Be disappointed in Heinlein all over again
If there really was one taboo subject in the old Usenet days of discussing science fiction, it was doubting the genius of Robert Heinlein. there were always acolytes and fanboys aplenty to explain away the homophobia, misogyny or racism that cropped up again and again in his work, or excuse the flawed logic or inconsistencies that could be found in them. Times have changed though and as new generations of sf readers have grown up, Heinlein has lost much of his former prominence in science fiction. Which means there has been room to start seeing the real Heinlein, not the idealised picture his fans have build up around him.
Ironically, it’s the self same fans who are helping to tear this picture down, as they are the only ones dedicated enough to publish things like a never send letter to F. M. Busby about freedom and race relations (PDF, starts at page 68). It’s full of gems like this:
Nor do I feel responsible for the generally low state of the Negro—as one Negro friend pointed out to me; the lucky Negroes were the ones who were enslaved. Having traveled quite a bit in Africa, I know what she means. One thing is clear: Whether one speaks of technology or social institutions,
“civilization” was invented by us, not by the Negroes. As races, as cultures, we are five thousand years, about, ahead of them. Except for the culture, both institutions and technology, that they got from us, they would still be in the stone age, along with its slavery, cannibalism, tyranny, and utter lack of the concept we call “justice.”
Which is straight out of any angry white nerd’s rant against political correctness ever written. So when was it written? 1964.
Smooth
Emelisse is a brewery from my home province of Zeeland, which has been doing good things, one of which is their White Label Imperial Russian Stout range, where they age it in various types of whisky casks. The one I’m having right now was aged in casks of Caol Ila, which I never had, but which makes this taste quite good indeed. It got the smell and flavour of a proper whisky, but without the burn. A bit peaty, a bit woody with a nice stout aftertaste.
The Moving Toyshop — Edmund Crispin
The Moving Toyshop
Edmund Crispin
205 pages
published in 1946
Edmund Crispin, the pseudonym of Robert Bruce Montgomery, who under his own name wrote music scores for amongst others, the Carry On series of movies — something I only learned when I looked him up on Wikipedia just now — was yet another of those cult favourite English detective writer. Sometimes it seems there are hundreds of such writers published from the twenties to the sixties, intermittedly forgotten and rediscovered after their deaths. In Crispin’s case he’s on the upswing, his novels having been reissued in both American and British editions in recent years. This is less of an enterprise than with some detective writers, as he only wrote nine novels and two short story collections.
My copy of The Moving Toyshop isn’t a shiny new reissue though, but a green paperback Sandra bought years ago, when she first had discovered Crispin. She was always much more of a crime reader than I am, always keen to reread old favourites, of which this was one. You can easily tell as there was a cigarette burn (and even some ash still) near the front of the book; this having been one of the books she reread a lot in hospital. I can just picture her sitting in her wheelchair, cup of crappy tea or coffee nearby, out in the hospital garden smoking a fag, reading this book and perhaps dozing off and dropping her ciggie in it….
Christ..
Rape doesn’t get you pregnant, say Republicans. Sometimes, when abortion policies are discussed and somebody notes that Republicans and socalled Christians care more about foetuses than the women that carry them, people get offended and outraged about your exaggerations. And then something like this pops up again and you realise that actually, this is an understatement.