#93 = Volume 31, Part 2 = July 2004
Imre Szeman and Maria Whiteman
Future Politics: An Interview with Kim Stanley Robinson
The world is nearly all parceled out, and what there is left of it is being
divided up, conquered, and colonized. To think of these stars that you see
overhead at night, these vast worlds which we can never reach. I would annex the
planets if I could; I often think of that. It makes me sad to see them so clear
and yet so far.—Cecil Rhodes (1902)
Kim Stanley Robinson was one of the featured speakers at “The Futures of Utopia”
conference held at Duke University in 2003. The conference celebrated the work
of the cultural theorist Fredric Jameson—or rather, since Jameson himself was
adamant that the event be more than a mere homage, it featured papers addressing
a persistent Jamesonian theme: the political role of utopian thought and
fiction. As one of the great utopian and speculative writers of the age,
Robinson was a key presence at a conference otherwise populated almost entirely
by students and academics.
On the second evening of the conference, Robinson held the audience
transfixed with an hour of readings and reminiscences about his career and the
major themes in his work, opening with a humorous story about his experience as
a student of Jameson’s at the University of California–San Diego in the early
1970s. The conference as a whole began with a provocative lecture by Jameson
himself on “The Politics of Utopia,” in which he brought together his hitherto
scattered speculations on utopia into what was arguably his clearest
articulation of the politics of the concept. In this lecture, published in
New Left Review (January/February 2004: 35-54), Jameson makes the claim that
“utopia emerges at the moment of the suspension of the political” (43). The
lecture seeks to identify the conditions of possibility of utopia, and finds
that the utopian impulse—that which “allows us to take hitherto unimaginable
mental liberties with structures whose actual modification or abolition scarcely
seems on the cards” (45)—emerges when the political is severed from lived
experience and daily life. In a sense, Jameson’s claim is that utopias are
symptomatic expressions of a desire not for a future politics, but for a
return of the political to a contemporary moment from which it has all
but been evacuated. In the context of the conference, Robinson had little time
or opportunity to respond to these claims about utopia. But the conjunction of
Jameson and Robinson, each a long-time advocate and fan of the other, led us to
wonder what a writer long associated with utopian thinking might have to say
about the fate of utopian writing today. And this led us to other questions and
queries about both his recent novels and his views of the groundbreaking
MARS trilogy a decade after the
publication of the first volume, Red Mars (1993).
Kim Stanley Robinson is regarded as one of the finest science-fiction writers
alive today, although it would be more appropriate, especially with respect to
the political import of his work, to describe him as one of the finest writers
period (in our view, “science fiction” should be treated as an honorific rather
than as the qualifier that many still take it to be). He is the author of
numerous novels and of a study of Philip K. Dick (The Novels of Philip K. Dick
[1984], originally KRS’s PhD dissertation supervised by Jameson), editor of
several collections of short stories, and also author of acclaimed short
stories, novellas, and novelettes (he was nominated seventeen times for Hugo and
Nebula awards in these categories, winning the 1987 Nebula for Best Novella for
The Blind Geometer). His novels include The Wild Shore (1984),
The Gold Coast (1988), and Pacific Edge (1990), which together make
up the ORANGE COUNTY trilogy; the
award-winning MARS trilogy:
Red Mars (Nebula), Green Mars (1994, Hugo), and Blue Mars
(1996, Hugo); and many others, including Antarctica (1998), which
emerged out of time Robinson spent in the Southern polar regions, and his
ground-breaking alternative history, The Years of Rice and Salt (2002).
Forty Signs of Rain, which will be published in 2004, inaugurates a new
trilogy that explores the problematic intersections of big science, politics,
and the fate of the environment; the second book in the trilogy in tentatively
titled Science in the Capital.
Further information about Robinson can be located on-line at the unofficial KSR
website <www.KimStanleyRobinson.net>. Robinson lives in Davis, California. This
interview was conducted by e-mail in January and February 2004.
