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Babel-17 is about a new language created to be used interstellar warfare, and as I read the book of the same name, I indeed felt I was reading something written in another language. This terse Nebula winner is more a novella than a novel, and only offers tantalizing glimpses of the world Delany has built and the interesting characters that populate it.

I don’t have much to offer on this book. I found it difficult to get through, even knowing the conceit, having read the Wikipedia article simply to orient myself. Written in 1966. science fiction was opening up to new horizons, even more existential yet hallucinogenic horizons. Rydra Wong is a telepath, much like many of the characters we’ve seen in novels coming from the 1950s and early 60s. But Babel-17 seems to fall more along the lines of the sexual revolution and drug culture that the late 1960s fully embraced, as it is a language that offers wonderful glimpses of a new world, much like a hallucinogen might. The only downside if the drug cum language turns its speakers into saboteurs. Also, the dichotomy between Rydra’s allies and the enemy Invaders mimics the bipolar system of conflict set up by the Cold War during this period.

It’s surprising that the center of Delany’s novel is a young woman who is presented as competent, intelligent, strong, and capable. She’s not asexual but she’s also not oversexualized. This is a triumph for a science fiction novel of any period, not to mention one written in 1966.

I can’t really recommend or not recommend this book, as I found it slipping through my mind like water. I’ve read some of Delany’s short stories and enjoyed them, and he has another Nebula winner from the year immediately proceeding this one, so I’ll get to try again with him at a later date. Until then, I’ll let you all judge Babel-17.

The first book I ever attempted to read by Arthur C. Clarke was 2001, a novelization based on a film based on a short story. I’ve never seen the movie, but I found the book to be boring, put it down, and never finished it. This was all at least five or six years ago. Fast forward to 2012 and I picked up Fountains of Paradise anticipating some of the hard science fiction coupled with existential crises that I anticipated from Clarke’s work. This book was written a bit after the Golden Age, when Arthur C. Clarke cut his teeth, and at the tail end of the wild and fancy speculation of New Wave authors. As a result, The Fountains of Paradise is a strange blend of hard science fiction and far eastern folklore, drawing lines from a fictionalized classic Sri Lankin setting to twenty-second century Earth and the aspirations of one man to physically link the earth to the heavens.

The Fountains of Paradise won both the Hugo and the Nebula for its year, and as I plodded through the book I found myself at a loss to identify anything that might make it deserving of such accolades. Over time it’s certainly paled in comparison to his other winner, Rendezvous with Rama, as well as beloved nominee Childhood’s End. I’m not sure how the larger sci-fi community at large rates this book retrospectively, but from where I stand there’s nothing groundbreaking of interest here.

The fixed center of Clarke’s novel is the space elevator that engineer Vannevar Morgan is bent on building in order to reduce the complication of rocket travel so that humans can colonize and explore space and the solar system with a greatly increased ease. Unfortunately for Morgan, the best place on earth to anchor such an elevator is on the top of the fictional mountain Taprobane, which for centuries has been home to an order of seemingly immovable Buddhist monks. These monks and their order have survived the onslaught of disasters and the ambitions of violent kings, and at first it appears they may be the only thing standing in the way of Morgan’s giant leap for mankind.

In a way, one of Clark’s goals in The Fountains of Paradise is to make an explicit connection between Earth’s history and the science fiction future that he creates. Morgan sees the space elevator as a necessary step forward in man’s need to invent, grow, and explore. The monks, conversely, represent a stagnant past, even though in the text they are venerated, in a way, for their willingness to uphold tradition. In a strange twist, it is a series of superstitious omens that causes the monks to abandon the temple, allowing Morgan to build his elevator.

This interaction reveals the subtle tension between the mystical and the scientific that underlies the entire books. The nature of god and fate form the quiet core of mankind’s search for life and truth among the heavens. While the temple on top of Taprobane stands for mankind’s spiritual link to the skies, it retreats in the face of man’s actual physical invasion of the heavens through the use of science. An interesting, almost throwaway plot, complicates the dialectic between religion and science, as an alien space probe has just happened to drift through our solar system around the time Morgan is planning and building his elevator. Viewed as a fount of knowledge, particularly because it represents a supposedly advanced culture, the probe is assaulted with questions, the most important of which turns out to be whether or not there is, in fact, a god. Frustratingly for Clarke’s humans, the probe’s answer is evasive enough to be both tantalizing and unsatisfying.

Fate plays a crucial role in the building of the space elevator as well, beyond facilitating its ultimate construction. Much of the action of the latter half of the book focuses in agonizing detail on the plight of a group of scientists who get trapped on the elevator following a near-catastrophic accident. For some reason Morgan is the only one who can save them, and while their fate in lays in the balance, his ultimately does as well. In a cruel twist, Morgan dies saving them before his space elevator is completed.

The present, the past, and the future, the scared and the profane, spirituality and science, tradition and exploration – all these dueling themes weave their way through Clarke’s novel. None of these are unfamiliar territory for readers and writers of science fiction, but as presented here they’re not necessarily more or less thought-provoking than in any other average novel. A random cast of seemingly superfluous characters makes finding the novel’s center difficult, as do random jumps in time and shifts from folkloric writing to hard science fiction. All these elements can be combined in success, but The Fountains of Paradise reads a bit like a half-formed draft with some lovely bit and many others that need re-evaluation. As I’ve said before, my own reaction may be in part because many works I’ve read are derivative of this book, which sometimes can have the unfortunate effect of devaluing the source material. Either way, this book is an unchallenging read that could have been much better. The terse style of the Golden Age seems to fall flat here when met with a more folkloric and spiritual attempt at writing and thinking about science fiction with the many intricate threads Clarke attempts to weave into his story of one man’s attempt to reach the stars.

So this is it, my last sci-fi review for a while. The school year starts up again on Monday, which means I’ll only have time for grading papers and reading big, fat monographs on important historical events. If I can swing using sci-fi as a primary source then maybe more reviews will pop up, but that possibility remains to be seen. Feel free to keep tuned into the blog, though, as I hope to continue posting here about my various academic exploits. Topics this semester include African-American women in the antebellum period, war and remembrance, and the history of mass/popular culture. Lots of fun stuff.

