#46 = Volume 15, Part 3 = November 1988
Larry McCaffery
On Encompassing the Entire Universe: An Interview with Gene Wolfe
Gene Wolfe's earliest stories began appearing in various SF magazines and
anthologies, notably Damon Knight's Orbit, in the late 1960s; and a generally
undistinguished first novel Operation Ares, came out in 1970. The publication of
The Fifth Head of Cerberus in 1972 abruptly signaled an end to Wolfe's literary
apprenticeship. Displaying a blend of intellectual and aesthetic sophistication,
an eloquent and poetic prose style, and masterful storytelling instincts,
Cerberus established Wolfe as an eccentric but important new figure in SF. Its
prismatic manner of exposition, its sure control of a variety of imaginative
narrative voices and of an intricate web of symbolism and literary allusion, its
ingenious reworkings of familiar SF motifs, and its exploration of complex
moral, social, and epistemological issues are central features of all Wolfe's
subsequent best work.
Today it is clear that Gene Wolfe has already produced a major body of SF, quasi
SF, fantasy, and unclassifiable fictions. Displaying an equal facility with
novelistic and short story forms, Wolfe's work is remarkably diverse.
Particularly noteworthy has been his striking integration of formal innovation
and thematic concerns, and his presentation of vividly imagined characters and
symbolically charged actions that are placed within landscapes so rigorously
drawn and rich in evocative details that they seem to rival reality itself in
their diversity and vitality. Thematically Wolfe has developed a series of
grandly ambitious themes that include: the nature and origin of the universe and
of life's role within cosmic evolution; the meaning of Good and Evil (and of
acceptable versus unacceptable behavior) in a morally and epistemologically
ambiguous universe (significantly, the main character in Wolfe's four volume
masterpiece, The Book of the New Sun is a torturer by profession—a role
perfectly suited for examining the moral and psychological ambiguities this work focuses on); the nature of human memory and perception, and how this perception
is transformed first into language and eventually into the larger structures of
myth, fiction, science, history, and other cultural constructs.
The distinctiveness of his fiction owes something to his formal ingenuity and
the intelligence he brings to bear on issues large and small, but it has even
more to do with Wolfe's remarkable gifts as a prose stylist. In his best
works—Peace (Wolfe's much neglected "mainstream" novel, 1975),
The Island of Dr.
Death and Other Stories (a generous collection of short stories, 1980), and his
four volume magnum opus, The Book of the New Sun (comprising The Shadow of the
Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator,
The Sword of the Lictor, and The Citadel of the Autarch, 1980-82)—Wolfe's prose
continually charms, amazes, and seduces us with its lyricism, its eccentric
lingoes and vocabularies (as often drawn from arcane and ancient sources as from
modern science), and its surprising use of metaphor.
This eclecticism of taste is equally evident in the authors who have influenced
Wolfe's literary sensibility. Although his unusual methods of organizing his
narratives are usually seen as evolving within the context of the experimental
fervor of the 1960s New Wave, the effort to situate Wolfe's central formal and
thematic concerns with a narrowly defined SF context is fundamentally
misleading. Faulkner, Borges, Chesterton, Nabokov, Dickens, Proust, and numerous
other non SF authors have all exerted influences on Wolfe's prose mannerisms and
approach to issues of form and content; equally significant in the case of
Wolfe's conception of New Sun are the examples of other masterworks of
symbolic fantasy which similarly aim at presenting a justification of the ways
of God to man: Dante's Inferno, Milton's Paradise Lost, C.S. Lewis's "Space Trilogy," and
(probably the work closest to New Sun in terms of its achievement) Tolkien's
"Lord of the Rings" cycle.
Finally, however, such lists of comparisons and influences are only moderately
useful in locating the nature of Wolfe's literary sensibility. Sifting through
the details of Wolfe's life and professional career for clues about his work
seems to supply little help in this regard because at first glance his life
seems so ordinary. Born in Brooklyn in 1931, and raised largely in Houston,
Wolfe attended Texas A&M briefly, dropped out and was drafted into the Korean
War (where he saw some limited combat duty). After he was discharged from the
army, he married, worked until recently as a mechanical engineer in Barrington,
Illinois (where he still resides with his wife, Rosemary), and gradually began
developing his career in SF. The comments Wolfe makes in the following interview
regarding his childhood and family background, his experiences in Korea, and
other personal details reveal that the "ordinariness" of his life are somewhat
misleading; nevertheless, one certainly cannot account for the sources of
Wolfe's highly original artistic vision by a mere recounting of literary or
autobiographical influences.
Classifying Wolfe's work with any taxonomical precision is further complicated
by the allegorical cast of his imagination and his willingness to intermingle
magic and fantasy elements together with scientific principles. Wolfe's
sensitivity to the ambiguities and contradictions of human experience (and those
of the physical universe, as well) makes it similarly difficult to reduce his
thematic preoccupations to simple polarities ("optimistic/pessimistic,"
"liberal/conservative") or formulas. Like Joanna Russ, Samuel Delany, Stanislaw
Lem, and Gregory Benford, Wolfe frequently plays with and eventually
deconstructs SF's stock paradigms in order to question their assumptions. In a
certain basic sense Wolfe's works oppose the usual principle guiding most SF in
its emphasis on the subjectivity of human perception rather than on the
assurances of rational thought and scientific methodology. An even more radical
departure from SF norms is Wolfe's suggestion that it is religious faith,
science, or any other system,
which provides our most profound insights about our relationship to the
universe. This religious orientation—akin to a sort of cosmic mysticism but
specifically associated with Catholicism—finds its most complete expression in
New Sun. Undoubtedly there will continue to be readers and critics within
and without SF's boundaries who will be bothered or puzzled by many paradoxical
features of Wolfe's literary imagination. But if it is true that a great man is
one who never reminds us of someone else, then Gene Wolfe has the marks of
greatness.
Larry McCaffery: Could you discuss what sorts of things have drawn you towards
writing SF? Do you find there are certain formal advantages in writing outside
the realm of "mainstream" fiction, maybe a freedom that allows you more room for
exploring the issues you wish to develop?
Gene Wolfe: It's not so much a matter of "advantages" as SF appealing to my
natural cast of mind, to my literary imagination. The only way I know to write
is to write the kind of thing I would like to read myself, and when I do that it
usually winds up being classified as SF or "science fantasy," which is what I
call most of my work. Incidentally, I'd argue that SF represents literature's
real mainstream. What we now normally consider the mainstream—so called
realistic fiction—is a small literary genre, fairly recent in origin, which is
likely to be relatively short lived. When I look back at the foundations of
literature, I see literary figures who, if they were alive today, would probably
be members of the Science Fiction Writers of America. Homer? He would certain
belong to the SFWA. So would Dante, Milton, and Shakespeare. That tradition is
literature's mainstream, and it has been what has grown out of that tradition
which has been labeled SF or whatever label you want to use.
LM: That's why I began by asking if you weren't attracted to the freedom offered
by SF—it's only been since the rise of the novel in the 18th century that
writers have more or less tried to limit themselves to describing the ordinary
world around them....
