E. Van Vogt—as an evolutionary advance, the next stage in human
development. This evolution of the engineer paradigm transcends issues of
literary merit by aligning itself with the extra-literary assumptions and
beliefs in Korzybski’s General Semantics and Hubbard’s Dianetics, establishing
ties between sf and culture that had little or nothing to do with literary
value.1
Part II follows the elaboration of the initially artifactual concerns of
Mechanism into the cybernetic control systems developed in conjunction with the
nuclear age and its attendant technocratic networking. This section, again in
three chapters, follows the coterminous rise of technoculture and decline of the
British Empire as American and British sf took quite different postwar turns.
Roughly covering the years from 1939 through 1959, this second section shows sf
as it is reorganized around technologies related to atomic power, whether
emblemized by the Bomb or by networks of associations famously identified by
President Eisenhower as the Military Industrial Complex. One significant
offshoot of this network of military, academic, bureaucratic, and economic
associations—a significant stage in the extension of Mechanism into every aspect
of modern life—is cybernetics, and as Mechanism enters what might be called its
nuclear/cybernetic stage, it becomes fertile ground for the writing of
technologically inflected paranoid fiction and for philosophical critique.
Luckhurst sees this period as one of “complex conjuncture” that “attests to the
radical redefinition of the relation between the human and the technological
that stretches from vast military-industrial projects to the intricacies of
German philosophy and culture critique” (90). Both the military-industrial and
philosophical developments of the period afford opportunities to sf for
important cultural commentary and implicate it in new formations of mechanic
mass culture—opening the genre to new condemnation from critiques of mass
culture.
In responding to this nuclear/cybernetic paradigm, American sf breaks into
competing schools, some celebrating the new technology and new technocrats it
requires, some criticizing and satirizing the new technoculture and its economic
implications. Against the technocratic boosterism of John Campbell and “his”
writers such as Heinlein and Asimov stands the criticism of Vonnegut, Dick,
Merril, Pohl, and Kornbluth, and in these cultural divides—rather than in
subject matter—Luckhurst locates the beginning of the distinction between “hard”
and “soft” sf. In England, response to the nuclear/cybernetic paradigm was much
more melancholic, as American atomic ascendancy seemed paralleled by British
decline, occasioning a kind of double-hit on the valuation of sf: “For British
intellectuals across the spectrum it was not just that SF embodied mass culture
and crude investment in technological modernity, it was also that the genre was
American” (123). At least partly as a result of this guilt by association of sf
with American technologized modernity, Luckhurst suggests, fantasy became the
most notable form of writing in postwar England. But Luckhurst immediately
complicates this binary, suggesting ways in which the fantasy of Lewis and
Tolkien and particularly of Mervyn Peake should not be understood in rigid
opposition to the concerns and protocols of sf, arguing that the writing of
Arthur C. Clarke is in fact “not so distant” from that of C.S. Lewis. Once
again, the key to understanding British writing of this period is hybridity, as
it “fused fantasy, Gothic and SF elements, offering refracted meditations on
their historical moment” (124), with both fantasists such as Lewis and sf
writers such as John Wyndham echoing Wells. He concludes of British and American
sf: “The period between 1945 and 1960 is the most complex and multi-stranded
period in science fiction history, the epoch in which the Golden Age was both
consolidated and contested, when SF claimed scientific, political and
social-critical relevance yet was also condemned as an examplar of detestable
mass culture” (136). And the contradictory thematics of this period, Luckhurst
claims, are important because they will “recur and modulate” during the next
four decades.
Part III somewhat drops the alternating focus on British and American sf to
organize cultural concerns around “Decade Studies,” with chapters devoted to the
1960s, the 1970s, the 1980s, and the 1990s. This schema predictably organizes
the 1960s around the New Wave and the 1970s around the playing out of the
British New Wave and the diverse paths taken by the development of feminist sf.