For my last book review of the summer season I chose to read Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny. Apparently when this book won the Hugo there was a bit of a kerfuffle, as some consider this novel to be more a work of fantasy than one of science fiction. It’s easy to see why that argument can be made. Written in an extremely lyrical style, Lord of Light reads very much like the Hindu mythology that inspired it. That this the novel is more than a creative retelling of this mythology is only hinted at, the most direct discussions coming at the very end of the book. Many of the major events in the book are outright fantastical, seeming to break the laws of the physical universe with no scientific explanation behind them, a faux pas that is considered one of the biggest lines between sci-fi and fantasy.

Kerfuffle aside, Zelazny doesn’t really have much to actively say. It took me a while to slog through this thin book, and every time I picked it up I mentally referred to it as The Most Boring Book in the World. Zelazny is thick on descriptive prose that belabors his narrative, and while he creates an intriguing premise that explores the nature of religion and technology, he gets bogged down in unenlightening character studies of his unique version of the Hindu pantheon.

By the mid-1960s, American culture blossomed along all fronts. The Summer of Love loomed near, civil rights, feminist, and gay rights movements all demanded reform and equality, and counterculture eschewed the domestic and consumerist obsessions of postwar America. Exploring Eastern religion fit very neatly into this dynamic of change and exploration, as was most memorably dramatized in a recent episode of Mad Men, when the Hare Krishna made a noteworthy and startling appearance. So it makes perfect sense that Zelazny would write a novel steeped in Hinduism in the 1960s. Science fiction has long led the way in exploring foreign cultures in the present on Earth, and is also a genre ever ready to tackle Big Questions like the nature of technology and religion. In Lord of Light Zelazny combines all of these elements in his sleepy search for enlightenment through science fiction.

Despite its rambling chapters, there’s not really much of a plot to Lord of Light. Ostensibly the book is a story about a war between the Hindu pantheon and a former god who comes to be known as Buddha in one of his incarnations. But slowly the real motivation for the war is drawn out of Zelazny’s mythological trappings: years ago those who became known as gods (men?) came to this planet and used their incredible technological powers to take over and turn themselves into gods, styled after the Hindu pantheon. Their technology not only gave them incredible power, but it also allowed them to reincarnate themselves endlessly by transplanting their personal energy patterns into new bodies. Whether the people that populate the planet are colonists unlucky enough to have missed out on gaining god-like powers or are remnants of the native population isn’t clear. They do, however, live enthralled by their overseers, seeking their own right to incarnation.

The plot centers around a war between Sam, also known as the Buddha among his many incarnations, his followers, and the other gods of the Hindu pantheon. Sam is what is known as an Accelerationist – he believes that all the non-gods on their planet should be given technology so that they can advance society. His enemies believe that the people on the planet should be denied technology so that the gods can maintain their control over them. This disagreement is enough to cause huge and widespread warfare, which also involves legions of zombies, for those of you who are into that sort of thing. The gods prance around and pontificate while a lot of mortals are mowed down with nary a blink.

Lord of Light prompts a lot of important and fascinating questions about the nature of God and religion. For example: what happens when a God doesn’t believe in himself anymore? Where do we draw the line between humanity and God? Can godhood be created with incredibly powerful technology? If there is a God for mankind, is he/she/it just another being hoarding all the good gadgets for themselves? Do scientific advances bring us closer to god? Do we create our own gods? IS immortality possible and if so what does it look like? Is there life after death?

This aspect of the novel really tickled me, and it’s why I kept reading. One review I read online said the “science fiction” aspect would become more apparent toward the end of the novel, and while this plot device did become more prominent, I still put the book down thinking it was The Most Boring Book in the World. There’s absolutely nothing offensive about it, it simply read like an overlong folktale with some veiled technobabble thrown in for good measure. Though it has some timeless ideas, I do think it is also quite a book of its time. I’ll also add that I wish I’d been reading this book with someone, so we could have discussed it together. I feel that Lord of Light is meant to be provocative, but subtly so. Without anyone to bounce my ideas off of, it felt like something was lost on me. The book definitely has a communal, almost oral aspect to is, just the like myths and folktales its style apes. Maybe, like enlightenment, it takes more than one try to thoroughly understand exactly what it is that Lord of Light has to offer.

When I ran the sci-fi section at HPB in Berkeley, my consumption of science fiction accelerated at an exponential rate. Berkeley and Oakland are sci-fi towns, and have produced many famous authors, including Philip K. Dick (who worked right down the street from me on Shattuck during his own retail days) and Ursula K. Le Guin, among other. It is a veritable mecca for sci-fi fans of all stripes, and being in charge of the sci-fi section in a heavily trafficked used bookstore in a sci-fi town meant I had to know my fucking stuff. Running that section is actually where my quest to work my way through all the Hugo winners began, and it only deepened my love and knowledge of a genre I was raised to adore.

HPB is also where I began to refer to science fiction books as romance novels for men. No matter how awe inspiring the plot of many of the books might otherwise be, they almost always involved some wild romantic or sexual fantasy, usually about women. Sometimes even the science fiction premise wasn’t enough to detract from what was really a veiled romance novel. Just like romance novels use conventions of their genre to explore the limits of gender norms and fantasies about the way couples should behave and act, male and female authors alike graft romantic and sexual tropes onto science fiction ones, consciously or unconsciously hoping to hide their fantasies about love and sex amidst fantasies about other, more fantastical worlds. I’ve already had a look at historical fiction disguised as sci-fi, and in Vonda N. McIntyre’s Nebula winning The Moon and the Sun I’ve managed find to a romance novel couched as alternate history, science fiction style.

Alternate history is always a tricky way to approach science fiction. I think it is extremely hard to do well, as most often it falls into the fan boy category, where the author is enamored of the time period they picked and gets lost in the fantasy of creating alternate storylines without offering anything really interesting to say in terms of historical commentary, if there’s any commentary at all. That being said, alternate histories, when written well, can be simply stunning. Philip K. Dick’s own Hugo winner, The Man in the High Castle, immediately leaps to mind, and fellow winner Ward Moore’s Bring the Jubilee has its moments. But both these novels explore alternate histories in order to say something remarkable, if not extraordinary, about history that already was. Further, they demonstrate just how tenuous the hands of fate or chance can be, in each case boldly displaying what disaster we may have averted or invited. Like all good science fiction, these authors use the convention of alternative history to teach us about ourselves.

