Too Much To Read

I have a bad habit of starting too many books. I’m also inspired to write too many essays requiring too much reading to write. And I’m in too many online book clubs. You know that saying, “Your eyes were bigger than your stomach” for eating too much? I wish I could find one for reading too much. Here’s a partial list of books I’m currently in the middle of reading:

  • The Road to Science Fiction: From Gilgamesh to Wells edited by James Gunn
  • Two-Bit Culture: The Paperbacking of America by Kenneth C. Davis
  • New Atlantis: A Narrative History of Scientific Romance by Brian Stableford
  • War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
  • Ring Around the Sun by Clifford D. Simak
  • New Review Volume XII (January-June 1895) edited by W. E. Henley
  • The Best Science Fiction of the Year #2 (1972) edited by Terry Carr
  • The Great SF Stories 16 (1954) edited by Isaac Asimov and Martin H. Greenberg
  • The Science Fiction Hall of Fame v. 2B edited by Ben Bova
  • The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe
  • The Celestial Omnibus & The Eternal Moment by E. M. Forster
  • Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent by Isabel Wilkerson
  • The End of Expertise by Tom Nichols

There are more, but these are the books piled up around me just now. Awhile back I made a resolution to only read one book at a time. That lasted a couple of tortured months. My favorite regular activity right now is the Facebook group Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Fiction. We read two anthologies concurrently, discussing a new story every couple of days. We’re just about to finish the Carr and Bova anthologies and are voting in two new ones.

I’m reading Ring Around the Sun because of something someone said in the group about Simak. I’ve actually promised to look at a lot more novels, but that’s another story.

I’m reading the Forster short stories because we read “The Machine Stops” on the group and I got sidetracked wanting to know more about Forster and wondering about his other short stories since “The Machine Stops” was so fantastic.

I’m also reading the bound volume of the New Review because we read “The Time Machine” for the group and I got interested in it’s original publication which I started reading online. The other articles were so fascinating that when I discovered the entire volume was available from India in a leather bound reprint I ordered it.

I’m reading/listening to The Fifth Head of Cerberus because we read the novella in the Carr anthology and I bought the novel version. I’m reading it while listening to an audio version that’s on YouTube.

So this one Facebook group keeps me really busy.

I’m reading The Great SF Stories 16 (1954) on my own because for the last couple years I’ve been slowly reading through the entire 25 volumes that cover 1939-1963. My pace has slowed tremendously since joining the Facebook group.

I’m reading War and Peace because I thought it might be my 2020 classic novel. I try to read one big classic every year. I’m about a third of the way into it. I’ve been reading, and then listening, and also watching TV/movies versions. However, at the rate I’m going it might need to become my 2021 classic read.

I’m reading Caste because of my two-person book club I have with my friend Linda, but it’s going to be doing double duty because my online nonfiction book club just voted to read it next month. It was the first time that all the members voted for the same book among the list of nominees. But then we read Wilkerson’s previous book, The Warmth of Other Suns and all rated it a 10 – that book was one of the best books I’ve read in my lifetime. I believe it still holds the record for being our most highly rated monthly read. For September we’re reading The Death of Expertise.

I’m reading The Road to Science Fiction and New Atlantis because of research I want to do for this blog. Hopefully, the New Review might help in this project too.

Finally, I’m reading Two-Bit Culture because of a comment made by a member of an online discussion group I’m in devoted to pulp magazines. We’ve often discussed theories about why the pulps faded away in the 1950s, and this book was offered as one explanation because it describes the rise of reading paperback books. I always thought the pulps were killed off by television, but Two-Bit Culture makes a great case for paperbacks. (By the way, I do have a history of television in the 1950s started too, but I don’t know where I left it.)

I guess I’ve rationally explained why I’m reading so many books at once, but that doesn’t help me get them finished. It’s obvious while writing this essay that my Facebook group is generating most of my reading. I’m in another online book club, and I’m supposed to be reading A Deepness in the Sky by Vernor Vinge, but I’m not sure if I’m going to get to it. I feel bad that I neglect this book club the most. I can see belonging to three book clubs is what’s keeping me from my old resolution of only reading one book at a time. However, I don’t want to quit those groups.

I just remembered the books on my Kindle, like The Year’s Top Hard Science Fiction Stories 4 edited by Allan Kaster which I was reading and reviewing for this site. I’ve gotten completely sidetrack by that project and need to get back to it. Also, The Year’s Best Science Fiction Vol. 1: The Saga Anthology of Science Fiction 2020 edited by Jonathan Strahan comes out on the 8th and I’ll want to start it too. My Kindle reads would add more to the above list, and so would my Audible account. Damn, I’ve got too many books on my reading stand, Kindle, and iPhone!

The real trend in my reading is short stories. I’ve practically stopped reading novels. I’m reading around 300 short stories a year now, and this is my third year. Mostly it’s been science fiction, but I’m getting the urge to read literary stories too. That’s why I got sidetracked by the Forster collection.

The trouble is I can’t keep this pace up. If I want to really work on my project to find 19th-century science fiction fans, I need to focus. I can’t imagine how writers like Mike Ashley or Brian Stableford can focus on writing books about science fiction history and read all the content needed to write them. (I guess they don’t watch all the TV I do.)

The Tom Nichols’ book about the death of expertise is about how everyone claims to know stuff that few specialists know. I’m trying to write an essay about stuff that Ashley and Stableford are far better equipped to write. To write the essay I want will require doing a lot of research and reading. In other words I need to become an expert. That makes me realize that few people have expertise in anything. I certainly shouldn’t say anything about the endless subjects I talk about because I just don’t read enough.

I realize at this moment, most of my expertise is in reading about science fiction, and my current central interest is science fiction short stories. Since I’m in a Facebook group that also focuses on that topic, I know I’m far from being the expert much less an expert, but it is the subject I know the most about (at the moment). If I really want to become an expert in the history of science fiction short stories I’ll need to do a whole lot more reading. I should exclude reading anything that’s not within the territory I want to master. But that won’t happen.

People who become experts must be capable of amazing feats of reading. Isabel Wilkerson probably read a whole library of books to write Caste.

It’s weird to realize that my reading is leading me towards a very narrow subject – the history of reading science fiction short stories in the 19th century. I was focused on the 1939-1975 range, but if I want to understand where science fiction began I need to expand that back to 1800. That is indeed a lot to read.

It’s interesting that writing this essay help me realize that the pile of books I’m reading is connected by a web of related interests. What formerly seemed to be random reading is actually fairly focused. Maybe I’m not as scattered-brained as I imagined.

James Wallace Harris, 9/4/20

When Did E. M. Forster’s “The Machine Stops” Become Science Fiction?

In 1909 E. M. Forster’s story “The Machine Stops” was published in the November issue of The Oxford and Cambridge Review. It is a dystopian tale about a future society run by a machine. Forster was replying to H. G. Wells novel, A Modern Utopia serialized in the Fortnightly Review in 1904 and 1905. Neither writer thought they were writing science fiction because, first, the term did not yet exist, and second, because Wells was promoting scientific socialism and Forster was protesting it. However, both stories had all the trappings of science fiction.

A Modern Utopia is seldom remembered by science fiction fans, but “The Machine Stops” is considered one of the classics of the genre, and often reprinted in retrospective anthologies of science fiction short stories. When did science fiction fans first discover “The Machine Stops” and claim it for the science fiction genre? And did E. M. Forster who lived until 1970 ever know this?

Many within the genre consider science fiction originating with Hugo Gernsback’s Amazing Stories, first published in April 1926. Gernsback first called these stories scientifiction, but within a few years coined the term science fiction. That term “science fiction” didn’t become widely known outside of the genre until the late 1940s and early 1950s. See my essay, “When Mainstream America Discovered Science Fiction.”

Hugo Gernsback is also credited with creating science fiction fandom by encouraging readers of the stories in his magazines to communicate in his letter column. Eventually, he organized the Science Fiction League in the April, 1934 issue of Wonder Stories. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s science fiction developed as a genre, and readers began calling themselves fans and developed a subculture they called fandom. You can read more about both in these two wonderful books.

However, what do you call stories that use the techniques and themes of science fiction published before Gernsback? What do you call readers who loved these kinds of stories before fandom? Science fiction has always been written by writers who work outside of the genre – before and after it was established. And there were readers before the genre existed that loved stories we now call science fiction.

Science fiction has been laying claim to these proto-SF stories for decades. Gernsback had to reprint Poe, Verne, and Wells in the early issues of Amazing Stories because he didn’t have enough new science fiction to start his magazine. Interestingly, he didn’t reprint “The Machine Stops.” Nor did any of the other pulps that eventually began reprinting classic fantasy and science fiction.

When I reread “The Machine Stops” for a Facebook group that discusses science fiction short stories, I noticed something interesting. Forster describes a future where humans have withdrawn from the surface of the Earth, but automatic aerodromes run by the machine keep the flying machines going on their old routes. This was very reminiscence of “Twilight” by John W. Campbell, Jr., where a time traveler visits a far future Earth and the people have abandoned cities that still function by automatic machinery, including air fields. This made me wonder if Campbell had read Forster’s story. It also made me wonder just when did science fiction fans discovered “The Machine Stops.”

The internet is a wonderful tool for doing such research. We know that “The Machine Stops” was originally published in a 1909 journal. I quickly found out it was reprinted in a collection of E. M. Forster’s stories called The Eternal Moment and Other Stories in 1928. “Twilight” was first published in 1934, so theoretically Campbell could have read it. However, I can find no evidence that he had, nor could any of my online chums who were helping me.

Then, when did fandom discover “The Machine Stops” and begin calling it science fiction? There is a wonderful tool called the Internet Science Fiction Database (ISFDB.org) that indexes all it can about published science fiction. It’s entry for “The Machine Stops” is quite revealing, giving a listing of all the times it was reprinted in works related to science fiction.

The first SF anthology that reprinted “The Machine Stops” is The Science Fiction Galaxy edited by Groff Conklin in 1950, and it just so happens I have a copy. It’s a tiny hardback the size of a paperback. Conklin was an early anthologist of science fiction, assembling over forty of them. And there is a clue here to our mystery. In his first three large anthologies most of the stories he collected were from the science fiction pulp magazines. In The Science Fiction Galaxy he begins with three stories that existed before the genre emerged, “The Machine Stops” (1909) and “As Easy as A. B. C.” (1912) by Rudyard Kipling, and “The Derelict” (1912) by William Hope Hodgson. In his previous anthology he had found two pre-genre stories. (Joshua Glenn in recent times has done extensive discovery of stories from this era which he calls Radium Age Science Fiction.)

Conklin never searched hard for these older stories, but other antologists did. See my essay “19th Century Science Fiction Short Stories.” There were plenty of stories published before science fiction was known as a genre that could be called science fiction. I’ve often wondered about the readers who read them. It’s one thing to get a sense of wonder from science fiction in the 20th century, because we had rockets, robots, and atomic bombs to validate our genre’s tales, but can you imagine what readers in the 19th and early 20th century felt when reading their version of science fiction stories?

