A Haldeman Souvenir.
Joe Haldeman. Viet
Nam and Other Alien Worlds. NESFA Press (P.O. Box 809, Framingham MA
01701-0203), 1993. xi+223. $17.00 plus $2.00 s&h USA, $4.00 s&h elsewhere.
This anthology of fiction, essays, and poetry offers two corrections to the lenses with
which we examine Haldeman's work, and is therefore valuable beyond its status as a
collectible souvenir.
First, this volume, arising from that science-fiction community known as fandom,
clarifies our observation of Haldeman's relationship to it. He was a science-fiction fan
well before he became a professional science-fiction writer and has maintained close ties
with that social entity. Second, the directness of Haldeman's prose style and his informal
narrative stance have continually misled some readers into believing that the stories
themselves are simple and casually produced. On the contrary: through his meticulous and
inventive plot structures and his almost poetic condensation of narrative, Haldeman is
capable of great complexity. This volume, which presents Haldeman's fiction alongside his
less widely known essays and poetry, allows us to see that complexity more clearly.
Fandom, examined minutely within the group, and almost invisible from without, deserves
consideration at the middle distance which this volume provides. Viet Nam and Other
Alien Worlds is the most recent in a series of commemorative anthologies of the work
of the guests of honor at the New England Science Fiction Association's annual convention,
BOSKONE; the next volume should appear before this review is published (As it has; see the
following review.--Ed.). NESFA produces volumes which vary in format but are generally
attractive and desirable additions to collectors' bookshelves since they often, as here,
include items not easily found elsewhere. The present volume clarifies in several ways how
the relationship between fandom and the professional writer results often in liberation
and sometimes in indulgence.
The indulgence of this volume lies in its editing, the only weak element of the book.
The collection does not make clear who selected the works to be included: certainly
Haldeman was involved; Aron Insinga is identified as editor in an acknowledgment, and he
in turn identifies Tim Szczesuil as an assistant editor. Although we cannot know who
decided what was to be included the results suggest an occluded selection process. There
is a clear logic in collecting Haldeman's "Confederacion" stories, pieces taking
place in the same imagined future as his novels All My Sins Remembered and There
is No Darkness (written with his brother Jack C. Haldeman II). These stories are
"Passages," "A Tangled Web," "Seasons," and "The Mazel
Tov Revolution." But the reasons for choosing the five essays which follow the
novella and three novelettes are less sharply focused. Although most of the essays are
previously unpublished and none is widely available, Haldeman must have other essays which
fit these parameters; while these five are stimulating, they seem to have only a little to
do with one another or with the fiction and poetry which surround them. The poetry, in
contrast, has the strongest justification for inclusion: it is major work, difficult to
obtain but central to Haldeman's oeuvre.
A clearer editorial presence would have emphasized connections among the three groups
of works and made sure there were more connections to be inferred. It would have demanded
a more sharply defined overview from Haldeman's introduction to the volume, and it would
have polished up the dated material in the essays on the space program. Finally, it would
have caught some glitches: the misplacement of a chart, and the mistitling of a novel. The
relationship between author and fan, which often benefits from informality, has also
permitted an indulgent amateurishness to creep into the book's production.
More important than these flaws of indulgence, however, are the freedoms which fandom
allows in a volume of this sort. In the marketplace, Haldeman's voice can be heard only
when it sells, but in the more private sector of fandom, that voice can speak in less
marketable ways. For instance, novelettes and novellas are less likely to be anthologized
than short stories: here, only the longer story forms appear and one piece,
"Seasons," is unarguably a significant work. Of Haldeman's short works, his war
stories receive the most attention, but the four stories here remind us that Haldeman has
other themes and subjects as well.
The five essays included are also liberated from the marketing myopia that kept most of
them from publication. Two of the essays were linked to timely events, and when those
events left the public eye, the essays lost their marketability, but not their value: here
the indulgence of fandom becomes a virtue. "Not Being There," originally written
for The Rolling Stone, concerned the Challenger disaster which Haldeman and his
wife observed from Daytona Beach. Haldeman offers a couple of unique spins on the
experience in his account of the disaster. From the 1960's on, he had spent years trying
to go up himself, so that his witnessing of the crash was charged with a personal
engagement. The larger portion of the essay, however, develops a different aspect of the
debacle--its political and economic causes. Haldeman's skill at clarifying scientific and
technological information for the non-specialist combines with a tone of tamped anger to
make the essay a powerful condemnation of bottom-line politics. An appendix makes clear
that Haldeman foresaw problems with the Hubble program as well, reminding us that the
essay has an importance beyond the occasion for which it was written, and making us wish
he had attached a "told you so" coda to update it.
The second occasional piece which an editor judged past its perfect moment is the essay
"Photographs and Memories," Haldeman's response to the Robert Mapplethorpe
exhibit "The Perfect Moment." Again highly engaged, Haldeman brings to the
exhibit his knowledge of photography, war, and the current scene, crafting a meditation on
Mapplethorpe's techniques of objectification and shock. His accompanying chart (misplaced
in the introduction) explores moral responsibility, censorship, and the boundaries between
art and sensationalism. NESFA has done a special service in making this essay available not
only as a gloss on the state of the arts in general but as a gloss on Haldeman's work in
particular. The essay's compact complexity reminds us of the same attribute in Haldeman's
fiction. Its recognition of the "invisible" techniques which shaped
Mapplethorpe's final product--shutter speed and development techniques, for
instance--remind us that Haldeman's final products also involve equally meticulous
production techniques. And its movement away from easy moral platitudes to a more complex
vision remind us to look for that same movement in Haldeman's fiction.
Two other essays collected here deal with Haldeman's best-known subject, the Viet Nam
war. The title essay clarifies the metaphor of war as an alien(ating) experience which has
informed much of Haldeman's science fiction, and "War Stories" is what he calls
a "gang review" of books on Viet Nam which a literary magazine asked for but
eventually rejected (ix). While the first essay provides an excellent introduction to much
of Haldeman's fiction, "War Stories" reveals the originality with which Haldeman
approaches any subject, an originality which may have kept the essay from previous
publication. Haldeman compares his own experiences in Viet Nam--the war he experienced--to
the experiences, and the war, described in six books. His war, "as murderous and
painful as it was," is less violent and grisly than these books generally portray,
and the review attempts to account for the discrepancies (186). He points out that "a
natural journalistic selection procedure is partly to blame, and partly it's the
psychology of interviewing and being interviewed" (190). He also speculates that his
own experience may have been atypical, and further, that for some witnesses, "the
membrane between invention and memory has disintegrated" (193). Such a complex and
ambiguous perception of the facts in these books on Viet Nam does not adhere to any
standardized attitude toward politicized historical events, and so, while it may be
unsatisfying to a magazine's editorial position, it is valuable to a scholar, or a fan, of
Haldeman's work.
The volume concludes with four narrative poems, all previously published in fairly
well-distributed venues, but valuable here because they represent the importance of poetry
throughout Haldeman's career. In the poems, Haldeman shows remarkable control over form,
especially in the linked sestinas of "Saul's Death" and in the free form of
"DX," as well as over emotional and imagistic content. Scholars who, like fans,
care about more than the bottom line, will find much to explore in Haldeman's poetry,
which has not yet been critically considered.
Viet Nam and Other Alien Worlds represents an idealized community of fans and
authors in which the author can speak to an intimate audience in ways he cannot ordinarily
do in public, and his readers can imagine themselves in a close dialogue with the author.
Because NESFA has allowed Haldeman this forum and his readers this relationship with the
author, they have produced more than a commemorative souvenir of an sf convention. They
have allowed us to see the author more completely than the market will usually bear.
Haldeman's own essays caution us not to see him with blind indulgence but with sharpened
awareness.
--Joan Gordon
Commack.
Another Souvenir Volume from NESFA.
Emma Bull and Will Shetterly. Double Feature. NESFA Press (P.O. Box
809, Framingham, MA 01701-0203), 1994.x+264. $17.95 + $2.00 s&h in US, $4.00 s&h
elsewhere.
Much of what Joan Gordon says in the previous review can be applied to this interesting
and well-edited volume. Not so well known and considerably younger than Joe Haldeman, Emma
Bull and Will Shetterly (woman and husband) are perhaps even more involved with fandom and
sf activities, so that this book may be said to be concerned entirely, in the selection of
work to be reprinted or resurrected from the rejection file as well as in the specially
written headnotes and bibliographies, with their work as writers, editors, and publishers.
During the last ten years each has published four or five novels and a dozen or so short
stories. As collaborators they have created an imaginary world and made it into a
"shared world," having edited the five volumes of the LIAVEK series, which
include contributions by various other writers as well as by themselves. As proprietors of
the Steel Dragon Press, they have published fictions by Steven Brust, Larry Niven, Jane
Yolen, and Barry B. Longyear and four comic books.
--RDM
The Filial Alternative.
Susan Strong Hassler and Donald M. Hassler, eds.
Arthur Machen & Montgomery Evans: Letters of
a Literary Friendship, 1923-1947. Kent State UP (800-666-2211), 1994.
x+195. $26.00.
One would hate to be called a groupie, and might even bridle at fan, with its
suggestion of uncritical adulation. But those of us who when young imbibed as readers so
deeply of literary nectar that we never sobered up, even after recognizing that we have
little or no creative talent, must seek some exercise, some work to accompany the
morning-after drink which we must take to ward off the hangover but which would otherwise
plunge us into fannish drunkenness. So we clerk in a bookstore, or write for or edit a
little magazine, or do graduate work in and then profess literature, or become a
book-collector-- some or all of these or something similar, well aware that the more
active we become the more likely it is that we will call down on our heads the wrath of
"real" writers (see Gary K. Wolf's report on the 1993 World Fantasy Convention,
page 34 of the January 1994 Locus).
These meanderings (which have some relationships to my meanderings on love and honor in
the review that follows this one) were brought on partly by Joan Gordon's review (above)
but mostly by the Hasslers' Prologue and Introduction to the book under review. The
Prologue begins:
Often in literary history, relationships among writers suggest family connections.