The Moon and the Sun makes no such contribution to our understanding of our own history, past or present. In the interest of full disclosure, the last time I had a thorough history Louis XIV, at whose Versailles court this book takes place, I was a freshman in high school, and that was in 1999. When interacting with works of historical fiction I tend to think that ignorance is bliss – if I know little to nothing about the time period in question I don’t spend the whole time enraged by mistakes and inaccuracies (unless I’m watching Mad Men, which tends to hit every note pitch perfect, which sends me into a spiral of ecstasy). McIntyre supposedly painfully researched this book to recreate the court accurately, and I have no doubt that she tried her best, however, I think her focus on the details of chivalry and fashion are a great detriment to the book. The endless litany of minor noble characters is both confusing and distracting, and the amount of time McIntyre spends describing her protagonist, Marie-Josephe’s, outfits and other accoutrements, to say nothing of the rest of the court, is a ridiculous waste of time. The setting is sumptuous and rich and serves absolutely no purpose. In a way, McIntyre has written a love story about the unimaginable opulence of Versailles.

The twist in McIntyre’s presentation of the past is that sea monsters, creatures that resemble grotesque mermaids, actually exist in this timeline. Humans have been hunting and killing them for centuries, almost to extinction, believing them to be beasts and demons when really they are only peace loving, sentient beings. The crux of the novel hinges on the relationship that develops being Marie-Josephe and the female sea monster, Sherzad, that Louis captures and brings to Versailles, believing that if he eats the creature he will win immortal life. It’s up to Marie-Josephe to convince the god-like sovereign that to do so would be murder.

I don’t usually read reviews of books before I write my own because I like to let my own brain juices flow without plundering other people’s thoughts. This time I found myself seeking out reviews before I’d even finished reading the book, so fed up with descriptions of ball gowns and period wigs that I needed to know what, exactly, Nebula voters found so compelling about this book. Where was the science fiction? The fantasy? One review interestingly described this book as a first contact story between humans and an “alien” species, only set in the past. I really love that assessment, but I’m not sure McIntyre lives up to the wonderful determination the reviewer bestowed upon the book.

The action of the book centers not around the sea creature, though she is a crucial part of the plot, but around Marie-Josephe and her struggle to find her place in Louis XIV’s court while maintaining her personality as a curious, intelligent, talented, virtuous, and obnoxiously perfect woman. Just as Sherzad is trapped by the King’s desire for immortality, Marie-Josephe is trapped by the cultural norms of 17^th century France which demand a woman be silent and demure instead of outspoken, inquisitive, and demonstrative. Marie-Josephe wants nothing more than to study mathematics, aid her Jesuit brother in his pursuit of natural sciences, compose extraordinary music on her harpsicorde, create beautiful artistic and scientific drawings to be presented to the king, and ride perfectly to the hunt on a spirited Arabian lent to her by a friend and protector at court, Lucien. When Marie-Josephe went from riding astride to side saddle without a second thought I lost all interest in the character – for me this small detail pushed my willingness to suspend disbelief too far. It may seem a little thing, but on the very balance of it was just how perfect a character McIntyre created – a perfect feminist construct trapped in the past who must prove the sea monster’s personhood to prove her own personhood as a human woman, and therefore free them both from the tyrannical men around them who would consume and abuse them and treat them as beasts.

The thing about alternate histories is that, again, the author is given carte blanche to create any scenario they wish because this is not actual history. If this book had appeared in the age of fan fiction, I think we would deem Marie-Josephe a Mary Sue. Ignoring the fact that the king doesn’t lop off her head or send her to a nunnery, she is a virtuoso at absolutely everything she does. But, conversely, she is also devoutly Catholic and incredibly virginal to the point of being prude. She knows absolutely nothing about sex and believes that it is an act god created to punish women for original sin. Then, she just happens to fall in love with a dwarf (Lucien) who only finds respite from the pain in his back caused by his skeletal structure when he’s having sex with women. You read that right. Fucking is the only thing that makes his back feel better.

McIntyre spends a great deal of time meditating on Marie-Josephe’s innocence, upholding it as desirable and incorruptible even though the book seems to also tell the tale of Marie-Josephe’s sexual liberation. The sea monster, an openly sexual being who sends Marie-Josephe a musical orgasm to get her attention, also represents the key to Marie-Josephe’s freedom from fear of sexual pleasure. But, in another strange twist, this only comes after she marries Lucien, who will hopefully forever find a cure for his back pain while he sleeps with his wife. The formerly notorious philanderer is tamed in marriage, just as Marie-Josephe is allowed to find sexual liberation behind its safe bonds. Here we see the norm of sex being contained within the family, a distinctly 1950s ideal recreated in this novel from the 1990s that tells the tale of a woman’s sexual liberation. It’s all very confusing, at least to me.

This love story, not the discovery and investigation of the sea monsters and their culture, is the true heart of The Moon and the Sun, and it’s why I would call this book a romance novel guised as sci-fi or, perhaps even more appropriately, fantasy. In the end traditional marriage safely contains sexual passion. Our princess finds her prince.

I find it difficult to see past the romantic conventions of this book. As I’ve said before, it seems to me Sherzad only exists as a conduit to Marie-Josephe’s own freedom. The history of sea monster and human interaction if laced with religious overtones – religion is the antagonist here, threatening Sherzad’s life and aiming to silence and control Marie-Josephe’s body and spirit. While I found the idea that humans would simply slaughter the sea monsters, intelligent or not, to be incredibly plausible (we have a poor track record with murdering each other, after all; we could see the sea monsters standing in as indigenous races wiped out during colonialism, a d-plot in this novel), the book simply felt too thin on exploring the fantastical situation McIntyre created, and too thick on making sure Marie-Josephe and Lucien fell in love and properly ended up naked together at the end of the novel.