Scholars have tracked down these old stories, but I’ve never read anything about the readers. I’d love to know the reactions. Did they ever write letters to the editors, or reviews, or even include their thoughts in memoirs and diaries? I can’t find them.

Had science fiction fans discovered “The Machine Stops” before Groff Conklin in 1950? That’s harder to track down but I’ve gotten some help from chums on the net. I believe the trail begins with The Eternal Moment and Other Stories published in 1928. One of those chums named Bill, found these reviews for me:

From an unsigned 13 May 1928 review in the Hartford Courant of The Eternal Moment:
"Here are six strange and striking tales by Mr. Forster, one of the most individual and distinguished of contemporary British novelists . . . "The Machine Stops," which opens the volume, is one of those prophetic fantasies belonging roughly in the same class with certain well-known stories of H. G. Wells. "The Machine Stops" is a ghastly conception, its period set at some immeasurably distant point in an assumed future, when the human race dwells in underground shelters and individuals very seldom see one another; horrible, fantastic and sinister as this story is, it simply follows out, at least along certain lines, the prophecies lately revealed to us in the blinding flash-lights of the Today and Tomorrow Series, and we have already, now in our own existent daily life, attained to some of the wonders which form the abhorrent commonplaces of life in Mr. Forster's fantasy. It may be noted that the fantasy is essential and bitter satire, and that "the machine" does not satisfy every man."
Frank Weir, reviewing in the Decatur IL Daily Review, 8 Jun 1928:
" "The Machine Stops" tells the story of a world inside the earth. Life is controlled by a machine. Forster turns ironical as he presents his travesty on what may be the final result of an age entirely dependent on mechanical genius. Fine writing around an exceptional idea marks this tale as a gem."
John F. Geis in The Brooklyn NY Times Union, 3 Jun 1928:
" "The Machine," which begins the book, is acknowledged an output of two decades ago and portrays the millennium of the electrical age even to the mechanical doctor, but doesn't it sound a bit as though it might be a travesty on birth control? At any rate, the machine, like man, is fallible, and only God reigns omnipotent."

None of those quotes suggest the story is science fiction, but then it was 1928 and the term didn’t really exist. But none of those quotes suggests the story is a different kind of story, or something experimental, or a unique kind of fiction in any way. However, sometime between 1928 and 1950 science fiction fans began to recognize this story as part of their genre.

There are a number of sites that preserve old fanzines digitally, including fanac.org, efanzines.com, and fiawol.org.uk. I’ve discovered that .pdf files at these sites that have been OCRed are indexed in Google. And I’ve also learned that some fanzines are indexed in the many indexes hosted at Galactic Central. Still, with all those sources, and my online helpers, we found very few references to “The Machine Stops.”

The best reference located was in The Acolyte #9 (Winter 1945), which had a column by Harold Wakefield devoted to finding old pre-genre SF/F fiction called “Little Known Fantasisistes.” The editors said Wakefield had found a copy of The Eternal Moment and Other Stories and would review it in the future. He never did.

We know British fans had a chance to read The Eternal Moment and Other Stories as early as 1937 because a mimeograph bibliography of available science fiction.

Finally, there were references to “The Machine Stops” in Pilgrims Through Space and Time: Trends and Patterns in Scientific and Utopian Fiction by J. O. Bailey, a 1947 book publication of his 1934 dissertation on proto-SF.

Of course, none of these clues proved that science fiction fans read “The Machine Stops” before Conklin’s The Science Fiction Galaxy in 1950 but I imagine that some did. After 1950 the story was reprinted in numerous anthologies, but most importantly in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame Volume 2B (1973) edited by Ben Bova. This was where members of the Science Fiction Writers of America voted for their favorite science fiction stories published before the advent of their Nebula Awards in 1965. To come in at the top of such a poll meant many of those writers knew the story, and probably most, if not all, had read “The Machine Stops” in anthologies since 1950. I can’t prove that though.

“The Machine Stops” has become even more famous since the emergence of the Internet because E. M. Forster in 1909 imagined humans isolating themselves and mainly communicating via a machine. It’s heroine is a kind of blogger. Read the BBC essay, “Did E. M. Forster predict the internet age” or Wired Magazine’s take on the subject.

The story feels like uncanny prophecy. Actually, it’s Forster’s fear about the industrial age completely taking over human society. If you’ve never read “The Machine Stops” you can read it online here or listen to it here:

“The Machine Stops” proves the qualities that define science fiction existed before the label, but I’m also curious if the specific love for such stories existed before fandom?

James Wallace Harris, 8/21/20

“A Rose for Ecclesiastes” by Roger Zelazny

I’ve been leading the group discussion of the stories in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame Volume One edited by Robert Silverberg on the Facebook group The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Fiction of the Year. Tomorrow we start “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” – the 26th and final story of the volume, and one of my all-time favorite science fiction stories. After that, we move on to volume 2A and 2B. We’re also just started discussing The Best Science Fiction of the Year edited by Terry Carr that came out in 1972 covering stories from 1971. (Follow the link if you want to join us.)

I feel like writing more about “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” than just a few comments on the Facebook group. What I’d really like to write is an exact explanation of why I love “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” so intensely. I’ve already written four essays that explain part of the why. A whole lot has to do with being at the right place at the right time, or maybe more precisely, growing up in a certain place and time.

“A Rose for Ecclesiastes” is a story about Earthlings discovering Martians. Anyone who grew up reading “A Princess of Mars” by Edgar Rice Burroughs, The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury, or any of the Heinlein novels featuring the Old Ones will know what I mean. Before NASA we hoped Mars would be an inhabited world, a world where humans could live without spacesuits and hang out with all the intelligent lifeforms from a myriad of inhabited planets and moons. Mars was going to be the most exotic and action-packed destination in the solar system. Mars was to Baby Boomers what Star Wars is to later generations.

After NASA Mars was toxic and lifeless, a bitterly cold planet that will always try to kill us. For a while in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when they called science fiction Scientific Romances we saw exploring space similar to the romantic adventures of the 17th and 18th centuries. What Zelazny did in 1963 with “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” was to ignore science, ignore NASA, and write the kind of story about the Mars we really wanted.

I know what I’m writing is like a twelve-year-old kid morosely saying, “I sure wish that Santa Claus was real — I miss the magic.” And it’s obvious from the billion-dollar blockbuster movies we love to so much, that few of us want to grow up.

I’ve discussed “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” with younger readers and many of them don’t see the magic that I do. That has bothered me. Often they find the main character Gallinger offensive, and such an asshole that they reject the story. They know what the real Mars is like and can’t accept a silly unrealistic Mars we all wanted decades ago. Can I be so wrong about this story?

But here’s the thing, I consider “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” a model for writing great science fiction. Over the years I’ve slowly gathered a handful of stories I consider the ones to beat if I was going to write science fiction. “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” was Hugo finalist back in 1964 but I’m not sure if that would happen today.

Part of understanding why I love this story so much means learning why it is unappealing to others today, especially younger readers. And it’s not that Baby Boomers admired egotistical assholes, giving them a pass for their successes, but maybe we just accepted that assholes do exist in this world, and sometimes make for fascinating protagonists. Or maybe we liked stories where arrogance evolves into enlightenment. And, then there were the pulp fiction conventions. Zelazny writes with an admiration for the science fiction he grew up reading, and the heroes of old are different from the heroes of today. You can tell that in this opening if you’ve read enough pulp fiction.

I was busy translating one of my Madrigals Macabre into Martian on the morning I was found acceptable. The intercom had buzzed briefly, and I dropped my pencil and flipped on the toggle in a single motion. 

“Mister G,” piped Morton’s youthful contralto, “the old man says I should ‘get hold of that damned conceited rhymer’ right away, and send him to his cabin. Since there’s only one damned conceited rhymer …” 

“Let not ambition mock thy useful toil.” I cut him off. 

So, the Martians had finally made up their minds! I knocked an inch and a half of ash from a smoldering butt, and took my first drag since I had lit it. The entire month’s anticipation tried hard to crowd itself into the moment, but could not quite make it. I was frightened to walk those forty feet and hear Emory say the words I already knew he would say; and that feeling elbowed the other one into the background.

This isn’t literary writing and Gallinger isn’t a literary figure. Madrigals Macabre would be something Weird Tales would publish, something Lovecraft and Derleth would admire, and be reprinted by Arkham House. Gallinger is a pulp hero. He has a massive ego for a reason. He tells us:

I don’t remember what I had for lunch. I was nervous, but I knew instinctively that I wouldn’t muff it. My Boston publishers expected a Martian Idyll, or at least a Saint-Exupéry job on space flight. The National Science Association wanted a complete report on the Rise and Fall of the Martian Empire. 

They would both be pleased. I knew. 

That’s the reason everyone is jealous—why they hate me. I always come through, and I can come through better than anyone else.

And before that, his boss told him:

“You are undoubtedly the most antagonistic bastard I’ve ever had to work with!” he bellowed, like a belly-stung buffalo. “Why the hell don’t you act like a human being sometime and surprise everybody? I’m willing to admit you’re smart, maybe even a genius, but—oh, hell!”

Later on, this is what Gallinger says about a woman that admires him, and is a colleague:

Betty muttered the parting formalities, gave me a strange sidewise look, and was gone. She apparently had expected to stay and “assist” me. She wanted a piece of the glory, like everyone else. But I was the Schliemann at this Troy, and there would be only one name on the Association report!

I can see why modern readers are turned off, but Gallinger’s unlikability is just part of the story. Maybe what makes for a good story fifty years ago is having a protagonist who learns how to become a better person. In today’s stories, the main character is often already woken and fighting against inequality and injustice. That’s great to have such admirable characters to follow, but maybe part of storytelling is about overcoming obstacles, and often the best obstacles to explore in fiction are those within ourselves.

Ironically, I often argue the best science fiction adheres closest to science, yet here’s a story that sneers at what we know. There is so much to this story that I would criticize in a modern story, or even from another story back in the day. Evidently, telling a good story sometimes involves insulting your reader and taking chances.

“A Rose for Ecclesiastes” goes on to tell a tale about a man falling in love with an alien culture, seduced into being part of their ancient prophecy. Zelazny makes Mars a place you want to visit. And I have to wonder how many people who hope to fly with Elon Musk to the red planet is expecting a Mars to be like Zelazny’s romantic world? It’s certainly why I wanted to go when I was a kid. The real Mars will be a Lovecraftian nightmare out to kill us. The Old Ones will be all the lethal aspects of Martian reality.

This essay is getting too long. It’s always impossible to write one essay that explains why I love a story. There are just too many psychological threads to follow. Partly I am defending “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” from some recent comments I read that bothered me. But I’m also trying to understand why my generation loves one kind of story and the Worldcon membership now seems to love another kind of story.

And I’m not even sure I loved “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” as much as I do now back when I first read it in the 1960s. Maybe it now represents something I’ve lost back in the 1960s that I wish I could find again. Maybe it’s not the story per se, but the love of reading such stories? Back in the sixties, I had so much hope for humanity exploring space, especially colonizing Mars. Maybe now I’m really seeing myself for what I was back then. I loved reading science fiction of a certain type, and “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” epitomizes that kind of science fiction.

