Did science fiction brainwash us into wanting to go to space? I can remember being a little kid in the 1950s and thinking the most exciting thing I could do in life was to go Mars. Before that I wanted to be a cowboy. If you’re old enough to remember television in the 1950s, most of the shows were westerns. That’s why most little boys back then had Santa bring them a six-gun and cowboy outfit for Christmas. But then we discovered science fiction and Project Mercury, and we traded in our cowboy hat for a space helmet.
My most common daydreams in adolescence after the XXX kind, were about going to Mars. Fantasies about becoming a rockstar came in a distant third. Looking back, I realize how unrealistic my teenage hopes for the future were. I was completely clueless as to what girls wanted, couldn’t carry a tune, and I most definitely didn’t have the right stuff. At seventy-three I see the absurdity of my childhood fantasies, so why didn’t I see them then?
Ray Bradbury is often accused of not being a true science fiction writer. Even as he started selling short stories to science fiction magazines in the 1940s, he knew he didn’t want to be labeled a science fiction writer. Yet, somehow, his very unscientific science fiction from back then has the heart and soul of science fiction, especially his stories collected in The Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man.
“The Rocket Man” first appeared in The Illustrated Man and Maclean’s in early 1951. It’s about a 14-year-old boy who cherishes the few days his father is home from space. The father is always going off for three-month tours of duty as a rocket man. He tells the boy and his mother that when he’s in space he can’t wait to get home, but when he’s home, he can’t wait to get back to space. “The Rocket Man” deglamarizes space travel. In fact, the dad eventually asks his son to promise to never go into space.
The main reason Bradbury’s science fiction stories are great is because he sees both the fantasy and reality of science fiction. Bradbury is obviously obsessed with remembering childhood, but somehow, he was wise when young too.
By the way, the essence of the story is captured wonderfully in Elton John’s song “Rocket Man.” My favorite version of that song is this bluegrass cover:
But the question I want to explore is why did we all want to go into space? What’s so hot about outer space, the Moon, Mars, etc.? Why did we buy into those dreams that science fiction was selling?
My fantasy was always Mars. But Mars is only a planet that a geologist could love. There ain’t nothing there but rocks and cold. Why did reading The Red Planet by Robert A. Heinlein make me think the best place in existence was Mars? Why does rereading The Martian Chronicles elicit so much intense nostalgia? And why do I think “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” is the epitomy of Martian fantasies?
Over the decades I’ve come to realize that the fantasies we embrace as young children are ones we seldom give up. That’s why kids who embrace religion when little seldom give up God and Heaven no matter how convincing science and logic are at invaliding their faith. Some people never let go of their Christian fantasies, and I never gave up science fiction fantasies. We’re all delusional.
Brian Collins at Science Fiction & Fantasy Remembrance seemed depressed in his current post. His solution is to read old science fiction and fantasy. That’s been my solution too when I think about the state of the world and U.S. politics. Even as a kid, I never really believed I would go into space, but thinking about it was a wonderful way to soothe the stresses of growing up. And now reading science fiction is the balm for growing old.
At a minimum, The Crystal World by J. G. Ballard was an entertaining cozy catastrophe that I was always anxious to get back to reading. What compels me to write this review is figuring out why. The prose is vivid, propelled by a moderately interesting mystery. However, its characters are rather bland but then so are ordinary people. In the end, the story faintly alludes to something, but what?
What elevates this novel is trying to understand how it works. Its Heart of Darkness vibe feels biblical, spiritual, or at least existential. Reading The Crystal World makes me ask why we read fiction. Why are humans addicted to fiction and how does that addiction affect our brains? I do this because I’m also reading Stephen Greenblatt’s The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve, a nonfiction work that says a great deal about fiction.
Any hardcore bookworm will recognize The Book of Genesis as a genius work of fiction. I also think it’s a brilliant work of speculative fiction. Its author felt challenged to imagine how Earth and life on Earth began. Genesis was written well before the concepts of history or science. The author obviously knew of humans living in cities, and those that farmed and herded animals, the author could even have heard that there were places where humans were hunters and gatherers. And from that knowledge speculated that there was a time when humans lived like animals. The author of Genesis even realized there might be a time when humans didn’t have a language. The author pictured Eden where humans lived in harmony with nature before we became different. The obvious question became: What made us change? The obvious answer was, whatever made everything else. Then the question becomes how. Doesn’t eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil make a lovely allegorical explanation?