Luckhurst’s analysis of the 1980s, again predictably, looks at postmodernism and
cyberpunk, much less predictably calls attention to the cultural impact of New
Right sf during the decade, and closes with the unexpected pairing of the body
horror of splatterpunk with the body horror of Octavia Butler. Luckhurst then
closes his study with a construction of the 1990s “as a consolidation and
rejuvenation of the unique focus of SF: speculation on the diverse results of
the conjuncture of technology with subjectivity” (222). He locates this
consolidation and rejuvenation in the reappearance of space opera, in the
rearticulation of apocalyptic concerns in abduction narratives, and in the
genre-morphing hybridity of the New Weird and “post-fantastic” writers such as
M. John Harrison, China Miéville, and Jonathan Lethem. Possibly because the
decade chapters are more clearly organized around delimited literary “movements”
such as cyberpunk and feminist sf, these chapters do not feel as richly or as
deeply textured in their cultural connections as do those in the first two parts
of the book, although they continue Luckhurst’s valuable insistence on
complicating received binaries, whether of agreement or opposition.
As would be expected, the chapter on the 1960s centers on the New Wave,
although Luckhurst strongly challenges the idea that the American New Wave
shared the ambitions or the cohesion of the British. In fact, Luckhurst’s
approach to the 1960s focuses more on what the New Wave was not than on it was,
as he details ways how the New Worlds project was not an attempt to raise the
status of sf to that of “serious” literature, but “was one manifestation of a
wider move to question the very categories and values of ‘high’ and ‘low’
culture” (146). Nor, according to Luckhurst, was either the British or the
American New Wave the ruptural moment claimed in so many accounts of sf.
While the New Wave did change the course of genre history, it did not mark a
clear break with genre concerns. “This is an explicit juvenilization of SF by
the blanket abjection of the genre before it reached ‘maturity’ about 1960. It
sanctions ignorance and produces a skewed, largely ahistorical conception of the
New Wave, because it is only able to read for discontinuity, not the substantial
continuities within the genre” (160).
Luckhurst readily acknowledges that “decade studies” can’t be rigidly
calendric, as is suggested by period studies that actually see the 1960s as
stretching from 1959 to 1973, and, as he moves on to the 1970s, his initial
focus remains on the New Wave. Depending on how we view it, he suggests, the New
Wave by the early 1970s could be seen as having occasioned either a powerful
rebirth of sf or as having signaled its imminent disappearance. “It feels
impossible to make an assertion about 1970s SF,” he notes, “without thinking of
an immediate counter-example,” and he sees this contradictory situation as
“symptomatic of a wider set of confusions over precisely what took place in the
decade” (169). In cultural terms, the issue was not whether or not sf had
reached some kind of an end, but that it became imbricated in a much broader
societal experience of limits. “Science fiction did not simply reflect on this,”
Luckhurst explains, but “often provided the very means by which the consequences
of this moment could be envisaged, in forms of utopian or dystopian projection
into the future” (171). The British New Wave read the end of British power with
degrees of “post-imperial melancholy,” and feminist sf read the end of “a
certain (social, economic, political and technological) formation of the
‘patriarchal’ West at the end of the 1960s” (181).
Luckhurst does not consistently track race through his cultural history of sf,
but he does discuss the importance of race in his overview of American Pulp
Fictions in Chapter 3, and his analysis of the New Wave in the 1970s returns to
a consideration of this issue as part of the post-imperial refiguring of
Englishness in terms of race rather than of place. Luckhurst uses Christopher
Priest and M. John Harrison to situate the British New Wave of the 1970s in the
larger melancholic “structure of feeling” attending the end of British power.