Imre Szeman and Maria Whiteman: Just out of curiosity, what do you think of
President Bush’s announcement that the United States will pursue the
establishment of a permanent moon base followed by a manned mission to Mars?
Does Mars constitute a genuine object of investigation, or is it being used by
the current Administration for its own political purposes? When the Bush
Administration requested $87 billion to fund the war and reconstruction efforts
in Iraq, a number of commentators came forward with suggestions for other,
better social uses for this huge sum. One can only imagine what could be done
with the trillions (!) of dollars that the new space program will consume
—though where this money is coming from given the vast, crippling deficits
projected for the foreseeable future in the US is anybody’s guess.
Kim Stanley Robinson: The Bush proposal was not really serious, in that the
sizeable budget required was not spelled out, nor was the timetable. Nothing the
Bush team does is in good faith with the country or the world. However, that
being said, the proposed reorganization of NASA, with the goals of a Moon
station and a Mars station later, will be helpful in setting priorities. In a
scientific sense they are good goals, I think, and should be pursued. Trying to
think about space exploration from a green-left perspective has always been a
challenge to me, but I think the way to do it is to imagine the
military-industrial complex re-focused on something peaceful and useful.
Obviously the 450 billion dollars a year that the USA now spends on war
capability (more for the wars themselves) should not all be devoted to space,
but if we ever begin the long process of demilitarization, peaceful aerospace
projects would be one way to give these massive industries something good to do,
thus helping to avoid some giant economic crash. Then along with this pragmatic
reason, what we learn from Mars may come in very useful when we have to tackle
the problem of our inadvertent terraforming of Earth, already begun by accident.
Comparative planetology is a powerful tool of understanding (the hole in the
ozone layer was discovered by means of it) and so going to Mars has that high
value too.
IS/MW: Can you tell us about your new book, Forty Signs of Rain, which is set in
the hothouse of Washington politics—politics that are played out at the
intersections of money, science, and the environment? For those familiar with
your writing mostly through the MARS trilogy, a seemingly straight-ahead
political novel might seem out of character. And yet the setting for Forty Signs
of Rain sounds familiar: the sweaty, globally-warmed-over DC where Antarctica’s
Wade Norton makes his home. What issues are you hoping to address in this novel?
KSR: The novel shares some characters with my earlier novel, Antarctica. It is a
kind of near-future sf, similar in some ways to my California books, and so not
a great departure for me. I’ve been able to spend some time at the National
Science Foundation, and it struck me as an interesting environment for an sf
novel. The global warming stuff seems worthy of depiction in a novel, and I’ve
been interested for years in finding stories that would explore the
money/science/politics/environment complex of issues, so here’s another good
opportunity. Also, I lived in Washington DC for four years, and I wanted to
describe that a bit, as a kind of dystopic landscape (at least for me).
IS/MW: In The Years of Rice and Salt you offer an incredible alternative history
of the world, one in which Europeans have been wiped out by the Black Plague,
and the world is left with four or five major civilizations (and religions)
whose conflicts and coalitions produce the future. One of the effects of this
structure is that you are able to offer readers extended encounters with
religious beliefs and social practices with which many North Americans are
likely to be unfamiliar, from the social character of Buddhism to the culture of
the Islamic madressa. What are some of the issues and themes that you wanted to
explore in this novel, especially with respect to religion and belief?
KSR: Ah well, a big question. I had the idea for this alternative history many
years ago, and simply following the trend of the story as it seemed to me, I got
led into the opportunity to explore interests that I had in China and in
Buddhism. It was one of those nice projects in which I felt I could follow any
strand of interest that occurred to me, and so I did. Eastern religions,
theories of history, various places in Asia and Europe, all were part of the
pattern in this project. All were part of the solution to the problem of how to
make this idea into a novel. It was the novel itself that remained my foremost
interest here, not any particular thematic strand in it—how to make it all work
as a novel that readers would respond to.