Maybe what I really wanted was to grow up and be like Gallinger. Isn’t that a scary thought? That what I really want is to be an asshole adventurer on an unrealistic fantasy version of Mars. That I’m that kid once again wishing Santa Claus was real.

Ultimately, “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” presents Mars the way I wanted Mars to really be. This story is a triple level romance — between Gallinger and Braxa, but it’s also a romance between the reader and Mars, and between the reader and science fiction.

Like I said, this essay is getting too long, and heading into psychological territory that would take too many words to psychoanalyze.

James Wallace Harris. 6/23/20

Remembering Helen O’Loy

Most short stories never get published. Of those that do, most are never reprinted. So, it is quite fascinating to study a story that does. My Facebook group is discussing “Helen O’Loy” by Lester del Rey that first appeared in print in the December 1938 issue of Astounding Science-Fiction. Using its record at the ISFDB.org we can track when it’s been reprinted over the years. It has also been translated into at least six languages. Here’s the timeline of major reprints:

  • 1948 – … And Some Were Human by Lester del Rey (collection)
  • 1952 – Beyond Human Ken edited by Judith Merril
  • 1954 – Assignment in Tomorrow edited by Frederik Pohl
  • 1960 – S-Fマガジン – v. 1 n. 1 (Japan)
  • 1963 – The Coming of the Robots edited by Sam Moskowitz
  • 1965 – Science-Fiction-Cocktail: Band I (German anthology)
  • 1966 – Master’s Choice edited by Laurence M. Janifer
  • 1970 – The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One edited by Robert Silverberg
  • 1971 – 18 Greatest Science Fiction Stories edited by Laurence M. Janifer
  • 1972 – 3000 Years of Fantasy and Science Fiction edited by L. Sprague and Catherine de Camp
  • 1974 – Modern Science Fiction edited by Norman Spinrad
  • 1974 – Histoires de robots (French anthology)
  • 1975 – In Dreams Awake edited by Leslie A. Fiedler
  • 1977 – Science Fiction and Fantasy edited by Fred Obrecht
  • 1977 – Souls in Metal edited by Mike Ashley
  • 1978 – Robots, Robots, Robots edited by Geduid and Gottesman
  • 1978 – The Best of Lester del Rey
  • 1981 – Science Fiction: Masters of Today edited by Arthur Liebman
  • 1982 – Analog: Reader’s Choice
  • 1983 – The Best of Omni Science Fiction No. 5
  • 1985 – Histoires de robots (French anthology)
  • 1990 – Friends, Robots, Countrymen edited by Asimov and Greenberg
  • 2010 – Robots and Magic by Lester del Rey
  • 2017 – The Robot Megapack ebook anthology

This leaves off the many reprint editions of the above volumes, plus some obscure anthologies, and other collections of Lester del Rey. For example, The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One seems to stay in print and is currently available in paper, ebook, and audiobook editions. It’s the volume my Facebook group is reading.

However, why wasn’t it collected in Adventures in Time and Space edited by Healy and McComas or The Best of Science Fiction edited by Groff Conklin? Those two giant anthologies from 1946 set the standard for science fiction anthologies for a generation. Nor has “Helen O’Loy” been anthologized in any of the recent super-giant retrospective anthologies like The Big Book of Science Fiction edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer  or one of the teaching anthologies like Sense of Wonder edited by Leigh Ronald Grossman

In truth, “Helen O’Loy” is a minor story, and problematic if you analyze it psychologically, especially with how it treats women. It hasn’t appeared in a significant SF anthology in over forty years. NESFA Press remembers Lester del Rey with Robots and Magic, but they are a fan press that remembers the old greats of the genre. The Science Fiction Hall of Fame stays in print because it does exactly what it was designed to do, remember the legendary shorter works of science fiction published before the creation of the Nebula Awards. “Helen O’Loy” was up for a Retro Hugo award but came in second, losing to “How We Went to Mars” by Arthur C. Clarke.

Anthologists who attempt to present a historical overview of the genre constantly shift through the past looking for older SF stories that are relevant to present-day readers. Each new anthology tends to forget more of the older stories. The Big Book of Science Fiction has 29 stories from 1934-1963 where The Science Fiction Hall of Fame has 26 in volume one, and another 22 in volumes 2A and 2B.  Sense of Wonder has 46 stories from 1934-1963, twelve of which were in the first volume of The Science Fiction Hall of Fame. There are only two stories – “A Martian Odyssey” by Stanley G. Weinbaum and “Surface Tension” by James Blish appearing in all three anthologies.

Of course, Sense of Wonder has an unfair advantage, it has over 200+ short stories, and is so big that it’s only practical to own as an ebook. However, among my friends, we’ve often wondered if members of the SFWA voted today for the best short stories from 1926-1963 what would they be? So I just paused writing this essay to write about that.

Would modern science fiction writers still pick “Helen O’Loy” as a classic science fiction short story from that era before 1964? I don’t think so. Surely, the current younger generations would see the story much differently than those writers who grew up reading science fiction in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s.

On a very simple level, “Helen O’Loy” tries to ask a very simple question: “Could a robot ever be considered human?” Science fiction stories, novels, television shows, and movies are still exploring this very simple question. And there is a growing industry seeking to actually build realistic sexbots. Why wouldn’t “Helen O’Loy” remain a classic? For any man lusting after a woman made to order, they’d probably not see anything wrong with the story.

Lester del Rey wrote “Helen O’Loy” before the world knew about digital computers and programming. The technology for imagining how a robot could work in 1938 would be clockwork mechanics, radio electronics, and wire recorders. They had little reason to assume we could build a machine that could see, hear, think, and talk. Del Rey had the myths of Pygmalion and the Golem, and stories about mechanical men for inspiration, but that’s about all. In 1938, on a technical level this story is a pure fantasy.

Then, how does the story hold up for psychological realism? Why would Phil and Dave in the story give up two real life girls, the unnamed twins, for a mechanical girl? One twin wanted to see a movie the boys didn’t so they dumped both girls? Are we really going to believe that biological humans will ever accept pseudo-humans as soulmates?

The main problem with “Helen O’Loy” today is how little respect it gives women. Basically, it says if a machine could be built that looks like a beautiful woman, and if that machine serves the man in all his needs and wishes, then that’s all men need from women. (Why didn’t femfans of the day howl back then?) “Helen O’Loy” assumes women have no wishes, desires, wants, ambitions of their own, that a woman’s only purpose is to fulfill a man’s needs. Are there men and women who would be satisfied with a visually appealing machine that serves their fantasies?

I say the heart of this story doesn’t beat — then or now. Sure, “Helen O’Loy” is an amusing little tale if you don’t think about it. So why has it been remembered and reprinted more than most other science fiction stories? I have to assume it resonates with adolescent male fantasies, or with people who feel challenged to build AI robots.

All along, science fiction has loved robots. And building a robot equal to a human has been the gold medal goal. But it’s here when I personally feel science fiction has always failed miserably with a total lack of logic and vision. Humans are emotional creatures, and emotions come from biology and chemistry. AI minds will be digital. The only emotion I can imagine a robot having might be curiosity. Why has science fiction failed to understand that no matter how much a robot might look like us it will never think or feel like us? And why has science fiction for so long wanted to see robots that are so like us that a Turing test would include physically passing for human?

To many science fiction fans, Isaac Asimov owns the robot story. He didn’t expect them to pass for human, or to think like us. But I don’t think Asimov ever extrapolated very far with the possibilities of intelligent machines. His stories certainly invalidated stories like “Helen O’Loy” but why haven’t other science fiction writers gone further?

I think we will forget “Helen O’Loy” partly because of its affront to feminism, but also it’s ideas about robotics are too primative and silly today. Of course, any anthology that tries to show the evolution of fictional thinking about robots will include it. And to be honest, I still enjoyed the story, and admired the way del Rey told it. I had to wince many places at the sexism, and groan at the idea of vacuum tube robots with memory coils, but ultimately I liked the story.

James Wallace Harris 5/10/20

 

Rereading “A Martian Odyssey” by Stanley G. Weinbaum 50 Years Later

I love “A Martian Odyssey” by Stanley G. Weinbaum. The first time I read it was when I bought The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One, 1929-1964 from the SFBC in the summer of 1970. I wish I had discovered it sooner, during that golden age of science fiction when we’re twelve. Instead, I was a college freshman. I was a bit older, a bit more knowledgable, a bit more cynical, but it still clinging to my dreams of finding a way to the red planet. Fifty years later, I know better, that Mars is not for me. Yet, I still daydream my science fictional fantasies, not just to forget the pandemic or economic collapse, or even to ignore the nagging pains of my aging body, but to recall something that made me happy a half-century ago. Something that inspired me.

If Donald Wollheim had not snagged “A Martian Odyssey” for his 1943 groundbreaking paperback anthology, The Pocket Book of Science Fiction, I’m pretty sure I would have read “A Martian Odyssey” at twelve or thirteen. Obviously, Healy and McComas, or Groff Conklin would have grabbed it for Adventures in Time and Space or The Best of Science Fiction in 1946. Those two enduring hardback anthologies were still haunting libraries in my early teen years in the 1960s. Unfortunately, I never stumbled upon any Weinbaum collection or later anthology that contained “A Martian Odyssey” before I bought The Science Fiction Hall of Fame. Would 12-year-old kids today discovering this classic in the many anthologies that have published since then feel the kind of sense of wonder I could have felt if I had read “A Martian Odyssey” in 1963? And would my 1970 sense of wonder even be a fifth of what overwhelmed readers who discovered Weinbaum’s first story in the July 1934 issue of Wonder Stories? I can’t say my 2020 pleasure in rereading “A Martian Odyssey” is anything other than just wistful nostalgia. Yet, I did recognize several triggers in that story that made me love science fiction way back when.

A Martian Odyssey in 8 anthologies

I also wish I had read “A Martian Odyssey” before Mariner 4’s flyby of Mars in July 1965. Like I said, 1963 would have been the perfect year, especially if I could have read “A Martian Odyssey” one day and then “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” by Roger Zelazny the next. That’s the last story in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, and it was first published in 1963. I consider those two stories perfect bookends for an era in science fiction.

When Mariner 4 flew by Mars in July of 1965 we discovered the planet was a cold cratered world much like the Moon. We had finally opened the lid on the Schrodinger’s Cat of Mars speculation. It was dead! We discovered Mars wasn’t like fiction at all. Before Mariner 4 I had a deep faith in our genre and loved Pre-NASA Science Fiction. I wanted Mars to be like Heinlein’s Mars of Red Planet, The Rolling Stones, Double Star, and Stranger in a Strange Land — and Heinlein wanted Mars to be like Edgar Rice Burroughs and Stanley G. Weinbaum’s stories.

I see “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” as a beautiful farewell salute to Pre-NASA Science Fiction. The Science Fiction Hall of Fame is probably the greatest single science fiction anthology of all time — at least the readers at Goodreads voted it so. We’ve decided to read and discuss the stories from The Science Fiction Hall of Fame at the Facegroup I’m in. You’re welcome to join. “A Martian Odyssey” is our first story. I’m hoping to hear from other Weinbaum fans and learn about how they first discovered “A Martian Odyssey” too.