Those who write, or want to write, seem to want to be seen together in one large tribe, or
tribes. There exist, of course, outsiders, orphans, bastards, pretenders, even bounders,
but those relationships also comprise a sort of family. Generally the lineages are easier
and more obvious to trace; and so the fascination that we find in literary history and in
our work on the texts of these letters has come in part from our gradual recognition of
the large family of letters. In a small way, we feel more a part of that family now. One
way to see this book is as our attempt to share that feeling. (vii)
The Introduction is titled "The Filial Alternative." The alternative is, in
one sense, a way of writing literary history; in another sense, a way of positioning
oneself in the literary community. Montgomery Evans, as a wealthy young man, began as a
collector. He chose to collect, as many collectors seem to do, the work of a writer
somewhat obscure but of some critical esteem--as it happened, Arthur Machen, whose
fantasies enjoyed a bit of a vogue among the general readership in the 1920s (and are
still admired by fantasy enthusiasts). In 1923 the 22-year-old Evans and a friend, with
letters of introduction, called on the 60-year-old Machen and were graciously received.
That visit led to a friendship maintained through correspondence and visits paid by the
world-traveling Evans until Machen's death in 1947. Evans looked on Machen as on a
beloved father and frequently sent him gifts (food parcels during the war years). Their
correspondence ranged over all subjects, especially literature and politics. After
Machen's death Evans gathered Machen's letters into the two large notebooks that formed
the basis for the present work. The Hasslers, having interviewed surviving friends and
relatives of both Evans and Machen, have provided commentary on the relationship and on
the literary world of the time, so that this is a quite unusual and most interesting work.
--RDM.
Approaching Utopia via a Technological
Plateau.
Howard P. Segal. Future
Imperfect: The Mixed Blessings of Technology in America. University
of Massachusetts Press (413-545-2219), 1994. xviii+245. $40.00 cloth, $15.95 paper.
There is a scene in Metropolis, a confrontation between Masterman and his son,
in which Masterman says "God is Power" and the son replies "No, God is
Love." It is erroneous to oppose love to power. To love is to submit to power; to be
loved is to enjoy power. The true opposition is between love and honor. Love asks us to
acknowledge our weakness and submit to the stronger; honor demands that we assert our
strength and submit to no one. We seek some sort of synthesis in compromise: an
acknowledgement of weakness and an assertion of strength that neither promises nor demands
absolute submission. Metropolis ends with Masterman's promising that the rich
will henceforth be kind to the poor.
Love and honor are matters of the spirit; we are also physical creatures and as such
seek physical comfort. Utopia is a place in which everyone is comfortable both spiritually
and physically. The apology for not sharing the wealth seems always to have been that
there is not enough to go around--not enough, that is, if our country is to have the
appurtenances of civilization. The many must be poor so that the few can be rich enough to
build magnificent buildings and otherwise fund the arts. The promise of advancing
technology has been that it will someday no longer be necessary for (in the words of FDR)
one third of the nation to be ill-housed, ill-clad, ill-fed. That it might also serve to
moderate the inequalities of power relationships has been less attended to.
Despite its subtitle, Future Imperfect is not directly concerned with the ways
in which technological advance has added to and subtracted from our spiritual and physical
comforts. It is rather concerned with the "American Ideology of Technological
Progress," that is, with what intellectuals and publicists have over the years had to
say about the possibilities and probabilities opened up by technological advance. Part I,
"Technology and American History Rethought," is concerned, inter alia,
with Leo Marx, Alexis de Toqueville, the concept of the middle landscape, and the concept
of a technological plateau. Part II, "Technological Museums Revisited," begins
with an account of the professionalization of technological work in America (the gradual
replacement of the gentlemen amateurs by university-trained engineers) and continues with
an account of the ways in which museums have reflected and contributed to the
technological optimism that has generally characterized our history. The single chapter of
the fourth and final part, "High Tech and the Burden of History; or, The Many Ironies
of Contemporary Technological Optimism," is devoted to the inadequacies of such
popular prophets as Alvin Toffler and John Naisbitt, to the ways in which American history
is falsified by advertisers, publicists, and especially by such institutions as Disney's
EPCOT Center, and to examining (and generally deflating) the claims that our
"information age" will lead to decentralization of power and greater freedom for
ordinary citizens (on this point, compare Terence Whalen's "The Future of a
Commodity" in the March 1992 SFS).
Part III, "Four Technological Visions Reexamined," with its acute analyses of
Bellamy's Looking Backward, Mary E. Bradley Lane's Mizora ("the
First Feminist Technological Utopia"), Vonnegut's Player Piano, and the
various works of Lewis Mumford, will be of most direct interest to students of literature.
But we are citizens as well as students and so in these dreadful times, when the prospects
for a decent society seem dimmer than ever before in our century, we search for a glimmer
of hope. One can be found in chapter 3, "The Automobile and the Prospect of an
American Technological Plateau": a society in which technology has become
sufficiently advanced and widespread that equivalent attention can be given to achieving
equally vital nontechnological improvements: social, economic, cultural, political, and so
forth.... It is also to propose that beyond a certain level of affluence for increasing
numbers of citizens --a level I concede hardly yet reached by millions of Americans and
others-- further technological advances are less and less important and less and less
appreciated. Instead, other objectives--such as avoiding boredom, institutionalizing
diversity at both work and leisure, extending democracy, and preserving the remaining
natural environment--gradually become paramount. (33-34)
Early on Segal speaks of America's inheriting "a European tradition of utopianism,
which gradually altered the prospect for the realization of utopia from the 'impossible'
to the 'possible' to the 'probable," (5). The probability has faded away during this
century as the fruits of technology have been consumed in the pursuit of honor. Segal
himself is less than optimistic that "a technological plateau will become a conscious
goal of a majority of Americans rather than a de facto development among a minority"
(35). But in the midst of doubt we can continue to hope that technology will someday make
it possible for the demands of love to rival those of honor.
All in all, Future Imperfect is one of the most rewarding books to come my way
in the last few years.
--RDM.
Curtain Up!
Ralph Willingham. Science Fiction and the Theatre. Contributions
to the Study of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57. Greenwood Press (800-225-5800), 1993.
xiv+213. $55.00.
A popular impression is that there has been very little science fiction on the stage. A
corollary is that the two forms are incompatible. Ralph Willingham's new study, Science
Fiction and the Theatre, the first full consideration of the history and
possibilities of sf in the theatre,* refutes the first and attempts to discover
why the second has been so deplorably constant to date.
He makes clear that he is not merely seeking to lodge sf per se onto the boards;
his ambition is to recreate the strengths of theatre itself with the help of the strengths
which sf can offer.
He admits that very little sf theatre of substance exists; this is probably due to
"mutual misconceptions" of writers in both fields. In addition, most
theatre-goers and fantasy fans as well have been under the impression that sf, too often
defined with mad scientists, monsters, images of colossal space scenery and technological
razzle dazzle, is impractical in the theatre. He demonstrates that for better or worse,
each of these sf-subgenre has appeared in some form on stage, and while it is hardly an
overwhelming number, he lists and briefly describes no less than 328 plays, operas, and
performance pieces which can properly be labeled as sf, including more than a dozen on the
Frankenstein theme alone. This does not even include the numerous children's theatre
pieces which satisfy the category. This remarkable research into ancient and modern sf
theatre, renowned and forgotten and even as yet unstaged, does not negate his primary
intention not to discuss sf plays as such but instead to discuss the influence of sf on
the theatre, and not the reverse.
He believes theatre has failed to take advantage of what sf can offer it. Sf writers
have been reluctant to work for the stage, while playwrights without an sf background have
failed to use it well. In a bold statement he complains about contemporary theatre that it
"has become ordinary because so much of it is about ordinary people having ordinary
problems," ignoring the work of Tony Kushner, Jon Robin Baitz, and David Mamet, whose
strengths arise from their root in what appears to be the commonplace. His conviction is
that it is precisely the imaginative loops of sf which would revivify Theatre and lend it
new stature, new avenues of expression. Comparing theatrical sf to the sf of
human-oriented writers such as Le Guin and Blish, the sf plays he catalogs are, he feels,
as "ordinary" as today's stagefare, the work of writers working with tired
formulae. The problem has been, with too few exceptions, that fantasy elements are
intended as entertainment and not as intellectual challenges.
He finds two basic causes for this situation. One is the tendency of individuals
outside the genre to consider it merely escapist literature. He does not deny that much of
sf is just that, but at its best, it is rich literature, he feels, with characterization
equal to the best of theatre. The playwright who can utilize such sf can offer the theatre
something it desperately needs. This demands a perception of sf beyond the cliches as well
as the public conception of the genre as either weirdly dressed characters usually in
musical comedy, or as satire, allegory, or other message.
The second reason for the failure of sf to become an element of the theatre is the
expectation of theatre people and audiences alike that any play of sf must actually create
the vast fantasy described or implied, something better done on film. The author describes
sf classics which have been spare in terms of technology or gadgetry, such as Isaac
Asimov's Foundation; nearly all its fantastic events occur not in the action of
the novels but "offstage." He points out in a chapter on staging problems, that
Shakespeare could create vast scenes for his Globe audiences with words and little
scenery, that Capek's R.U.R. relied alone on costume and make-up, and Shaw's 30th
century was able to display its technology with a television phone. Ray Bradbury's
one-acts and even his full-length adaptation of his novel The Martian Chronicles
do not require elaborate sets. Willingham offers other examples which with proper
expository preparation and imaginative staging manage without vast expenditures for
eye-boggling stage machinery, including Staurt Gordon's adaptation of Kurt Vonnegut's The
Sirens of Titan and Constance Congdon's intriguing-sounding Tales of the Lost
Formicans.
In partial rebuttal, stage sense dictates that offstage events and effects do not make
good theatre. Willingham himself points out that the ancient Greeks used machinery to
introduce their gods on stage. Furthermore, while simplicity is always a virtue, is it an
economics-dictated virtue? Bradbury's showcase of his Fahrenheit 451, listed but
not discussed in the Appendix, was a modest production which failed as either good drama
or a musical, but a viewer sensed that had it reached professional status, some spectacle
would have enhanced it. Unlisted is a 1991 small budget adaptation by Harv Dean of H. G.