Wolfe: It's a matter of whether you're content to focus on everyday events or
whether you want to try to encompass the entire universe. If you go back to the
literature written in ancient Greece or Rome, or during the Middle Ages and much
of the Renaissance, you'll see writers trying to write not just about everything
that exists but about everything that could exist. Now as soon as you open
yourself to that possibility, you are going to find yourself talking about
things like intelligent robots and monsters with Gorgon heads, because it's
becoming increasingly obvious that such things could indeed exist. But what
fascinates me is that the ancient Greeks already realized these possibilities
some 500 years before Christ, when they didn't have the insights into the
biological and physical sciences we have today, when there was no such thing as,
say, cybernetics. Yet when you read the story of Jason and the Argonauts, you
discover that the island of Crete was guarded by a robot. Somehow the Greeks
were alert to these possibilities despite the very primitive technology they
had—and they put these ideas into their stories. Today it's the SF writers who
are exploring these things in our stories.
LM: Did you read a lot of SF as a kid?
Wolfe: Every chance I could. I had a very nice grandmother named Alma Wolfe who
used to save me the Sunday comics so that when I visited her there would always
be a huge stack of Sunday funnies. I read those with particular attention to
Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon. Once when I was a kid in Houston I fell off my
bike and hurt my leg badly enough so that my mother had to drive me to school
for a while in the family car. On one of those drives she had a paperback book
lying in the front seat, and when I looked down at the picture on the cover I
saw a picture like the one I had seen in the Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon
comics, with a tremendous chrome tower and a rocket ship being launched. It was
a paperback collection of SF stories edited by Don Wollheim, who was about 22 in
those days. My mother had brought it to read while she was waiting for me to get
out of school (she was a big mystery fan but had bought this as a change of
pace). I asked her if I could read this one when she was finished, and she said
I could have it right away since she didn't much care for it. The first story I
came across was "The Microcosmic God" by Theodore Sturgeon, which was my first
real encounter with SF. It was at that point I realized these were not just
stories I enjoyed—like those of Edgar Allan Poe, or the Oz books by L. Frank
Baum and the books by Ruth Plumly Thompson—but that they constituted a genre.
From the Wollheim anthology, which was the very first American SF paperback
anthology, I worked backwards and discovered the SF pulps—Planet Stories,
Thrilling Wonder Stories, Weird Tales, Famous Fantastic Mysteries (that was my
favorite) and Amazing Stories, all of which were still on sale for 20 or 25
cents. As a kid in junior high school, I used to walk six blocks or so up to the
Richmond pharmacy, pick up one of those magazines, hide behind the candy case,
and read until the pharmacist saw me and threw me out. Since I was usually
interrupted in the middle of the story, I'd go away for a few days and then
sneak back and take up where I'd left off.
LM: What kind of family atmosphere did you grow up in?
Wolfe: One important thing was that I had a mother who read to me, which is a
great blessing I suppose just about everyone who writes has had. My father was a
small town boy from southern Ohio who had been fairly adventurous as a young man
but who eventually became a regional sales manager in New York City. He was
assigned to Belhaven, North Carolina, where my mother had grown up in a family
that was right out of a Faulkner novel; during the six months he was there they
met, were married, and then he was transferred back to New York. My father was
an almost ideal salesman, somebody everybody liked. I've lived here in
Barrington, Illinois for 13 years now, but if my father were still alive and
came to Barrington, within two weeks he would have more friends than I do.
Neither of my parents ever went to college (I suspect my mother never graduated
from high school) but they were tremendous readers. And that world of literature
was very important to me while I was growing up because I was an introverted kid
who spent a lot of time in his imagination. I had to because I was an only child
and I was constantly sick. I had infantile paralysis as a small
child (I was so small I don't remember having it) and I was allergic to lots of
things, like wheat and chocolate, that aren't good things for a kid to be
allergic to.
LM: Did all those stolen hours reading behind the candy case make you decide you
wanted to be a writer?
Wolfe: No, I'm afraid it was much more a cold, practical decision. I wrote my
first stories while I was at Texas A&M studying engineering. The guy I was
assigned as a roommate was connected to the college magazine as an illustrator
and he thought it would be nice if I would write some stories that he could do
the illustrations for. I wrote three or four forgettable pieces for the
magazine, but eventually I dropped out of college (my grades were terrible),
went into the Army during the Korean War, and then went back to college on the
GI Bill. By 1956 I had married Rosemary, and was working as a mechanical
engineer in research and development for Procter and Gamble. We were both making
fairly good money but we didn't have any reserves, so as a result we were living
in a furnished attic which we didn't much like—it consisted of two rooms, both
of which were pointed so you could only stand up in the middle of them. It was
then I decided maybe I could write something, as I had in college, and sell it
so we could get enough money to buy some furniture, move into a house, and live
like real human beings. I tried to write a novel but it was terrible—it never
sold and it never will. But I was bitten by the bug. I discovered I liked
writing; it had become a hobby; so I kept on writing other stuff until finally
in 1965 I sold a little ghost story called "The Dead Man" to Sir, which is one
of those skin magazines, a poor man's Playboy.
LM: During those eight years you were trying to sell your first piece, why
weren't you selling? Was your work really that bad or were you already writing
far enough outside the accepted genre conventions that it was difficult to find
a home for your work?
Wolfe: It was a combination of everything. It wasn't just working outside the SF
conventions—I'm still doing that today, of course, but I'm doing it better.
Certainly one of my problems was that I didn't know anything about marketing
when I was starting out. But mainly I was simply learning the art of writing.
You don't go out, buy a violin, and then immediately get a job with a symphony
orchestra—first you've got to learn how to play the damn thing. Writing is a lot
like that. There are cases like Truman Capote who got his first five acceptances
in one day when he was 17, but he was a very unusual and precocious writer. I
remember vividly how afraid I was after I got that first acceptance that it was
just blind luck and I was never going to sell anything else again.
LM: You dedicated The Fifth Head of Cerberus to Damon Knight, "who one night in
1966 grew me from a bean." I suspect there's an anecdote behind that
dedication....
Wolfe: The circumstances behind that dedication to Knight are a little
complicated but probably worth relating. I'll never be able to repay Damon
Knight for his help and support, although I've made some stabs at it in the
past. I've received a lot of help from other people since I've achieved some
recognition, but the only person who helped me with my writing when I really
needed help was Damon Knight. After I had sold that story to the skin magazine,
I sent a story called "The Mountains are Mice" to Galaxy; as I mentioned, I was
very naïve about marketing in those days, didn't know who was editing what; but
it turned out that Galaxy was being edited by Fred Pohl. At any rate, I got back
"The Mountains are Mice" with a simple rejection note, which was the way I got
back everything in those days. I was working from one of those lists of SF
markets published by The Writer, so when Galaxy rejected me the next magazine on
the list was If. So I addressed another envelope, sent the story off to
If, and
I got an acceptance from Pohl (who was also editing If!) with a check. His
letter said, "I'm glad you let me see this again. The re write has really
improved it." My point is, of course, that there had been no re write. Once that
story appeared I received an invitation from Lloyd Biggle to join the SFWA,
which had a listing of markets that included Orbit, the anthology that Damon
Knight was editing. I wrote a story called "Trip Trap" and sent it to
Orbit, and
I got it back with a letter from Knight saying something like: I like this story
a whole lot but I think it needs to change here from viewpoint A to viewpoint
B—and this is why—and then switch from B to C—with more explanations—and a long
list of very sensible suggestions of that sort. After I read that letter I lay
on the bed for a long while, and I suddenly realized: "By golly, I'm actually a
writer now." I said something like that to Damon in my next letter to him, and
he wrote back, "I didn't know I had grown you from a bean," which is the line I
stole for my dedication to The Fifth Head of Cerberus. During the next few years
Knight was buying my work, making a lot of useful observations about what I was
doing, and basically giving me confidence in myself when no one else was.
