Happy birthday Sputnik

Sputnik 1

fifty years ago today the first manmade object reached orbit. Science fiction fans everywhere thought it would be the start of mankind’s thriumphant conquest of space, even if it was the Russkies who did it, but it didn’t quite work out that way. While we’re using satellites for all kinds of important stuff, that whole idea that humanity had to leave its cradle behind seemed a lot less attractive in reality than science fiction had made it seem — quite a lot harder as well. We’re struggling to get a space station capable of keeping half a dozen astronauts living there for a month or two up and running, let alone that we can get the million inhabitants L5 colonies O’Neill dreams up going. For now, the future seems to be Earth orbit satellites and unmanned probes to the rest of the Solar System, plus the occasional hype of a new Moon or Mars programme

Should we be disappointed with this? That we have no giant space colonies, no Moonbase, no exploration of Mars, no interstellar expeditions? Or should we be happy instead with the things we do have: a Solar System far more interesting and odd than anybody had ever imagined, Earthbound telescopes powerful enough to detect planets around other stars, extrasolar planets where nobody would’ve believed planets could exist, an universe fastly more wonderful than any science fiction writer ever imagined?

Me, I’d rather go for wonder than for disappointment; I just wish much of science fiction would do the same and embrace the universe we live in rather than the universe we wished we lived in. Too much modern science fiction wallows in nostalgia or tries to refit the real universe into the old cliches.

The Eye of the World — Robert Jordan

Cover of The Eye of the World


The Eye of the World
Robert Jordan
800 pages
published in 1990

I remember the first time I read The Eye of the World, a year or two after it had been published. At the time I knew nothing about it, but the spine had that weird squiggly sign on it that my local library meant to represent fantasy or science fiction, so I took it off the shelves and started reading. By the time I got past the prologue and on to Rand and his father’s ride to Emond’s Field, I was hooked. And I stayed hooked through the rest of the novel, as well as through many of the sequels. Like many others eventually I stopped following the series when it seemed to have become a neverending story; A Path of Daggers was the last novel I bought, A Crown of Swords the last I’d read.

By that time however I must’ve read The Eye of the World at least a dozen times, rereading the complete cycle every time a new book in the series came out. Especially when I was still supposedly a student, there was many a day when I woke up determined to do some work that day, only to grab The Eye of the World and finish it when it had gotten dark again.

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Jeffty is five


(I wrote this last year and had always intended to come back to it, but I never did, until Nicholas reviewed Harlan Ellison’s Deathbird Stories and reminded me of this again.)

It was Kip’s post on Harlan Ellison and his trademarked name that reminded me of Ellison’s celebrated short story “Jeffty is Five”, which I had also just reread it again, so it was fresh in memory anyway.

I must’ve read “Jeffty is Five” about a dozen times by now; it’s a well anthologised story, winner of both the Nebula and the Hugo award. The first time I read it, some twenty years ago or so, I quite liked it, but over time I’ve become more and more uncomfortable with it.

As the Wikipedia summary puts it, “Jeffty is Five” “tells the story of a boy who never grows past the age of five physically or mentally. The narrator, Jeffty’s friend from the age of five well into adulthood, discovers that Jeffty’s radio plays serial programs no longer produced on radio stations that no longer exist. They are contemporary, all-new shows, however; not re-runs. He can buy comics such as The Shadow and Doc Savage that are, again, all-new although they are no longer being produced. The narrator is privy to this world because of Jeffty’s trust, while the rest of the world (the world that grew as Jeffty did not) is not.”

In the story, trust and nostalgia are inseperatable. The narrator gains access to Jeffty’s golden childhood world because he has Jeffty’s trust and looses it in the climax of the story by inadvertently betraying this trust. At the start of the story the narrator is out in the cold, untrusting world of seventies America, at the end he’s there again, but made even worse by knowing what he has lost.

As a story, it is a powerful dose of nostalgia, a paean to Ellison’s own lost childhood and the wonders it held, even for people who never experienced this time themselves. There’s always been a stubborn streak of nostalgia in science fiction, an awareness of history to which this story appealed; as its long list of awards shows. It also fits well with the general trend for nostalgia of the late seventies —happy Days, anyone?