The appropriation in the 1970s of sf tropes used to articulate feminist concerns
by British women writers more associated with the literary mainstream—Doris
Lessing, Emma Tennant, Zoe Fairbairns, and Angela Carter—affords Luckhurst a
cultural transition from the New Wave’s preoccupation with national limits to
feminist sf’s preoccupation with genre limits:
Questions of sex and gender did
not suddenly appear within the genre with the New Wave or by feminist
intervention. What the feminist intervention in the 1970s did effect, though,
was a new reflexivity about the conventions of SF, exposing how a genre that
praised itself for its limitless imagination and its power to refuse norms had
largely reproduced ‘patriarchal attitudes’ without question for much of its
existence. The New Wave had reached the exhausted end of the form, but the
rubble of that tradition could be recombined in new structures. (182)
And the consequences of this “dying into new being” were not confined to
feminist issues:
Mega-textual SF elements that
had consciously or not reproduced patriarchal or heterosexist norms could be
recomposed and redirected for new political ends—even if those ends were
explicitly anti-scientific or anti-technological, striking at the heart of
historic definitions of SF. Out of the seeming ‘end’ of technological modernity
and the ruins of genre, feminist writers recomposed generic narratives. (182)
Within this larger framework of agendas, Luckhurst is careful to delineate
the diversity of ‘types’ of feminist sf in the 1970s, organizing them along the
waves suggested by Julia Kristeva in her 1979 essay “Women’s Time”—with the
understanding that these “waves” can be understood as simultaneous, rather than
only linear. These coterminous feminisms address equality, difference, and the
deconstruction of the man/woman binary. Accordingly, Luckhurst locates Le Guin’s
The Left Hand of Darkness (1969) as a first-wave text focused on
questions of equality (later reread by Le Guin to emphasize gender difference,
thus moving it toward the second wave). Sally Miller Gearhart’s Wanderground
(1979) offers an example of a second-wave text placing technology at the center
of male/female difference, as do Suzy McKee Charnas’s Walk to the End of the
World (1974) and Motherlines (1978), and as does Marge Piercy’s
Woman on the Edge of Time (1976). Luckhurst’s readings of these texts remind
us that, apart from their sharing gender concerns, these writers construct and
critique technology differently, with very different visions of its social uses.
Joanna Russ is then identified as an exemplar of Kristeva’s third wave, and also
as a writer whose work explores all three feminisms, with The Female Man
(1975) incorporating “all of these strands of feminism into a collage of
competing voices from parallel worlds” (193). Similarly Angela Carter’s The
Passion of New Eve (1977) represents third-wave critique, particularly in
the ways it “lampoons myths of gender fixity” (194). In Carter’s brilliantly
unsettling fiction Luckhurst finds not only an instructive bridge between the
New Wave and feminist sf but also another exemplar of the generic hybridity of
sf in her “finding leverage for critique by disarticulating and reorienting the
matrix of the genre—whether SF, Gothic, fairy tale or fantasy” (184-85).
I began Luckhurst’s chapter on the 1980s with something approaching dread—or
at least anticipatory fatigue, since this decade has already lent its most
celebrated movement, cyberpunk, to endless cultural studies of postmodernism. If
there’s one thing sf criticism probably does not need, I thought, it’s yet
another cultural history of the 1980s. After the inevitable but mercifully
concise overview of postmodernism, however, Luckhurst goes delightfully offroad
from the high-traffic critical highway to discuss 1980s sf and the New Right.
Somewhat impishly, he suggests that—instead of the cyberpunks—the sf writers
associated with the Right in general and with the Star Wars (SDI)-friendly
Citizen’s Advisory Panel on National Space Policy in particular might have
provided the most representative sf of the 1980s. Against the well-known roster
of cyberpunks, Luckhurst wants us to remember the quite different agendas of
Jerry Pournelle, Larry Niven, Gregory Benford, Robert Heinlein, and Ben Bova.
Reminding us that “SF was as ideologically riven as any other field of cultural
production in the 1980s” (202), Luckhurst not only uses this chapter to relocate
cyberpunk in “the shadow of the New Right,” but also complicates cyberpunk’s
emblematic association with virtual disembodiment by reading it dialectically
with “body horror” fiction, as represented by the splatterpunk of Clive Barker
and by the more oblique body horror writing of Octavia Butler. And, in a
by-now-familiar and increasingly persuasive refrain for this study, Luckhurst
observes that this “hybrid of sf and horror was not at all new, but part of a
long tradition that stretches back to Verne and Wells of what has been called
‘the science-fiction grotesque’” (214).
