Ad Astra

Time, I guess, for a little SF book blogging!

:: Here's one of the great all-time opening paragraphs:

This was a Golden Age, a time of high adventure, rich living, and hard dying...but nobody thought so. This was a future of fortune and theft, pillage and rapine, culture and vice...but nobody admitted it. This was an age of extre,es, a fascinating century of freaks...but nobody loved it.

When I note that SF has had to scrape and fight for every tiny morsel of respect it's ever been grudgingly offered by the Keepers of the Literary Canon, and I contrast that anti-SF attitude with writing like that paragraph, I invariably end up wondering if the Keepers of the Canon actually ever bothered reading any SF. Seriously, folks, Alfred Bester could write.

We're talking Bester's novel The Stars My Destination here, one of the great masterworks of all science fiction. Crammed into this fairly short book -- my hardcover copy, a recent reissue of the book by the SFBC, ticks in at 212 pages, and toward the end of the book when Bester hits his stride with some of the more mind-bending stuff, he engages in some typographic pyrotechnics that take up entire pages -- is a revenge tale, a love story, a mystery, another mystery, some space opera goodness, more mystery, a depiction of a massively corporate society, yet more mystery, daring escapes, and an iconic anti-hero twenty years before Stephen R. Donaldson introduced us to Thomas Covenant.

After a brief and fascinating introduction to the world of the novel (if you're going to start your novel with an infodump, you'd better be as good a writer as Alfred Bester), we make the acquaintance of Gulliver Foyle ("Gully" for short), a mechanic's mate on a space ship who also happens to be the sole survivor of the ship's destruction. He's floating along in space, eeking out a survival of sorts for months within the flotsam of the ship's wreckage, when another ship comes by and...flies away again, leaving Foyle to die. Foyle becomes driven by the need to exact revenge upon this ship, the Vorga, and its crew who abandoned him without a single attempt at a rescue. From there the story barely pauses as the single-minded revenge story gradually increases in scope until Gully Foyle himself turns out to be...nah, I'm not going to spoil it here. Read the book.

I knew coming into this book that Bester was a great writer, having enormously admired a number of his short stories ("Fondly Fahrenheit" is of particular note). Even so, I wasn't prepared for how good The Stars My Destination is.

:: From there I turned to Leigh Brackett and her book The Coming of the Terrans, which is a collection of five novellas set on Mars. But not the Mars we'd recognize today; this is the Mars as imagined by writers who toiled twenty years before the Viking landers unmasked the Martian landscape. (In fact, in a brief foreword passage inside the book's front cover, Brackett notes that the astronomers of her day were quickly "reducing these dreams to cold, hard, ruinous fact". This collection was published in 1967, a full ten years or so before the Viking landers touched down.) Brackett's Mars is still a world of canals, ancient civilizations, deserted alien cities set at the side of long-dry oceans, and newer cities where the upstart humans from nearby young world Earth mingle with the Martians whose dying world boasts a history measured in millennia.

Strictly speaking, Brackett's work here isn't space opera, but its cousin, planetary romance. (I tend to think of planetary romance as space opera where nobody goes to space.) All of the tales in this book have an elegiac tone, and several have as main characters scientist-types who are searching for some kind of glory amongst the artefacts of long-dead Martian cities. For an idea of the kinds of stories that await within this book, one only need note the titles of the novellas within. They include "The Beast-Jewel of Mars", "The Last Days of Shandakor", and my favorite, "Purple Priestess of the Mad Moon".

Well, maybe not: those titles sound pulpy in nature, but Brackett was no pulp hack as a prose stylist. Some might argue that a writer of her talent should have aspired to better than these kinds of pulp tales, but to my way of thinking, somebody's got to be writing the pulp tales, and a pulp tale by a good writer is always preferable to a literary tale by a hack.

I also find that with stories like this, it's no real difficulty to summon up the suspension of disbelief necessary to buy into a Mars that has actually been inhabited for centuries by fabulous societies of aliens, any more than I find it hard to grant for the purposes of a story that many ages ago there was a land of heroism and darkness called Middle Earth whose only surviving records to our day were in the form of a Red Book found in Westmarch. Your mileage may vary. Suspension of disbelief is a tricky thing, after all.

:: I'll be reviewing this book for GMR in a week or so, but I just wanted to note a wonderful observation within its pages, by Harlan Ellison:

An observation: it is my theory that the full and total explanation of the behavior of babies and kittens is that they spend all their time trying to make that which is moving, stop; and that which is stopped, move.

Now that is as true as anything I've ever read, anywhere.