I don’t know how many times I’ve read Weinbaum’s classic since 1970. I was overjoyed a couple years ago when The Science Fiction Hall of Fame came out on audiobook. Its audio production of “A Martian Odyssey” is pitch-perfect. My inner reading voice couldn’t compete with third-grade actors in a school play. I consider the narration to sound just like how men talked back in the 1930s when “A Martian Odyssey” first appeared in Wonder Stories.

Stanley_G._WeinbaumStanley Weinbaum’s writing career was quite short — his first story came out in 1934 and he died at the end of 1935. Yet, in that short period, a dozen of his stories were published in Astounding Stories and Wonder Stories. A short biography and bibliography can be read at Wikipedia. He had been writing since the 1920s, finishing four works published as novels after his death. However, few people outside his hardcore fans ever read anything other than “A Martian Odyssey.” Even that story’s direct sequel, “Valley of Dreams” from the November issue of Wonder Stories has never been reprinted in a significant retrospective anthology.

If you love “A Martian Odyssey” do yourself a favor and read or listen to “Valley of Dreams.” It picks up where the first story left off and gives us more details about the exotic Martian life Weinbaum introduced in the first story.

Two Tweels

Here are the two stories in audio from YouTube. I’ll give you a chance to listen to them because I will talk about the details, and maybe spoil them for you.

Weinbaum wrote science fiction before the general public even knew the term science fiction. Interplanetary tales have been around for a long time, but Weinbaum tried to imagine Mars with the science of his day. Dick Jarvis is part of a four-man mission to Mars when he is stranded in a crash of a survey flyer. Jarvis must cross hundreds of miles to get back to the rocket. Weinbaum tells us Mars has an extremely thin atmosphere in which the Earthmen can be trained to breathe. Humans are protected from eighty-degrees below zero temperature by special suits. Because the gravity is only one-third of Earth, Jarvis is able to make twenty miles a day crossing the Martian landscape. Along the way, he observes several bizarre life-forms and meets an intelligent being called Tweel. They travel together, saving each’s other’s life, becoming fast friends even though their ability to communicate in words is almost non-existent.

Modern readers might find Weinbaum’s prose a bit on the quaint side, and the plot rather simplistic by current-day standards. Jarvis tells the story to his human pals after he is rescued.  This framing device was common in stories from that era and earlier. Readers weren’t used to the immediacy of television reporting, so stories of true adventures were told after they happened. The same framing technique is also used in “Valley of Dreams” where Jarvis gets to meet Tweel again and visit an ancient Martian city.

One of the toughest things science fiction writers have to do is convey alienness. We’re used to movies and television shows where aliens are humans with make-up and costumes. Weinbaum wanted his readers to feel the alienness of aliens and he succeeds, both with non-intelligent lifeforms and a couple different types of intelligent beings. Tweel looks somewhat like an ostrich with arms and hands and can jump a hundred feet into the air and land on its beak. Tweel can mimic some Earth words, and with those few words convey some abstract concepts. Jarvis is unable to learn any of Tweel’s language.

Weinbaum gives us both a first contact story, and a story about alien anthropology and linguistics. I get one of my biggest sense of wonder rushes from stories about humans walking through dead alien cities, and that’s part of “Valley of Dreams.” I first discovered this rush from reading After Worlds Collide by Edwin Balmer and Philip Wylie when I was in the 7th grade. Weinbaum also throws in a lifeform based on silicon, maybe the earliest I’ve seen of this idea. And he comes up with the idea that some intelligent beings might not use the same logic/math we do.

Probably, all these exciting sense-of-wonder ideas have been discovered by most children today before they start school. I’m old enough to remember the world without all the standard science-fictional ideas that kids now get as soon as they can think. I doubt they can comprehend how delicious “A Martian Odyssey” was to minds before every exciting science-fictional idea was beaten into dullness by pop culture.

James Wallace Harris, 5/5/20

 

Science Fiction Times They Are a-Changin’

 

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I’ve been looking at lists of people’s favorite science fiction stories since I started reading science fiction in the 1960s. Sometimes I agree with their choices, other times I don’t. The interesting thing about these lists is they change over the generations. Just study all the lists we use as our citation sources for the Classics of Science Fiction. The oldest list we use is from a 1949 issue of the Arkham Sampler. (Full article reprinted below or read the entire issue here.) One of the top titles was Out of the Silence (1925) by Earle Cox, a title I haven’t even heard of before, much less seen or read. Of course, people back in 1949 couldn’t have voted for The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin, but if you study the list, they also didn’t vote for very many books recent to 1949 either. Our favorite books tend to be slightly older books.

It’s my theory that each generation bonds with certain science fiction books in the same way people bond with the pop music they grow up with during their teens and early twenties. However, there is a slight time lag for books. We don’t discover books as timely as we do hit songs. We seem to find them by word-of-mouth, awards, film adaptions, etc. So new books can be from this year, this decade, or even a little before that.

It’s not that each new generation doesn’t discover the favorite reads from older generations or eventually read books from younger generations, but there’s a time-span lump of books we claim for our generation. The Catcher in the Rye is a good example.  Like Baby Boomers favoring Classic Rock, I favor Classic Science Fiction from the 1950s and 1960s. In my generation, Heinlein/Clarke/Asimov were The Beatles of science fiction, but they’re no longer the Big Three for Sci-Fi readers today.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve watched later generations grow up and imprint on different science fiction. Sure, some of their parents might have influenced them to read Classic Science Fiction, but for the most part, each new generation embraces its own books to represent the concept of science fiction. The current generation of science fiction fans seems particularly rebellious against my generation and earlier.

The other day I caught a video on YouTube that made me think it was a Gen-X list of science fiction classics. (If you don’t want to watch the video the list of books is in the comments.)

The creator of this video goes by the handle of Moid Moidelhoff and is 45, making him a Gen-Xer. I’ve read 52 of his Top 100 books, and many of those are my favorites too, and classics to my generation. Moid loves books I haven’t read by authors I haven’t tried – Banks, Reynolds, and Hamilton. I liked his list enough to add it to our citation sources. (By the way, it ended up being only 99 because we list The Foundation Trilogy as a single book and he selected two of the volumes.) His Top 100 list pushed two books onto the Classics of Science Fiction list – Consider Phlebas (1987) by Iain M. Banks and The Time Traveler’s Wife (2003) by Audrey Niffenegger.

It currently takes 12 citations to get on our final classics list, and these two titles only had 11 citations before I added his Top 100. Over time we up the minimum number of citations required to get on the final list, which pushes some books off the list. If you look at this table you’ll see how titles fall out of favor over time.

I can see from this YouTube list a generation shift. If I could find a list by millennials I believe I’d see an even greater shift away from the SF books my generation call classics. From watching this YouTube video I am inspired to catch up. 40 of his books came from the 21st century, and 60 since 1980, but his newest titles stop in 2013. Millennials would pick even newer titles, but I’m not sure they’ve had enough reading time to decide on their classics yet.

In that issue of Arkham Sampler I mentioned above, the feature article was “A Basic Science-Fiction Library.” I feel it was composed by The Greatest Generation SF readers (born before 1924) and maybe some of the older folks from the younger Silent Generation readers (1925-1945). Reading this article will capture a different science fiction generation. Note the stories we still read today as well as the stories that have become forgotten over time. Science fiction generations have changed several times since this 1949 article. In my old age, I love to study the previous generations, but I also marvel at the changes later generations are making. Even though I feel out of touch with the current generation of science fiction fans, I still find the science fiction they love fascinating for how different it is compared to the books I grew up loving.

I feel this article captures a past generation’s science fiction. It’s excellent evidence for my case that science fiction changes with the generations. And I don’t mean just the different book titles, but the focus, feel, and style of science fiction.

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Of the books recommended in the 1949 Arkham Sampler article that I have not read but still sound compelling, I want to read:

  • The Food of the Gods by H. G. Wells
  • When the Sleeper Wakes by H. G. Wells
  • The Short Stories of H. G. Wells
  • The World Below by S. Fowler Wright
  • The Second Deluge by Garrett P. Service
  • To Walk the Night by William Sloane
  • Before the Dawn by John Taine
  • Gladiator by Philip Wylie
  • The New Adam by Stanley Weinbaum
  • The Moon Pool by A. Merritt
  • The Purple Cloud by M. P. Shiel
  • Darkness and Dawn by George Allan England
  • Out of Space and Time by Clark Ashton Smith

From the YouTube video, these are the books I haven’t read but now feel I should try to read soon.

  • Revelation Space by Alastair Reynolds
  • The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks
  • Pandora’s Star by Peter F. Hamilton
  • Wool by Hugh Howey
  • The Children of Men by P. D. James
  • Roadside Picnic by Arkady & Boris Strugatsky
  • World War Z by Max Brooks
  • Blindsight by Peter Watts

James Wallace Harris, 3/29/20

 

 

 

One in Three Hundred by J. T. McIntosh

One in Three Hundred by J. T. McIntosh is a fix-up novel that was published in hardback in 1954 but was first serialized as three stories in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (Feb 1953, Jan 1954, Sep 1954). That was quite common back in the 1950s, to assemble a novel from a series of shorter works written first for the magazines. For example, Foundation, More Than Human, A Case of Conscience, A Canticle for Leibowitz, etc. were all fix-up novels.

One in Three Hundred by J. T. McIntoshI had discovered the novelette “One in Three Hundred,” in The Best Science-Fiction Stories: 1954 edited by Everett F. Bleiler and T. E. Dikty. I thought it a ripping tale and immediately looked it up on ISFDB.org. That’s when I found out there was also a novel by the same title, and it was based on three stories:

My first inclination was to order a copy of the novel. I was anxious to keep reading to find out what happens. It is currently in print but sold as three separate ebooks for $3.99 each, reprinting the individual stories. I really wanted a copy of the original Doubleday edition because of its dust jacket. A first edition can run in the hundreds, but book club editions aren’t too expensive. However, I have the magazines and decided to just read the story in its original serial form.

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I’m not sure Anthony Boucher and J. Francis McComas knew what they had with the first story because it wasn’t given cover like parts two and three. “One in Three Hundred” was mentioned on the cover, but it was listed last. However, they introduced the story with:

Intro 1

The story begins with 28-year-old Bill Easson walking around the small town of Simsville, (population 3,261) oddly judging people in his thoughts. What slowly unfolds is the world will end soon and Bill will pilot one of 700,000 cheaply built rockets that can each take ten passengers to Mars. Only 1 in 300 Earthlings will get a chance to survive, and Bill’s job to pick the right people. This story reminds me of a movie I just reviewed, Abandon Ship where Alec Holmes (Tyrone Power) has to choose who lives and dies on a lifeboat.

Bill is very conscientious about his assignment. He doesn’t want the obvious morally best people, but people he thinks are up to the challenge and one who could make something out of their new life on Mars. Of course, most people in this town try to con, barter or force themselves onto his list. It’s a compelling story, and fairly adult for a genre targetted to youths. Most of the story is about Bill’s logic, and how he argues with different people who can’t see his way of thinking.

We eventually learn what the editors thought of the story in their introduction to the second part, “One in a Thousand.”