Wells' The Time Machine. The crudity of its assumed effects plus a script which
reduced the book wholly to its allegory doomed it. Better work in each would have helped.
Spectacle will not of itself produce a success. The author compares Via Galactica,
an elaborate production of a pop sf-line musical which failed, with a vest-pocket sf
musical show, Warp!, with mock special effects and a cult following, but no more
successful. The appendix lists Dave Clark's Time, the most spectacular show I
have ever seen, but even with the canned voice of Lawrence Olivier as a disembodied head
in space, only the desire to see those effects at the climax (the entire theatre throbbed
and glowed like a great spaceship) restrained our early escape from its trite plot.
It is a mixed conclusion. One might say that while economy is admirable, and its
restraints may in some instances actually make for better theatre, Willingham is being
unrealistic. Today's non-sf Broadway musical scene consists almost wholly of spectacular
shows such as Les Misérables, Miss Saigon and Cats; Andrew Lloyd
Webber's Sunset Boulevard will debut at an unheard of $12 million. It is a norm
that audiences spending a good deal for a night at the theatre apparently expect. Business
expediency dictates star actors as well.
His history of sf drama is an excellent and comprehensive summary, indicating that the
public will accept scientific themes, even though the science may be sugar-coated. He
commences engagingly with a 17th century farce about a fatuous scientist, considers sf in
opera, such as Offenbach's robot coloratura in The Tales of Hoffman, thence into
the 1920s with undisguised and skillfully written science fiction: Karel Capek's real
robots in the play still most widely associated with science-fiction theatre, R.U.R.;
Shaw's Back To Methusaleh, an extended span of life; and Maurice Browne's 1928 Wings
Over Europe, atomic energy. The list continues to our own time. An interesting
subject by itself is his account of the many adaptations of the book which many consider
the first true sf novel, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Its pirated and inferior
theatrical versions, popular almost immediately after the novel's appearance, are now
available only by contemporary account, but they "set the low standards that have
prevailed in science fiction drama to this day." However, he singles out for praise a
1988 production of Barbara Fields' Playing With Fire (after "Frankenstein"),
a modest, small-cast production in the Brechtian mode and faithful to the spirit of the
novel.
In his consideration of contemporary plays he reveals a tendency, elaborated in a
chapter offering six somewhat esoteric "samples," to admire plays of ideas,
possibly more literary than stageworthy. It was this very quality, not only its 7-hour
length which has relegated Shaw's Back to Methusaleh to the printed page for most
of its life. In our own time, Nicholas Nickleby and Angels in America, of
similar length, have had memorable and successful runs, performed in halves. He mentions
but fails to perceive the success and artistic importance of the Glass/Wilson opera, Einstein
On the Beach, a brilliant if discursive five-hour piece whose climax, influenced by
Fritz Lang's Metropolis, is sf. The theatre needs ideational drama, and should
take risks, but not at the danger of boring an audience. Of the plays Willingham praises
as potential models for the goals he espouses, some have received a single or at most a
few performances; others have never been staged at all. The best-known is a monologue. The
playwrights are respected, but the prose of the excerpts appears affected. There is
something of literary elitism here. The monologue is the Glass-Sirlin-Hwang 1000
Airplanes on the Roof, on stage a Joycean melange of words, music and projections.
The recorded CD includes not a word of dialogue. This scarcely seems to be a path for sf
theatre.
The author lists but does not discuss the later and large-scale Metropolitan Opera
production of the Glass-Hwang opera The Voyage, visually a compromise between the
literal and the realistic with the voyages of Columbus sandwiched between those of
extraterrestrials and of earthly space travelers. Textually it is pompous. Its style
satisfied no one much at all. He errs in a statement that the sub-genre of cyberpunk has
not yet been addressed. The performance art of the Survival Research Laboratories of San
Francisco has produced purely visual works in the genre, but without human characters (See
Veronica Hollinger, "Playing at the End of the World: Postmodern Theatre," Staging
the Impossible, 182). The Banff Center for the Arts has sponsored The City and
Memory, an interactive computer performance piece by Toni Dove and Michael Mackenzie.
As described in SFS #62, it is derived from Virtual Reality techniques. With its need for
technological gadgetry this is theatre for the individual rather than traditional communal
theatre, but beneath its apparent Max Headroom surface, it offers a real human situation,
the investigation of the murder of a child within a crumbling city. W.A. Dwiggins's
full-fledged sf play, Millenium I, not listed here, was written for marionettes,
but has human characters. These are essentially intellectualized exercises.
Since comedy and satire have been part of sf since Cyrano and Swift, they would appear
easily incorporated onto the stage. In a chapter on comedy in sf theatre, Willingham
discovers half a dozen of some originality but bemoans the tendency of others to fall back
on cliches. There are several he missed. He found several Frankenstein comedies but Have
I Got A Girl For You! was not one of them. It may not sound like sf, but this 1986
musical by Joel Green- house and Penny Rockwell, inept but funny, was an adaptation of the
film The Bride of Frankenstein. Barry Keating and Stuart Ross's Star-Mites,
a bargain-basement production which missed in every sense, had the temerity to appear in
1989 on Broadway with an intergalactic plot about a girl who loved a comic book hero. In
early 1992, the composer of Little Shop of Horrors, Alan Menken, failed to repeat
his success with two one-act sf stories, Weird Romance (book by Alan Brennert).
The field still remains wide-open.
Willingham's book is an excellent reference work, no less so for its forthright writing
style. Can fantasy and science fiction on stage ever be other than genre plays? If his
"samples," or others, can reveal the inner fire which produces great theatre,
his primary concern for sf as genuine theatre will have been realized.
*A prior book, Staging the
Impossible, edited by Patrick D. Murphy, was published in 1992 by Greenwood Press,
attempting with mixed results to study fantasy in the theatre, and offering a perfunctory
overview in two chapters on Science Fiction. See my review in SFS #61, November 1993
--Ben P. Indick Teaneck, NJ.
The Human/Machine Interface.
Richard D. Erlich and Thomas P. Dunn, eds.
Clockworks: A Multimedia Bibliography of Works Useful
for the Study of the Human/Machine Interface in SF. Greenwood Press
(800-225-5800), 1993. xvi+324. $75.00.
The entries in this compilation, all annotated in longer or shorter form, are grouped
into nine sections: 1. Reference Works; 2. Anthologies and Collections; 3. Fiction; 4.
Literary Criticism; 5. Stage, Screen, and Television Drama; 6. Stage, Screen, and
Television Drama Criticism; 7. Graphic and Plastic Arts; 8. Music; 9. Background Reading.
To describe what the compilers of this bibliography set out to do, it is perhaps best
to let them use their own words: We privilege humans in defining "useful works"
in dealing with the "human/ machine interface." We also have thought a great
deal about the insights of M.P. Esmonde's essay on "...The Icon of the Robot in
Children's Science Fiction." ... E.g. we cite works where one can judge machines as
either good or bad. We cite works where our relationship with machines tells us something
about the human-- either as an eternal essence or a (historically) constructed category.
How many prosthetics can we add to human beings before those human beings become cyborgs?
Would it be well for us to become cyborgs, helping to break down categories?... How many
additions of mechanical or electronic parts before the cyborg becomes (just) a machine?
Conversely, can a machine make itself into a human being? About being a machine? What does
it do to humans to be inside machines? Can metaphorical apparat (the apparatus of
the State) become sufficiently "mechanical" that it becomes a fairly literal
machine? And so forth. We favored works where machines were of thematic significance, and
the themes had to do (mostly) with humanity: our philosophies, self-image, and
politics--including politics of race, class, gender, and, in a couple of instances, age
and generation. (xiv)
The compilers don't feel any need to define sf or machines or the human/ machine
interface, but my impression is that they are not interested in simple machines like
levers or in steam machines or in the tools of war, transport, industry, and communication
in general unless a tale about them reflects a philosophy of human versus machine. They
favor complex machines, especially those of the pseudo-human form (like robots) or
information processing machines like computers. I take it that a novel about the
"Zulu war machine" wouldn't do and that texts about human beings broken on the
rack or the wheel would fail to qualify as dealing with the human/ machine interface. On
the one hand we see that Brian W. Aldiss's HELLICONIA TRILOGY is
included--something that I, being of a simple mind, would consider as in principle dealing
with the bashing-in of heads in an exotic setting. On the other hand, Stanislaw Lem's Solaris,
which talks a lot about machines, is not included. The compilers perhaps share the opinion
expressed by Algis Budrys in 1971: "though the word here is 'machines,' what Lem goes
on to describe are exclusively architectural features--groins, vaults, pillars
etc.--rather than shafts, gears, cathodes, lenses, resonators and other transmission
devices. Since anything recognizably mechanical must by definition have recognizable parts
with centuries-old names, they are prima facie not at all beyond the power of
interstellar Mankind to build" (Benchmarks [Southern Illinois UP, 1985],
309-10). This is an astonishing piece of prose. Who would have thought that there exists
an American sf reviewer who has either never heard of computers, or perhaps doesn't
consider a computer a machine, or thinks that computers still have cathodes? Or that
cathodes are hundreds of years old? And there are scientists who think that we are all
organic machines/computers.
Within these boundaries, the coverage of the compilers seems fairly comprehensive and
useful, although one can always point to omissions, especially when you turn to foreign
works with which American readers are less familiar, e.g. Ernst Jünger's The Glass
Bees (1957), or, for the "Background" section, the work of Hans Moravec, an
advocate of an "sf-like" computer-generated "immortality." You have to
remember that R.U.R. is a play or look him up in the index to find Karel
Čapek,
since The Absolute at Large is not listed. Needless to say, I haven't checked all
the entries, only sampled a few on relevant writers with whose work I am familiar.