There is no doubt at all that McIntyre has a talent for description, and as I said, I believe that she must have spent a considerable amount of time researching Louis XIV’s court. But it seems to me at times she became too enamored of recreating the actual historical trappings of Versailles and neglected to fully investigate the intriguing 17^th century first contact scenario she created. Making Marie-Josephe defiant and forward thinking in every way except for her desire to adhere strictly to the tenants of the religion that so damaged and betrayed her (a betrayal she was conscious of), and her absolute need to fall in love and marry sends very mixed messages. I suppose one can be a powerful woman and have all of those things, though the belief in a church that demands women be both silent and dumb seems to be the most discordant of her traits. Whatever the mixed and tangled messages about the meaning of being a woman – which McIntyre does firmly demonstrate is NOT something to be ashamed of – the fault at the heart of this novel is it’s too perfect heroine and it’s too predictable love story that unfortunately distracts from the true marvel of alien cousins waiting to meet us in the depths of our own oceans. Plunked down in the setting when modern science was just awakening, this book had a chance to explore the crossroads in reasoning using a fantastic cast of characters, but instead of it chose to focus on making sure the heroine and her hero ended up rich and happily married. In the end, The Sun and the Moon is a run of the mill exploration of the past with some alien spice thrown in.

There are many different kinds of science fiction stories, so many that scholars seem to have reached a consensus that the genre’s boundaries are impossible to define. One woman’s work of science fiction is another’s work of historical fiction, for example. Frustrating as this fact may be for a bunch of academics trying to pin down defining features or for bookstore clerks trying to figure out just where exactly to shelve a book, the boundless conventions of science fiction allow authors incredible freedom to create whatever kind of world that they want and to run with it, wildly if need be.

Larry Niven’s classic, Ringworld, is a rich mix of hard science, deep space, and far future science fiction that would border on outright space opera if its plot weren’t so plodding and dull. I realize that some of you consider me to be some sort of heretic for applying those to adjectives to this revered and award-winning novel, but for me it simply failed to impress. In this sort of deep space exploration tale that travels to a landscape both utterly alien and impossibly plausible, the appeal of the novel rests on two key factors: the deftness of the world building and the appeal of the author’s characters. This can be a tricky balance, as a technological marvel like the eponymous Ringworld often becomes a character in and of itself in novels like these. Likewise, the reader vicariously encounters this inanimate character through the eyes of whatever intrepid (band of) explorer(s) the author has assembled for the voyage, and so our reactions to whatever marvelous thing there is to be encountered is closely linked to theirs. Further, in the best works of science fiction, inter-group dynamics run parallel to story of discovering and exploring a new world, and in the most masterful of works these dual stories intersect to form one work of truly breathtaking art. Ringworld tries and fails to do any of these things. Instead it reads as a deep space Edgar Rice Burroughs novel that switches hard science for wonder and monotony for adventure, keeping intact only the blatant chauvinism with little sign of the intrigue, wonder, and heroism that makes you want to look the other way when faced with the denigration of woman (and did I mention all the aliens are white, too?).

The premise is interesting enough: an advanced race of aliens called the puppeteers has discovered the Ringworld, a modified form of a Dyson Sphere in the shape of a ring, and have dispatched a motley crew of unclearly qualified adventurers to explore it. There are a lot of complicated politics going into why this mission is being started in the first place, almost all of which are more interesting that what happens when the crew actually gets to Ringworld and starts poking around. Of course, these tidbits, such as the fact that the galaxy is slowly but inevitably exploding, are merely a very intricate string of (perhaps unnecessary) devices Niven invents to get his protagonists to Ringworld itself. Inexplicably to a curious reader, they’re not even planning on landing on the surface until they crash land, which forces them to explore the giant surface area in hopes of discoveing a means to re-launch their ship into space. Even then they spend most of their time flying above the landscape and arguing with each other about honor or something equally petty.

In writing Ringworld, it’s very clear that Niven attempted to weave a tale that was not only fantastic but believable, which almost falls into a subgenere called hard science fiction, where all technology is supposed to be believable and based upon known science. Ringworld exists in a nebulous gray area in this regard, as Niven spends a great deal of time throughout the novel creating fantastic “technological” marvels such as floating cities, and then coming up with equally lengthy and nonsensical explanations for how any of his miraculous inventions operate. If you create something amazing enough in science fiction, readers are predisposed to suspend disbelief to a certain degree, but Niven writes himself in circles that not only nearly destroy the believability of his far future, high tech society, but serve to bore the reader out of their mind. The explanations aren’t informative and they don’t make sense, and there’s still a lot of that wonderful “Of course!” device being used, where characters over and over have “A ha!” epiphanies that instantly solve problems based upon some sort of assumed future science that the reader must accept is true because look at all these other circles the other jumped through when explaining flying bicycles!

Once our characters crash land on Ringworld essentially nothing happens. They all bicker a lot and spend a great deal of time flying over Ringworld’s surface, not really interested in exploring anything at all beyond things that might get them back into space. In fact, the plot is increasingly focused on the interaction between main character Louis Wu and his female companion, Teela, who was chosen to join the mission for her literally inbred luck (the puppeteers playing genetic gods with alien species is a plot that comes almost out of nowhere and fades almost as quickly). Wu is 200 years old and very confident with the idea that he knows everything. Conversely, Teela is 20 and has never known pain, something Wu finds to be high contemptible. Despite her naiveté and the 180 year age difference, Wu has no problem fucking her silly, and in fact, the only reason he “allowed” her to attend the mission at all is because he wanted someone to have sex with. Which she baited him with. So we have now established that she is officially a sex object.

Perhaps I should state right here that if there’s any reason I find Ringworld interesting it’s as an example of the blatant chauvinism, if not outright misogyny, that often suffuses science fiction works, even to this day. I think as a piece of science fiction in terms of exploring strange new universes and using aliens as stand ins to explore intra-human dynamics Ringwold  fails because it is boring and repetitive in both regards. Ringworld’s premise is so compelling that a synopsis is thrilling, but it completely fails to live up to its premise once you actually open the book. There is no wonder here. We as readers only fly over the scenery along with our explorers, praying for a crash landing so that we can maybe look around a little. Just as in a Burroughs novel, the only natives around are savages, but we don’t even get a true chance to explore the remnants of a failed society that our protagonists compare to gods.

No, what this novel is actually about is Wu’s hatred of Teela’s perpetual happiness and luck. She resembles and is distantly related to a woman who broke his heart, and in the end Teela breaks his heart too. Wu thought he was using her sexually, but it turns out she was using him (albeit completely unknowingly) to get to the Ringworld so she could go native and fall in love with one of the men there. Even more exciting for those of us reading down the misogyny checklist, due to native custom Wu must sell Teela to her new lover as a slave, and because sex is predicated on ownership, he is basically selling her as a sex slave. And Teela is completely okay with this exchange. She has literally been objectified by these men. The only female character in almost the entire novel and her only purpose has been to have sex with one man until he sold her away to have sex with another. In fact, Wu has always described Teela as alien, and eventually, when she goes off with the alien to be his sex slave, she actually does become an alien. As Wu states, she is more alien to him than the actual aliens in their traveling party. All because she preferred to have sex with someone else. A literal dehumanization.