Do you see why I consider The Book of Genesis an early example of speculative fiction? And isn’t the story of Noah and the Flood, an early apocalyptic tale? Stephen Greenblatt makes a good case that the author of The Book of Genesis cribbed his ideas from much older Babylonian tales. We’ve always had storytellers and writers who tried to explain reality. However, this makes me wonder about modern writers and storytellers. What are they trying to explain?
Billions of humans have believed in the literal story of Genesis. That story says a lot about fiction and its impact on us. The early fathers of the Christian Church tortured the Book of Genesis for centuries producing endless interpretations. That’s a great example of literary criticism gone wrong.
I bring up Greenblatt’s book because we must ask certain questions about the fiction we read. The first question is: Does it have anything to say? In most modern works of fiction, the answer is no, but not always. If the answer is yes, is the fiction allegorical, satirical, literal, comical, historical, romantic, academic, philosophical, speculative, etc. Of course, the last question: Shouldn’t we abandon fiction for nonfiction if we have something to say? Even when fiction is about saying something, it’s often indecipherable.
I’m getting old, and I worry I’ve wasted too much of my life on fiction. I fear that fiction has no value other than as an entertaining way of killing time, and since time is running out, that’s bad.
Reading The Crystal World made me wonder if J. G. Ballard had something to say, or was his novel was just meant to be entertaining? To complicate the answer, The Crystal World is an early work of New Wave science fiction, published before the term was coined.
As evidence, I reprint below Judith Merril’s “Books” column from the August 1966 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Merril recognizes that science fiction is changing in 1966, and has something to say, and that J. G. Ballard might be leading the way.
The older I get the harder it gets to find science fiction to read. I roam up and down the decades looking for worthy books I’ve missed. With each book that still succeeds on any level, I ask why? Such revelations help me squeeze every last drop of wonder I can out of the genre.
I sometimes wonder if reading fiction hasn’t been a wasted diversion. On the other hand, I wonder if processing fiction hasn’t been my life’s work.
Reading The Crystal World made me think about the power of fiction to temporarily suggest that a made-up story could be true. This isn’t true of all fiction. Some writers can use narrative techniques that convey a sense “that this really happened” more than others. I’m not claiming that The Crystal World is a brilliant work of realism, but it does use such techniques. And I thought they were the same techniques H. G. Wells used with The War of the Worlds.
The primary technique is using an eyewitness POV. The second technique is telling the story in linear time. The third technique is avoiding fancy prose or embellishments. If the prose feels like reporting events the story will feel real.
The Crystal World is about a science-fictional infection that alters plants and animals. This infection has hit the Earth in several places, much like how the Martian canisters land around the globe in The War of the Worlds. But our narrator, Dr. Edward Sanders doesn’t know this. He learns about one site slowly, by word-of-mouth, as people did before being connected to the internet.
Dr. Sanders lands at Port Matarre on a riverboat steamer from Libreville, in the Cameroon Republic of Central Africa. Dr. Sanders wants to visit two friends, Max and Suzanne Clair, who run a leprosy clinic further upriver. Dr. Saunders works at a leper hospital in Fort Isabelle and is in love with Suzanne Clair.
The story feels like Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness. At Port Matarre, Dr. Sanders finds it difficult to go any further. The police and army have put up a blockade around the infected area but don’t explain why. At first, Dr. Sanders has no idea of what’s happening, but something mysterious is occurring in the jungle.
I’ve only read Ballard’s novel The Dround World and Vermillion Sands, a collection, and less than a dozen short stories from anthologies. Ballard is great at creating an atmosphere. The Crystal World suggests a plague infecting reality spreading across the galaxy, even the universe, which affects time and consciousness. It’s not much of an idea, as science-fictional ideas go, but it is different.
However, what if The Crystal World was the only text found from our times, thousands of years from now like The Book of Genesis is to us. Would future humans imagine it as an allegory for something that happened to us? Would some think it described a literal event? Would the author of Genesis ever imagine billions of future humans believing their speculation was absolutely literal?