LM: In looking back today, were there any stories that you would point to as
being "breakthrough" pieces?
Wolfe: The real breakthroughs were taking place before I started selling
anything. There was a point at which I wrote a story called "In the Jungle,"
that was never published, about a kid who wanders into a hobo jungle. At the
time I wrote it, I thought it was a milestone in American literature. You know
the way Romancing the Stone starts with that woman writer staring at the
typewriter and crying, "My God, I'm so good!"? Well, I felt that way about that
story, so I sent it out to about 18 places and then watched the rejection slips
pile up. Two or three years later I pulled that story out, looked at it, and
realized the story I had in my head had never gotten down on paper. What I
learned to do in those apprentice years was make those stories run down my arm.
LM: Some of your works proceed in a relatively straightforward, linear manner,
but many of them unfold in a more complicated fashion, with the events being
filtered through memory, dream, unreliable narrators, stories within stories,
different points of view. What draws you to these sorts of "refracted" methods?
Wolfe: First off, my intent in using these approaches is not to mystify my
readers. My agent once said to me, "I know you thought no one would `get' this
in your story but I understood what you were up to." I wrote back that if I
thought no one would get it, I wouldn't have put it in there. There's no purpose
for an author deliberately making things obscure. What I am trying to do is show
the way things really seem to me—and to find the most appropriate way to tell
the particular story I have to tell. I certainly never sit down and say to
myself, "Gee, I think I'll tell a story in the first person or third person."
Some stories simply seem to need a first person narrator, others are dream
stories, another might require a third person narrator. What I try to do is find
the narrative approach that is most appropriate to the subject matter.
LM: And since a lot of your work seems to deal with the nature of human
perception itself—the difficulties of understanding what is going on around us—a
straightforward approach would be inappropriate.
Wolfe: It's the hackneyed notion: "The medium is the message." As I work on a
story, the subject matter often seems to become an appropriate means of telling
it—the thing bites its tail, in a way—because subject and form aren't reducible
to a simple "this or that." "That" and "this" are interacting throughout the
story. That's what I meant when I said I'm trying to show the way things really
seem to me—my experience is that subjects and methods are always interacting in
our daily lives. That's realism, that's the way things really are. It's the
other thing—the matter of fact assumption found in most fiction that the author
and characters perceive everything around them clearly and objectively—that is
unreal. I mean, you sit there and you think you're seeing me and I sit here
thinking I'm seeing you; but what we're really reacting to are light patterns
that have stimulated certain nerve endings in the retinas of our eyes—light
patterns that are reflected from us. It's this peculiar process of interaction
between light waves, our retinas, and our brains that I call "seeing you" and
you call "seeing me." But change the mechanism in my eyes, change the nature of
the light, and "you" and "me" become entirely different as far as we're
concerned. You think you're hearing me directly at this moment but you're
actually hearing everything a little bit after I've said it because it requires
a finite but measurable amount of time for my voice to reach you. Fiction that
doesn't acknowledge these sorts of interactions simply isn't "realistic" in any
sense I'd use that term.
LM: Maybe because of your awareness of the interrelatedness of form and content,
you seem to be among a relatively select group of SF authors (Delany and Le Guin
would also come to mind) who appear to pay as much attention to the language and
other stylistic features of their work as to the plot development or content (in
the gross sense). I assume you do a lot of rewriting, but what sorts of things
are you focussing on when you're doing these revisions?
Wolfe: I do a minimum of three "writes" for everything I do—an original and then
at least two rewrites. A lot of stuff goes through four drafts, and some of it
goes 15 or even more drafts; basically I'm willing to keep revising until I get it right. What I'm focusing on in these rewrites varies. It's
certainly not all just trying to get the language right, although that's
important, especially when I'm trying to capture a specific atmosphere or
cultural attitude in a story. I remember that when I started "The Fifth Head of
Cerberus" I completely rewrote those opening pages at least eight or ten times
because it seemed essential to capture that certain flavor I wanted the story to
have, the feeling of stagnation which affects a lot of what's to follow. I
particularly remember struggling with that passage about the vine scrambling up
the wall from the court below and nearly covering the window. But since
character usually seems to be the single element in my works I'm most interested
in, a lot of the rewriting I do involves me trying to fine tune character. This
is especially true when I'm working on a novel, where character has more time to
predominate, rather than in stories, where often the idea or plot twist seems
more important. It's always a problem for me when I have a character like
Malrubius in The Book of the New Sun, who shows up in widely separated places—I
want to make sure he's the same person on page 300 as he was on page 10. Of
course, sometimes I like the man on page 300 better than I had liked him earlier
on, so then I have to go back and re write page 10 to make him match the way he
appears later on.
LM: You exhibit not only a near encyclopedic knowledge of words and their
origins but you obviously have a great feel for language and for inventing
contexts in which different lingoes can be presented. And yet one theme which
recurs in many of your works (and throughout The Book of the New Sun) is the
limitations of words, the way language distorts perception and is used to
manipulate others. Is this a paradox—or an occupational hazard?
Wolfe: Any writer who tries to press against the limits of prose, who's trying
to write something genuinely different from what's come before, is constantly
aware of these paradoxes about language's power and its limitations. Because
language is your medium, you become aware of the extent to which language
controls and directs our thinking, the extent that we're manipulated by
words—and yet the extent to which words necessarily limit our attention and
hence misrepresent the world around us. Orwell dealt with all this in 1984 much
better than I've been able to when he said, in effect: Let me control the
language and I will control peoples' thoughts. Back in the 1930s the Japanese
used to have actual "Thought Police," who would come around and say to people,
"What do you think about our expedition to China?" or something like that. And
if they didn't like what you replied, they'd put you under arrest. What Orwell
was driving at, though, goes beyond that kind of obvious control mechanism; he
was implying that if he could control the language, then he could make it so
that you couldn't even think about anything he didn't want you to think about.
My view is that this isn't wholly true. One of the dumber things you see in the
comic books occasionally is where, say, Spider Man falls off a building, looks
down and sees a flag pole, and thinks to himself, "If I can just grab that
flagpole, I'll be okay." Now nobody in those circumstances would actually be
doing that—if you're falling off a building, you don't put that kind of thought
into words, even though you're somehow consciously aware of
needing to grab that flagpole. You are thinking below the threshold of language,
which suggests there is a pre verbal, sub level of thinking taking place without
words. Orwell didn't deal with this sub level of thinking, but the accuracy of
his insights about the way authorities can manipulate people through words is
evident in the world around us.