IS/MW: After September 11, The Years of Rice and Salt seems prescient. Where did
the idea for the novel come from? What issues were you responding to in the
years before 9/11 that led to a novel that, in its aftermath, seems like such a
productive and helpful response to it?
KSR: I don’t recall when I first had the idea: it was in the late 1970s
sometime, and so completely distinct from current events. However, I will say
that in the Mars books I began with a Muslim assassination of a Western leader
(with Western guidance and pressure), and that made me feel I had to investigate
and try to understand Islam so I wasn’t just writing a cliché. The Mars books
have a large Islamic element in them, and so when I came to the
alternative-history project, I was already aware that there was this other world
culture that was huge and important and was not going to “westernize” willingly,
etc. So the issue was on my mind through the 1990s.
IS/MW: In writing an alternative history, how do you decide how alternative it
should be? Even in the absence of Europeans, there are still many features of
your alternative history that are noticeably similar to our own history. The
geopolitical dramas are new ones, of course, and there are some striking
historical differences (Native Americans aren’t devastated by disease, for
instance, and so are in a much more powerful position to resist foreign
influence and invasion). But even in this alternative world, science seems to
develop in much the same direction and in the same way as in our own world (even
if the units of measurement are different—qi and li as names of atomic units,
for instance); society seems to become secularized at roughly the same rate,
women have to struggle to achieve equality, but do so at approximately the same
pace, and so on. Does this say something about the necessity of science and
indeed of the pace of human development? Or is this a matter of artistic choice?
There is presumably a limit to just how different alternative histories can be
before they lose their political edge, but at the same time one also longs for a
totally different history in which human beings avoid some pathways
entirely—such as mechanized warfare, for example.
KSR: I don’t think that last wish seems very likely, alas. Nation-states or
equivalent political units are likely to fight in most alternative histories you
can imagine, and each war’s technological advancement tends to surprise the
military leadership, leading to catastrophes as we have seen in our world.
Details may differ, but.... Anyway this is a good question, one of the crucial
questions when contemplating alternative histories and what they are for, and
how they can be of use. There are many ways to go about it, because there simply
are no tests, and there is no solid historiography: it’s all description and we
have no other examples to compare to our world history. I came down on the side
of thinking that much of what we think of when we think of “History” is just
theater in a way: leaders, wars, the big public events—they all could happen any
old way, and still underneath it all would be the great majority of humanity
doing their work, and that work would tend to forge along at a certain pace as
people tried to solve the problems of making themselves more comfortable in this
world. The Annaliste historians in France, like Fernand Braudel, do this kind of
historical work and it is very instructive. It is a kind of Marxist history,
too, but perhaps more descriptive. Thus, the rise of science depends on the
myriad artisans in the metal shops, making the tools and developing the
techniques that allow the theorists to test their theories. So I have my
alternative scientific revolution happening a little bit later without Europe,
but therefore faster, as all the elements were there at hand.
Another seemingly Western development: feminism. Where does feminism come from,
if not from the West? From women elsewhere, and probably in a mercantile culture
where women have lots of economic responsibilities, as in Qing China. So I went
at it with that basic historiography in mind. And I must say, the complaints
about alternative histories being “too much like” our history are always
balanced, sometimes in the same commentator, by complaints that it is “too
different to be possible,” and I have concluded that really one can’t win:
alternatives to our world history are in some deep sense unthinkable. The
alternative history then becomes an exercise in pushing at that limit and always
asking “why” to one’s responses concerning “plausibility” or the like. It’s a
subject worth much more discussion.
IS/MW: Another question about form: both Antarctica and your forthcoming novels
are science fictions that seem to be about the present, or perhaps the very near
future. Certainly, this is a present with a difference: for instance, the
extreme weather gear worn by the characters in Antarctica is more advanced than
Gore-Tex. At the same time, you are dealing with a world that is in most ways
recognizably our own. Can you tell us about the challenge of writing these kinds
of novels and what writing about some parallel present (or near future) allows
you to do and to explore?