Fiction is like dreams, they both feel like they’re about something. Dreams are supposed to serve some kind of biological/psychological function. Is that true of fiction too? The authors of The Bible intended it to mean something. But millions of books and sermons have been created to explain The Bible and we’ve never agreed on any of them. The Crystal World is entertaining because it triggers that mechanism in our brain that fools us into believing we’re making sense of reality, the same mechanism that processes religious works, political news, or even gossip.
If I were a Zen Master or an intelligent robot, I’d discipline myself to ignore that delusion. The ancient Church fathers decided that eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, was the origin of sin, and the downfall of mankind. I believe the allegory could also explain our addiction to fiction, and I include religion as a genre of fiction. Both drive us crazy. The faithful use scripture to explain reality, while we heathens use novels.
In Eden, we wouldn’t have needed novels or scriptures.
Why is A Mirror for Observers by Edgar Pangborn out of print at Amazon? There is no Kindle or Audible edition either. This 1954 novel won the International Fantasy Award back in 1955. Being out-of-print is especially puzzling when you consider the other winners of that short-lived award: Earth Abides by George R. Stewart (1951), Fancies and Goodnight by John Collier (1952), City by Clifford Simak (1953), More Than Human by Theodore Sturgeon (1954), and The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien (1957). A Mirror for Observers has been reprinted several times since 1954, but it’s mostly forgotten.
Two weeks ago, I listed A Mirror for Observers as one of my top ten favorite science fiction novels for a YouTuber survey. I first read the novel back in 2018 and was so impressed with Pangborn that I bought several of his other novels. But that was a first impression. I reread A Mirror for Observers this week and felt it was seriously flawed. Not one I’d still list in my top ten. However, it’s an impressive effort. The main reason I admired the story in 2018 because I was an older reader. I’m not sure younger readers today will care for the novel.
Let’s face it, most science fiction is aimed at our adolescent selves. Science fiction appeals to our fantasies about reality. When I read science fiction at age seventy-three and like a story, it’s generally because that story nostalgically recalls the science fiction I read when I was young, unearthing buried adolescent emotions of hope for the future.
Science fiction readers spend their lives in quiet desperation waiting for their favorite sense of wonders to come true. When you get old and realize you’re never going to trek across Mars or rocket across the galaxy at faster-than-light speeds, you start thinking about reality differently, certain science fiction works take on a new light.
Rereading A Mirror for Observers makes me think it could have been a science fiction novel that Robert M. Pirsig might have written in an alternate reality. In case you’re too young to remember, Pirsig wrote the 1974 bestseller, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values. Edgar Pangborn also used his story to express his philosophical views about society, quoting Greek philosophers, dealing with ethics and aesthetics. Another parallel, both stories involve an older man mentoring a teenage boy.
A Mirror for Observers is a story about two groups of Martians who live among us and have been for thirty thousand years. Mars and Martians, Salvay and Salvayans in their language. The Martians abandoned a dying planet to come to Earth. Think about that word Salvayans. It’s awful close to the world salvation. The two groups of Martians are called the Observers and the Abdicators. The observers watch us hoping to help us without us knowing or interfering with our own development, they are like guardian angels. The Martian renegades, the abdicators, gave up on humanity, deciding we were too stupid to survive the evolutionary challenge, figuring it would be best if we became extinct. The one abdicator we meet, Namir, takes on a role like the devil.
Pangborn throws out a lot of science fictional speculation in the story, but it ultimately feels like a morality tale. Pangborn is spiritual, if not Christian. He’s also very influenced by philosophy and classical music. The story is fun where Pangborn guesses what his near future would be like, now fifty years in our past.
Pangborn was born in 1909, so he was in his forties when he wrote A Mirror for Observers, but the voice of the novel feels much older. Pangborn’s voice comes through as Elmis, the Martian observer who goes by the names Benedict Miles and Will Meisel. Elmis is competing with the abdicator named Namir for the soul of the 12-year-old boy, Angelo Petrovecchio. Elmis also discovers another brilliant child, Sharon, a friend of Angelo who is a few years younger.