LM: Your work often appears to rely on fantasy forms in order to find a means of
dealing with these "pre verbal" aspects of consciousness. For instance, several
scenes in The Book of the New Sun seemed to be dramatizing inner psychological
struggles that aren't easily depicted in realistic forms. I'm thinking about,
say, Severian's encounter with the Wellsian man apes in The Claw of the
Conciliator or his later confrontation with the Alzabo. These scenes seemed to
function very much like dreams or fairy tales in which our inner fears or
obsessions—those non rational aspects of people that seem out of place in the
mundane world of most realists—are literalized, turned into psychic dramas.
Wolfe: That's a good way to put it. One of the advantages of fantasy is that I
don't have to waste a lot of time creating the kinds of logical or causal
justifications required by the conventions of realism. I can have that Alzabo
simply come in the front door of that cabin without having to justify his
arrival (keep in mind that even in a standard SF novel I would have had to do
something like have a space ship land and then have the Alzabo emerge from the
ship). That's one of the limitations of forms restricted to descriptions of
everyday reality or of events that are scientifically plausible. Of course I'd
argue that while the Alzabo and those other creatures Severian meets may appear
to be dream like, they also very much exist within a continuum of human
potential—they're not really "fantastic" at all, but embodiments of things that
lie within all of us. And it seems important for people to be able to
occasionally confront these things (that's what dreams and fairy tales have
always done for people). The Alzabo is a monster, sure; but it's something many
people fear a great deal when they work for a major corporation: we fear we'll
be swallowed by Procter and Gamble, become just a cog in its innards or so much
a company man that we'll be just a voice coming out of its mouth. Its
beastliness is also what people don't like to recognize when they look in the
mirror. Now if you're a human being, you probably realize that it's possible for
you to degenerate into a beast; people who don't acknowledge this have actually
degenerated in a different way, have lost a certain amount of self insight. And
you can regress into being an ape, if that's what you really want to do. When
people want to bring out their animality, they usually do so by drinking, which
helps them turn off their higher brain centers and become a lot like the
creature we imagine the Neanderthal man was like (I hope I'm not slandering the
Neanderthal man here!). People drink or use drugs to get rid of the pain of
being a human being (maybe the pain of consciousness itself), to find ways of
going back down the evolutionary ladder. Every once in a while in the Tarzan
books, Tarzan gets sick of civilization and desperately wants to go back to
being an ape. That desire may seem scary to most people, but it's inside all of
us.
LM: Who were some of the writers you were reading back in the '50s and '60s who
might have influenced the development of your work? I take it
they weren't exclusively SF authors—your story The Fifth Head of Cerberus echoes Proust in various
ways, for instance.
Wolfe: Reading anything exclusively is dumb. I had someone ask me once in a
letter how long I could read SF before I would burn out. I replied by saying
that I never burn out on SF because I never read it exclusively. I always mix my
SF reading with ghost stories and mysteries and straight novels, what have you.
At any rate, I recall that when Damon Knight asked me back in the '60s whom I
was reading I wrote back and said "J.R. Tolkien, G.K. Chesterton and Mark's
Engineer's Handbook." Chesterton is not very popular these days, but in my
opinion he was a great writer who will come back into vogue. The Man Who Was
Thursday is a tremendous novel and The Napoleon of Notting Hill is a wonderful
forgotten fantasy work. I was reading other people in those days as well—Proust,
Dickens, Borges, H.G. Wells. Proust, of course, was obsessed with some of the
same things I deal with in The Book of the New Sun—memory and the way memory
affects us—except that he was writing his remarkable works 80 years before I
was.
LM: This issue of memory is central to a lot of your work—Peace,
The Fifth Head
of Cerberus, each book of The Book of the New Sun, and a lot of your stories.
Can you say anything about why you return to it so often?
Wolfe: Memory is all we have. The present is a knife's edge, and the future
doesn't really exist (that's why SF writers can set all these strange stories
there, because it's no place, it hasn't come into being). So memory's ability to
reconnect us with the past, or some version of the past, is all we have. I'm
including racial memory and instinct here ("instinct" is really just a form of
racial memory). The baby bird holds onto the branch because of the racial memory
of hundreds of generations of birds who have fallen off. Little kids always seem
to know there are terrible things out there in the dark which might eat you, and
that's undoubtedly because of hundreds and hundreds of little kids who were
living in caves when there were terrible things lurking out there in the dark.
This whole business about memory is very complicated because we not only
remember events but we can also recall earlier memories. I allude to this in The
Book of the New Sun when I make the point that Severian not only remembers
what's happened but he remembers how he used to remember—so he can see the
difference between the way he used to remember things and the way he remembers
them now.
LM: Just now you didn't cite as influences any of SF's New Wave writers who were
emerging during the 1960s while Michael Moorcock was editing New Worlds. Were
you aware of those authors?
Wolfe: I was not only aware of what they were doing but I even placed one story
in New Worlds. What was happening with the New Wave was that a lot of SF authors
with literary backgrounds, rather than scientific backgrounds, were applying
what they knew in their works in just the same way the people with engineering
and scientific backgrounds—Heinlein, for instance, or Asimov—had applied those
backgrounds earlier. This approach didn't work fundamentally; at least it never
became popular. As art it worked in
some cases, while in others it didn't—which is true about everything, I guess.
LM: Why didn't these "literary" approaches catch on with SF audiences?
Wolfe: Probably because a lot of experimentalism was handled in such a way that
it alienated readers, many of whom were raised on the pulps and didn't give a
damn about "literature" in any kind of elevated sense. I was personally sorry to
see it not catching on since some of what it was trying to do certainly struck a
responsive chord in me. When Harlan Ellison put together his Again Dangerous
Visions, he included three stories by me, so I was associated with the New Wave.
It was a time in which a lot of people were yelling at us for what we were
doing, and we were yelling back at them. Actually, at various times I was put
into both camps by different people, which was fine with me.
LM: In some ways, the three interlocking novellas of The Fifth Head of Cerberus
operate like a Faulknerian novel, with each succeeding section revealing aspects
of the larger puzzle which only comes into focus when the book is completed. Did
you realize when you started out that you were going to develop this kind of
structure?
Wolfe: Not at all. I wrote the title story for Damon Knight's Orbit, where it
originally appeared. That same year I went to the Milford Conference and
presented the story there. Norbert Slepyan of Scribner's was there at that
meeting and he liked the story quite a lot—so that he said that if I could write
two other stories of roughly the same length he'd publish them as a book. We
agreed I'd write one of the pieces and, if it was good, he'd be able to offer me
a contract at that point. So I wrote "A Story by John V. Marsch," and he was
sufficiently impressed that he issued me a contract. At any rate, the specific
interrelations that you see were developed as I went along.