Stanislaw Lem is well-represented (although the commentaries are sometimes a bit odd),
but of course his important ground-breaking philosophical work that decades ago discussed
questions of identity from a cybernetic point of view, virtual worlds and cyberspace and
the like, isn't mentioned since it hasn't been translated yet. But the Strugatskys are
definitely under-represented. Only Far Rainbow is listed, but not Prisoners
of Power (with its variety of advanced machinery) or Monday Begins on Saturday or
The Tale of the Troika (with its talking black box). And what about Roadside
Picnic? The alien artifacts clearly are machines, and the whole novel is about human
interaction with them. On the other hand, Frederik Pohl's Heechee novels, in which the
subject matter is identical, are of course included. It is hardly surprising that Pohl's
novels are more popular than the Strugatsky work, but it is surprising that apparently
nobody has commented on the similarities between them. Both are about alien artifacts
found in the cosmos or at certain locations on Earth. But while Pohl treats the interface
with the often dangerous artifacts as a lottery which costs some people their lives and
makes others incredibly rich, with the banal message that it is better to be rich than
dead, the Strugatskys treat their mystery in an existential manner: it brings out the
hidden qualities in their protagonists. In sf, it is the fate of the thoughtful works to
be largely ignored, while those that are colorful and (because of their banality) very
readable sweep the awards.
In sf, most influential in the human/machine interface have been Asimov's Three Laws of
Robotics, not because of their intellectual brilliance or usefulness for the construction
of real robots (they have none), but rather because of their unlimited dramatizing
possibilities. They opened for sf a purely rhetorical possibility that has no connection
with real life but offers good fictional gambits. The starting point is always an apparent
violation of the Three Laws; and the author then goes on to show that the Three Laws were
not broken after all and that this impression resulted only from an imperfect human
understanding of those laws which were properly understood only by the robot specialist.
Much the same might be said for the "Cyberspace" of William Gibson, another
fairy-tale construct that has no connection with the virtual space of actual computers.
What it correctly prefigures is only that computers will get ever more
"user-friendly," and that no user need understand the first thing about them. It
is all a matter of "intuition," the myth of the hacker who knows nothing but
instinctively grasps everything. Nobody believes in a Protestant work ethic any more; sf
is part of the new irrationalism that believes in "talents" that cannot be
understood, and therefore need not be explained; at best they can be illustrated by some
(rather uninspired) computer-graphics.
Clockworks seems to be a good beginning towards the goal aimed at by the
compilers.
--Franz Rottensteiner Vienna.
Ecological Awareness in German Sf.
Amy Stapleton. Utopias
for a Dying World: Contemporary German Science Fiction's Plea for a New Ecological
Awareness. German Life and Civilization No. 13. Peter Lang Publishing
(212-764-1471), 1993. 158p. $37.95.
Amy Stapleton's thesis Utopias for a Dying World is the first study in English
of contemporary German science fiction, and, after Ulrike Gottwald's Science Fiction
(SF) als Literatur in der Bundesrepublik der siebziger und achtziger Jahre (Peter
Lang, 1990), which for the most part simply assembles a number of reviews of German
authors/works, the second on this topic in any language. Stapleton doesn't claim that a
new ecological awareness is the dominant feature of German sf, but rather selects works
that show such an awareness. For Gottwald, the favorite motifs of German sf were time
travel, alternate and parallel worlds, and post-doomsday societies. Stapleton is of the
opinion that most citizens of Western civilization haven't yet recognized the seriousness
of the self-caused ecological crisis, and she agrees with those thinkers who stress the
necessity of a new ecological orientation, a change of consciousness. In the first
chapter, Stapleton establishes a theoretical background for her analyses of specific sf
texts by discussing four German books on the ecological crisis: Klaus Michael
Mayer-Abich's Wege zum Frieden mit der Natur, Carl Friedrich von Weizsäcker's Bewusstseins-wandel,
Carl Amery's Die ökologische Chance, and Robert Jungk's Und Wasser bricht
den Stein.
In the second chapter Stapleton deals with "Science Fiction as a
Consciousness-shaping Vehicle." Although sf, as "popular literature" or
"Trivialliteratur," generally has a larger audience than elitist works of
literature, it is nevertheless more subject to market rules. Publishers very rarely
publish sf with a didactic purpose in mind, and readers as a rule rarely buy sf to be
enlightened, so that a large part of sf in Germany and elsewhere is really escape
literature, especially those works that Stapleton doesn't care to mention. In her analysis
of individual works Stapleton first turns to "negative utopias." In
"Negative Utopias--I" she discusses four novels and one novel series of an
apocalyptic nature, written for quite different audiences, from juvenile readers to lovers
of space opera. They comprise two young-adult novels by Gudrun Pausewang, a novel about a
future Germany by Matthias Horx, a well-known "Zeitgeist" journalist, a novel by
H.W. Franke, by many considered to be Germany's leading sf writer, and a popular series by
the eminently successful and prolific Wolfgang Hohlbein. Her conclusion is that, except
for the "Charity" series by W. Hohlbein, these novels, despite certain
conceptual weaknesses, serve a fundamental and most important function: "They force
their readers to think, and more specifically, to review their own attitudes towards
technology, towards a military-based world economy, and towards political and social
structures which blindly pursue the same old destructive course" (65). One can hardly
take issue with the analyses of Stapleton, but one wonders why she hasn't included an
author like Michael Springer, whose novels Was morgen geschah (1979), Bronnen
(1981), and Leonardos Dilemma (1986) credibly evoke catastrophal settings.
In "Negative Utopias--II," Stapleton takes a look at some of the best German
short stories, those by Karlheinz and Angela Steinmüller (a husband-wife team from the
former GDR), Peter Schattschneider, and Karl Michael Armer, amongst others. "To
support their potential for bringing about a Bewusstseinswandel [consciousness change] on
the personal level, these stories need to be read in a way which looks beyond the
effectiveness of their scenarios and elements of suspense or intrigue" (89). Her
readings of the stories sometimes tend to be a bit forced. Under the heading
"Uncertain Utopias" Stapleton summarizes three novels by Carl Amery (both an sf
author and a mainstream writer and journalist who has dealt extensively with ecological
and theological questions), Maria J. Pfannholz (whose Den Überlebenden is one of
the best of the "Bajavarian German sf novels"), and Peter Lorenz (another GDR
novelist). In Amery and Pfannholz, Stapleton notes a certain negative attitude and a
preference for "losers" that renders the fight for ecology like a fight against
windmills and precludes any reasonable effort for the preservation of the environment. She
considers these works to be defeatist, generating rather mixed reactions in the reader.
Hardly more successful is the search for "Positive Utopias," and Stapleton is
forced to agree with anthologist Horst Heidtmann in the preface of one of his anthologies:
"Positive utopias cannot be written any more as they were written a hundred years
ago." Even when authors want to invent a better future, they are obliged not to
overlook the dangers of progress. Aside from H.W. Franke's novel Endzeit,
Stapleton's examples here are mostly taken from GDR sf: Bernd Ulbrich, Klaus Möckel, the
Steinmüllers, Waldtraut Lewin, and Johanna and Günter Braun.
Stapleton concludes that to achieve a real "Bewusstseinswandel," it is
necessary to change attitudes beyond the narrow circles of sf and other books dealing
specifically with ecological questions. But such a consistent strategy to achieve a
"Bewusstseinswandel" is nowhere in sight: it cannot be deduced from her texts or
from German sf in general; it is rather a viewpoint chosen to unify her thesis (although
it would be possible to cite further and in many cases stronger examples, e.g. Christof
Schade's novel Der genetische Krieg [1985], a heavily ideological work that deals
with the reduction of the gene reservoir by the introduction of super-productive but
infertile seeds; Lothar Streblow's short story collection Sundera [1984], or
Reinhard Wegerth's Der grosse grüne Atemstreik [1985]). I doubt that a
"plea for a new ecological awareness" is a common or dominant concern of German
sf, which rather offers, as does sf everywhere, a wide range of themes, motifs, and
viewpoints, as well as many levels of literary excellence or indifference.
--Franz Rottensteiner Vienna.
The
Complete Text of a Hitherto Abridged Masterpiece.
John Cowper Powys. Porius:
A Romance of the Dark Ages. New edition. Ed. Wilbur Albrecht. Colgate
UP (800-365-8919), 1994. xxii+873. $48.95.
Although not sf and only in small part fantasy, this romance should be of interest to
many readers of SFS as perhaps our century's most profound treatment of the Matter of
Britain. The editor's introduction traces the history of the text from the manuscript
through the publication of the abridged first edition (1951) and the preparation of the
present edition, which is half again as long as the first. The author's preface,
"Historic Background to the Year of Grace A.D. 499," tells us that since
virtually no British documents have survived from between the middle of the 5th century
and the middle of the 6th, it seems "highly probable that this historic blank...was
filled with Arthur's powerful and prosperous rule, this lack of documentary history being
itself evidence that for one generation at least matters in this island were well under
control" (xvii). The action takes place during eight October days in a valley in
northern Wales ruled by the descendants of the Brython Cunedda (of whom there is
historical record). The tale is one of contending peoples (Picts, Scots, Berbers,
Romanized Brythons, Brythonized Romans, and Saxon invaders, with the last two survivors of
the corpse-eating aboriginal giants thrown in for good measure) and of contending
philosophies (Druidism, Roman Paganism, Mithraism, Christianity, Agnosticism). In addition
to Porius (great-great-grandson of Cunedda, with Romans, Berbers, and a giantess among his
forebears), the characters include Arthur, Taliessen (who recites a number of his poems),
the author of the Mabinogion (it seems, 817), and most important of all, Merlin,
whose attitude towards the gods perhaps represents the basic philosophy of book.
--RDM.
The Tone's the Thing.
Tom Shippey, ed. The
Oxford Book of Fantasy Stories. Oxford and NY: Oxford UP, 1992.
xxii+499. $25.00.
Shippey's anthology, parallel in presentation to his Oxford Book of Science Fiction
Stories reviewed in SFS #60, is every bit as professionally done as that earlier
volume. A select bibliography of single and shared author and edited anthologies of
fantasy, a brief but useful critical bibliography, and a thoroughly researched and
meticulously presented six pages of sources (including author dates, places and dates of
first publication, and reprint information for each story) and source acknowledgments are
appended to this collection of 31 stories, beginning with Richard Garnett's "The
Demon Pope" (1888) and ending with Terry Pratchett's "Troll Bridge" (1992).