For obvious reasons, the chapter on the 1990s seems to be the most
provisional of Luckhurst’s decade studies. Homi Bhabha and Manuel Castells
provide theoretical overviews of this period, focusing respectively on
accelerated globalization and the technological production of “Informational
Capitalism.” In Luckhurst’s view, what characterizes sf in the 1990s is that “it
responds to the intensification and global extension of technological modernity
not with new forms, but rather with ones lifted from the genre’s venerable past”
(221). He then organizes his discussion of 1990s sf around the New Space Opera,
the revival of apocalyptic visions under the prospect of the Vingean
Singularity, and the New Weird, which Luckhurst sees as a kind of apotheosis of
the hybridity that has always characterized sf—“a final instance of uncanny
return: to the conditions of writing that dominated the emergence of SF in the
late nineteenth century” (243). Dan Simmons’s Hyperion (1989) and Ken
MacLeod’s Fall Revolution quartet
(The Star Fraction [1995], The Stone Canal [1996], The Cassini
Division [1998], and The Sky Road [1999]) limn the ironizing and
subverting reflections of globalization that make the New Space Opera new, but
Luckhurst also suggests an experiential agenda for the form, as its
characteristic heft of pages “carves out a large chunk of narrative time that
acts as a bulwark against the depredations of identity in the late modern world”
(230). While frequently positing in its semblances erosions of the idea of
progressive developmentalism and of monolithic empire, New Space Opera occupies
such a complexly structured chunk of its reader’s time that it actually serves
as a kind of “narrative salve,” offering the reader a stand against the erosion
of literary subjectivity.
A bit jarringly, Luckhurst then switches from sf literature to sf on tv,
specifically The X-Files (1993-2002), to make his case for a 1990s
revival of apocalypticism. Luckhurst does not smoothly negotiate the movement of
the discussion of this new apocalypticism from the threat of runaway
“singularity” breakthroughs in genetic research, nanotechnology, and robotics
(as strikingly suggested in Greg Bear’s Blood Music [1985], a book
Luckhurst mentions only in passing) to the paranoid narratives of The X-Files.
While few would disagree with Luckhurst’s construction of this series as an
apocalyptic narrative informed by the alien abduction phenomenon or his
observation that it “leaked outside mere televisual form into a strangely
blurred cultural space between science fiction, political conspiracy theory and
apocalyptic counter-history,” the claim that abduction accounts “are perfect
examples of science-fictional narratives that negotiate the traumatic encounter
of subjectivity and technology” (233) strikes me as less compelling. Luckhurst’s
analysis of this phenomenon has previously appeared at greater length in one of
the several noteworthy and influential essays he has published over the years in
Science Fiction Studies. But, for all the incisiveness and cultural
insight of his analysis of the technological trauma on which abduction
narratives feed, The X-Files seems to me more like Apocalypse-lite than
like the New Apocalypse. I don’t question the cultural importance of this
phenomenon or its importance for our understanding of sf, but I’m not convinced
it is the best representative of 1990s apocalyptic thinking. Luckhurst closes
his book with a brief consideration of the New Weird, represented by China
Miéville’s “genre-morphing” Perdido Street Station (2000), and best
understood in terms of Gary Wolfe’s description of “the postgenre fantastic” or
“recombinant genre fiction.” The appearance of a kind of literature that can
only be described in terms of its “evaporation,” “liquefaction,” decomposing,
fuzzying, recombining, blending, or morphing of genre forms and boundaries is
exactly the point at which Luckhurst should end a study that has persuasively
insisted at every turn that sf “has always been a mixed, hybrid, bastard form,
in a process of constant change” (243).
It must be abundantly clear by now that I do not share Farah Mendlesohn’s
dismissive opinion of Luckhurst’s Science Fiction, expressed in her
peevish review in the September 2005 issue of The New York Review of Science
Fiction. And I mention this because the reviews in the NYRSF generally
command our attention and respect, serving sf scholars, writers, and readers
equally well. But not this one. Indeed, I find myself wondering whether
Mendlesohn and I read the same book. Certainly, Mendlesohn was not much
interested in what Luckhurst argues in Science Fiction, as she never even
mentions his construction of sf in terms of its hybridity. Nor does she engage
any of Luckhurst’s significant propositions about the cultural place and value
of sf. Depending on which part of Mendlesohn’s scattershot criticisms we read,
this book is either not enough of a cultural study, a cultural study that
chooses the wrong cultural issues to study, too much of a cultural study that
values cultural critics over sf writers, too much of a literary history, not
enough of a literary history since it doesn’t mention enough sf
texts—particularly not enough by writers of interest to Mendlesohn, and so on.