LM: The opening sentence of "The Fifth Head of Cerberus" echoes Proust, you set
the story in a place called Frenchman's Landing, and you draw various other
French elements into the story. What prompted you to use all these references to
France?
Wolfe: It had struck me for some time that it is ludicrous to assume, the way
practically every SF story assumes, that people who go to the stars and set up
colonies there are necessarily going to be Americans. I saw I could counter this
parochial notion by setting my story in a French colony. Frenchman's Landing is
actually modeled essentially on New Orleans, which has always had a strong
French influence. Somebody—I think it was John Brunner—did an SF book that opens
with the words, "The Captain bore the good terrestrial name of Chang." When the
first space captains go into outer space, there'll be a lot of Changs out there.
LM: Presenting the sections of Cerberus out of their chronological sequence
forces the readers to re evaluate information received earlier. Did you ever
give any thought to rearranging them so that they would appear in chronological
sequence—that is, with the John Marsch sandwalker story appearing first?
Wolfe: No, because I didn't want to show what John Marsch had been
researching—the material that make up his "story" in the second novella— until I
had actually introduced John Marsch the researcher in "The Fifth Head." I
decided to present the Sandwalker story as a legend or story that Marsch had
uncovered, rather than as straight reportage, because I wanted to keep all three
stories set in roughly the same time frame—the "present" of the opening novella.
Since the period in which the Sandwalker scene was—in terms of the "present"
found in the rest of the book—taking place in the distant past of the planet, it
made more sense to say, "Here's a legend that has survived from that period"
rather than simply jumping into the past and presenting it directly. In the last
piece, "V.R.T.," I finish up by showing what had become of Sandwalker's world
(this is only hinted at in "The Fifth Head") and by showing what eventually
happened to Marsch.
LM: All this "showing" in "V.R.T." is made intriguingly ambiguous by the
confusion about who "Marsch" really is.
Wolfe: In the end, of course, it's important that the reader not be confused
about this, although part of the fun is supposed to be figuring out what's
happened. I leave a number of clues as to who the narrator actually is. For
example, both V.R.T. and the narrator are shown to be very poor shots, whereas
Marsch is a very good shot, and there's other hints like that. If you hire a
shape changer as a guide, there's a definite possibility that he's going to
change into your shape at some point. Which is what happens.
LM: Could you talk about the way your stories or novels tend to get started for
you? Is there any consistent pattern?
Wolfe: The only true answer I can supply is that I have a bunch of different
kinds of things knocking around in my head until something jars me into
realizing that these things can come together in a story. Typically I'll read
something or see something or dream something and I'll think to myself: "Gee,
that would be interesting to put into a story." It's usually later on that I
think up a character or person who might fit into the context of that original
"something" in an interesting way. Then at some point I recognize that I could
incorporate all this material—I could take that and that woman and
that ship and
that situation, and put them all together in a story. There's a wonderful
"Peanuts" cartoon that pretty much describes what I'm talking about: Snoopy is
on the top of his doghouse and he writes something like, "A frigate appeared on
the edge of the horizon. The King's extravagances were bankrupting the people. A
shot rang out. The dulcet voice of a guitar sounded at the window." Then he
turns and looks at the reader and says, "In the last chapter I'm going to pull
all this together!"
LM: But I take it that you've usually pulled things together enough in advance
so that you know, once you're actually sitting down to begin writing the story,
where it's heading.
Wolfe: Absolutely. I wouldn't start a work unless I had at least a vague idea of
where I was going to end up with it. Of course, sometimes I have a difficult
time getting to where I'm heading. That's what happened, on a grand scale, when
I began work on The Book of the New Sun—I knew roughly
where I was going, but as I was trying to get there, I discovered there was a
great deal more between "here" and "there" than I had anticipated.
LM: Where was it that you knew you were heading when you began The Book of the
New Sun?
Wolfe: I knew I wanted Severian to be banished and then to return to the Guild
in a position of such authority that the Guild would be forced to make him a
Master of the Guild. And I wanted to have Severian be forced to confront the
problem of Thecla and the problem of torture and the role of human pain and
misery. At that time I had not yet read The Magus, so the thought didn't come
from there, but I was very conscious of the horror not only of being tortured
but of being forced to be a torturer or executioner. I didn't want my readers to
be able to dismiss violence and pain with some platitudes about "Oh,
violence—how terrible!" It's very easy to say how terrible it is to beat a man
with a whip, or lock him up for 30 years of his life, or to execute him. These
are indeed awful things. But when you are actually in authority, you find out
that sometimes it's absolutely necessary for you to take certain distasteful
actions.
LM: Severian makes the point somewhere that if he didn't execute some of the
people he does, they would be out killing people themselves....
Wolfe: And he's right. What are you going to do with someone like John Wayne
Gacy—who used to live about eight miles from where we're sitting right now—if
you're not going to be willing to lock him up for the rest of his life? If you
let him out, he's almost certain to start killing more innocent people. I wanted
Severian to have to face at least the possibility that being an agency of pain
and death is not necessarily an evil thing. That's one recognition he must come
to grips with when he decides to leave a knife in Thecla's cell to help her
commit suicide. He's partially responsible for the blood he sees seeping from
under her cell door, just as every member of a society is responsible for the
blood shed by people it decides to execute. Of course, when Severian later
receives a letter from Thecla telling him the suicide was a trick permitting her
to be freed unobtrusively, that creates all sorts of other dilemmas for him—and
for me as well. I had started out assuming I was writing a novella of about
40,000 words whose title was to have been "The Feast of Saint Catherine," but
now I began to see this material had greater possibilities. The writer has a
problem when ideas, characters, and so forth don't seem to come, or when they
aren't good enough when they do come. But when they're too good and too
numerous, he has another. But the time I had finished with The Shadow of the
Torturer, I had completed an entire novel but Severian was hardly started.
Instead of winding up the plot, I had begun half a dozen others which needed to
be worked out. Eventually I decided I needed to write a trilogy to be able to
develop everything sufficiently; and when the third book turned out to be almost
twice as long as the first two combined, I finally expanded things into a
tetralogy. When I was done, I discovered that I had arrived where I had set out
for—but the trip to that place was very different than what I had expected.
LM: What gave you the initial impulse to make Severian a torturer? Was it that
abstract notion of wanting your hero to deal with the nature of pain and
suffering?