The selections range widely through the genre, including turn-of-the-century stories just
breaking free from the tradition of "genteel fantasy" (by Garnett and Buchan),
those opposing science to magic or law to chaos (Brunner, Niven, Anderson, Davidson,
Pratchett), those relying on "themes and figures from ancestor-genres" (Yolen,
Carter, Lee), sword and sorcery (Dunsany, Howard, Moore, Leiber, Vance), and urban
fantasies (Peake, Beagle, Tiptree, Eisenstein, Shepard), as well as mixed-genre stories by
Lovecraft, Wellman, Kuttner, and others.
Shippey briefly recounts the genre's history and convincingly justifies his selections
in a detailed informative introduction that distinguishes modern fantasy from its
precursors through a parallel relation to science fiction and its emphases:
The distinctive feature of modern fantasy as opposed to its premodern precursors
is...not just an interest in the supernatural/impossible, but a demand that the element be
brought into some accommodation with the rational and the scientific. (xv)
This demand, in Shippey's view, further manifests itself in "a wish to control, to
explore, to discover the rules and absorb the implications of the other world which
produces fantastic events" (xiv). As it both tailors his selection process and
focuses his introduction on modern fantasy, this position assists Shippey's production of
an impressive anthology, one worthy of the "Oxford Book" title.
However, another agenda, one somewhat disturbing to this reader, informs Shippey's
introduction. Early in his argument, while discussing the presence of an element
"known to be impossible" as a necessary identifying feature of fantasy, Shippey
attacks "current academic definitions, which leave one wondering whether those who
produce them ever stray into an ordinary bookshop at all," then proceeds to
misrepresent Todorov's "fantastic" as an attempt to define fantasy alone (xi).
In the process, he reduces a full page of Todorov to a four line quote, eliding the
critic's categories of the fantastic, the uncanny, and the marvelous. This reductive
gesture allows Shippey to "prove" Todorov somehow both wrong and out of touch
with "ordinary" bookshops and readers through an examination of stories by
Eisenstein and Tiptree (Alice Sheldon) that, in this writer's view, validate Todorov's
argument. By introduction's end, Shippey claims that fantasy is not merely neglected, but
"despised" by "academic criticism," then refers generally, but not by
name, to two recent studies of the genre that either forsake popular fantasy writers for
commentary on canonical authors, or apply the pejorative terms "cult" and
"industry" while discussing the genre (xxi). This indictment of the academic as
somehow always already outside "ordinary" experience combines with his argument
that, finally, "the true appeal of modern fantasy" lies not "in what one
can get out of it" but "instead in a tone" evoked by fantasy elements
presented in opposition to "the increasingly powerful forces of secularity and
rationalism" (xx-xxi), thereby banishing academic inquiry from the paradoxically
ordinary experience of fantasy. Shippey, then, denies academic discourse access to fantasy
while simultaneously calling for the recognition and the "rescue [of] a powerful
living tradition from academic marginalization" (xxii). This evocation of an
apparently irreconcilable opposition between the academic and the popular pervades the
tone of Shippey's introduction and mars an otherwise quality anthology, sustained by an
informative definition of modern fantasy as parallel to yet distinct from science fiction.
--Jake Jakaitis, Indiana
State University.
Gary K. Wolfe
On Some Recent Scholarship
The following reviews were written for Locus and are printed here with the
permission of its editor-publisher, Charles N. Brown. The purpose of this department is to
provide prompt notices of scholarly/critical works on sf, some of which will treated at
greater length in later issues by specialist scholars, or simply to provide SFS readers
with a review in those cases where the publishers have failed to send SFS a review-copy.
Professor Wolfe, whose Known and Unknown: The Iconography of Science Fiction
(1979) is a classic of sf criticism, is one of the few scholars who take all sf as their
province and so is well qualified for this task.--RDM.
Jane M. Lindsold. Roger Zelazny. Twayne Publishers (800-343-2806), 1994.
166p. $22.95. Twayne's ubiquitous and apparently endless series of tightly-formatted
author studies has come late to science fiction and fantasy, and seems to give its
academic authors quite a bit of leeway as long as the prescribed format is satisfied. This
has resulted in wildly inconsistent approaches to sf writers such as Le Guin, Herbert,
Asimov, Dick, Heinlein, and Harry Harrison, and some platforms for pretty quirky critical
theories.
Jane M. Lindskold's Roger Zelazny is No. 640 in Twayne's United States Authors
series, and the third booklength critical study of Zelazny's work (the first two being
Carl Yoke's Starmont Guide in 1979 and Theodore Krulik's Ungar volume in 1986). Like Yoke
(Zelazny's friend since childhood), Lindskold has had extensive support from Zelazny on
the project, and generous quotations from fairly recent Zelazny correspondence give the
book its major value. Those who already know Zelazny's work pretty well will find here a
lot of interesting background material, but anyone seeking a useful guide through the
complexities of this allusive and varied body of fiction won't get much help: the book is
almost all background. Four of the book's six main chapters simply detail
influences--schooling, reading, art, music, poetry, even martial arts (with too little
attention paid to sf contexts or precedents)--and the last two explore Zelazny heroes and
female characters (a topic more likely derived from Lindskold's own interests than from
its weight in Zelazny's work). Individual novels and stories are mentioned fragmentarily,
often only in passing, and Lindskold never conveys a real sense of the excitement of
reading Zelazny or of the ways in which he has advanced sf both stylistically and
thematically. For a guide to Zelazny's fiction, Carl Yoke's Starmont volume still remains
the best choice.
Stan Nicholls. Wordsmiths of Wonder: Fifty Interviews with Writers of the Fantastic.
Orbit, 1993. 461p. 8.99 paper. Books of author interviews, like bowls of guacamole, can be
wonderful when dipped into but monotonous and lumpy when consumed straight through.
Fortunately, Stan Nicholls--whose Wordsmiths of Wonder features interviews with
no fewer than 50 writers of sf, fantasy, and horror--is one of the better interviewers
around, choosing a wide variety of famous and less-famous subjects, permitting them to
come through as individual voices, and keeping himself out of the way. Nicholls deftly
avoids the two main traps interviewers so often fall into--either getting so involved in
minutiae about specific works that the uninitiated reader feels left out, or mechanically
going down a list of generic questions that make the interview read like a census report.
Obviously, many concerns repeat themselves from interview to interview; most of the
fantasy writers, for example, either grumble about or pay homage to Tolkien, and about
half the sf writers allow as how they can't read the stuff anymore. But new insights
emerge as well: among younger fantasy writers, the influence of Moorcock seems almost to
rival that of Tolkien. There are also some tasty ironies: American writers envy the
literary acceptance of the fantastic in England and Europe, while British writers talk of
how much better their books do in the States. Several writers complain of the big bucks
that go to formula series writers, and then Terry Brooks seems to rub it in with the
comment that "The ringing of cash registers is music to my ears."
Slightly more than half the interviews (26) are classed as sf, 13 as fantasy, and 11 as
horror--although there is obvious overlap with authors such as Moorcock, Ray Bradbury,
Robert Holdstock, Dan Simmons, and Brian Stableford, who are all included in the sf
section. Many focus heavily on current or recent books; Kim Stanley Robinson talks mostly
about his Mars trilogy, and Joe Haldeman offers helpful insights into
The Hemingway Hoax.
Among the other Big Names you'd expect to see here are Pohl, Aldiss, Moorcock, Sheckley,
Silverberg, Bear, Ballard, Donaldson, Barker, Niven and Barnes (interviewed together),
James Herbert, and Tanith Lee. But Nicholls doesn't ignore commercial or cult writers like
Brooks, Asprin, and Douglas Adams, and devotes deserved attention to writers we seldom see
in such venues, such as Howard Waldrop, Michael Swanwick, Iain M. Banks, Lisa Tuttle, and
David Wingrove. Still less familiar names show up in the horror section: Guy N. Smith,
Shaun Hutson, Jonathan Aycliffe. Nearly all the subjects seem sincere and decent, nearly
all of them whine a bit, and together they're enough to convince you that modern fantastic
literature has no center whatsoever and doesn't add up to anything. With 50 writers
covered, don't expect a lot of depth, but the breadth of coverage is the most impressive
of any such recent collection I've seen.
Ron Miller. The Dream Machines: An Illustrated History of the Spaceship in Art,
Science, and Literature. Krieger Publishing Co. (Box 9542, Melbourne, FL
32902), 1993. 714p. $112.00. I can't imagine who's actually going to shell out a hundred
and twelve dollars for Ron Miller's massive The Dream Machines, although the book
appears to be such an obsessive labor of love that I find myself hoping that someone will.
Unfortunately, despite its promising title, the book is something of a disappointment both
as a cultural history of an important icon and as a coffee-table art book. In the first
place, it isn't really a history at all, but rather a detailed year-by-year chronology of
real and imaginary spaceships and spaceship-like things from 360 B.C. to 2004 (the last
few entries are based on current projections of planned projects). This makes it pretty
convenient to look up what was going on in the world of spaceships in, say, 1657 or 1959,
but I don't think I've ever actually met anybody who would want to do that. On the other
hand, one looks for interpretive overviews almost in vain; if you want to know how
Victorian spaceships or Weimar rockets reflected the anxieties or hopes of their
societies, or why spaceships came to acquire an almost mythic status in American pop
culture, Miller doesn't give you a clue. His approach to history is that of a compiler,
and his model seems to be those massively detailed bathroom books like James Trager's
The
People's Chronology, which also tend to lack any sort of scholarly apparatus
to let you know where the author gets his information. (There's a lengthy
bibliography in the back which cavalierly mixes fiction and nonfiction, and
which notably omits almost all works on the history of technology or the history
of sf.)
Most of these complaints might go out the window if the book delivered the kind of
sumptuous color plates and lively text of the best coffee-table books, but it doesn't.
There are a total of 16 pages of color plates, most of them reduced to fit three to five
pictures on a page; those great lunacies of Paul, Bergey, or Wesso that you might hope to
find are almost invisible. Instead, the text is packed with enough schematics, profile
drawings, black-and-white photos and engravings, and sketches--many by Miller himself or
by Rick Dunning--to give it the appearance of a model-builders' handbook. But even most of
these lack captions, and few of them are interesting enough to make you want to wade
through the surrounding text to find probable references.