Now in general, nostalgia is a reactionary emotion, not just a hankering for an idealised past and a denial of the present, but also a denial of possible future improvement. In small doses this is harmless, but when it controls a discourse, it can be a prelude to authoritarianism. Which is why I’m skeptical of nostalgia these days, especially as seductive as it is presented here. Ellison is quite convincing in his genuine love for nineteenforties pop culture, but unfortunately, this love is stuck in the middle of a quite amoral tale. Let me explain what I mean by that.

First, there’s the treatment of Jeffty’s parents, who are depicted without any sympathy for their plight, as dour, soulles, crushed people with no notion what their son can do, or appreciation of him. Both physically and mentally they’re repulsive. They have to be repulsive and unsympathetic for the story to work, to make the real world that much more dismal, but also because if the narrator felt any real sympathy for them, his joy in sharing Jeffty’s world with him could not be so innocent.

Then there’s Jeffty himself, whose condition is treated as not just positive, but as a wonder, something to envy. Again, this needs to be done to make the story work, but if you think about it, would you want him to stay five forever, or would you want him to grow up?

Finally, there’s the narrator’s treatment of Jeffty, which is nothing short of exploitative. In the heart of the story, when he recounts his time with Jeffty, “the happiest time of my life”, it’s all about him listening to new installments of his old favourite radio shows, seeing his favourite movie stars making new movies of his favourite novels, reading his favourite comics and pulps; you get the picture. It’s all about his pleasure in material things, justified through the lens of sickly nostalgia. (His hatred for contemporary America is also rooted in material matters: rock music, cheap candy bars, junkfood.)

This is why, though I loved this story when I first read it years ago, I’ve found it less and less charming everytime I’ve reread it. It’s well written, but it’s wrong.

Something Rotten – Jasper Fforde

Cover of Something Rotten


Something Rotten
Jasper Fforde
393 pages
published in 2004

Something Rotten is the fourth novel in Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series, which concludes the story and ties up all the remaining plot points from the previous three books. There may be some spoilers here if you haven’t read the previous novels,The Eyre Affair, Lost in a Good Book and The Well of Lost Plots. Like the previous books this was entertaining, funny in places but slight. Nevertheless, this was an improvement on the previous book, which I thought to be the weakest in the series.

In Something Rotten Thursday Next comes out from her hiding place in the realm of unfinished stories back into the real world, to take on her old enemy the Goliath Corporation and force them to uneradicate her husband, Landen Park-Laine. This may turn out to be more easier than she though, as the corporation has seemingly turned over a new leaf and is in the process of setting right all of their previous misdeeds in return for their victims forgiveness. Landen may therefore be much more easily restored to her than Thursday thought possible.

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Women write science fiction??!

Not a new discovery one should say, what with some women sf writers even winning Hugo Awards these days, but apparantly shocking enough for online sf magazine Helix, run by professional not very loveable curmudgeon William Sanders to bring out an entire issue full of wimmin writers and then complain bitterly when the rest of the world shrugs its shoulders:

There’s been a lot of talk in the SF community – some of it rather intemperate, as always happens in such cases – about “gender bias” in the genre or in certain magazines, about the largely estrogen-challenged Hugo list, etc. You’d think that there would be a favorable reaction when a magazine comes out with an all-women’s issue. Realistically, I don’t expect it’s going to happen, to any great extent – that’s how it goes, people yell and scream about something and then when somebody does something about it they don’t have a word to say – but somebody ought to say SOMETHING.

And somebody damn well ought to be reaching for that Paypal button. If they’re serious about their feminism, well, here’s a chance to put their money where their phosphors are. I’m going to be pretty damn disgusted if the donations don’t go up this quarter.

Now I’ve only followed Sander’s editorial career from a distance, but I cannot remember him striking any great blows for feminism or gender equality before, more the opposite. This is just a cheap stunt which won’t strike a great blow against gender bias and has nothing to do with feminism. Female science fiction writers are neither rare nor obscure, haven’t been for fifty years, so any sf magazine worth its salt doesn’t need to do “special” issues, but has a mix of male and female writers as a matter of course. So don’t break an arm patting yourself on the back, Sanders.

Thanks James!