Wolfe: No, the possibility of having a character who was a torturer was one of
those initial ideas that wasn't tied to anything for a while. It first came to
me during some convention I was attending at which Bob Tucker was the guest of
honor. For some reason Bob felt obliged to go to a panel discussion on costume,
and since he wanted someone to accompany him, I went along (otherwise I wouldn't
ordinarily have gone since I'm not a costumer). So I went and heard Sandra
Miesel and several other people talk about how you do costumes—how you might do
a cloak, whether or not it's good to use fire as part of your costume, and so
forth. As I sat there being instructed I was sulking because no one had ever
done one of my characters at a masquerade. It seemed as though I had done a lot
of things that people could do at a masquerade; but when I started to think this
over more carefully, I realized there were few, if any, characters who would fit
in with what Sandra and the others were saying. That led me to start thinking
about a character who would fit—someone who would wear simple but dramatic
clothes. And the very first thing that came to mind was a torturer: bare chest
(everybody has a chest, all you have to do is take your shirt off), black
trousers, black boots (you can get those anywhere), black cloak, a mask, and a
sword! Here was an ideal, easy SF masquerade citizen. All this stuck in my head
somehow: I had this dark man, the personification of pain and death, but I
didn't yet know what to do with him. Then gradually a lot of things began to
come together. For instance, I read a book about body snatchers that captured my
fancy (body snatchers were the people who used to dig up corpses and sell them
to medical schools for the students to dissect). And I also had in mind that it
would be interesting to be able to show a young man approaching war. So I began
to put things together: I could have my young man witness the body snatching
scene that I was now itching to write; this same young man could be the guy who
is pulled into the war; he could be a torturer, and so on.
LM: It was a bold stroke to make your hero into a man who's both a professional
torturer (with all that this implies) and yet also a man who possesses the
capacity for passion, love and tenderness. That reinforces your point about the
multiplicity of selves existing within us all.
Wolfe: And I was particularly interested in the way that multiplicity points out
the potential lying within everyone for good and evil. Whether we like it or
not, that potential is part of what makes us people. We tend to look at somebody
like the death camp guards in Nazi Germany and think to ourselves, "Thank God
I'm not like that! Those guys weren't people—they were fiends in human form."
But those guards weren't "fiends." They were human beings who became pulled into
a certain game whose rules said it was okay to be a death camp guard in Nazi
Germany. Later on we came along and changed the rules on them. It was important
for me to be able to show the way evil expresses itself in people because I
think it's essential that we recognize the existence of this potential within us
all. This recognition is the only way we can safeguard ourselves from this sort of thing. As long
as we go around saying, "I'm not capable of doing anything ugly, I'm the guy in
the white hat," then we're capable of doing just about any damn ugly thing. If
you're watching a man on his way to the scaffold and you can't realize "this
could be me," then you've got no right to hang him. I dealt with a similar idea
in "The Island of Dr. Death," where at the end of the story I had Dr. Death tell Tackie that if he starts the book again then (as he puts it), "We'll all be
back." If you don't have Dr. Death, then you can't have Captain Ransom. You can't
have a knight unless you have the dragon, a positive charge without a negative
charge.
LM: Once the scope of The Book of the New Sun became obvious, you must have sat
down at some point and developed some kind of detailed outline.
Wolfe: Actually I never use an outline when I work. Even with something like
The
Book of the New Sun, where there's an elaborate structure, the outline exists
only in my head and not on paper. The only exception to that was with a book I
did a while back called Free Live Free, in which a lot of the action took place
in an old brick house on a city street. For that book I had to draw a floor plan
of the two storys of the house because otherwise I found myself getting tangled
up in such details as: Could you see the street from this window? Could you see
from this room to that room? When Ben Free is in his room, can he hear the steps
of someone walking overhead in their room? So I had to figure out where the
bedrooms and bathrooms and stairs all were. But of course a floor plan isn't
really an outline in the usual sense.
LM: In a sense all four volumes of The Book of the New Sun form a single novel
in the same way that the individual books that comprise Proust's Remembrance of
Things Past form a single work. But as you were working on the volumes
individually, were you aiming at different formal effects that would be more
appropriate to what you were talking about? For instance, when I went from
Shadow to The Claw of the Conciliator, I felt that The Claw was presented by
means of more peculiar effects—it seemed less direct, to rely more on stories
within stories (and there's that long play inserted into the text)....
Wolfe: I saw the book falling into four distinct segments: a presentation of
Nessus, getting from Nessus to Thrax, Thrax, and the war. And despite some slop
over, you'll find me pretty much focussing from book to book on those areas,
each of which required me to develop a way of story telling that would be
appropriate for my focus. For instance, when I finished Shadow —and keep in mind
that I didn't complete a final draft of the first volume until I had all four
already in second draft—I was very conscious that in Claw I was going to get
outside of Nessus and show the atmosphere and surroundings of that world
outside. In order to do that I needed to show cultural elements of this world
which would allow the reader to understand it: What kind of clothes did people
wear? What kinds of stories do they tell, jokes do they make? That sort of
thing. That required a slightly different approach, maybe gives the book a
different texture from the others.
LM: I was constantly struck in all four volumes by the richness and variety of
textural detail—I'm not just referring to physical details but to your
meticulous attention to a wide range of cultural, anthropological, and
linguistic elements.
Wolfe: From the very onset one of the things I had in mind was to show a big,
complex civilization, an entire society that I would make plausibly complex.
I've always been irritated (and usually bored) by the Simple Simon civilizations
you find presented in most SF novels, where you have a galactic empire spread
over umpteen light years but which turns out to have a culture that's as uniform
as, let's say, Milwaukee. Except for instances in which a culture's liveable
area is small—essentially one island or an equally isolated area—and those in
which there is a small population possessing a high technology, this assumption
of a simple, uniform culture covering an entire world is simply incredible.
LM: You mentioned earlier that one of the first ideas you had for The Book of
the New Sun was presenting a young man approaching a war. Did your own
experiences going to war in Korea serve as inspiration for this?
Wolfe: Very much so. When I dropped out of Texas A&M I had gone through that
rite of passage in which war at first seems impossibly remote and then you find
yourself gradually pulled into the actual fighting. At the time I was drafted I
didn't think I would ever end up fighting, maybe partly because the war seemed
so distant. Oh, my father was worried and wanted me to join the Air Force or
something, but an enlistment was a six year commitment, whereas the draft was
only two years, which seemed a lot more attractive. Keep in mind that the Korean
War was much more remote to the American people at the time than the Vietnam War
was to your generation. You didn't have the live TV coverage and all the
constant media barrage. Anyway, I can vividly recall watching myself being
slowly sucked into this vortex. When I got to Korea I rode a train all day and
all night up to the front lines, a slow train which gave me a lot of time to
think about what was happening. When I stepped off the train, I could hear the
guns firing in the distance; and at that moment it came to me: "My God, I didn't
miss! Here it is! Here I am!" You can find a similar kind of progression in
The
Red Badge of Courage, but I wanted to develop mine within an SF setting.
LM: Despite the SF setting, I was often reminded of the Civil War or World War I
while reading your battle scenes. Did you do a lot of specific research for
these scenes?
Wolfe: I didn't research anything specifically for them, but they probably came
out of a lot of reading I've done about the Napoleonic Wars, the Civil War, the
two World Wars, and so on. In presenting the war itself, I was trying to guess
what war might be like for a decadent society in which there was still some high
technology left but most of it was unavailable. There was an actual time here on
planet Earth around 1960 in which there was a civil war being fought in what
used to be the Belgian Congo. In that war, there were tribesmen with spears who
were being led into battle by European officers with submachine guns, supported
by jet planes. I wanted to
show what that kind of war might be like, not taking the Belgian Congo situation
as a literal model but simply as the kind of thing I was interested in. So I
showed some people riding animals at the same time that others are using laser
canons and all kinds of advanced weaponry.