In Miller's favor, he provides enough summaries of both obscure and classic sf stories,
and enough detailed information about the development of real space and rocket programs
(as well as hoaxes), to give the book an undeniable reference value to anyone who wants to
study the history of the spaceship--perhaps with an eye to writing the kind of
technological/cultural history that still deserves to be written about this intriguing
topic.
Steve Holland. The Mushroom Jungle: A History of Postwar Paperback Publishing.
Zardoz/Zeon Books (20 Whitecroft, Dilton Marsh, Westbury, Wilts, BA13 4DJ, UK), 1993.
408p. 14.95. Last year saw the publication of Philip Harbottle and Stephen Holland's Vultures
of the Void: A History of British Science Fiction Publishing 1946-1955 (reviewed by
Nicholas Ruddick in SFS #60, July 1993), an entertaining if piecemeal chronicle of a
justly-ignored era of British sf, when publishers of truly Dickensian sleaziness would
sometimes lock writers in the basement to hack out reams of junk fiction, under appalling
deadlines (reportedly 70,000 words per week in the particular case in question), for a
pulp paperback industry that even Rupert Murdoch would find embarrassing. That
writer-locked-in-the- basement story, which sounds suspiciously like a colorful bit of
publishing folklore, is repeated in Holland's The Mushroom Jungle but with the
additional testimony of a corroborating witness. It's a small example of the greater
discipline and thoroughness of this full-fledged study of the postwar British paperback
industry (the title refers to the fly-by-night publishers who proliferated in vast numbers
during this time) as compared to the anecdotal nature of Vultures of the Void.
Holland apparently knows more about what's under this rock than anyone, and his detailed
accounts of print runs and buyouts can get a bit monotonous, but for scholars of this sort
of thing (if there are any), it's likely to be the standard resource for some time to
come.
If the hero of Vultures of the Void was John Russell Fearn, who as Vargo
Statten sold some five million copies of sf books in the early 1950s, the hero on this
broader canvas is the even more forgotten Stephen Frances, whose ridiculously tough
"Hank Janson" gangster stories sold more than twenty million, stayed in print
into the 1970s, and even got reprinted in America. (Near the end of his career, Frances
wrote a well-received Spanish Civil War epic, La Guerra, but he died in obscurity in
1989.) It becomes clear that the pseudo-American gangster epic was the basic model for
other genres as well, leading to such sf titles as The Human Bat v. the Robot Gangster and
to endless fake tough-guy dialogue drawn from American B-movies. An exception might be the
Westerns, which were often written in an impenetrable version of American cowboy slang and
bore equally impenetrable titles such as Owlhoot Triggers for the Law. You can't help
wonder what kind of writing lies behind such titles, and Holland gives you about as much
as you can stand by way of examples; nor can you help but wonder how they came up with
those wonderful house names (two of my favorites from the sf lists are "Vektis
Brack" and "Bengo Mistral," the latter of whom is credited by Holland as
the author of "the worst single piece of fiction ever published," Pirates of
Cerberus). Holland describes how all the major genres of pop fiction got trashed by
these small-time sleazelords, discusses the major authors and cover artists of the period,
and offers some supplementary material on censorship trials and the antihorror comics
campaign in Britain. Several publishers and writers actually spent substantial time in
jail under a Victorian obscenity law, which would seem outrageous if you didn't suspect
they deserved it on the basis of sentence structure alone. While Holland's focus is not
exclusively on sf, he offers enough insights into the British pulp world to provide
convincing evidence that Americans never again need apologize for Hugo Gernsback or Ray
Palmer or even Mickey Spillane. On the other hand, who might be the American Vektis Brack?
Brian Attebery. Teacher's Guide to the Norton Book of Science Fiction. Norton, 1993. 129pp. $00.00.
Upon first reading the Le Guin/Attebery/Fowler Norton Book of Science Fiction, I
wondered if some of the historical perspective missing from that book's selection of
stories might be provided by Brian Attebery's "Teacher's Guide," which was
unavailable at the time. It turns out that Attebery has done an excellent job, providing
not only one-page commentaries on every single story, but adding five introductory
chapters on teaching sf, sf history and marketing, and various critical approaches, along
with primary and secondary bibliographies and a list of resources. He correctly suggests
that for all its bulk, The Norton Book ought to be supplemented by some attention
to the history of sf, some discussion of marketing and publishing forces, and an awareness
of major critical approaches to the field. Although not as extensive as earlier
stand-alone teaching guides such as those by Jack Williamson and Patrick Parrinder,
Attebery's little book represents the most concerted attempt so far to bring the
resources--and vocabulary--of sf's emerging critical theory into the classroom.
One might complain that Attebery's 10-page overview of sf history is impossibly brief,
but his chapter on "Science Fiction, Literature, and the Marketplace" is one
that ought to be read by every teacher of the genre. Subsequent introductory chapters
highlight major critical concepts, with a special emphasis on Samuel R. Delany's
"subjunctivity." What is most interesting is that Attebery then brings these
specific critical concepts into play in his discussions of individual stories, boldfacing
such key terms as "novum," "estranged," "protocol,"
"extrapolation," "analogy," "icon," "megatext,"
"metaphor," and "gender." He does not, as a rule, place the stories in
the context of sf traditions or of other works not in the anthology, and it seems to me
this misses an opportunity to open up the book up further. His selection of 90-odd
recommended sf novels will also raise some eyebrows for what it excludes and includes,
especially a novel by Leigh Brackett called The Long Goodbye. (He means The
Long Tomorrow, but if Raymond Chandler starts showing up on sf course syllabi, we'll
know who to blame.) As with the anthology itself, there's much to argue with here, but on
the whole the teacher's quide, far from being a mere list of dumb "discussion
questions," genuinely adds to the value of The Norton Book of Science Fiction.
Jack Zipes. The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood. 2nd ed. Routledge (212-244-3336), 1993. 408pp.
$49.95. In 1983, folklore scholar Jack Zipes published a fascinating collection of 31
versions of "Little Red Riding Hood" from around the world, dating from Charles
Perrault's 1697 version to Angela Carter's 1979 "The Company of Wolves." The
book was more than a folkloristic survey of variations on a theme, however, and it
generated some controversy; Zipes was out to show how a simple folktale was appropriated
over time to serve consciously literary and social agendas involving sex and power, and
how many earlier interpreters of the tale (including Bruno Bettelheim) had either been
taken in by, or contributed to, these agendas. It was a landmark book in calling our
attention not only to the ways sexist values have infiltrated the literary fairy tale, but
to the crucial differences between genuine folk material and the ways in which literature
transforms that material in the service of social conditioning. Now, a second edition of The
Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood adds seven new pieces, a new
prologue, and a substantial final essay, "Reviewing and Re-Framing Little Red Riding
Hood," revised from its appearance in Zipes's collection of feminist fairy tales Don't
Bet On The Prince. The book retains Zipes's long introductory essay, which has
already become something of a classic in the scholarly analysis of the literary folktale.
Of the new additions, the most entertaining--and most relevant for sf readers--is Sally
Miller Gearhart's "Roja and Leopold," which, set in a near-future world of
corporate politics and out-of-control trendiness, manages to contrive a happy ending for
the tale while at the same time celebrating animal rights, vegetarianism, and lesbianism.
It does all this without losing a healthy sense of humor. Tanith Lee's
"Wolfland," like the Angela Carter piece, is a modern Gothic rethinking of the
tale, while Anne Sharpe's "Not So Little Red Riding Hood" updates Thurber's
famous version (also included) by substituting karate skills for Thurber's revolver. Zipes
also discovers an almost unknown playlet by Alphonse Daudet, a brief parody by Pierre
Cami, and poems by Olga Broumas and Gwen Strauss.
All this material reinforces Zipes's original argument, which is further bolstered by
his incisive discussion, in the epilogue, of the ways the tale has been illustrated
through history. (The book is richly illustrated, and even includes examples of how the
tale has been used in ads for scotch and cars, but in order to fit all the illustrations
in, many have confusingly been embedded in versions for which they were never intended.)
All that's missing to make this a comprehensive cultural history is some discussion of
various other pop culture manifestations of the tale; Stan Freberg's 1950s parody
recording, various tv and cartoon versions, or even the dumb old Sam the Sham and the
Pharaohs classic would all lend texture and support to Zipes's basic arguments.
Nevertheless, Zipes ought to be a role model for anyone who would make pronouncements
about "fairy tales" without considering the context of the particular version
they are discussing. He is both a meticulous scholar and a passionate guerilla fighter
against what he calls (borrowing from Diane Herman) "the rape culture," and his
book is not only an invaluable resource for the study of folk and fairy tales, but a model
of solid research in the service of serious and worthwhile consciousness-raising.
Katherine Burdekin. The Proud Man. Afterword by Daphne Patai. Feminist Press
(212-360-5790), 1993. 350p. $35.00 cloth, $14.95 paper. Katharine Burdekin, who died
in 1963, has remained all but invisible in critical and historical works about sf; even
Sarah Lefanu's generally well-informed Feminism and Science Fiction misidentifies her 1934
novel Proud Man as a "future dystopia," and most readers who have
heard
of Burdekin know her only through the spookily prescient Swastika Night (1937),
which --published two years before the invasion of Poland--depicted a Europe some seven
centuries after Hitler's conquest, and remains Burdekin's best work. Both of these novels
were published under the name "Murray Constantine," not so much to gain the
added leverage of a male name but--according to Daphne Patai in her afterword to the new
Feminist Press edition of Proud Man--to protect Burdekin's family from possible
repercussions against such strongly antifascist work. This alone tells us something of the
atmosphere in which Burdekin was writing, and of her perceptive understanding of the
appeal of fascism. (Burdekin had already published two time-travel fantasies under her own
name in the 1920s.)