Intro 2

I hope it’s not too much of a spoiler to learn that Bill and the ten do make it off Earth because the second episode is about surviving the journey in space. And the editor’s lets you know about as much as you need to know. I like the second part, but it wasn’t as original as the first story. However, McIntosh does provide some very realistic problems for his characters so solve, much more real than most space adventures of the time. 1954 was pre-NASA and although McIntosh doesn’t lay a bunch of technical jargon on us, he does cover all the scientific basics for traveling to Mars. Most science fiction at the time, or even later, seldom bother with these kinds of details.

Again, this might be a spoiler, but it’s probably obvious that in the third installment, they do make it to Mars but face a whole host of new survival problems colonizing Mars. By now the editors know how big of a hit they have.

Intro 3

One in Three Hundred is a forgotten novel of science fiction. It appears to have made a minor splash at the time. Groff Conklin said it was “A distinguished tale” in his January 1955 review in Galaxy. But it was the last book he reviewed in that column and didn’t say much other than describing the three parts like I have above.

P. Schuyler Miller in the February 1955 “Reference Library” damns the story with faint praise.

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On the other hand, Damon Knight savages the story in the February 1955 issue of Science Fiction Quarterly. Who is right, Boucher and McComas and the readers of F&SF, or Damon Knight, who became one of the first literary critics of the genre? Knight makes me feel stupid for liking the story.

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Science Fiction Quarterly 1955-02-0076

And Henry Hull in his review from Imagination April 1955 makes me wonder how could  have I liked the story at all:

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Galaxy reviews the One in a Hundred again when it was republished as an Ace Double. This time Floyd C. Gale calls it excellent and compares it to When Worlds Collide.

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Finally, we have Leslie Flood’s review from New Worlds #47. His 1956 take is closer to my 2020 opinion.

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New Worlds No 047 0128

I have to admit that One in Three Hundred isn’t a great book, but I find it fun reading. But then, I love discovering old forgotten science fiction worth remembering. I’m mining the past for the kind of science fiction I enjoy — the ones I missed the first time around. Of course, that means anything I like and recommend must be taken with a grain of salt if you’re only used to reading modern science fiction.

I recently read The Death of Grass by John Christopher from the same time period and will say it is a classic, a true novel of artistic quality, one a modern reader should admire. McIntosh doesn’t come close to Christopher’s writing skills. However, does that mean I shouldn’t recommend One in Three Hundred? Damon Knight was famous for vivisecting SF novels, and he does make this novel seem silly — but I could do that to all my favorite books. Sure, it is unrealistic to believe that we’d ever build 700,000 cheap spaceships. I doubt McIntosh believed it either. McIntosh sat down to write about one man picking ten people to survive the apocalypse. That’s the primary hook. The second and third parts are about how well he chose.

Of course, McIntosh gets everything wrong about Mars, but then so does all the other science fiction writers of that time, including Heinlein, Clarke, and Asimov. I remember seeing the name J. T. McIntosh on books when I was growing up, but they never appealed enough to me to buy and read them. Now I wish I had. I assumed he was among the countless hack writers of genre and that might be what he eventually became. However, it appears his early books from the 1950s were more promising. Some of his books are in print today as ebooks, but I don’t know if they are his best work or hack work. If we have any J. T. McIntosh fans out there who can vouch for his better novels, leave a comment.

James Wallace Harris, 3/16/20

The Year’s Best Short Science Fiction: 1952

1953 - short science fiction

Here are the stories Bleiler and Dikty picked in 1953 for the best of 1952:

  • “Ararat” by Zenna Henderson *****
  • “Category Phoenix” by Boyd Ellanby ***
  • “Command Performance” by Walter M. Miller, Jr. ****
  • “Conditionally Human” by Walter M. Miller, Jr. *****
  • “The Conqueror” by Mark Clifton ***
  • “Counter Transference by William F. Temple ***
  • “The Dreamer” by Alfred Coppel **
  • “Fast Falls the Eventide” by Eric Frank Russell *****
  • “Firewater” by William Tenn ****
  • “The Fly” by Arthur Porges ***
  • “The Gadget Had a Ghost” by Murray Leinster ****
  • “Game for Blondes” by John D. MacDonald ***
  • “The Girls From Earth” by Frank M. Robinson ****
  • “I Am Nothing” by Eric Frank Russell ****
  • “Lover, When You’re Near Me” by Richard Matheson ****
  • “Machine” by John W. Jakes **
  • “The Middle of the Week After Next” by Murray Leinster ***
  • “The Moon is Green” by Fritz Leiber ****
  • “Surface Tension” by James Blish *****
  • “Survival” by John Wyndham ****

Then in 1986 Isaac Asimov and Martin Greenberg picked these stories as the best short SF of 1952 (overlapping stories are in bold):

  • “The Altair at Midnight” by C. M. Kornbluth ***
  • “The Business, As Usual” by Mack Reynolds **
  • “Command Performance” by Walter M. Miller, Jr. ****
  • “Cost of Living” by Robert Sheckley ***
  • “Delay in Transit” by F. L. Wallace *****
  • “Fast Falls the Eventide” by Eric Frank Russell *****
  • “Game for Blondes” by John D. MacDonald ***
  • “Hobson’s Choice” by Alfred Bester ***
  • “The Impacted Man” by Robert Sheckley ***
  • “Lost Memory” by Peter Phillips ***
  • “The Martian Way” by Isaac Asimov ****
  • “The Moon is Green” by Fritz Leiber ****
  • “The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury ***
  • “Sail On! Sail On!” by Philip Jose Farmer ****
  • “The Snowball Effect” by Katherine MacLean **
  • “The Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury ****
  • “What Have I Done?” by Mark Clifton ****
  • “What’s It Like Out There?” by Edmond Hamilton *****
  • “Yesterday’s House” by Fritz Leiber ****

I’m always amazed at the different lineups between Bleiler/Dikty and Asimov/Greenberg. For 1951 they only have one story in common, so having four in 1952 is rather interesting. Using our 2020 CSFquery tool here are the most cited stories in our database for 1952:

1953 best SF stories csfquery

Remember, the Bleiler/Dikty and Asimov/Greenberg anthologies are three of the citations used in our database. For example, here are the citations for “Surface Tension,” the most cited SF short story of 1952. Why didn’t Asimov/Greenberg include it in their collection?

Surface Tension citations

I’m extremely fond of “Surface Tension” but my very favorite short read for 1952 was “Fast Falls the Eventide” by Eric Frank Russell, and it only received two citations. That implies citations are not the best way to recognize a good story. Who knows, there might be several stories from 1952 that never got any recognition after their first publication that I would enjoy reading today. There were dozens of magazines back in 1952 publishing science fiction.

“The Year of the Jackpot” is one of my top favorite Heinlein short stories, but it wasn’t picked for either anthology. “Baby is Three” by Theodore Sturgeon is a tremendous tale. I wonder why Bleiler/Dikty didn’t pick it for Year’s Best Short Novels 1953 (it was too long for the other two anthologies). I guess it was already being recognized as being part of More Than Human. I wished both Bleiler/Dikty and Asimov/Greenberg would list the stories they wanted to anthologize but couldn’t. For a while, they left a blank page for the Heinlein stories, but they soon stopped that.

The two Ray Bradbury stories, “Sound of Thunder” and “The Pedestrian” are often taught in schools, well, at least when I was going to school. However, they didn’t impress me as much as when I first read them over a half-century ago when I had to read them in school. Still good stories, but their fame has dimmed their brightness.

I thought “Delay in Transit” by F. L. Wallace was an exceptional story, but it seems to have been forgotten. Ditto for “Ararat” by Zenna Henderson. It’s a shame that her stories of The People are fading away from the genre’s memory.

I got a big kick out of reading these 1952 stories. When I started this project, beginning with the SF stories of 1939, I expected the famous Golden Age SF stories of the 1940s to be the outstanding stories of the past. But I was disappointed. Overall, the 1940s weren’t particularly golden for me. Things started picking up in the late 1940s, and the 1950s are now producing the kind of stories I’d call a Golden Age. I’m sure it’s a matter of generational perspective. There is also the possibility that each decade will be better than the one before it. In that case, I’m really looking forward to the 1960s.

Thrilling Wonder

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JWH

Blows Against The Empire: Alfred Bester’s 1953 Critique of Science Fiction

Before the tempest in this teapot begins to blow, let me quote Alfred Bester’s conclusion to his severe attack on science fiction from his 1953 essay “The Trematode: A Critique of Modern Science-Fiction:”

The Trematode is a parasite which infests the mussel and either destroys it or forces it to form a pearl. Science-fiction has infested us and we are waiting to see what the result will be. But one thing is certain: the end must be the metamorphosis of science-fiction. Whether it turns to rot or is transformed into a pearl, it will not continue to exist as an isolated organism much longer. For my part, I welcome this end. For my part, I foresee the pearl.

Bester is looking back over what many have called the Golden Age of Science Fiction and burning it down with his blaster. I wish I could find the fan reaction to this essay from back in the 1950s, but Google only returns seven results. And for those who aren’t familiar with the name Alfred Bester, he wrote two books in the 1950s that became classics: The Stars My Destination and The Demolished Man. At the time Bester had a reputation for being a writing stylist and innovator. So getting a dressing down from one of our own must have been painful.

I wonder what I would have thought if I read and understood this essay in 1962 when I first began reading science fiction. Science fiction wasn’t popular then like it is today. Science fiction was one step up from comic books, and you were called retarded (their word back then) by your peers if you read comics. I remembered also being called a geek and zero for reading SF. Back then those terms were the social kiss of death. I had two buddies that read science fiction in high school and I remember being very hurt by George’s mother when she sat is down one day and gave us a serious talk about evils of reading science fiction. George’s mother was a sophisticated, well-educated, widely traveled woman, and I was always impressed with her thoughts, so it really hurt when she tried to convince us we were reading trash. She implied reading SF was a sign we were emotionally and intellectually immature. We thought we were Slans.

Then in the late 1960s and early 1970s, there was a great civil war within the science fiction genre, a war between the Old Wave and New Wave. If I had read Bester’s essay then I would have felt self-righteous because I was on the side of the New Wave and its attacks on the Old Wave were much like his attacks on SF in 1953. It was a painful time that mirrored the Generation Gap and the violent unrest between the folks for the Vietnam war and against it.

Today another civil war/generational divide seems to be emerging in our genre. I often see attacks on old science fiction and old science fiction writers. However, this time I feel like I’m surfing the Old Wave. Of course, I’m 68. I guess every so often science fiction rebels against itself. The Old Empire is attacked by the Young Turks. Probably one reason Star Wars has been so freakin’ popular is the merry band of pirates battling the evil empire motif resonates so well with the young in all ages. And once again the young feel so righteous, like the early Christians planning to overthrow Rome.