KSR: I think of these as “day-after-tomorrow” novels, a subgenre of science
fiction sometimes called “near-future science fiction.” It’s a valuable
subgenre. For one thing, it’s a powerful way to write about the present without
instantly producing a historical novel, as, for instance, if one wrote about
1999 in 1999, now so far in the past. I think it is crucial never to have a date
in a day-after-tomorrow novel, and it’s also good to mix elements, so that some
things are simply contemporary and have already happened (and there is a
tremendous pleasure and value in writing about the present as if writing science
fiction), while other elements would seem unlikely to emerge for twenty or fifty
years—like cloning humans, which apparently already happened in South Korea last
week. This captures the sense of perpetual newness in life these days, that
anything is possible—so that people have asked me about the water slide under
the South Pole in my Antarctica, for instance, because they simply can’t tell
whether such a thing is possible or not anymore. Sometimes it seems like
anything is possible; on the other hand, it also feels like nothing fundamental
will ever change again (capitalism); and in that weird dichotomy of feeling we
carry on day by day. It’s a strange sensation, and I think day-after-tomorrow sf
can capture it very nicely, if wielded correctly. Here is a place where art as
fidelity to the present may even demand science fiction, as I’ve been saying or
rather practicing since the 1970s.
IS/MW: Your novels constitute one of the most sustained and thorough
investigations of the implications and repercussions of the system of global
capitalism in literature today. Repeatedly, and in quite subtle and
sophisticated ways, you return to the trauma induced by private property, the
corporation, scientific progress, and accumulation, and try to shed some light
on alternative possibilities. As bad (or even irreversible) as capitalism has
become—and it seems in your novels both here to stay for the long term and also
fated to come into existence, since capitalism emerges even in the absence of
the Protestant ethic in The Years of Rice and Salt—there’s always the hope of
new collective relations. This is certainly true of the
MARS trilogy, where
there are some extended dialogues about social problems and possibilities, as
well as of Antarctica, which ends with stirring political speeches and a new
model for human social relations forged out of the ice of the continent. And of
course, as you point out, “what is true in Antarctica is true everywhere else.”
Can you tell us about the nature of your engagement with these questions and how
they find expression in fictional form?
KSR: It seems to me that we live in a feudal world, that the transition from
feudalism to capitalism, the description of which is one of the triumphs of
Marxist historiography, was in fact a very partial thing and that much residual
feudalism remains that is seldom identified. This is one way of saying that the
system we live in is grossly unjust and a danger to us all, now even to all the
other species. So, this being the case, how then to proceed? Because it seems to
me as if ordinary middle-class citizens of the West will eventually look like
the French aristocracy before the Revolution if we do not respond to the
injustice and cruelty in our system. So I have written my novels on the
understanding that they are my political action, and that symbolic acts are also
real acts. Also in purely aesthetic terms, this kind of engagement simply makes
for better novels, because they become attempts to portray whole societies and
to understand the why of them, which I take it is one of the most important
things novels do, and why we love them. This trend of thought also tends to
throw up new stories, which are of course very valuable to a novelist. In the
end I must say I come to all this as someone wanting to write good novels. If
ignoring politics and doing “art for art’s sake” would make the best novels,
maybe I would go that way. But I don’t think that’s how it works. I should add,
I would exempt scientific progress from the list of problems described in the
question. Science to me is an attempt at a solution, a utopian politics that is
unselfaware but powerful and a source of hope.
IS/MW: The interrogation of capitalism in your novels is often conducted through
a concern with its impact on nature. Human habitation of Mars only becomes a
necessity because the natural word has been depleted of its resources (reminding
us of the greenhouse drifting through space in the film Silent Running [1972]).
Even with this lesson in mind, humans repeat many of the same errors with
respect to nature on Mars. Does nature have a future? Or is nature and our
relation to it too abstract, on too large a scale for us to really comprehend
its necessity for us? We can’t help but wonder about the relationship between
the longevity treatments in the MARS trilogy, which allow human beings to live
much longer lives, and the possibility of a changed relationship to nature. Does
nature require time beyond the time of a normal human life in order for us to
grasp it fully?