Having lost one whore, Niven simply introduces another, a native woman of Ringworld who is a professional prostitute, as in she was trained in sexual arts to pleasure 33 men over long space voyages. Just as in a Burrough’s tale, Wu has now gone completely native, but the power dynamic between himself and Prill must be carefully maintained. Prill is a superior sexual lover to Wu, which is unacceptable in this narrative. Women exist to be protected and fucked, and when they diverge from this narrative they are either obstructionists, insane, or dead. Prill’s superiority is quickly neutralized, and she becomes his willing “partner.”

It is very difficult for me to read a book that so openly sexualizes and objectifies women. It’s not that these trends are new – they run rife in all forms of media and culture. 1970 is getting a bit out of my own temporal realm of study, so contextualizing the misogyny beyond generalizations is a stretch for me. I think it is fair to say, however, that the treatment of women in this novel is an outgrowth of the sexual revolution. The sexual revolution did bring greater sexual freedom, but it was not some happy free for all, and it was not egalitarian. More often than not it meant that women were supposed to be completely sexual available to men; the sexual revolution, in other words, helped lead to a new, mass objectification of women. Feminists at the time included sexual rights, equality, and respect for sexually liberated women in their own manifestos, as they do today, but here we can see the stud/slut dichotomy at work. Throughout Ringworld, Wu’s sexual prowess if not only boldly on display, but is wantonly described, but it’s simply assumed that he will be this way. That he should be this way. It makes him a human male. The two female characters also have their sexuality boldly on display, but they are literally whores. They are also aliens or, their sexuality dehumanizes them. Stud/slut.

This kind of thought process isn’t really excusable, but we can put it in its time, though unfortunately its time is still with us. The thing about Ringworld is that there is no other reward here. Perhaps in 1970s, when this book was released, this kind of far space exploration of a technological marvel was new, or mind-blowing, but the fact that we barely get to see any of Ringworld in action and the descriptions we do get are dry, boring, or incomprehensible leaves me feeling unconvinced. In 1977 a far better work called Gateway, by Frederik Pohl, would come along and, in my opinion, punch Ringworld right off the map. That book mingles an exploration of complicated inter-gender relationships with explorations of unknown alien technology in a way that is both deep and riveting. Ringworld blunders through space and spends most of its time dwelling on how women are the bane of one man’s personal universe when instead it should be exploring the new, endless possibilities its unfulfilled scenario creates.

This cover is notoriously bad.

Let me preface this review by stating that I am a historian. I’ve always loved storytelling and being transported to faraway worlds, which is why I love science fiction. By the time I’d reached college I knew I loved history as well, passionately, both because it is a mirror of time that reflects back on ourselves, and because it transports us to faraway places both familiar and fantastical, all of which have the benefit of being real. I think many science fiction authors are lovers of history, if not consciously then latently – how can you write about the future without at least being enamored of the past? It makes perfect sense to me that an author might therefore combine a love of science fiction with a love for history in order to use the conventions of one genre to explore the meaning of the human past. That being said, I have no idea why Doomsday Book won a Hugo.

Doomsday Book actually received the Hugo as a co-winner, along with Vernor Vinge’s masterful far future, deep space adventure, A Fire Upon the Deep. Co-nominated with such a transcendent competitor, Doomsday Books’ win seems even more of a mystery. Clocking in at 578 pages long (Bantam revised edition, 1994), the novel, set in the near future, is a tedious, drawn out tale of historical fiction with the convention of time travel thrown in to predicate the action on a sci-fi premise.

Kivrin, a Medieval history student studying at Oxford, has the privilege (or luck) of being a historian after time travel has been discovered. This allows historians to travel back in time to observe events as they unfolded and, more importantly, to see how people truly lived. Obviously, Connie Willis is a fan of social history. It may not be the dream of every historian to time travel back to our chosen time periods, but I’d be lying if I said that thought hadn’t crossed my mind more than once. Not that this doesn’t raise a myriad of questions about methodology and subjectivity, but the nature of the historical profession is not being examined in this novel, nor shall it be in this review. Here, going back in time is the authoritative way to find out about history and Kivrin is going to do it. The only problem is that her chosen time period, 14^th century Europe, is rated a “ten,” or one of the most dangerous centuries, and is therefore off limits to time travel.

Doomsday Book is not 578 pages of Kivrin trying to get to the Middle Ages. In fact, she transports away rather quickly, too quickly, in fact, for her mentor, Mr. Dunworthy, a historian of the 20^th century who inexplicably knows more about the Middle Ages than any of the actual Medieval historians. In fact, thanks to the almost sinister bumbling of Mr. Gilchrist, Dunworthy’s rival, Kivrin is sent to the 1348 instead of 1320, right in the middle of the Black Plague. Oops. Luckily for our heroine, she has been inoculated against the disease in preparation for such a mishap, but she finds herself stuck in the past for a variety of reasons, one being that she has no idea how to find her way back to the rendezvous point (or “drop”) meant to teleport her back to her time, and the other being that as soon as she leaves, present-day Oxford begins to experience a deadly epidemic of the influenza virus that leaves everyone capable of bringing her back from the past incapacitated or dead.

What follows is a duel narrative tracing Dunworthy’s struggle to reach Kivrin admist the epidemic and Kivrin’s frantic attempts to find the drop point, unaware both of the crisis going on in her own century and of the oncoming bubonic plague. Having insinuated herself in the household of a minor noble family, she is forced to watch with horror as the grotesque disease rips through the population of the house and village adjoining it. Meanwhile, Dunworthy runs endlessly between his office and the hospital, spending most of his time making phone calls that don’t get through and trying to pry information out of the deathly ill technician who may be the only one that can save Kivrin from being trapped in the past.