LM: Did your war experiences have the kind of permanent effect on your
sensibility as it apparently had on other writers, like Mailer, Hemingway, and
Vonnegut?
Wolfe: I'm sure they did, but it's difficult to say exactly how. I only caught
about the last four months of the war—I was there for the cease fire and for
quite some time afterwards. I saw just enough action to realize what it was
like. I got shot at a few times, shot at a few people, was shelled. You don't go
through those experiences without getting a different outlook on life than you
would have had without them. Just before you arrived this morning, I was talking
on the phone with Harlan Ellison about a recent incident in which he wound up
decking Charles Platt, and he mentioned how many of his friends had censured him
for his violent reaction. Well, it would never occur to me to rebuke Harlan
because I accept that if you're not violent at certain times you're going to
wind up being the victim of violence. The fact that you stand there and let
someone hit you in the face doesn't do anything to eliminate violence (it may
even contribute to further violence) —which is one of the underlying themes in
The Book of the New Sun.
LM: What kind of research was involved in The Book of the New Sun?
Wolfe: The main research was on Byzantium and the Byzantine Empire, which was a
stagnant political entity that had outlived its time in much the same way that
the Urth of the Commonwealth had. One of the things that bothered me about the
reviews I got on The Book of the New Sun was how often they compared my world
with that of Medieval Europe. Insofar as I was trying to create any kind of
parallels with an actual historical period here on Earth—and obviously I wasn't
aiming at developing an exact analogy—I was thinking of Byzantium. Incidentally,
I also got into trouble with some reviewers over my presentation of the Ascians,
who were my equivalent of the Turks. If you read the book carefully, it's clear
that the action is taking place in South America and that the invading Ascians
are actually North Americans. What I didn't anticipate was that nine tenths of
my readers and reviewers would look at the word "Ascian" and say, "Oh, these
guys are Asians!" This confusion got me accused of being an anti Asian
racist—which I'm not. Actually, the word "ascian" literally means "people
without shadows." It was a word used in the Classical world for people who lived
near the Equator, where the Sun is dead overhead at noon and thus produces no
shadow. I felt it would be an interesting touch to show that the ordinary man in
the street in the Southern Hemisphere wasn't even conscious that their attackers
are coming down from the Northern Hemisphere (they aren't even aware that there
is another hemisphere).
LM: That kind of suggestive use for archaic or unfamiliar words is evident
throughout the tetralogy. I'm sure a lot of readers had the same mistaken
impression I did that you were making up these wondrous, bizarre
words—especially since the use of neologisms is so common in SF. Could you talk
about why you chose to use mainly "real" words rather than inventing your own?
Wolfe: I should clarify the fact that all the words I use in The Book of the New
Sun are real (except for a couple of typographical errors). As you know, in most
SF about unknown planets, the author is forced to invent wonders and then to
name them. But that didn't seem appropriate to what I was doing here. It
occurred to me when I was starting out with The Book of the New Sun that Urth
already has enough wonders—if only because it has inherited the wonders of Earth
(and there's the alternate possibility that Earth's wonders have descended to it
from Urth). Some SF fans, who seem to be able to tolerate any amount of
gibberish so long as it's invented gibberish, have found it peculiar that I
would bother relying on perfectly legitimate words. My sense was that when you
want to know where you're going, it helps to know where you've been and how fast
you've traveled. And a great deal of this knowledge can be intuited if you know
something about the words people use. I'm not a philologist, but one thing I'm
certain of is that you could write an entire book on almost any word in the
English language. At any rate, anyone who bothers to go to a dictionary will
find I'm not inventing anything: a "fulgurator" is a holy man capable of drawing
omens from flashes of lightning, an "eidolon" is an apparition or phantom,
"fuligin" literally means soot colored. I also gave the people and other beings
in the book real names (the only exception I can think of is the Ascian who
appears in The Citadel—"Loyal to the Group of Seventeen"). "Severian,"
"Vodalus," and "Agilus," for example, are all ordinary, if now uncommon, names
for men. And if you'd like to call your baby daughter "Valeria," "Thecla," or
"Dorcas," she'll be receiving a genuine name many women in the past have had
(and some in the present). As for the monsters' names, I simply named them for
monsters. The original Erebus was the son of Chaos; he was the god of darkness
and the husband of Nox, the goddess of night; furthermore, Mount Erebus is in
Antarctica, the seat of Erebus's dark and chilly power.
LM: I noticed you gave one of your creatures—Baldanders—a name from Borges....
Wolfe: Yes, I took the name of Baldanders, the giant who is still growing, from
The Book of Imaginary Beings, which may not be Borges's best work but which I
have felt free to steal from disgracefully (even second rate Borges is still
very good indeed). Borges is capable of making up much better books and monsters
and authors than anyone can find in libraries.
LM: Did you find working on your non SF novel Peace to be different in any
fundamental sense from creating your other works?
Wolfe: Not at all, perhaps because the subjective nature of the book gave me so
much freedom. It was the book I wrote after The Fifth Head of Cerberus, and
there was enough continuity—Peace is also a book about memory and about the
meaning of stories, story as a thing—that it seemed simply like the obvious next
book for me to write. It remains my favorite book of all the novels I've
written.
LM: On what basis?
Wolfe: By asking myself how close the book came to being what I wanted it to be
when I started it, how close I came to my own goals, which have naturally been
different in each case. You never reach those goals 100%, but some books wind up
being closer to your initial ideal than others. So far, Peace is the book which
seemed to wind up closest to that ideal.
LM: Was Peace's main character, Dennis Weer, someone you personally identified
with?
Wolfe: I identify with all my main characters, but certainly Weer is very much
modeled on me, with his engineering and food industry background, his
introversion, his sense of isolation. My mother's middle name was Olivia, which
is probably a dead giveaway. The house on the hill is basically modeled on my
mother's father's house, which I visited when I was a child. My grandfather was
an absolutely incredible man who made a tre mendous impression on me—he was one
of those types of guys who was a Scottish seaman as a kid, jumped ship in Texas,
fought Mexican bandits as a US cavalryman in the 1880s, became a circus
performer, and wound up as an old man with a wooden leg, a pitbull, and a lot of
corn whiskey which he'd drink out of a jug. The grandfather in Peace who lights
the candles on the Christmas tree is pretty much based on him, while the town in
the novel is largely a fictive representation of Logan, Ohio, where my father
was raised. So there's a lot more direct autobiographical material I'm drawing
on here than in my other books.
LM: The Book of the New Sun, maybe especially The Citadel of the Autarch, deals
with the nature of death and the afterlife, the role of human beings in the
scheme of the cosmos, all sorts of grand issues. Are the basic insights Severian
eventually achieves into these issues essentially ones that you personally
share?
Wolfe: They're very close indeed, which is why The Citadel is my favorite of the
four books. (Everyone else seems to like The Shadow best.) I tried to prepare
the reader for some of these insights by earlier placing Severian within that
immense backdrop of war. Severian is a soldier, and like any soldier in any war,
the immediate parts of the battlefield he's in seems vitally important,
essential, whereas it's really just a very small part of a very large picture.