As I reread A Mirror for Observers I wanted to love this novel. I wanted it to be great. Unfortunately, this time I discovered too many flaws. The plot has three main disjointed acts. Elmis is sent to the small town, Latimer, Massachusetts to guard Angelo from Namir. We were told that Angelo is very special, an exceptional human that has great potential and needs protection. We do get some hints of that in the conversations between Elmis and Angelo. Martians live for hundreds of years. Elmis is well over three hundred, so he has a great deal of experience with human history, but so has Namir, who is even older.
I do praise Pangborn for imagining Angelo a superior human without giving him superpowers or ESP. Robert Heinlein and John W. Campbell, Jr. often did that to designate a sign of future human evolution. The best part of the story is the Latimer setting, when Angelo and Sharon are young. Sharon is better developed as a character than Angelo, especially with her creative dialog. She even seems more aware than Angelo.
The story eventually jumps a few years, leaving Latimer for New York City, and that’s when the story lost its charm for me. The plot shifts to fighting an emerging fascist organization run by Namir, who wants to take over America, and eventually destroy the world. I thought this section was poorly done, and it reminded me of Heinlein’s early novels about secret societies wanting to overthrow the U.S. Angelo, under a new name, Abraham Brown, does not stand out in this section. He’s rather passive. And the proxy war that Elmis and Namir are fighting is vague and fictionally lame.
The final section of the novel involves a pandemic. (That could elevate the story with readers this decade because of our recent pandemic.) Angelo becomes more active, but he doesn’t do anything exceptional. Strangely, the exceptional human in this story, is Sharon. She has become a musical prodigy through arduous work, practicing up to twelve hours a day. She has always been in love with Angelo and wants to be reunited with him.
I like Elmis and Sharon as characters. Angelo just never gels to what Pangborn promised. We needed him to stand out, like Charlie Gordon in Flowers for Algernon, or Valentine Michael Smith in A Stranger in a Strange Land. He never does. That’s the major fault of this novel.
Pangborn focuses on juvenile delinquency and gangs in the first section of the novel, a worry considered a national threat in the 1950s. Pangborn is also concerned with the cold war, and other elements underming society. You sense that Pangborn is anxious about the world and uses this novel to explore his fears. That’s why I compare it to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The heart of this story is very strong, which is why I wanted to love A Mirror for Observers. I admire it for its intent, but I can see why its flaws make it a forgotten novel.
Pangborn made a huge writing mistake by having the Martians go through three sets of names. Angelo is needlessly renamed Abraham Brown in the second section. This was very confusing. Drastically shifting the plot twice also hurt the story. The subplot with the fascists was just poorly developed, although it resonates with our present, making it feel more relevant than it really is. The pandemic section is well done, and moving, being the emotional peak of the story, but the emotions are melodramtically generated.
We are promised a spirtual novel. The Martian observers see potential in us, but that potential is never revealed. Pangborn gives us more evidence to support Namir’s position that we don’t deserve survival.
A Mirror for Observers reminds me of another novel I picked for my top ten list, The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis. That 1963 novel is about a Martian coming to Earth hoping to find the technology to secretly build a spaceship that could bring 300 surviving Martians to Earth from their dying planet. Tevis also uses his story to comment on the evils of current day society. His Martian, whom we know as Thomas Jerome Newton, is a much better developed character. Like Pangborn, Tevis takes his character through several jarring plot twists, but I remember it working better. I need to reread it too, to know for sure.
At seventy-three I’m going back in time looking for science fiction works originally aimed at mature readers. The trouble is I’m concurrently reading the literary classics of the 20th and 21st century, and the contrast reveals how poorly written science fiction has always been. There are exceptions, but they are few. I just finished Attonement by Ian McEwan, and the character development is light-years beyond Pangborn’s efforts.
Still, I want to like A Mirror for Observers. Jo Walton, in her review says she rereads Mirror every decade. I will probably reread A Mirror for Observers again someday too. Quite often flaws I see in a second reading are overcome in a third or fourth reading.