To my eyes, this book reads more like a work of historical fiction than a work of science fiction worth holding a candle to A Fire Upon the Deep. As I said, most of the plot is extremely detailed historical fiction, though Willis’s description of 14^th century England is very conveniently predicated upon the fact that she can change things at will. Remember, Kivrin is experiencing history as it “really” was, not as it was written about. This gives the author carte blanche to fill in gaps or alter details however she desires. Unfortunately, Willis does not use this self-made latitude to create any multidimensional or human characters. Instead of exploring gender roles, for example, Willis creates stock female characters capable of one emotion that limply advance the plot and little else (shrewish mother-in-laws, petulant brides-to-be, etc.), and men cut to fit the mold of disgusting, elder suitor and longing white knight. All the characters seem to have rather modern attitudes about very ancient things. A true historian explores the subjectivity of the lived experience of the historical agent, but in Willis’s past what we expect to find is exactly what we get. What’s the point of time travel, then? It’s easy to be trapped by Willis’s unimaginative tropes because they are familiar to us – so familiar that they’re as worn out as they are enticing in their familiarity. Continuing to harp on well-worn themes, Willis spends an inordinate amount of time making sure to describe the appearance and effects of the black plague in gruesome detail. If this book has a point, more than anything else it seems to be that the black death was really gross and really DID suck for all those involved, though again, I’m not sure we needed time travel and 578 pages to prove that to us. Luckily, the influenza virus in present times is nowhere near as graphic in its manifestations.

Other flaws abound. The characters in this novel are, for the most part, poorly drawn and two dimensional. The villains are so cookie-cutter evil that it is almost insulting to the reader, Dunworthy has no characteristics other than constant anxiety over Kivrin’s whereabouts, and even the unhappy betrothal between a too-young bride and her fat suitor comes right out of the most cliché of storybooks, though how she is saved from an unhappy marriage presents a bit of a twist.

Better, I guess.

If Willis does move toward anything like interesting commentary beyond gore and the pain of losing a loved one, it is in her brief exploration at the end of the novel as to how people find meaning in the midst of a crisis such as a plague. For Willis this manifests in the character of Father Roche, the village priest who believes Kivrin is an angel sent to save them, and Lady Imeyne, the unbearable mother-in-law who rules over the house Kivrin stays in, who is obsessed with status and religion, and believes Kivrin is a sinful witch (because she is a single lady) who has brought the plague upon them. Kivrin, educated in science, knows that the plague is caused by an infectious disease, not a curse sent from God, nor can it be cured by prayer. But, as she struggles to save those she loves from a truly gruesome death, she finds herself confronting the God she so strongly believes, has to believe, isn’t punishing the wicked. Is this kind of death senseless, or does it serve a purpose? Where are those who promised to protect us from such things? In a way, the entire novel takes on our fear of being lost and alone, facing impossible odds. Facing our dooms.

This kind of nuanced questioning brings a level of meaning to Doomsday Book, but it takes 578 pages to get there and is overwhelmed by all the other truly petty concerns that Willis dwells on for most of the book. The interlacing story arcs are so repetitive that surely some of the running back and forth waiting for the phone to ring could have been cut out, as could Kivrin’s waiting by the window for a guide to the drop and her “journal entries,” which in many cases merely summarize events that have already occurred. Doomsday Book is a story with a lot of content with little substance. Unveiling the ending to the mystery Willis builds may have its riveting qualities, but there’s not much else here that bears any remarking upon.

Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man became the first Hugo winner in 1953. Originally serialized in 1951, the novel appeared during the golden 1950s, in the midst of the baby boom, and at the dawning of the age of the expert. In the introduction to the 1996 Vintage edition (which I read), fellow sci-fi author Harry Harrison quickly synopsizes the book with a heavy focus on the capitalist structure of Bester’s future. But it’s not the economics that drive this novel. Instead it is a deepening nervousness about the power of the emerging field of personal psychoanalysis that is represented by the Espers, a large group of human beings who have evolved the power of ESP or mind-reading. In The Demolished Man, the Espers, and by extension pyschoanalists and psychoanalysis, are the most fearful characters, for it is these entities that are able to look within us and show us our true selves, and it is our true selves that we fear the most. For Bester, our true selves are what destroy us.

Skimming over a summary of The Demolished Man, one can’t help but notice similarities to Philip K. Dick’s posthumously famous short story, “The Minority Report.” Both stories feature a society in which murder has been rendered impossible thanks to the emergence of psychics capable of reading minds and predicting murders before they happen. In Dick’s world, his “precogs” have been co-opted by the government and are systemically used by the police department to stop murder through preemptive arrests. In The Demolished Man, Espers make up the population at all levels and work in concert to prevent murder through dissuasion – there’s no point in committing because the psychic population will detect your guilt. Interestingly, even when Espers detect guilt through ESP, they are still obliged to provide non-psychic evidence to an objective computer that determines guilt. The burden of proof still depends on factors outside of the psychic mind, demonstrating Bester’s unwillingness to side with the Espers in the dual society of normal and psychic humans that he’s created.

There are other, major differences between Dick’s story and Bester’s book, the most important one possibly being that The Demolished Man is actually good. “The Minority Report” is a meditation on the ethics of finding a man guilt of a crime he hasn’t yet committed based on non-existent evidence, an interesting premise that is actually better executed in Steven Spielberg’s film adaption than it is in Dick’s noirish source material (Dick wrote a LOT of short stories and books; they couldn’t all be winners). Conversely, Bester’s novel is not a meditation on the ethics of utilizing a pre-emptive criminal system – Bester’s system is not simply preemptive. Instead, Bester uses the scenario of a murder successfully committed and the subsequent race to prove the guilt of the killer to explore not only how a society built out of psychics might function, but the ways in which we hide from ourselves, the lengths we will go to do it, and what it takes to make us confront who we truly are.

Ben Reich, one of Bester’s dueling protagonists, is a non-psychic CEO at the head of a solar-system spanning megacorporation. Plagued by nightmares of The Man with No Face. Reich is falling apart at the seams because his company is about to be absorbed by a corporation owned by his rival, D’Courtney. As a last act of desperation, Reich suggests a merger to D’Courtney, but when he thinks the offer has been refused he comes to the conclusion that the only way for him and his corporation to survive is to kill his rival in cold blood.