Science fiction has often suffered the slings and arrows of self-righteous critics, both from within and without. Civil wars are always the most painful, and I wonder if the current rebellion attempting to overthrow the Sci-Fi Empire will become as contentious as the New Way/Old Wave rebellion of the 1960s? Literary critics and scholars have periodically published attacks on the genre, but even though they rile the SF masses eventually they are ignored. What angers the true fans more than generation conflicts are traders to the cause, the Judas to the genre. On SF by Thomas M Disch offers a more recent attack on SF from a 21st-century book, and some fan opinions of Disch aren’t very nice. His publishers described On SF as “A last judgment on the genre from science fiction’s foremost critic.” Unfortunately, Disch was never very well known.

Bester and Disch say much in common. In fact, all the rockets launched against the empire have similar targets. These attacks generally cause flame wars but do they change anything? Sure, science fiction has become more politically correct over time, but then so has the rest of society.

I found Bester’s “The Trematode: A Critique of Modern Science Fiction” in The Best Science-Fiction Stories: 1953 edited by Everett F. Bleiler and T. E. Dikty, first published in September of 1953. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to find a copy of this anthology. I’m hoping it’s out of copyright because I plan to quote all of it here. The reason why I’m paying particular attention to what Bester says is because of his opening paragraphs:

I HATE science-fiction for what it has been; I love it for what it will be. I am ashamed of science-fiction’s past, as I’m ashamed of the childhood that led me to it. I look to its future with hope, as I look with hope toward my own future development and maturity. I believe I do not speak for myself alone, but for all of us; for we are all alike in our sins and in our hopes.

When I was a boy I was blessed with a boy’s vivid curiosity about life and cursed with a boy’s timidity about facing life. I yearned for many things and could not face the reality of achieving them. I wanted to be a scientist. I received a micro¬scope for Christmas and spent interminable hours peering at drops of swamp water, but I never applied myself to zoology. I never could face the hard work, the study and discipline it re-quired. I merely peered through the microscope and imagined I was making great discoveries.

I wanted to be an astronomer. I read books on astronomy and gazed for hours at the illustrations, but I never learned the stars or even the constellations. I could not face the work. I was content to dream about space. I wanted to be a great chess player. I learned the moves but never applied myself to learn the game. I wanted to be a physician, an adventurer, a fullback, a composer—all the things that all boys want to be—and never became any of them because the reality of accomplishment was so much less glamorous than the dreams.

I don’t hate old science fiction, but there are those who do. Nor am I ashamed for science fiction’s past, although there are many who are. But I do agree with Bester, that all science fiction fans seek hope in what they read.

Because Bester’s judgment of himself is extremely similar to my own life, I figured his criticisms of SF might also resonate. I always had big ambitions but never made the effort. There is that old saying, “Those who can do, and those who can’t, teach.” Evidently, the ambitious who can’t even teach write science fiction, and those who can’t write science fiction read it.

Science fiction reflects extreme forms of hope, fears, ambition, and destruction. It deals with desires so out there they are often indistinguishable from fantasy. For me, science fiction was a consolation prize — reality wasn’t what I wanted so I chose alternates fantasies that I preferred.

Shouldn’t we also consider Bester’s attacks on science fiction to also be personal attacks on our ability to deal with reality? I know I’m taking it personally because of how close I am to Bester’s own psychology.

And I was so naturally led to science-fiction, for that form of literature provided me with the fulfillment of my dreams at no more cost than a pleasant hour’s reading. I could read about the paradoxes of physics, the complexities of chemistry, the puz­zles of the social sciences. I could enjoy speculations and guesses and other men’s dreams; and after saturating myself with these stories, I could believe that I was a physicist, a chemist, a phi­losopher. I could delude myself into believing that I had ac­quired knowledge. I could feel superior to the boy who was a real life fullback but didn’t read stories about Relativity. I could feel superior to the rest of the world.

That was my escape from hard reality. It was the escape of most fans. Were you flunking a course in physics? Pooh! Read a story about time travel and be a physicist. Were you flunking math? Read about light years and feel superior to quadratic equations. Were you incapable of making friends? Dating girls? Getting along with your family? Escape into a story about the social problems on Centaurus. Read science-fiction and escape. That sentence is science-fiction’s past, and from that past we have inherited the vestigial remnants—the Three Immaturi­ties that are plaguing us today, intellectually, emotionally and technically.

If I had read this in high school or college, I would have heard the Twilight Zone music in the background. Bazinga – Bester burnt adolescent me to a crisp. I took physics, astronomy, and computers when I began college, but I just didn’t want to do the work, so I switched majors to English after two years. I’ve always wanted to be a scientist because I read science fiction. But for every science book I read, I probably read a hundred science fiction novels.

Intellectually, science-fiction is guilty of the naivete of the child and the over-simplification of the child. Its naiveté leads it to adopt fads, believe in nostrums, and discuss disci­plines of which it has only the most superficial understanding. I need mention no names. The followers of the “Bacon Wrote Shakespeare” cult and the interpreters of the Great Cipher have their blood brothers in science-fiction, as have the lunatic mem­bers of Gulliver’s Grand Academy of Lagado.

The political and sociological theorizing in science-fiction is puerile. Philosophic thought is absurdly commonplace. Serious discussions are generally on the level of a bull session of high school sophomores who are all rather pleased with themselves and snobbish toward the rest of the world—toward “The Mere,” as Ste. Daisy Ashford put it. There have been many ex­ceptions to this, of course; and there will be many exceptions to the rest of my analysis; but I am discussing the average.

It’s true that you will occasionally find fragments of good sense in science-fiction, but at best they are only parts of a whole which is not understood—tags and tatters of learning like the Latin aphorisms that every schoolboy remembers with ease but translates with difficulty. One result is that science-fiction makes no attempt to use the disciplines as tools. It cannot. It does not know how to handle them professionally. It peers through the microscope and dreams. Another result is distor­tion of idea development leading to false conclusions. The most serious result is a childish tendency to generalize. Lacking de­tailed knowledge and understanding of its subjects, failing to realize that speculation is not for amateurs, science-fiction takes refuge in simplification.

Oh, this is painful. And yes, I can remember all those epics arguments we had over such insanely stupid concepts — science fiction and otherwise. And of course, my generation was mixing science fiction, rock music, drugs, and New Age philosophy together by the 1970s. Baby Boomers just didn’t want to adultify. Our 1960s political revolution was also simplistic and childish. I can easily see why critics claim science fiction is fairytales for adults who refused to grow up.

Yes, we were taking refuge in simplification — but let’s be fair. Are fans of mysteries, westerns, romances, historicals, any more realistic and sophisticated. And we must ask: Does our choice in reading equal our approach to reality in everyday life?

Also in our defense, the reality we were trying to escape in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s was epically bleak back then. We were going through multiple tsunamis of social change. Alvin Toffler even coined a term for it – Future Shock. But Bester was mainly talking about the 1930s and 1940s, and remember the shocks those folks went through. I’ve just read several books about science fiction in the 1940s and much of it was seeking transcendental change. And wasn’t the whole 1950s Dianetics/Scientology thing very much like the New Age stuff we were embracing in the 1970s?

Over-simplification might better be discussed as an aspect of science-fiction’s technical immaturity and inability to handle human beings. Let me consider it here, however, since that sec­tion will have more than enough to cover. The naive quality of the morality play in science-fiction stories is the best example of over-simplification. A reading of “Everyman” with its cast of Fellowship, Good Deeds, Knowledge, Beauty, Five Wits, etc., produces a strange effect. You recognize the startling similarity to science-fiction with its Martinet Generals, Industrial Ty­coons (divided into the Good Guys and the Bad Guys), Mis­understood Scientists, Inexplicable Aliens (who usually conceal Superior Powers under a Pastoral Culture), Callous Conquer­ors and Patriots in Revolt.

It is interesting to note that although science-fiction has be­come self-conscious about the naive simplicity of its cast, it has not attempted to remedy this by deeper characterization. It has clung to the morality characters but attempted to deceive the eye with quick shuffles. With a swift twist in the final para­graph, the Martinet turns out to be the Scientist at heart. The Wicked Politician is revealed as a Patriot. The Scientist is un­masked as an Industrial Tycoon (Bad Guys Division) and so on.

The morality play simplification of science-fiction is also re­vealed in its plots, and I wonder how many people have noticed that most science-fiction stories end at exactly the point where they should begin. This is a deadly sin in the arts and one of the standards by which you separate the men from the boys. What the stories amount to, as a rule, is an artificially masked exposition of a situation. When the situation is finally revealed, the story ends. The great classics of science-fiction have been the exceptions to this rule—stories which have courageously and imaginatively tackled problems, no matter how difficult. But in general, science-fiction is afraid to come to grips with its situations. It is afraid of complexities.

Okay, fans of Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings, as well as many fantasy classics should feel that jab here too. And should science fiction take all the hits when our current pop culture has so thoroughly embraced comic books and comic book movies?

We have to ask: Doesn’t Bester’s 1953 criticism apply to most of our current pop culture? Science fiction concepts have spread throughout our society. The fantastic has seeped into almost all forms of fiction. But just read on…

This reflects the childish yearning for a simple world. It re­flects the immature desire to find simple yes-no solutions for complicated problems. Let me cite one more example of this over-simplification. The story in which the protagonist solves a complex problem which has been baffling experts by turning up one simple factor which has been overlooked or ignored. In part this is merely the Dreams Of Glory of our youth, but more importantly, it is a childish refusal to accept the complexity of reality and the complex response demanded by reality. And out of this refusal arises the emotional immaturity of science ­fiction.

Science-fiction is terrified by life. Like the child who is fright­ened and depressed when he looks ahead at the dangers and responsibilities of adult life, science-fiction is panicky when it looks ahead at the dangers and responsibilities of the future. Its stories show this by their universal gloom. Man is doomed to various fates, none of them pleasant. There is no hope. There is no future. And out of this pretentious morbidity, science ­fiction manufactures an apology for its own inadequacy.

Science-fiction is afraid of the dark. Like the child who screams bloody murder when he’s locked up in a closet, science-fiction screams bloody murder whenever it takes a timid step into the unknown. What visions of horror does a child con­jure up out of the dark? Ghostly hands clawing it. Ferocious monsters assailing it. The very earth opening up and swallow­ing it. What visions of horror does science-fiction conjure up out of its insecurity? Ghastly plagues from laboratories. Ferocious monsters from space. The very earth falling apart in atomic disintegration.

Think about all the kinds of movies and television shows this applies to, and how widespread their popularity. Aren’t we terrified of life, of reality? If we aren’t, why do we spend so many hours every day immersed in fiction, and often fiction that’s science-fictional or fantasy?

But let’s go on. Bester’s psychoanalysis for science fiction before 1953 is very specific to a very tiny piece of the pop culture back then. People today have no idea how unknown science fiction was before 1950. The term “science-fiction” had to be explained to the general public in Life Magazine in the early 1950s. Back then the words were hyphenated, which meant the phrase was new. Hyphens are dropped from compound words when they become commonly used.

I know science fiction wasn’t the only source of immature thinking back in 1953. I grew up in the 1950s and remember people embracing UFOs, Edgar Cayce, Jean Dixon, nudism, Bridey Murphy, ESP, all kinds of quack medicine, endless wacky conspiracy theories, John Birch Society, building fallout shelters, a list that goes on and on.