KSR: To me nature is the biosphere and can be experienced on a daily basis
without much effort. Keep a garden. Go for a walk. Pay attention. Really, your
question’s understanding of nature is very far from mine, and seems written by
an AI that never gets a chance to leave the world of texts. Maybe it’s like that
for some, maybe that is the current trend in capitalism in our time, part of the
commodification of everything. Jameson in his seminal postmodern essays talked
about capitalism colonizing nature and the unconscious, and I think the
combination leads to questions like this one, or the sight of scores of people
“getting exercise” by running on treadmills in gyms, watching TV, or reading—the
action of their own bodies and the experience of being outdoors in the wind not
being sufficiently interesting to them.
Maybe by nature you mean wilderness. Even that is always around us, just outside
the edges of the last development in any town. We are nature, we are immersed in
nature: we never get out of it, we can sit in boxes and look at boxes, be like
brains in bottles as in 1950s sf, and yet still we never get out of nature. We
can ignore and misunderstand it, mistreat our bodies and waste our lives by
being brains in bottles, but nature never goes away. This is something that we
intellectuals, prone to being brains in bottles or couch potatoes or desk
jockeys with word jobs, have to remember for our own health and also, crucially,
the health and accuracy of our thinking about the world. In short, the question
itself reveals capture by a capitalist world-view and seems to me sadly out of
touch with reality. But maybe it is a semantic problem only.
IS/MW: With respect to nature, one of the things that your novels insist on is
the need for humans to adapt to nature, as opposed to what we have been doing
for much of our history, which is adapting nature to suit us. Terraforming a
whole planet is the ultimate end of this process. It is a strange and disturbing
irony that it might become easier to create a new habitable planet than to keep
our “home” planet habitable by attending to it. In Antarctica, the hostile (and
yet fragile) space of our southernmost continent demands that human beings who
wish to live there not only have to adapt to it, but also have to be constantly
conscious of their impact on nature. But living on much of the rest of the Earth
seems to invite a more laissez-faire attitude to the natural world. What do your
novels suggest about our attitudes toward and relationships to nature?
KSR: Much of this I answered indirectly in the question before. It will be
easier to live sustainably on Earth than to terraform Mars, but my Mars novels
were written with the idea that they are metaphors describing what we need to do
here, too, and that it’s a matter of attitudes and intentions and individual
actions, as well as global alteration technologies. It’s possible to imagine the
“Great Work” that the bulk of humanity continues with despite the stupidities of
the theatrical side of history, grinding onward to clean energy and a much more
efficient and clean tech generally, to the point of sustainability, and even a
reengagement with the real world as opposed to the various commodified virtual
worlds. The question is, how many species will we have lost by then?
It may require some kind of werteswandel—a mutation of values—but that too may
happen in the underside of history, in the great work of the bulk. Hard to say,
and surely there are forces trying to wreck this work for selfish reasons.
Anyway, in a practical sense I think everyone should go outside a lot everyday,
and do free things like walk and talk, and try to keep a garden. Gardening is a
reengagement with nature that is practical (you eat the results) and soothing,
absorbing, pleasurable, but also on another level terrifying, in that it teaches
you that we don’t know it all and bad things can happen—that you can’t take
success or food for granted. It would be a good grounding activity.
IS/MW: The longevity treatments we alluded to above also bring out another theme
that you seem fascinated with: the significance of memory for identity, and of
the importance of locating a home—a space into which one fits and which accords
in some sense with one’s memories. The attempt to “indigenize” Antarctica is an
example of this, as is X’s discovery of a place and a purpose by the end of the
novel. In The Years of Rice and Salt, the return of the main characters to the bardo after each of the historical episodes, where they are reborn but wiped
clean of their memories, is another site at which you probe the connections
between memory and home. But it is the connection made in the Mars books between
the extension of lifespan through the longevity treatments and the corresponding
loss of memory that we find most intriguing. We are thinking especially of a
scene in Blue Mars, where Mike returns to his home town on Earth after having
lived a whole other life on Mars. Revisiting the site where his earliest
memories were formed has an unexpectedly powerful impact on him. How and why
does memory figure in your novels?