Mendlesohn seems more interested in labeling, as she charges that Luckhurst’s
study is not a “real” cultural history (or at least not the one she wanted) and
that it is a “sexist book” (16). I think she’s quite wrong on both counts, but
hope that readers will decide for themselves, on the basis of reading Science
Fiction itself rather than accepting either Mendlesohn’s low or my high opinion
of the book.
To Mendlesohn’s credit she acknowledges that hers is an “angry” review, and
even goes so far as to admit that her reading made her “too angry to be fair,”
immediately offering the justification: “but then this isn’t a fair book” (18).
I’m not sure where such a convenient scruple takes us, but I’m pretty sure it’s
not someplace sf scholarship should go. Nor should rigorous scholarship make the
kinds of factual mistakes that pepper Mendlesohn’s review. Most are small, but
telling. For instance, one superficial example of hasty reading is her claim in
her discussion of Chapter 6 that “Tolkien is referred to as sword and sorcery, a
tradition of which he is not a part and that he overwhelms” (18). What Luckhurst
actually writes is that Suvinian sf scholarship has charged Tolkien “not only
with abandoning critical cognition for conservative myth-creation, but with
doing so to such annoyingly influential effect. The true path of SF has been
perverted since The Lord of the Rings became a mass-market success in the
mid-1960s, resulting in a stream of imitative sword-and-sorcery sub-creations
drained of critical effect” (128) (emphasis mine). If anyone is guilty of
imprecision here, it is not Luckhurst.
A much more significant misreading or misrepresentation underlies
Mendlesohn’s claimed anger at Luckhurst’s failure to live up to his own stated
aims, “particularly his desire to ‘think harder about the way certain agents of
history (for example the masses, women, colonized, marginal or subaltern
peoples) had been erased or rendered anonymous in history-writing’” (16). The
problem here is that this quotation is not one of Luckhurst’s “stated aims.” It
is instead Mark Poster’s detailing of some of the characteristics of cultural
history, and this is presented by Luckhurst as part of a broad summary of
suggestions, offered by several different critics, of the things cultural
history can do:
Mark Poster agreed that cultural history challenged the older social
history by questioning narrative in History, but also by forcing it to deal
with “low” as well as “high” cultural sources and, in a related way, to
think harder about the way certain agents of history (for example the
masses, women, colonized, marginal or subaltern peoples) had been erased or
rendered anonymous in history-writing. (1-2)
While I agree with Mendlesohn’s apparent belief that these are indeed worthy
goals of cultural history, I must note that this was Poster’s list of desiderata
and not advanced by Luckhurst as his stated aims, and certainly not as a kind of
contract by which he intended his book to be judged. Nor is it reasonable, much
less fair, to expect that Luckhurst’s book—or any other cultural history—could
do all of the admirable things suggested by these critics.
