Ray Bradbury

I’ve thought more about Ray Bradbury this past week than I’ve done for years. Bradbury was a writer I read quite a lot from when I was a child first discovering science fiction, through short story collections like R Is for Rocket. Judging from the various online obituary and remembrance threads I’ve seen, I’m not the only one for whom he was important in kickstarting their sf interest.

Which is fitting, as Bradbury is of course the writer who first put childhood into science fiction. He made small town, white picket fenced America seem as exciting and glamourous as outer space, while making all the paraphernalia of science fiction (rockets and Mars and aliens) a familiar part of everyday sububurban life. Like Roald Dahl he was great at telling adult stories for children, matter of fact if slightly patronising at times.

What set him apart from other science fiction writers was the strong nostalgia that drenched his work; not that others don’t indulge in nostalgia sometimes, but with Bradbury it was a full time pre-occupation. At heart, Bradbury was a reactionary writer and nostalgia was how he channeled it. Remember a few years ago when a rare interview revealed him as a cranky, bitter Fox News watching old man? That couldn’t have been a surprise to anybody who took a close look at his fiction. In almost every story there’s this hankering for a barely remembered, never existed golden past, when America was innocent and every summer a golden one, before progress ruined everything. He never believed in science and progress as other sf writers did; it almost always ended up in tears in his work (the automated house still going after the nuclear holocaust) or at the cost of our humanity, as in that story where the first astronauts on Mars burn the last few existing novels in the world.

Luckily, while his personal polical opinions might have been nasty, this reactionary, nostalgic streak in his fiction just helped created some of the best American fabulation ever written.

What the eighties really felt like



Is nailed by Alan Moore in this 1986 interview talking about Watchmen and part of what he was attempting to do with it:

I know it’s only a tiny little comic book that goes over there every month and gets seen by a relatively small number of people, many of whom perhaps agree with us anyway, so it’s difficult to see what it’s doing, but I was consciously trying to do something that would make people feel uneasy. In issue #3 I wanted to communicate that feeling of “When’s it going to happen?” Everyone felt it. You hear a plane going overhead really loudly, and just for a second before you realize it’s a plane you look up. I’m sure that everybody in this room’s done that at least once. It’s something over everybody’s head, but nobody talks about it. At the risk of doing a depressing comic book we thought that it would be nice to try and … yeah, try and scare a little bit so that people would just stop and think about their country and their politics.

That was what growing up in the eighties felt to me, too young to pay much conscious attention to politics, but old enough to pick up on the fear, on the almost certainty that the bombs would drop sooner rather than later conveyed not so much through the news and such as through pop culture where the nuclear holocaust was present one way or another, as well as through the huge demonstrations against cruise missiles, the largest demonstrations ever held in the Netherlands and about as useful in the end as the later demos against the War on Iraq would be. Throughout everything, up to at least 1987 and Gorbachov, that dread was there and seeped into everything.

Watchmen was one of the best attempts in any artform to make this inchoate fear visible and I immediately recognised it when I first read the series back in 1989 or 1990, when we’d just passed out from under it. It’s the inevitability of it, the idea that if certain things happened, some unclear threshold was crossed, quite ordinary men and women would have no choice but to order the end of the world, more in sorrow than anger, believing to the end that “better dead than red” made sense.

Because of our baby boomer dominated media we tend to think as the fifties and early sixties as the time when we were most obsessed by our coming atomic doom, but the reality of it was that throughout that time the US could’ve easily destroyed the USSR without the latter being able to do much about it, while by the early eighties the weaponry had advanced enough, was ubiquitous enough, was complex enough that a nuclear war would no longer just be devastating, but fatal to the human race as a whole, could really end our world and looked increasingly likely to do so by accident or paranoia.

Intrusion — Ken MacLeod

Cover of Intrusion


Intrusion
Ken MacLeod
387 pages
published in 2012

Over the past five years Ken Macleod has written a series of standalone novels that each in their own way have dealt with the post-9/11, post-War on Iraq 21st century and what it might evolve into. Intrusion is the latest in this series. Where MacLeod had always been a politically minded writer, his last few novels (The Execution Channel, The Night Sessions and The Restoration Game) were all directly rooted in current political realities, especially the socalled War on Terror. Intrusion continues this trend, but this time swapping the War on Terror with the nanny state.

And at first Intrusion feels like a novel from an alternate universe, one in which Labour didn’t lose the elections and had continued on its pre-9/11 social engineering course rather than by distracted by Blair’s foreign crusades. Britain’s nanny state has been turned up to eleven, driven by ubiquitous realtime surveillance and monitoring technology and increasingly finetuned social law. MacLeod has taken everything New Labour and the ConDem coalition have been guilty off in the past decade and a half regarding tackling socalled social problems: increasingly absurd health and safety laws, the liability adverse local bureaucracies, the enthusiasm to seek technofixes for ingrained social problems, the idea that you can force or nudge people into healthier lifestyles through banning or taxing their vices and extrapolated what it would look like a generation or so into the future. It’s a world in which most women wear monitor rings to make sure they’re not pregnant and if they are, are not smoking or drinking or going to places where toxins might be that could harm their unborn child, where ipso facto most women work at home as so many workplaces are not safe for their (potential) offspring due to e.g. trace remnants of cigarette smoke.

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Books read May

As with last month, I didn’t read much in May, opting for reading two large, difficult(ish) books instead. Other interests also cut down on my reading time, so I’m nowhere near Michel’s output for the month.

The Children Star — Joan Slonczewski
An author I’ve heard a lot of the last year, due to her latest novel, The High Frontier. As James Nicoll has often said, in science fiction biology is the redheaded stepchild that comes to school covered in bruises; Slonczewski is one of the few sf writers who can create believable, workable alien biologies and her skill is on display here.

The End — Ian Kershaw
A history of the German experience in the last year of World War II , which tries to answer not why Germany lost, but why it took so long, until after Hitler’s death, to realise it had lost. Why did it keep fighting on for so long when it was clear in late 1944 that they couldn’t win?

Kamikaze: History’s Greatest Naval Disaster — James Delgado
A pop history look at the two attempted Mongolian invasions of Japan and why they failed. Interesting and I could do with a more indepth history to read about this. Any suggestions?

Divided Allegiance — Elizabeth Moon
The second book in The Deed of Paksenarrion sees Paks dissatisfied with life in the mercenary company she was in in the first book, leave and land herself in a very D&D-like dungeon crawl and hook up with the Fellowship of Gird as a paladin candidate. My copy annoyed me greatly as the cover was completely flaked away before I’d even finished reading it.

The Earth — Richard Fortey
Richard Fortey was Sandra’s favourite science/evolution/geology writer and geology being her favourite science. As far as I know she hadn’t read this particular book, but I bought it in honour of her memory. Fortey explains the geological processes that drive the Earth and the history of how we got to understand, through the process of visiting some of the “holy” places of geology, starting with its birthplace in the Bay of Naples at the Vesuvius.