This gloomy satisfaction with assured disaster and this ter­ror of the unknown are not the result of mature understanding and judgment, no matter how speciously science-fiction may ar­gue. They are emotional immaturity. They are the terror of the child who dreads what he does not understand and sees catastrophe lurking behind any closed door. They are a shock­ing admission that while science-fiction prattles about extra­polation, it is only shaking a bogey and frightening itself to death.

Perhaps the best illustration of this is science-fiction’s con­spiracy complex, which is an aspect of childish paranoia. The child, in its terror of what it does not understand, cannot fathom its relationship to the unknown. Viewing the universe with infantile egocentricity, it imagines that every phenomenon relates directly to itself. If the weather is good, it’s because the child has deserved it. If the weather is bad, it’s because the child is being punished. If the child has a success, it’s because the world is its friend and wishes it well. If the child has a failure, it’s because the world is its enemy and wishes it harm. To the mind of the child it is inconceivable that any event can take place without the fate of the child as its ultimate object. Mark Twain describes this attitude vividly in Chapter 54 of Life on the Mississippi.

It is astonishing how many science-fiction stories display this conspiracy complex, this tendency to regard man as the ulti­mate object of all phenomena. The grosser forms are familiar to all of us. We harbor secret enemies in our bosom who manip­ulate nature to own us, deceive us, exploit us, conspire against (and rarely for) us. We are unwitting members of a galactic organization which guides us, tests us, judges us, conspires against (and sometimes for) us. We are always the focal point of a conspiracy, malign or benign. Science-fiction rarely musters the emotional maturity to accept the fact that the universe is most probably entirely indifferent to our aims, ideals and fears, to our virtues and sins; and, what is more, should be.

Now, this next criticism surely isn’t specific to science fiction fans. Everything from comic books to religion, to political fanaticism, has to take some responsibility.

Another aspect of emotional immaturity is the Superman syndrome of science-fiction which is linked with the “One Man with the One Invention” symptom. I will discuss supermanism and the childish desire for the deus ex machina below. Here let me arraign the “One Man” who also belongs to the Pat- Solution Division of over-simplification. Science-fiction readers know him well. He is the one man responsible for saving the earth, destroying the earth, leading us to the light, leading us to doom, etc. Thoughtful people will recognize in him their old childhood inability to understand that the course of history is rarely diverted by single men or single incidents—that, in other words, an Adolph Hitler does not lead a country to Nazism, but rather, powerful economic forces of vast complexity create a totalitarian wave which crests in a Hitler but which might easily have crested in any one of a hundred men.

Similarly, the child (and often science-fiction) imagines that had one certain man not been born, then his one great inven­tion would have been lost to the world forever. This is saying that had Leverrier not discovered Neptune, then Adams and the score of other mathematicians working on the same prob­lem would not have either. This is saying that had Bell not in­vented the telephone, then Gray, Dolbear and Drawbaugh (with whom he battled for years to establish priority) would not have invented it too. This is a childish refusal to recognize the brutal statistical truth of history, that the tail has never wagged the dog, that the stream of life produces incident, and not vice versa.

Supermanism (or supermachinism) is a common escape mechanism of the young. It may be roughly divided into the father complex and the talisman complex. When the child is in difficulties he either wishes for Daddy to come and rescue him or else he dreams about finding a magic amulet or a magic machine which will turn him into a superman and enable him to rescue himself. In neither case is the child prepared to meet the crisis on realistic terms. Similarly, science-fiction is not prepared to meet the present or the future on realistic terms. Either it dreams about Daddy Superman who will come along and rescue the world, or it dreams about the superman’s phy­lactery which, like a fairy’s wand, will be waved over the trou­ble and banish it.

The other side of supermanism is popular villainism. During World War II, the entertainment business fell into the habit of making the Nazi the villain. Whenever a writer was in doubt, he pinned the evil on a Nazi. Actors who specialized in German dialects had fat years. Today, of course, the Rus­sian dialecticians are popular. Radio, television and the motion pictures may indulge in such convenient practices without shame. They are frankly commercial and pretend to be no bet­ter than they are. But science-fiction has also been guilty, and science-fiction has no excuse. It has always preened itself, either openly or by implication, as advanced literature for the advanced intellect. And yet in times when cool thinking and sound judgment were vital, it has helped confuse the world picture as recklessly as any propagandist, politician or tabloid newspaper.

The next jab is rightly targetted to science fiction, and the one many literary critics use when attacking the genre.

But to my mind the most serious aspect of science-fiction’s emotional immaturity is its inability to understand human be­ings on an adult level. Like the “One Man” symptom, this is a part of the over-simplification tendency. The child classifies people according to his understanding of them. Since his un­derstanding is meager, his categories are simple. Consequently, the complex behavior of adults is a constant source of bewil­derment to him. It is also a constant source of bewilderment to science-fiction and is directly responsible for its technical im­maturity.

Science-fiction is like the boy who is afraid of people and takes refuge in his Chem-O set. Similarly, science-fiction has taken refuge in science to the detriment of its fiction. In the past this was no problem. The field had the charm of novelty. There were so many fascinating physical avenues to explore— space, time, dimensions, environments—that there was no need for understanding and development of human character. Un­fortunately, the novelty is fading today and there is a rising demand for mature character handling. But while science ­fiction keeps pace with the explorations of science, its aspects of character exploration have hardly been touched. The boy graduates to larger and larger Chem-O sets, but he refuses to come out of the nursery.

Consequently most science-fiction stories are peopled by mar­ionettes who jerk about on conventional strings and rarely carry conviction. Science-fiction can tell the reader the melting point of a solid on Mercury, the freezing point of a gas on Neptune, the explosion point of a nova in Andromeda, but it has no idea of the melting point, the freezing point and the explosion point of a human being. Yet surely we will all agree that the deter­mination of these points must be the object of all fiction.

A reader must be able to identify himself with the characters in a story. He must feel with them, suffer with them, win or lose with them. He cannot identify himself with them unless he be­lieves in them. He will not believe in them unless they are real. Because of the technical immaturity of science-fiction, characters have very rarely been real. Science-fiction is an extraordinary form of literature and has an extraordinary technical problem to overcome. It demands extra-powerful depth and realism of character to offset the strangeness of outre backgrounds and un­usual ideas. Let me explore this a little further.

A contemporary story in a contemporary magazine is usu­ally a picture of the life we all know. This is the essential ad­vantage of ordinary fiction over science-fiction. It always has the support of the contemporary scene to bolster it. If the characters are unbelievable, at least the scenes are real and recognizable. If the author has written an improbable story about unbeliev­able characters, he can camouflage this by using a contemporary background.

The reader will recognize the reality of the background, and often the background will impart its reality to the characters and the story. This misdirection is an old trick of the enter­tainment business. A very famous director achieved an enviable reputation for the realism of his plays by insisting that every­thing on stage be genuine. His doors were real doors with knobs and locks. His windows had real glass. The books could be read. The wine could be drunk. Everything about his produc­tions was real except the plays themselves. They were as arti­ficial as ever, but the public lost sight of the fact in the face of the overwhelming realism surrounding them.

This is an advantage science-fiction does not possess, and this is the technical pitfall into which it has fallen. Science-fiction’s stories are usually projected into the future, into space, often both. It has no reality of contemporary scene to support it. It must manufacture its locales as well as its characters; and what if the characters are unbelievable? Then the story is destroyed, for there is no familiar scene from which the characters can take color and acquire the semblance of reality. In science­fiction, characters must be extra strong, extra real, for they have no other support; in fact, as I pointed out before, they are in a worse position. They have the burden of outre backgrounds to carry in addition to the responsibility for themselves. And this is where science-fiction most often fails. Its characters rarely can carry themselves, let alone their locales.

Science fiction has improved tremendously since 1953 when dealing with characterization, but I still feel it is seldom close to the world of literary fiction. I’m currently listening to The Best American Short Stories 2019 and its stories are starkly different from the best stories in anthologies of science fiction. When I read literary fiction I feel like I’m reading fictionalize biography or autobiography. Literary fiction is very close to being inside people’s minds. Often the characters seem like hyper-realistic paintings of people, whereas science fiction characters usually feel like they are drawn like cartoons or caricatures — quick sketches, and sure some are even beautiful, but not the finely produced oil paintings like we see it the best literary fiction.

Next, Bester calls us out on our weird hopes for robots. Boy, he had no idea how big robots would become.

As a result, science-fiction has developed a style amounting to reportorial writing—so much so that I almost think it should change its name to science reportage. A great many stories con­tent themselves with the creation of a tool, device or mechanism which is described at great length. The customary conflict is a crisis in the operation of the gadget. The resolution is invariably the mechanical solution; but, I might add, in science­-fiction’s customary vein. Optimistic solutions—20%. Pessimistic —80%.

The inability to understand or handle human beings also is responsible for science-fiction’s predilection for robots and other anthropomorphic thinking devices. They are the easiest substitutes for people. I do not deny that such devices are an important aspect of the future, but does science-fiction realize how strangely it has handled them? They are never treated as tools. They are always transformed into members of society and treated with emotional implications.

It is as if a nineteenth century man were to write love stories about the twentieth century electronic devices which surely would seem as remarkable to him as the robot seems to us. But we don’t feel anything toward our tools today. We simply use them. Those of you who remember Mauldin’s cartoon of the weeping GI shooting his wrecked jeep will understand what I mean, and understand how ludicrously science-fiction has been behaving.

Just think of all the television shows with robots, androids, and sexbots. But it goes well beyond robots and computers. Just think of our relationships with our phones, cars, or toys.

Next Bester compares science fiction to children’s stories and fairy tales. I see that, but I also see science fiction is also a substitute for religion. Science fiction has a lot in common with famous Bible stories. God and angels are aliens. Heaven is outer space and other dimensions. Prayer is telepathy. Miracles are like superpowers. Isn’t the primary symbolism of religion to cast us as children of God?

In my discussion of over-simplification, I have already touched on the endings of science-fiction stories. Here I would like to discuss their beginnings and their technical resemblance to the fantasies of childhood. Like the child, science-fiction says to itself: Let’s pretend . . . and it’s off on the trail of make-believe. I suggest that the reader go through past and current publications and note how few stories are inspired by ideas about human behavior and how many are inspired by the gim­micks of Let’s Pretend.

Let’s pretend there are thinking machines which ----- Let’s pretend there is time-travel, so -----let’s pretend there is over­drive, faster than the speed of light, and ----- Let’s pretend there are robots, with which men delight to go to bed, but The gimmicks of Let’s Pretend are legion, and through them science-fiction makes the leap from reality to make-believe, building up its make-believe world with logic and care, fas­cinated by the chemistry and mechanics of this world, indiffer­ent to the human beings who inhabit it. The gimmicks are not there to illuminate the humans; the humans are there to dis­play the gimmicks—like mannikins in a store window.

Upon occasion, science-fiction creates a Pretend that is so novel and eye-catching that an entire trend is established, and a tradition is built up. This is much like Bram Stoker’s Dracula which blazed the trail for vampires in the nineteenth century and made such a profound impression on the Let’s Pretend school of fantasy writers that we have been afflicted with it ever since.