The Feminist Press has already reprinted Swastika Night and, in 1989,
published for the first time Burdekin's far-future feminist utopia The End of This
Day's Business. Now, with Proud Man once again available, it's becoming
clear that Burdekin deserves recognition as the leading feminist utopian writer of her
era, as well as one of the most thoughtful and provocative sf writers of the 1930s--and
possibly as one of the more influential as well. Olaf Stapledon knew her work, and Daphne
Patai has provided suggestive evidence that Swastika Night may have been one of
the unacknowledged influences on Orwell's 1984. Proud Man, about a
visitor from a far-future hermaphroditic utopia to 1930s England, seems in many ways to
anticipate Doris Lessing's Canopus in Argos series, with its long expository
passages and coolly analytical questioning of the more irrational aspects of human
behavior. And the notion of exploring the role of sex in human affairs from the
perspective of a character from a society without sexes prefigures Le Guin by three and a
half decades.
We get very little information about the narrator's own society, and the strongest
sf-narrative aspect of the book is the way it explores the interpersonal effects of
telepathy. But Burdekin's real strength is her relentless and unsentimental analysis of a
startling range of human behaviors, from war and economics to homosexuality and hair and
clothing styles. During her time in London, the narrator has occasion to read and comment
on Huxley's Brave New World and Point Counter Point. This not only gives
us a sense that Burdekin knew quite well the tradition in which she was writing, but that
she viewed that tradition with a kind of critical insight we would not see again until the
feminist writers of the 1970s and 1980s. The fact that she has all but disappeared from
that tradition ought to be an embarrassment to sf history, and The Feminist Press deserves
much credit for giving her a second chance.
Isaac Asimov. I, Asimov. Doubleday, 1994.
552p. $25.00. Michael White. Asimov:
The Unauthorized Life. Orion/Millenium, 1994.
304pp. 16.99. A frustrated creative writing teacher once told me about a student who
turned in a draft of a story, apologizing that he still had to go back over it to
"put in the symbols." Isaac Asimov, who thankfully never worried much about
putting in the symbols, seems to have written I, Asimov with the express intent
of putting in the opinions that were largely invisible in his first two thick volumes of
autobiography. Both In Memory Yet Green and In Joy Still Felt-- titles
taken from a fake "anonymous" poem that Asimov wrote expressly to yield up such
titles--were strict chronological accounts of Asimov's life and career, offering few real
insights but standing as monuments to the pure power of anecdote. You found yourself
reading page after page of details about a life at least as uneventful as your own,
captivated in part by the very mundanity that ought to be putting you to sleep.
Near the end of I, Asimov, when Asimov is describing how his wife Janet
persuaded him to undertake this new autobiography (although Janet insists in an afterward
that he really wanted to do it), he offers the disarmingly simple observation that "I
have a pleasant writing style and can keep people reading, whatever I write." Short
of a complex stylistic analysis, that's about all you can say about what makes Asimov's
prose so engaging. He was our era's great artist of explanation, a master of the
declarative sentence and the lockstep paragraph, and both his fiction and his nonfiction
conspire to convince you that the world makes more sense than you thought it did. I,
Asimov--Asimov himself preferred the title Scenes from Life, another line
from that same poem, but Doubleday has opted for the pun on I, Robot--is no
exception.
For all his 470-odd books and his legendary contributions to the development of sf,
Asimov may well earn belated recognition as one of the premier short essayists
of our time. I, Asimov takes full advantage of this, consisting of 166 short chapters on
a variety of topics and people that were important to him. More than a quarter of these
chapters, not surprisingly, concern Asimov's own writings, and another quarter are
sketches of specific people, mostly family members and sf personalities. The latter is a
who's who of four decades of sf: Pohl, Kornbluth, Wollheim, Campbell, Heinlein, de Camp,
Simak, Williamson, del Rey, Sturgeon, Clarke, Gold, Boucher, Garrett, Ellison, Bova,
Clement, Silverberg, Martin H. Greenberg.
For the most part, Asimov's true feelings about these people, revealed at last, are
hardly the stuff of lid-blowing; the man seems to have been almost pathologically affable.
But whereas the earlier volumes reduced almost everyone to walk-on roles in Asimov's
galloping chronology, here they become real, and even the most familiar stories take on a
new light. The split with Campbell over dianetics, for example, is treated gingerly in
In Memory Yet Green, but what Asimov politely called "mysticism" in that
earlier book is here treated as what we all know it was--a fatal romance with
pseudo-science that critically weakened Astounding and turned Campbell into a
"diminishing shadow of what he had once been." (Elsewhere, Asimov misses the
boat when he suggests that only his own writings have kept Campbell's name alive--an
indirect expression of the fear that his own name may fade. Fat chance.) Similarly,
Heinlein's occasional mean-spiritedness and growing right-wing militance (which Asimov
seems to ascribe, Reagan-like, to a change of wives) is treated candidly, as are
Sturgeon's growing financial problems late in life. But for the most part, Asimov is
generous with his fellow writers and friends. He is less forgiving of his first wife
Gertrude, but even here he seeks to find some logical external cause for their growing
incompatibility (mainly, it seems, she smoked--even though it took more than 30 years for
this and other factors to lead to divorce).
Anyone hoping for insights into the Asimovian creative process--exactly where the
Foundation stories or the robot stories came from and how they were shaped--won't find
much more help here than in the earlier autobiographies. To the end (and much of
I, Asimov
was written from the hospital bed when he knew his days were numbered), Asimov seems
genuinely mystified by his own talent. He recounts again the famous story of how Campbell
gave him the assignment for "Nightfall," but he hasn't a clue as to why the
story was so popular. Nor did he seem to think there was much special about the Foundation
series when he turned it over to Gnome Press in 1951. When he tries to explain the
dynamics of his straight-ahead, no-nonsense narrative style, he ends up throwing up his
hands. When he achieves unexpected emotional impact--which seems to be how he gauges his
own favorite stories ("The Last Question," "The Bicentennial Man,"
"The Ugly Little Boy")--he simply ascribes it to "writing over my
head" and can't figure out how he did it. For a man who seemed almost as egotistical
as he says he is, he is constantly amazed at his own successes--the most artless of major
artists.
For all its congeniality, however, I, Asimov is inescapably the work of a
dying man. In a three-page chapter titled "Gathering Shadows," he obsessively
details the deaths of no fewer than 26 friends, and the chapters dealing with his own
heart attack, triple bypass and later hospitalizations reveal an odd mixture of clinical
detail, resignation, and embarrassment at his own mortality. By the very end of the book,
detailing his activities in May of 1990, Asimov returns to the simple catalog-of-events
style of his earlier autobiographies, almost as if to show us that he was simply too busy
to die. The very reserve and lack of sentimentality with which Asimov treats his
progressive physical decline give these chapters an almost heartbreaking quality, but he
never ceases from explanation--even when it's his own leaking mitral valve in question. I
couldn't help suspect that the fabled Asimovian wit must have seen in this final
confrontation with mortality the seeds to the greatest explanatory challenge of all--Asimov's
Guide to Death. I, Asimov is a sad book, and in some ways a tired one, and
it does nothing to modify the classic Asimovian view of himself as a convivial genius--no
grumbles from the grave here. But if Asimov wants to be charmingly opaque until the end,
what's to complain about? A man is entitled to his own myth.
With more than 2,000 pages of Asimov autobiography available, one
wonders what purpose a book such as Michael White's Asimov: The Unauthorized Life is supposed to
serve. Certainly there are lacunae in Asimov's accounts of himself and his work, and his
chronic lack of introspection leaves plenty of room for others to assess his place in the
history of sf or the history of popular literature in general. There is also plenty of
non-autobiographical material available--at least a half-dozen critical studies; endless
anecdotes in autobiographical works by Pohl, Moskowitz, Knight, Williamson, Clarke, and
others; scores of interviews; an extensive analysis of his literary relationship with
Campbell in Alexei and Cory Panshin's The World Beyond the Hill; letters of
Campbell and others; and of course the huge manuscript collection at Boston University.
Surprisingly, White makes use of almost none of this; his tiny bibliography includes only
seven badly-chosen non-Asimov titles (omitting all critical studies of Asimov except
Joseph Patrouch's 20-year-old book), and he offers no further documentation beyond a few
footnotes. White describes his visit to the Asimov collection at Boston, but shows little
evidence of having found anything there, and as far as I can see there's almost nothing
here that isn't drawn from Asimov's own writing.
As a critic or literary historian, White is a disaster. His view of sf history is
almost exclusively second-hand, drawn from Aldiss and Wingrove's Trillion Year Spree
and Scholes and Rabkin's Science Fiction: History/Science/Vision (whose subtitle
he omits in his bibliography). He thinks that "Marooned off Vesta" is "now
one of Asimov's most famous stories," that "Nightfall" is Asimov's only
attempt at emotional or philosophical fiction, that the Foundation stories
"established" space opera (at least in "the minds of teenagers," an
arguable oxymoron), that The End of Eternity is Asimov's masterpiece because it
contains a nice romance. He repeatedly refers to the robot story "The Evitable
Conflict" as "The Inevitable Conflict." He claims that the Martin Greenberg
of Gnome Press "operated honestly," which might get yelps from a lot of people
besides Asimov had White bothered to ask. He cites Robert Heinlein as a member of the
Futurians and Ray Bradbury as part of the New Wave. He even lists the star of TV's MASH,
whom Asimov met once, as "Alan Alder." It's an eye-opening book, all right.
When White makes one of his rare attempts to link Asimov's life to his fiction, he does
so with the sensitivity and gusto of Geraldo Rivera: pouncing on Asimov's complaints that
his first wife Gertrude seemed uninterested in sex, White tries to ascribe the major
novels of the 1950s to a "sexual awakening" during a self-confessed one-night
stand in Cambridge in 1953 (even while admitting that, except for The End of Eternity,
there's no more evidence of sex in Asimov's fiction than before)! Later, he tries to cast
doubt on Asimov's own boyish claims of sexual prowess, and wonders what Gertrude's side of
the story might have been, but he never tries to check it out or to demonstrate that it
has the remotest relevance to anything useful. Lame as it is, this is what presumably is
meant to give the "unauthorized" in the subtitle its hint of titillation, and if
so it's merely another example of White's naive adolescent view of the sf world.