As in Clifford D. Simak’s Way Station, Bester’s novel spends a lot of time meditating on what it means to be a Man. Both Simak and Bester conclude that, on some level, violence is inherently part of Man’s nature. Writing in the early 1950s, Bester had just survived WWII and was now living under the long nuclear shadow of the Cold War, which most likely colored his meditation on the intrinsic nature of violence in man’s psyche. Ben Reich is living in a society where violence has been eradicated thanks to the Espers, but he is still driven to kill. Further, his inherent instinct and drive for murder helps him to successfully circumvent detection and later capture. He is aided by a high-level Esper, who risks being cast out of Esper society if he is caught. This Esper acts in the name of greed, another trait that makes up Man, be he normal or psychic.

It seems impossible to describe in one review the nuance that colors Bester’s work. I haven’t even mentioned Lincoln Powell, Bester’s second protagonist and Reich’s nemesis. The police Lieutenant assigned to bringing Bester to justice, Powell is a high level Esper bent on catching his perpetrator. Though one of the most powerful Esper’s on Earth, Powell is repeatedly unable to find enough physical evidence to convince an objective computer that Reich is guilty of murdering D’Courtney.

What he does have is D’Courtney’s daughter, the only witness to the murder who has been thrown into psychosis through witnessing the violent act. Powell initiates a mental process that basically reboots Barbara, causing her to rapidly evolve from infant to grown woman in order to erase the trauma of watching her father be murdered without removing the memory. In the process he falls in love with her, which creates a very strange pedophiliac situation that definitely reminded me of many of the women in Philip K. Dick’s stories. Men’s need to infantilize their lovers and spurn more mature, capable woman is not uncommon for cultural works of these times. The insistence on infantalization and sexual dependency is surely linked to worries about what is means to be a Man during a time when gender roles within the family and society at large were very strictly defined.

At the end of the day, every character is forced to face their true self in order to find the peace or resolution they are searching for. Normally I’m all for revealing the twist in order to deconstruct it, but this time I think I’ll leave the identity of The Man with No Face a secret. The answer Reich finds does tie-in closely with that cult of experts rising to power in the 1950s. It also speaks to America’s increasing obsession with constructing the ideal family, and the way experts often blamed neurosis or abnormal behavior on defective family life. But, in this society, through psychoanalysis (all of which is done by Espers, by the way, because who better to psychoanalyze than a mind reader), every single person can be saved and reintroduced into society with all their good parts still intact, even if it means demolishing them first.

I’m not usually the biggest fan of police-type books, but The Demolished Man supersedes that literary convention, excellently combining the search for self with the search for a way to convict the killer. Even having finished the book, I’m still unsure if I’m supposed to be rooting for Powell or Reich, and Reich was a psychotic killer. Bester does a very good job of forcing his reader to empathize with both perspectives, speaking to the frightened, self-preserving, and violent aspects of ourselves, as well as the peaceful part of us that abhors violence and injustice at our very core. The reader is forced to reflect on their own reaction to Bester’s dueling protagonists, and, as in the best science fiction, we are left with no easy answers, only new questions we must ask about ourselves as we move throughout our present day world.

Gotta love a plug from the Las Vegas Review Journal.

When I first wrote a review of Clifford D. Simak’s A Choice of Gods back in May 2011, I found myself quite captivated by Simak’s deft exploration of the nature of man’s technological and spiritual development in a far future dystopia. My interest in dystopia is what made me pick up the book in the first place, and many of Simak’s novels reach into the future, sometimes near, sometimes far, sometimes both, in order to explore man’s relation to technology and a search for a higher self, usually through some sort of spiritual and/or intellectual transcendence. Science is not necessarily the enemy, but man’s relentless drive for technological innovation is often the reason for the downfall or ruin of humankind.

Way Station is the story of Enoch Wallace, a Civil War veteran born in 1840 who is still alive in roughly 1964, when the novel is set. Enoch is still living in his boyhood home in rural Wisconsin, the pastoral setting being a constant motif in Simak’s work. While neighbors know there is something strange about Enoch, Simak explains that their backwater sense of community leads them all to leave the nature of his existence unexplored. Unfortunately for Enoch, the US government, tangled in the treacherous throws of the Cold War, has caught wind of Enoch’s agelessness, and their investigation into the true nature of Enoch’s being and home leads to major revelations about humankind’s place in the universe.

For Enoch is not an ordinary Rip van Winkle, but is actually the keeper of an intergalactic way station placed on Earth by a consortium of far-advanced alien species called the galactic federation. These aliens have discovered a means of faster-than-light transport that operates something like a transporter does on Star Trek (though, in a more gruesome manifestation of the technology, each traveler’s material body is left dead at its original location, while a new one is materialized for the traveler’s consciousness upon arrival; in Simak’s world, bodies are simply material things, containers). The patterns associated with traveler’s bodies tend to break up when they encounter certain kinds of space junk, so stations like the one on Earth are established to ensure safe passage. Most of Enoch’s visitors are vacationers, as the galactic federation’s mission is again, Star Trek-like in its intent to explore space for a higher purpose rather than simple economic gain, at least originally.

Enoch’s position as the station keeper creates a great deal of cognitive dissonance for our protagonist that leads to lots of contemplating what make a “Man” a “Man.” Enoch lives a double life, both of Earth and of the stars, and, in a way, of the aliens. This split manifests physically in his immortality – as long as he stays in his boyhood home, which has been transformed by alien technology into the impenetrable way station, he doesn’t age. When he leaves the house, as he does daily to walk through his rural property and retrieve the mail, his ability to age is restored to him for that brief time.

Simak has been called a pastoral author, and his descriptions of the Wisconsin countryside are vivid and beautiful. Enoch’s daily walks through nature are one of the strongest ties to the part of “Man” that is Earth Man – a direct link to Earth’s own physical body. Conversely, the station links him to the transcendent nature of the aliens he safeguards, and represents the possibility that “Man” might also severe the link with the other defining factor of our “race,” violence.

One of the most intriguing aspects of Way Station lies in the way Simak investigates what it means to be “Man,” or in a less-limiting, gender and species neutral term, sentient. First there is the aspect of violence, which Simak explores on multiple levels. Enoch is a Civil War veteran and has witnessed firsthand the futility of war, which makes him (uniquely) placed to see the similar futility of impending nuclear war. For Simak, this tendency toward group violence, driven by fear, is an intrinsic part of “Man’s” nature that will drive the species to utter destruction if left unchecked. Integrally linked to apocalyptic future is man’s drive to develop technology, which in this case means more destructive ways of obliterating ourselves. When the aliens offer a solution to MAD, it comes in the form of removing all knowledge of how to operate technological devices of any kind from all humans, driving us back into a dark age and essentially rebooting our intelligence in hopes that the next time it won’t work against us.