KSR: I’ve always been fascinated by memory, in theory and in my own life—my own
memories. The idea that life extension might not lead to memory extension came
to me early, with Icehenge (1984), and I’ve been exploring it since then,
because it’s true already; as I’ve grown older I’ve lost the sense I used to
have that I had an almost photographic memory of my own life. That lasted up
till I was about thirty, but now I don’t feel that way, and often wonder if I
should start writing everything I can remember down before I forget it. I also
run an interesting memory experiment of writing down what happens every day at
bedtime in a weekly calendar so there are only four lines per day; then I read
what we were doing ten years ago, and fifteen (my record only goes back nineteen
years, to about the time I had this feeling I wasn’t remembering it all
anymore). Rereading the brief entries from ten and fifteen years ago is a
strange and interesting experience because sometimes nothing is evoked, but at
other times the phrases will call up a detailed memory of the entire day. I’m
concluding that our storage capacity is simply immensely bigger than our recall,
and that’s strange evolutionarily: why should that be, and how did that come to
pass?
So writing stories about these issues has always been a great pleasure and,
indeed, I wish I could find more opportunities, more plots; maybe I’ll hunt
deliberately for more. Also maybe this is why I think Proust’s novel is the
greatest one of all (though there are more reasons than this)—it’s all about
memory.
Certainly identity is a function of memory. Where would identity be without it?
IS/MW: Your novels have sometimes been characterized as utopian fictions. In the
MARS trilogy, we see what might be described as the “literalization” of utopia.
Within the fictional landscape of the novels, we get to witness a real attempt
to construct a new human society from the ground up—an attempt that is able to
take into account all of the successes (as few as they are) and failures of
social projects on Earth, and so possibly create a utopian political space on
the blank slate of Mars. Your novels are unusually alert to the difficulties of
transforming potentialities into actualities (Mars is no utopia, after all)
without engaging in cynicism or dystopian imaginings: the potential for newness
remains perpetually open. How do you see the relationship between your writing
and utopian fiction? And what do you think the function of such fictions are?
KSR: I think of myself as a utopian novelist, and that seems to me a mix of
genres (utopias not starting as novels per se), but the mix is fruitful as it
makes for interesting stories. The old attack on utopias as boring is partly a
political attack, partly a result of them not being novels enough. I’ve been
aware of the power of this mix ever since staying up all night to read Ursula K.
Le Guin’s The Dispossessed (1974) when it came out—that novels could be more
interesting trying to tell the story of a society improving in some sense than
ordinary novels just accepting the way things are, and telling some small part
of that. The angle and the attitude are very fruitful. I think all science
fiction has a utopian element, in that it tends to say that what we do now
matters and will have consequences. It’s a denial of nihilism.
It also gets into the deep problems of making any progress, the resistance to
that from both without and within, the resistance to change and the fear of
change. All the political questions come into play, and then, once again, you
have the possibility of very interesting new stories, new novels, coming
up—which is gold if you are a novelist.
IS/MW: Is it possible that a small, privileged segment of global elites,
dispersed across the globe but concentrated in the “West,” is experiencing a
kind of utopia now—though one, of course, that cannot be universalized since it
exists on the backs of the world’s impoverished majority? What if utopia is
partial, a political fantasy that depends on a certain form of forgetting? What
if, as bad as the present is, this is as good as it’s going to get and the
future can only be apocalyptic?
KSR: That would be bad, but I don’t think it’s the case. Pocket utopias are not
utopias; I wrote about this in Pacific Edge. Was the French aristrocracy a
utopia? No. This definition of utopia as “forgetting the oppressed” tends to be
an attack on utopian ideas in general, claiming they are hypocritical or
impossible. We’re none of us in utopia now, even the super-rich in their
mansions. Utopia is a name for one course of history, a progressive course in
which things become more just and sustainable over the generations. We’re not
there now, but depending on what we do, and what our descendants do, we could
still be said to be living in a utopian history, as being on the path. I prefer
to work as if that were the case. And it seems to me the great work continues.