Having established Severian's relationship to the larger picture of what's going
on around him, in the latter part of the book I wanted to suggest that, "Look,
this is just a small backwater planet—one of many, many planets—and this isn't
even a particularly interesting or pivotal period in its history; and the Solar
System to which this planet belongs is part of a galaxy similar to quite a
number of similar other spiral galaxies; and all this exists in a universe that
is just one of a whole series of recurring universes. What any individual human
being sees, no matter how vast the vista, is just a tiny corner of what is
happening in creation."
There's a scene in C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce that made a lasting impression
on me. That book is about a one day bus excursion for people who are in Hell and
want to go to Heaven for a visit to see what's there;
towards the end of it, everyone is saying, "Wow, everything here is so
beautiful, look at these gorgeous trees and waterfalls and animals—but where is
the infernal city we just left?" At this point the angel who's leading them
around says, "It's right there in that crack between those two rocks— that's the
infernal city you've come out of." I wanted my readers to experience a similar
shock of recognition at their own insignificance at the end of The Citadel.
LM: The outlook expressed at that conclusion seems fundamentally religious in
orientation.
Wolfe: I don't scoff at religion the way many people do when they look at
anything that has to do with speculations about things we can't touch. I am a
practicing Catholic, although I don't think that designation would give people
much of an idea about what my beliefs are. People tend to have a very limited,
stereotyped view of what it means to be a Catholic, images taken from movies or
anti Catholic pamphlets; but there is much more to it than that. I know
perfectly well, for example, that priests can't walk on water, that they are
merely human beings who are trying, often unsuccessfully, to live out a very
difficult ideal. But I certainly don't dismiss religious or other mystical forms
of speculation out of hand. I read it and try to make my own judgments about it.
And in The Book of the New Sun I tried to work out some of the implications of
my beliefs.
LM: Who are some of the contemporary writers you most admire?
Wolfe: Among SF writers I'd include Algis Budrys, Joanna Russ, Ursula Le Guin,
Damon Knight, Kate Wilhelm, Michael Bishop, Brian Aldiss, Nancy Kress, Michael
Moorcock. And Theodore Sturgeon, Clark Ashton Smith, and Frederick Brown, who
are dead now but not forgotten. One other SF writer I greatly admire is R.A.
Lafferty, who writes very strange stuff that's hard to describe (the St
Brendan's story in Peace is my version of an R.A. Lafferty story); he's an old
man who's developed a cult following, a much neglected figure I think. Among the
non SF writers I most enjoy are Nabokov (Pale Fire is a truly amazing book) and
Borges. Robert Coover's The Universal Baseball Association is one of my favorite
novels. I love a novel called The Tar Baby by Jerome Charyn, a writer I know
nothing else about. Of course, there are a great many earlier writers I'm fond
of. Proust, Dickens, E.M. Forster (whom I'm just now reading). Chesterton, whom
I've already mentioned. George MacDonald, Poe, and Lovecraft (Lovecraft is
usually regarded as an SF writer but to me he is the real successor to Poe's
line of horror, though there really can't be a successor to Poe). I've read a
lot of Arthur Conan Doyle. And I grew up with Kipling, which is one reason I
used his lines from "The Dawn Wind" as an epigraph to The Citadel of the Autarch.
LM: You've grown up in an age which has seen both the development of nuclear
weapons and the landing of men on the Moon. The use of science and technology
seems to be leading us to two different futures, one unimaginably awful, the
other filled with marvels and wonder. Which path is technology taking us?
Wolfe: There are more than two paths we can head down. I feel both optimistic
and pessimistic about what we've been doing with technology. As you say, it has
already been used to produce both wonderful and terrible things. The greatest
ecological disaster to yet hit this planet has come from technology—the
invention of plastics. (If I could go back into the past and repeal a single
discovery of mankind's it would be the discovery of plastics.) On the other
hand, we're getting into space now and doing some amazing things with the life
sciences, including cybernetics and robot development. Technology is like a
punch or a gun: it's good or bad depending on what you do with it. The world is
full of people who assume you can get rid of evil if you can just get rid of the
punch in the jaw or the gun.
LM: But if that gun is firing nuclear weapons or that punch in the jaw is going
to destroy an entire nation....
Wolfe: I don't believe we're heading for a nuclear holocaust. (If I did, I
wouldn't be living this close to Chicago!) Using nuclear weapons is too much of
a clear no win situation for both sides, so I don't think they'll be used in a
war, at least not under the present circumstances. War usually starts when one
side feels it can achieve a quick, clear cut victory—Iraq invading Iran recently
is a classic example of this because Iraq thought it could simply march in and
win an immediate victory. Hitler had sold himself so completely on the idea that
the Germans were strong and pure, while the rest of the world was weak and
degenerate, that he was able to convince himself and a great many other people
that Germany could achieve an easy victory in Europe. It's difficult for me to
see how anyone in Russia or the US could convince themselves they could use
nuclear weapons to achieve that kind of easy victory. Of course, there's another
scenario that's much more dangerous—the one where one side feels pushed up
against a wall and decides they've got to fight now or they'll eventually be
destroyed. That situation worries me a lot more than the other possibility.
LM: But even assuming there is no nuclear holocaust, it seems essential for
people to do some basic rethinking about the management of our resources;
otherwise the issue of how technology is going to evolve will simply become
moot. Once we exhaust our resources, we'll be left in the kind of world you're
describing in The Book of the New Sun.
Wolfe: That possibility was very much on my mind when I was creating the Urth of
The Book of the New Sun. I was trying to come to grips with the end result of
the do nothing attitude so many people on the street have about the future.
These people seem to feel that space exploration is a lot of bullshit ("there's
nothing really out there we can use"), that undersea exploration is a lot of
bullshit ("there's nothing down there for us"), that we should just go about our
business the way we are and be "sensible." But what is going to happen if we
keep on being "sensible" in the way they're suggesting? If we keep clinging to
our old home (the planet Earth) and sit around waiting for the money and
resources to run out? The Urth I invented in The Book of the New Sun is the
world which has followed that course, a world in which people have been so
limited in their vision of the future that they saw no other option except what
was immediately in front of them.
They've been practical and down to earth, they've gone on planting their
cabbages. Well, there's nothing wrong with planting those cabbages, God knows;
but when you ignore any possibilities except those cabbages, you wind up living
in a world something like Urth, with its exhausted mines and exhausted
farmlands. You get a land which may have had a long period of relative peace and
stability, but it's a period of slow decay. I keep tropical fish, and I remember
there used to be a fad among fish owners about trying to keep a perfectly
balanced environment in the tanks—they'd seal everything up to see how long it
was until the fish died out. Sometimes it would take 18 months or more, but
eventually the last fish always died and you were left there staring at a tank
full of scummy green water. That's what the Urth of the Commonwealth has become
(and what we're headed for unless we look to the future more adventurously)—a
tank full of scummy water.
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