There is also the role of personal violence. Enoch’s rifle is always close at hand – he takes all his daily walks with it cradled in his arm and leaves it within careful reach every time he is in the house. The one thing he asked the aliens to install for him to keep him entertained for all eternity is a firing range. Despite having witnessed the insanity of violence firsthand as a solider, and now as a terrified onlooker during the Cold War (and all those intervening wars as well), the rifle is still an integral part of Enoch’s life, representing the violence that still drives him as a “Man.” Even though he never fires it in direct confrontation, he can’t separate himself from it.

Initially the aliens of the galactic federation are posited as the opposite of “Man,” because they have put all petty squabbles and futile violence behind them in the name of peacefully exploring the galaxy. Enoch’s ability to see this peace creates his cognitive dissonance, however, as the novel progresses Simak reveals that the aliens themselves have not transcended their own desire for violence and greed, but have found an intermediary force that allows their benevolent and peaceful sides to win out. And that force is God.

Yes, in Simak’s worlds, nothing is every completely black and white. Out there somewhere an alien invented a machine that allowed sentient beings to communicate with God, proving its existence and, as Simak eventually reveals, creating peace for all who have experienced the presence of the Talisman and its keeper. For you see, the machine works kind of like the Oracle at Delphi, it needs a special operator or “sensitive” (Simak’s terms for psychic) to channel the device and communicate with God. An intermediary. These oracles are rare birds, too, and the only creatures that can make this device work.

It turns out this Talisman has gone missing, which is causing violence and greed to stir in the whole galaxy, not just on Earth. The inevitable conflict in the stars appears to be the force that will finally lead Enoch to choose between his identity as a violent Earth man, and that of the more far seeing alien liaison. But, thank god for deus ex machina (in this case quite literally), Enoch has to choose neither and both. The Talisman shows up on Earth, and Enoch uses his skill with the rifle, the integral violent part of his being, to kill the alien who’s stolen it. Then the Talisman brings peace to both Earth and the galaxy and we end not just with the peaceful resolution of the Cold War, but with Earth being prepared for induction into the galactic federation.

The most interesting part of this solution is the role of Lucy Fisher, Enoch’s deaf-mute neighbor who’s played the role of fey fairy savior throughout the novel, a woman literally struck dumb who can commune with nature but not really people except for Enoch, our divided hero. She stands in as a symbol for mother earth and as the psychic needed to communicate with and activate the Talisman. She is more in touch with the purity of her emotions than any other character in the book, but this also makes her more intellectually simple and simultaneously, more pure. Being a symbol of nature is not an unusual one for a woman, but her literal deafness and dumbness is quire representative of Simak’s inability or unwillingness to create actual, human women. Women aren’t “Man” in this novel, and therefore they’re not human. Lucy is fey and the only other female, Mary, is a ghost that Enoch created using some alien equation. She doesn’t even have physical substance, and her only reason for existence is to be trapped in her unrealized prison of love for him. Women are otherworldly, mysteries, they cannot be controlled, they are part of another universe and foreign others. And here they lack the integral dual nature, specifically the violence, that makes man “Man.” Simak’s women are often props – witches outright, if not oddities, and Lucy Fisher is no exception. She is an asexual Earth angel, a woman who can transcend “Man’s” violence to communicate with God and save the universe.

Also of note is that there simply are no minorities in this book. In A Choice of Gods, Native Americans had largely re-taken the depopulated Earth, an interesting plot twist that hinges on the assumption that Native Americans are more in touch with nature but are not part of the rest of the human race because they’re not down with technology or psychicness. Though included, they are still the Other. In this novel, “Man” is white. The other, when not female, is so outrageous that He is literally Alien. And He is a deliberate choice – we meet no female aliens, nor do we even hear about them.

Finding the historical context for Simak’s novel is fairly simple in many cases. Published in 1963, this novel came right on the heels of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the closest the world ever came to plunging into nuclear war. In Way Station, that sense of crisis and impending doom is ever present, and this time it takes the help of God to stop the escalation, not sheer luck and sensibility.

This was also the age of the space race, and technology is not always the demon in this scenario. Instead, for Simak it is the type of technology that man is developing which is the problem. It may be God and a psychic angel-woman who save the day, but they do it with the help of the Talisman, a machine which has proved the existence of a higher power through the “correct” use of technology. Simak’s suggestion here seems to be that warring over religion may be a root cause of man’s violent tendencies, or that only finding something as transcendent as a God machine can save us, though he doesn’t necessarily state this idea outright.

Also, Enoch knows that the answer is in the stars, as Simak’s novels often look to expansion of the human race into space as the solution to our earthly woes. Interestingly, this exploration of space is most often achieved through psychic and not technological means. Whatever the alternate scenario, Simak seemed to think that in the actual one we were going about it all wrong.

As for his treatment of gender and race, I don’t think there’s anything extraordinary to say other than this book is exemplary of many of the racist and sexist assumptions of the times. We’re still a bit early in the 1960s here, and science fiction at this point was a white boy’s club. The deconstruction of his identity creation that I’m presenting is largely a reading of well-trodden subtext. Tracing Simak’s use of women and minorities in his novels over time might prove interesting, as his work spans several decades, but that is a project for another time.

Simak as an author of science fiction is an enjoyable read, and I’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of his catalog. I would recommend him to fans of Philip K. Dick, as both authors share similar concerns. Dick’s futures are much more bleak and thoughtful, and much more inventive. But Simak is a good writer in the sense that he is writerly – his prose is beautiful. He is constantly asking questions about technology. Approaching technology as a problem is not necessarily unique, but the solutions Simak offers to that problem often are. Finally, Simak is actually quite deft at using science fiction to explore what it is that makes us human. His definition of human may be limited, but noticing and exploring the reasons for those limitations is another exercise in enjoyable reading.

Sadly, most of his books are out of print, but you can find copies very cheaply on amazon.com, or at your local used bookstore (trust me, you will find tons). I encourage you to try Simak out!