MW: I recently attended a conference on science fiction and social change, which
involved writers, fans, and academics. Three science-fiction writers were
invited (Robert Sawyer, Candas Jane Dorsey, and Timothy Anderson) to participate
in a roundtable discussion on whether science fiction is or was essential to
social change (i.e., in the way that the Star Trek series in the 1960s might be
seen as having contributed in some way to the cause of civil rights), and
whether an interest in social change determines how one conceptualizes the
future. How do you feel about your books as engines for social change?
KSR: “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” I think we as a
global culture are sharply aware of History as a process we are all engaged in
and can partly control, or try to control; actually, control is an open
question, but we act in the present, collectively, with the idea that it will
make things better in the future. This being the case (it was not always true in
the past, and is a kind of Enlightenment/American-French Revolution discovery),
visions of the future matter, as being attempts to describe what we are working
toward, or what we should avoid. The utopian/dystopian aspects of science
fiction are very deep and perhaps unavoidable, even when not the major focus of
any single work. They make science fiction a tool of human thought, like all
literature, but with this particular emphasis on “social change.”
What happens, I think, is that all the sf novels and movies together create a
kind of “consensus future” that then becomes regarded as somehow inevitable. If
true, this means there is a great danger of imagining futures that are mirrors
of the present only, or that depict things as hopelessly out of control, or even
worse, as overdetermined beyond humanity’s ability to change them—the future as
mortgaged and locked down by contracts backed by police and armies. This is why
cyberpunk, or American-imperial Heinleinism, or the “future-war” subgenres are
ugly, in that they are not truly dystopic, but rather portray the current
triumph of capitalism as inevitable, eternal, and unbeatable. Locating the
settings in Japan or space does nothing to change the defeatism inherent in
these subgenres.
Given that, I have felt it is important to write utopian fiction, defined very
broadly, to suggest in almost every novel that change happens, that we are
history and nothing else makes it—us and physics—and that it is possible to
improve conditions for humanity over time, despite the obvious manifest flaws in
this system. Also, that humanity’s well-being depends on the well-being of the
planet’s biosphere generally, so that environmentalism has to join the other
crucial utopian goals. If the “consensus future” feels that we will accomplish
these achievements, they are likelier to happen.
It’s in this sense that science itself is a “utopian science fiction” working to
make itself real. It, too, represents a “consensus future.” Maybe we should say
that “scientists are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” and
contemplate for a while what that means.
Also, looking at it this way is an enormously powerful generator of new stories.
In a practical sense this is a great help to a novelist.
IS/MW: At the “Futures of Utopia” conference, which you attended as a keynote
speaker, Fredric Jameson read a paper in which he argued that the function of
utopia “lies not in helping us to imagine a better future but rather in
demonstrating our utter incapacity to imagine such a future—our imprisonment
within a non-utopian present without historicity or futurity—so as to reveal the
ideological closure of the system in which we are somehow trapped and confined”
(“The Politics of Utopia” 46). How would you react to this claim?
KSR: In a way I find it comforting, in that it would explain the difficulty I
have when trying to think out my novels: it’s impossible! So I don’t have to
feel bad.
But I would want to add that in fact it may be easier to imagine a radically
different society—easy as can be, in some ways, in that one merely expresses
wishes and defines some version of justice, equality, peace. That’s all easy.
What’s hard is imagining any plausible way of getting from here to there. And
this is where science fiction comes in. Fantasy is ahistorical and can imagine
the Good Place without strings, across the Great Trench that More describes in
his Utopia. Science fiction, however, is defined by the history infolded in the
future described that leads back to now. There, in contemplating a history
getting to that place, it gets very hard to imagine. So the result is
imaginable, but not the process of getting there; perhaps that’s what Jameson
meant when he talked about the “future being unimaginable,” not as destination
but as process, as history. It’s not “a future” that is unimaginable, but “a
history to a good future place.” This interpretation would fit with Jameson’s
injunction to “always historicize,” including his own sentences, I assume.