David G. Hartwell and Kathryn
Cramer, eds. The Ascent of Wonder: The Evolution of Hard
Science Fiction. Tor Books (800-221-7945), 1994. 1004pp. $35.00. Hard
sf--the focus of the 1983 Eaton conference (and the 1986 critical book derived from it)
and last year's special issue of SFS--seems as intractable of definition as sf itself. The
latest and most ambitious contribution to the debate is this huge anthology, containing
some 67 stories, introductions by Hartwell, Cramer, and Gregory Benford, and extensive
story notes. Both Hartwell and Cramer agree that hard sf is widely perceived as somehow
being at the core of the sf enterprise, but beyond that they never quite let themselves
get pinned down to a usable definition. It's up to the reader to weasel one out of their
various comments, story introductions, and--above all--the selection of stories included.
Those who believe that hard sf can be defined historically by the period of John W.
Campbell's editorship of Astounding will find a pretty good selection of
classically Campbell-era stories and authors. From Campbell's Astounding come
stories by Hal Clement, Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore, Philip Latham, Tom Godwin, Gordon
Dickson, Clifford Simak, Raymond F. Jones, Theodore Thomas, and Vernor Vinge. Add to these
some predictable classics from Heinlein, Asimov (with three stories), Clarke (two stories
and a short-short), Poul Anderson, James Blish, Bob Shaw, and representative works by more
recent heirs of this tradition such as Robert L. Forward, Dean Ing, Gregory Benford,
Donald M. Kingsbury, Larry Niven, James P. Hogan, Greg Bear, and David Brin--and you've
got a pretty healthy selection of stories of the sort you would expect in an anthology of
this scope. But soon fuzziness sets in. The stories above constitute about two-fifths of
the contents of Ascent of Wonder. The remainder, including a handful of
historical precedents (Verne, Wells, Kipling, Poe, Hawthorne), a few run-of-the-mill
magazine stories that are exemplars of type--and no fewer than two stories each by Le
Guin, Ballard, and Gene Wolfe, plus such unlikely candidates for hard sf as Richard Grant,
C.M. Kornbluth, Anne McCaffrey, John Sladek, John M. Ford, Theodore Sturgeon, James
Tiptree Jr, Cordwainer Smith, and Philip K. Dick. The reasons for their inclusions rest
mostly in the individual story introductions--and what gradually emerges is that Ascent
of Wonder is really meant to be an ambitious examination of, in Hartwell's words,
"the way science functions in science fiction." The problem with this, of
course, is that if science doesn't function in some way, it's not science fiction in the
first place. Hence, there's no clear principle of exclusion, no acknowledgment that any
subset of sf exists other than hard sf. In other words, there's a fair amount of fudging
going on here, and a lot of stories are included that directly violate the relatively hard
line taken in Benford's guest introduction.
The pleasures of reading hard sf, to be sure, are much in evidence in The Ascent of
Wonder, and most of the arguments are likely to come directly from the book's
ambitious and misleading subtitle, and from odd comments in the often pedantic story
introductions. Viewed from another angle, the collection might be seen as a deliberate
response to such other recent anthologies as Le Guin, Attebery, and Fowler's Norton
Book of Science Fiction, designed with the intention of putting hard sf back in the
center of the table while acknowledging the impact of more metaphorical and
"literary" texts. (Nearly two-thirds of Hartwell and Cramer's contents date from
1960 or later--the same period covered in the Norton book.) As both a reading and a
teaching anthology, The Ascent of Wonder has much to offer that The Norton
Book doesn't, and many readers will prefer its inclusive approach to that earlier
anthology's revisionist approach. And certainly the arguments likely to be engendered by
the book's more controversial selections and strange critical proclamations may help to
enliven critical debate. But readers who hope to clarify their understanding of hard sf
aren't likely to find much illumination coming from the very fuzzy set of stories included
here.
Christophe Canto and Odile Faliu. The History of the Future. Trans. Francis Cowper.
Flammarion (Abbeville Publishing Group, 488 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022), 1993.
160p. $45.00. This richly-illustrated French coffee-table book well-translated by Francis
Cowper, seems like a good idea, but it quickly becomes apparent that the authors have only
the vaguest idea of what they're trying to do. I think their goal is to show how various
aspects of the future have been visualized by sf writers and artists and other
futurologists over a period ranging roughly from 1851 to 1961, but their odd way of
approaching the topic ends up telling us nothing about the future and very little about
the history of attitudes toward the future. This is not a scholarly history-of-ideas text
along the lines of Fred Polak's classic The Image of the Future, and its
maddening reference scheme and lack of an index make it virtually useless for research.
The authors begin promisingly enough, distinguishing, for example, between
"life-sized" and "magnifying" futures and noting how authors have
tended to select future dates by one of three methods: "reflex" (round numbers
like the year 3000), "conventional" (dates derived from some sort of
extrapolation), or "arbitrary" (such as setting a story 500 years from the time
of its writing). This introductory essay, and the historical "Chapter O" which
follows, are the strongest parts of the book's text. The five chapters which follow, on
daily life, machinery, architecture and urban design, dystopian or disaster scenarios, and
space exploration, all follow the same basic method: a narrative description of the future
liberally sprinkled with quotations taken from a bibliography of a hundred or so sf
stories and futuristic texts, apparently chosen almost at random. This means that the same
future scenario may have one aspect drawn from E.M. Forster, the next from Murray
Leinster, and another from Buck Rogers--all jumbled together as unholy collaborators in
some incoherent "consensus" that really tells us nothing about any author's
vision. (In order to find out where these quotations come from, you have to turn to the
notes at the back of the book, which often give only a name, forcing you to turn to the
"Works Cited" pages for a full citation. Similarly, in order to find where the
illustrations come from, you have to turn to a separate set of notes in the back.)
The illustrations are fascinating and very well reproduced, but they often have little
to do with the text, so that, for example, a 1936 Paul cover for Amazing seems to
illustrate a 1960 Yefremov story and a 1956 Emsh illustration for a Jack Sharkey story is
set opposite a quotation from Bester's The Demolished Man. And the texts chosen
as sources seem almost wholly arbitrary--a random story each by Dick, Leiber, Cordwainer
Smith, Evelyn E. Smith, two Asimov novels and two story collections, Pohl and Kornbluth's The
Space Merchants, various French magazines, etc. Ray Bradbury is given equal time with
Arthur C. Clarke as a futurologist. Wildly conflicting ideas and visions are jumbled into
the same paragraphs, as though all sf writers agreed with one another (a nightmarish
thought if there ever was one). The overall effect reminded me of nothing so much as
Robert Lindner's famous case history "The Jet-Propelled Couch", in which the
therapist had to unravel an extended psychotic fantasy cobbled together by someone who had
read too much sf and forgotten that it was, after all, fiction.
Aurel Guillemette. The Best in Science Fiction: Winners and Nominees of the Major Awards in
Science Fiction. Scolar Press (Ashgate Publishing Co., Old Post Road,
Brookfield, VT 05036-9704), 1993. 379p. $39.50.
At the risk of offending some of my fellow academics, there are some aspects of sf
scholarship that simply ought to be left to fans and fan presses. I have here before me
the old Franson-DeVore History of the Hugo, Nebula, and International Fantasy Awards,
sloppily printed, annoyingly organized, crudely stapled together, extra pages stuffed in
to add 1976 awards--and I also have Aurel Guillemette's neatly printed and imposingly
hardbound The Best in Science Fiction, which lists many of the same winners and
nominees, but in an even more annoying format that looks like the work of a berserk IRS
bureaucrat. Guillemette hopes to guide readers to the "best in science fiction"
by cataloguing winners and nominees of 17 major awards, then adding chapters that list the
same awards by author, by title, and by year. Such a project would be of marginal value
even if it were done well, but it isn't.
The first thing most readers will notice is that many categories of awards are simply
omitted. The Hugo lists omit dramatic presentations, editors, magazines, fanzines,
artists, and fan writers, as well as the Gandalf, Campbell, and special achievement awards
(although the University of Kansas Campbell awards are included in a separate section). No
Grand Master Nebulas are here, and no World Fantasy or Horror Writers of America Lifetime
Achievement Awards (although fiction awards are included for all these.) Nor is
publication information given about the winning books and stories. The author claims that
such material would "have greatly increased the extent of the text," although
the text is already far longer than it needs to be because of all the permutations of
award listings that take up subsequent chapters, and because the clunky database format
requires 16 pages to list Hugo winners and nominees (I note that a Worldcon Program book
gets a more complete listing in four pages).
Many awards are missing altogether: the Prometheus, Crawford, Mythopoeic Society,
Readercon, Rhysling, and Lambda awards are invisible, as are all academic awards and
foreign-language awards. Let's assume this is due to space considerations as well, and
examine the book only as the limited listing it purports to be. Now we run into additional
problems of incomplete or inaccurate entries even for what's included. Michael Flynn, for
example, won the 1991 Compton Crook Award, but isn't even listed as a nominee here (no
winner is listed). Harlan Ellison's Angry Candy won a World Fantasy in 1989, but is given
only as a nominee; again, no winner is listed. The winners of short fiction and story
collections for the 1992 World Fantasy Awards are not indicated, though all nominees are
listed; ditto the 1991 Nebulas. Titles are often truncated to fit the columns, and
occasionally collaborators' names are omitted for the same reason. There are too many
typos: Sword of the Lichtor, Thomas Pychon, Chton, Robert Silberberg.
At the end, Guillemette purports to offer a numerical tabulation of the very best sf
works by arbitrarily assigning weighted points to each award (5 for a Hugo or Nebula win,
4 for a nomination, 2 for a Stoker award, etc.) and then totting up the totals. As a
result, we now have statistical proof that Neuromancer is the greatest sf novel
of all time (28 points), and that "Bears Discover Fire" is the best story (25
points). This has some curiosity value, I suppose, but as we work our way down the list,
the rankings grow increasingly arbitrary. Both Gateway and Shadow of the
Torturer garner 18 points, for example, but the former is ranked 16th and the latter
24th (with five other 18 point books in between). Lincoln's Dreams is the 231st
best sf novel ever (blurb writers please note) with 7 points, but way down at number 294
is This is the Way the World Ends--also with 7 points. (Everything in between
gets 7 points, too.) All this database abuse might be forgivable if the book were a
reliable guide to the awards themselves, but it's not even that. It does, however, cause
one to wonder about the merits of a federally-mandated waiting period prior to the
purchase of computers.
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