As it happens, however, I share a number of Mendlesohn’s local reactions to this
book, just not her global conclusions. Luckhurst could have used more
sociological evidence to strengthen his cultural analysis and he could have used
different sf writers to support his cultural analysis. The more culturally
focused Cecilia Tichi strikes me as a better guide to constructions of American
technology than does the more literary oriented Leo Marx, and consideration of
technocultural phenomena such as Worlds Fairs and Coney Island—even
advertising—would strengthen Luckhurst’s discussion of the American Engineer
paradigm. Like Mendlesohn, I found the absence of sustained discussion of
Gwyneth Jones curious, and I think Joanna Russ should figure much more
prominently in a cultural history of sf, but, unlike Mendlesohn, I don’t see the
choice of discussing Le Guin over Russ as a sure sign of sexism. In fact, I
think what Luckhurst does say about Russ argues much more persuasively against
Mendlesohn’s charge that the book is sexist than her page-counting and
author-counting calculus argues for it. Consider what Mendlesohn terms pushing
Russ’s Female Man to one side or abandoning its discussion in the
following passage from Science Fiction:
The Female Man has proved so difficult to read because it
incorporates all of these strands of feminism into a collage of competing
voices from parallel worlds. Russ’s four women protagonists, Janet, Jeanine,
Joanna and Jael, are elements of the same personality, constituted according
to the social reality in which they are imagined, whether this is two
versions of America in 1969, the feminist utopia Whileaway or a future of
perpetual gender war. The inter-cutting is brutal and refuses the reader any
comfort in identification, as Russ insists on the simultaneity of these
temporal and generational signifying spaces. The Female Man resembles
the French feminist statements being written contemporaneously. Hélène
Cixous’s “The Laugh of the Medusa,” for instance, embraces both a
thoroughgoing essentialism (“Woman must write woman. And man, man”), and yet
advocates an écriture feminine. This can never be reduced to “women’s
writing,” but aims to subvert the mythical category of Woman. Cixous’s
tactic of contradictory assertions is deliberate, the text enacting the
subversive potential of the “feminine,” which becomes a deconstructive lever
that worms its way inside all systems of binary thought. In a similar way,
when Russ writes “You cannot unite woman and human any more than you can
unite matter and anti-matter; they are designed not to be stable together,”
it can be read simultaneously as both a despairing cry of exclusion and a
recognition of the chance, as Amanda Boulter puts it, to “transcend the
category of Woman altogether.” Because The Female Man overdetermines
meanings like this and is a compendium of feminist strategy in the
mid-1970s, it is still one of the central texts of feminist SF. (193-94)
That’s the way things go in this “sexist” book.
Speaking as one who has hazarded a literary history of twentieth-century sf,
I see Luckhurst’s Science Fiction as an incredibly valuable
complementary—and not competitive—effort. His cultural history makes me realize
how much I got wrong on my own or some of the errors of others I blithely passed
along. It also makes me realize how much more effective any parts I may have
gotten right might have been had they been written with the benefit of the many
insights and specifications of this fine book. There will be other and
undoubtedly more thorough cultural histories of sf in general and of its
specific cultural moments in particular, but many of those works may be inspired
by this pioneering book and all will be informed by it.
NOTES
1. Were it not for S.I. Hayakawa’s Language in Thought
and Action (1941), sf might be seen as the most effective advertising arm
for Alfred Korzybski’s General Semantics, a totalizing system of belief and
theory of human behavior that based its assumptions and program on interrogating
and understanding the distinction between map and territory. By understanding
and rigorously maintaining map/territory distinctions in language and in action,
Korzybski believed that most human problems could be avoided. Korzybski’s
best-known book, Science and Sanity: An Introduction to Non-Aristotelian
Systems and General Semantics (1933), was the obvious source for A.E. van
Vogt’s concept of “null-A thinking,” and Korzybski was championed by Heinlein
and Campbell. While L. Ron Hubbard claimed that his Dianetics was inspired by
General Semantics, proponents of Korzybski’s program argued that Dianetics was
pseudoscientific mumbo-jumbo. In recent years, Korzybski’s thinking has been
invoked by proponents of the whole systems approach championed by Stewart Brand
and Kevin Kelly and explicitly or implicitly drawn from by numerous sf writers.
The Institute of General Semantics, founded by Korzybski in 1938, remains active
(<http://www.general-semantics.org/>) [the original link cited in this article
has since been changed to
http://time-binding.org/]and describes the General Semantics language-based
epistemology “as the study of how we perceive, construct, evaluate, and
communicate our life experiences.”
WORKS CITED
Kristeva, Julia. “Women’s Time.” The Kristeva Reader. Trans. Seán Hand
and Léon S. Roudiez. Ed. Toril Moi. Oxford: Blackwell, 1986. 187-213.
Mendlesohn, Farah. “Science Fiction by Roger Luckhurst.” New York Review of
Science Fiction 18.1 (Sept. 2005): 16-19.
Wolfe, Gary K. “Malebolge, or the Ordnance of Genre.” Conjunctions 39
(2002): 405-19.
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