So, then, the challenge to the novelist would be: imagine a history that gets us
from here to there. It will be hard (impossible), but in trying, the problem is
pointed to (Jameson says this, too). And again, new stories are thereby
generated. They may be implausible stories, but given the situation, these
implausible stories, mangled in some aesthetic “realist” sense, may nevertheless
be of value as art in a different way. I hope so.
IS/MW: Do you think that it is productive for academics to theorize science
fiction?
KSR: Certainly. I know I find it useful, and I think also that it is good for
literature studies generally in considering matters of genre, the political
unconscious, etc. What is realism? What does it mean to say a story takes place
in the future? What is a symbol? How does the estrangement effect work? What’s
the best way to depict our global moment? And so on.
It also creates connections between professors and their students, in that
students may still be surprised that the books they are reading for their own
entertainment are also being taken seriously by their teachers, and, together,
the work done in classes on science fiction can bring a lot to both students and
teachers. It breaks up the dead hand of the past, the canon, and makes
literature living again.
I know there has been a reaction against academic criticism of science fiction,
sometimes expressed as “keep science fiction in the gutter where it belongs,”
which seems to me to be one of the manifestations of ghetto psychology. When the
wall comes down and the world pours into the ghetto, everything changes; when
the ghetto also turns out to have been “right” in some fundamental sense, so
that the world actually becomes the ghetto, it is even more disorienting. But I
think the valuable “disreputable” gutter aspects of science fiction will survive
academic engagement. It’s the world becoming an sf meta-novel that is the bigger
danger for the genre, in the sense of “what do we do now?”
Another complaint against academic study of sf is that the sf canon has been set
too soon and is too small, so that critics have only been writing about half a
dozen writers. This has been partly true and a shame, but to get published
critics must write about writers other critics have also read, unless they are
doing an introductory piece, and so it’s a natural phenomenon. As the field
matures we see good work so far overlooked being rediscovered.
IS/MW: Are there specific philosophical positions, thinkers, or ideas that have
influenced your work? In what ways?
KSR: I’m like anyone else in that regard: of course I have been influenced by
positions, thinkers, and ideas in my work. One couldn’t not be. In my case, I
would say the principal thinkers who have influenced me have been the
novelists—all of them I’ve read, in some kind of chorus. I have been lucky, too,
in my teachers, and would say I came to both Marxism and contemporary literary
criticism and culture theory through Fredric Jameson, and I came to Buddhism and
poetry and a way of being a Californian through Gary Snyder. My friends also
have a big impact on my thinking. All that has come together into an ideology
that makes sense to me. It’s been a long process and is still ongoing.
IS/MW: How do the Mars novels look to you a little more than a decade after they
first appeared? This is perhaps an impossible question to answer, but what might
the MARS trilogy look like if it was written today?
KSR: When I look back into them for readings or what not, I mostly like what I
read. That’s a relief, most of all, a pleasure. They hold up. If I wrote them
today, I would just hope to make them like they are. It would be hard. I think
of writing them now as a kind of possession.
IS/MW: What can we expect from you in the near future?
KSR: I’m in the midst of these global warming novels which form a sequence,
maybe a trilogy, maybe more. I’m interested in some of the ideas I’ve written
about above—constructing a life that more resembles the Paleolithic life, as
being the time when our brains grew to their current size: this as an escape
from and an assault on capitalism, on the individual level. “Voluntary
simplicity” is one name for this kind of thinking, but I want it to be more
active than renunciation, to be a form of celebrating reality in the form of our
bodies and the immediate home and landscape around us. How to get people (like
my kids) re-interested in the real world and the outdoors as over against the
virtual and the indoors. The novels will be about that in some sense. I think of
it as...more science fiction.
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