Now there are two very bad results from Let’s Pretendism. The first, and most obvious, is the divorce from reality which often takes the devout science-fiction reader out of this world and maroons him in the next or the coexistent. His real life suffers. I have been present at gatherings in times when the newspapers have been full of the most vital and controversial news, only to be entertained by the spectacle of two science­fiction faithful in passionate debate (to the exclusion of all else) about the best design for the robot. They almost came to blows.

The second result of Let’s Pretendism is the inbreeding of science-fiction. The tradition of a particular Pretend is built up so rapidly that before long science-fiction presumes that its read­ers have the necessary background to understand the ultimate developments and variations on the theme. Consequently, science-fiction begins to lose touch with itself, and becomes cryptic and incomprehensible to anybody except the faithful who, like our high school sophomores, become smug and pleased with themselves because they don’t need a score-card to follow today’s game, with the name and number of every gimmick.

You have to admit, we do an awful lot of let’s pretend in modern society. And it’s more than what we’re watching on television, seeing at the theater, or playing in video games. Aren’t conservatives engaging in let’s pretend climate change doesn’t exist? Aren’t liberals playing let’s pretend the government can solve all our social ills? There’s a deep psychological reason why science is rejected by this society.

This next part, including his conclusion really only relates to 1953, but it is ironic when we consider how popular science fiction has become in society.

This technical failure accounts for the comparative slowness of the general public in adopting science-fiction. It has been driven to it in recent years by the penetration of science into the everyday life of the everyday man, but the general public will not embrace science-fiction for long if science-fiction contin­ues on its old childish path. The public demands many things —mature thought for guidance, mature conflicts for emotional reassurance, mature technique so that it can identify, believe and be moved. Unless science-fiction can provide these, it will go the way of the detective story which it is now largely sup­planting.

We must face the fact that science-fiction can no longer con­tinue as a form of intellectual titillation for the childish, the neurotic, the lame, the halt and the blind. In recent years it has coasted on its waning novelty, entertaining the general pub­lic with its old tricks and puzzles while the maturing fans, who already know the devices, have waited impatiently for the rest of the world to catch up with them. Now we are all caught up and ready to move forward. There is only one direction. Science­fiction, henceforth, must deal with genuine human beings in genuine human conflicts.

You may argue that what I urge is impossible. What, you may say, if a writer sets a story two thousand years from now? Will man be the same? Will his conflicts be the same? To this I answer with an emphatic yes. I do not believe man has changed, basically, from what he was in Christ’s time. The Bible bears me out. I do not believe he will be changed twenty centuries from now. He may know more or less. His symbols rnay vary. His speech and customs may alter; but he will be the same complex creature, suffering in the same basic con­flicts, fighting, loving, hating, searching for the answers to him­self and his place in the Universe.

Literature, it is said, must hold the mirror up to nature and enable man to understand himself. Science-fiction, let us say, must hold the mirror up to the future and enable man to fore­see himself. But the mirror of science-fiction must be as plane as mature judgment can make, as bright as courage can polish, as large as imagination can reach. No more of those Coney Is­land distortions, please. They’re for the amusement of children only. Science-fiction must come out of the nursery; it must emerge from its childish isolation and enter the universe of which it prattles but fears to join.

The Trematode is a parasite which infests the mussel and either destroys it or forces it to form a pearl. Science-fiction has infested us and we are waiting to see what the result will be. But one thing is certain: the end must be the metamorphosis of science-fiction. Whether it turns to rot or is transformed into a pearl, it will not continue to exist as an isolated organism much longer. For my part, I welcome this end. For my part, I foresee the pearl.

Has science fiction become a pearl? Or, in 2020, is Bester’s criticisms still on target? Over the years I’ve seen many blows against the empire, but it never collapses. Are the targets of Bester’s attacks on SF really just common aspects of human nature? Haven’t we always been that way, and won’t we always will be? Humans just love to make shit up. We love to pretend. We love to believe. We love to hope. We love to rationalize.

I have been an atheist most of my life. When people attack me for my atheism I tell them if there are 1,000 religions out there, you’d be an atheist to 999 of them. Maybe I felt smug being a 100% pure atheist and rejecting all 1,000 religions. But I’ve forgotten my own theory, that science fiction is a substitute for religion. So I’m also only an atheist to 999 religions and still have faith in 1, science fiction.

But why? How can I still believe when I know enough science to disprove most science fiction. I have to wonder if many older religious believers are like me, hanging on to my childish beliefs because I don’t want to be left with nothing. How many of the faithful don’t really believe in God and heaven on the inside, but just keep up with their religion because it’s nice to have something? And how many conservatives reject science because it would mean giving up a philosophy they’ve always cherished? Maybe I should be more sympathetic to climate change deniers. Maybe we’re all clinging to irrationality because it helps us get through the day.

Bester’s essay really hit home with me. I wanted to be a scientist. I wanted to do real things in reality. And I did, to a degree. I spent 35 years working with computers. But the whole time I kept these fantasies going that never became real. And I kept reading the sacred literature my beliefs, science fiction.

Since I identify so well with what Bester said, I wonder if he felt other things I felt? Or did he break away? Bester did stop writing SF for a long time but eventually came back to the genre. I need to go search for essays he might have written before he died about his life in science fiction.

Last night I read “Ararat” by Zenna Henderson from 1952. It’s a science fiction story that has no science. In fact, it has ideas about superpowers and ESP that I detest. It’s part of her People series and I’ve read “Ararat” twice before over the years. It’s a lovely, gentle story that always brings tears to my eyes. I think it epitomizes why we prefer SF/F to reality. At 68 I find comfort and pleasure in reading such stories. I wonder what Alfred Bester was reading in his last years?

Bester knew right where to touch us where it hurts. He was good at playing psychoanalysis. I don’t think it’s wise to reject his insight. It’s something we should contemplate. It’s all grist for the mill, as Ram Das used to say. But he might have missed something. Maybe the faults aren’t in what we read.

James Wallace Harris, 2/15/20

“What Have I Done?” by Mark Clifton

What Have I Done by Mark CliftonOne of the side-effects of reading through all the annual best-science-fiction-of-the-year anthologies is discovering new writers. Well, new to me. I believe all the writers I’ve encountered so far from 1939-1952 are now dead. Often this spurs me to research these forgotten SF authors, which tends to lead to learning more about the history of the genre.

I keep stumbling over little forgotten classics of short science fiction. Today I read “What Have I Done?” by Mark Clifton in The Great SF Stories 14 (1952) edited by Isaac Asimov and Martin H. Greenberg. This oft reprinted story first appeared in the May 1952 issue of Astounding Science Fiction. It May of 2020, it will be reprinted in What Have I Done? – The Stories of Mark Clifton. You can read the title story by itself here.

Clifton died in 1963, so his career in science fiction was just over a decade. In 1955, he did win a Hugo for best novel that he co-wrote with Frank Riley, They’d Rather Be Right. It is probably the least known, often the most disliked of all the Hugo winning novels, and somewhat controversial – see Miles Schneiderman’s “They’d Rather Be Right: Getting it Wrong.” Evidently, some fans felt the novel won because of a pro-Scientologist vote.

“What Have I Done?” is the only story by Mark Clifton I remember reading, although I once bought a copy of Eight Keys to Eden but didn’t get into it. I now feel I need to try it again. Since it’s available at LibriVox I’ll give it a listen.

“What Have I Done?” is a fine little story that tickled my sense of science fiction, interesting enough to write about, and to make me want to read more Mark Clifton. For such an unknown writer Clifton did get eight works into our citation database. Clifton’s claim to fame was the psychological insight into characters he got from being a personnel manager. Clifton claimed to have interviewed over 200,000 people. (I find that hard to believe – let’s say a 20-year career, meaning 10,000 people per year, divided by a work-year containing 250 days, means 40 people a day. That’s too many to handle.)

I also have a problem writing about these old stories. To explain why I find them worthy of recommending means revealing spoilers. Odds are, most readers reading this essay won’t track a story down unless I make them sound uber-enticing, but to do that I have to give away details.

The basic setup in “What Have I Done?” involves an unnamed psychologist for an employment office interviewing a man whom he quickly decides is not human. Notice how Clifton’s biography works into the story. When his fictional alter-ego confronts the guy the alien asks:

"Where did I fail in my test?" he asked. His lips formed a smile which was not a smile—a carefully painted-on-canvas sort of smile.

Well, I'd had my answer. I'd explored something unique, all right. Sitting there before me, I had no way of determining whether he was benign or evil. No way of knowing his motive. No way of judging—anything. When it takes a lifetime of learning how to judge even our own kind, what standards have we for judging an entity from another star system?

At that moment I would like to have been one.. of those space-opera heroes who, in similar circumstances, laugh casually and say, "What ho! So you're from Arcturus. Well, well. It's a small universe after all, isn't it?" And then with linked arms they head for the nearest bar, bosom pals.

I had the almost hysterical thought, but carefully suppressed, that I didn't know if this fellow would like beer or not. I will not go through the intermuscular and visceral reactions I ex­perienced. I kept my seat and maintained a polite expression. Even with humans, I know when to walk carefully.

"I couldn't feel anything about you," I answered his ques­tion. "I couldn't feel anything but blankness."

He looked blank. His eyes were nice blue marble again. I liked them better that way.

There should be a million questions to be asked, but I must have been bothered by the feeling that I held a loaded bomb in my hands. And not knowing what might set it off, or how, or when. I could think of only the most trivial.

"How long have you been on Earth?" I asked. Sort of a when did you get back in town, Joe, kind of triviality.

"For several of your weeks," he was answering. "But this is my first time out among humans."

"Where have you been in the meantime?" I asked. "Training." His answers were getting short and his muscles began to fidget again.

"And where do you train?" I kept boring in.

As an answer he stood up and held out his hand, all quite correctly. "I must go now," he said. "Naturally you can cancel my application for employment. Obviously we have more to learn."

I raised an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to just pass over the whole thing? A thing like this?"

He smiled again. The contrived smile which was a symbol to indicate courtesy. "I believe your custom on this planet is to turn your problems over to your police. You might try that." I could not tell whether it was ironic or logic.

At that moment I could think of nothing else to say. He walked out of my door while I stood beside my desk and watched him go.

Well, what was I supposed to do? Follow him?

I followed him.

This isn’t a major idea for a science fiction story, not in 1952, but it gets better. For one thing, the psychologist reads science fiction. That has a recursive feel that delights me. Second, it’s important to remember that 1952 was during the early days of the flying saucer craze. If people believe aliens were hot-rodding around the skies, why not wonder if they were applying for jobs. Plus, this is Clifton’s first science fiction story, and he sold it to the legendary John W. Campbell. Campbell loved to discover new writers, but he also wanted to shape them to follow his personal philosophy. Campbell was a species-ist. He believed his writers should not show aliens being superior to humans. And Clifton’s aliens were way superior to us. How can Clifton pull off an ending that pleased Campbell? He does, but the icing on the cake is how Clifton ultimately outwits Campbell too (I think). Explaining the ending will be up to you. Are humans really superior?

This might be far-fetched, but I wonder if “What Have I Done?” also applies to Clifton letting himself be coopted by Campbell. Or is that some bullshit I’m giving out to get you to read the story?

JWH