My friend Mike told me that he and his wife Betsy were watching The Twilight Zone, one episode each evening. I told him I would do the same. We’ve been texting every morning about the previous night’s episode. Day before yesterday we watched “The Lonely,” from season one, episode seven. I think I’ve seen this episode three times over the last sixty-plus years, but this time I thought more about the story. I think texting with Mike is pushing me to analyze the story in ways that casual watching never did.
The Twilight Zone tended to set its audience up for a surprise ending, often ignoring logic, or even other possibilities for how the story might go. Rod Serling wanted us to get involve and then surprise or shock us – but do it quickly. He treated his stories like a magic trick, and I don’t think he expected us to ask too many questions.
In “The Lonely,” Corry (Jack Warden), convicted of murder, has been sentence to solitary confinement on a deserted asteroid. He is visited four times a year by a supply rocket. The captain of the supply ship, Allenby (John Dehner), has taken pity on Corry and tries to bring him something each time to occupy his mind because he knows Corry is going crazy with loneliness. This time he brings him a large box. Allenby tells Corry not to open until he leaves. It turns out its a robot that looks, acts, and talks just like a beautiful woman. (It’s Jean Marsh who will star in Upstairs, Downstairs in the 1971.)
The robot is named Alicia. At first Corry is offended by thinking his loneliness could be eliminated by the companionship of a machine. But, Alicia is hurt by his rejection, and Corry takes pity on her. They become close.
Then Captain Allenby shows up again and tells Corry he’s been giving a pardon and has twenty minutes to get ready to leave. Corry assumes he can bring Alicia, but Allenby says there’s a weight limit because of limited fuel and he only has room for Corry. Corry can’t believe Allenby could be so cruel as to leave Allicia. To quickly convince Corry he is serious, Allenby shoots Alicia in the face, revealing all her mechanical parts.
This makes “The Lonely” a cold equations story. “The Cold Equations” by Tom Godwin was a controversial story from 1954. It set up a problem where the only solution was killing a teenage girl. A lot of readers hated “The Cold Equations” and over the decades they have protested that the author should have found a way to save her. They completely missed the point of the story. Godwin set up the story so the girl had to die. And that’s what Serling did in “The Lonely.”
Not only that, but they solved the plot quickly by having Captain Alleby shoot Alicia. I accept all that. That’s the point of the story. But here is where in 2024 I took a different path thinking about the story.
Why didn’t people talk about Corry falling in love with Alicia? In 1959, I wonder if the audience assumed Alicia was just a machine, and that Corry’s loneliness overcame the fact, that his love was a delusion. That when we see the mechanical parts of Alicia that we undertand why Alleby shoots her.
Over the decades, we’ve had a lot of stories that might be called robot liberation stories where many readers believe that a machine that looks and acts like a human is just as human as a biological person. I wonder if the ending shocks modern readers who have come to love robots. If someone shot C-3PO in the face and killed him, wouldn’t we be shocked and mourn his death?
If I remember right, there were a couple of Asimov robot stories where Susan Calvin kills a robot. I was always shocked by that.
In 2024 we don’t want robots murdered. Accepting the logic of the story that Alleby can only take one person back, how could we change it to work with modern audiences?
Rod Serling wrote this episode. He didn’t give the audience or Corry a chance to think about the options. His stories are setup to only work one way. When I was watching the episode I had forgotten the ending, and I wondered how Serling was going to solve the problem. Having Allenby shoot Alicia was a tidy way to end the story. After he shoots Alicia Alleby tells Corry that the only thing he’s leaving behind is his loneliness. Corry says, “I must remember that,” and “I must remember to keep that in mind.”
There’s a problem. We don’t get to decide and neither does Corry. I wish Serling had ended the story differently. I wish Allenby had handed Corry the gun and said, “I can take one person back, the ship leaves in fifteen minutes no matter what,” and then walks off.
The story could end there. We don’t really need to know the ending, because the story has shifted to thinking about all the possibilities. We should accept that the rocket only has fuel for one person. We should also assume there will be no future supply runs so if Corry stays, he will eventually die. We might also assume Alicia runs on radioactive pellets and will live a long time.
But let’s say the TV show had to reveal an ending. The camera in the very last scene could be aimed at the rocket’s hatch from the inside waiting to see who shows up. We could see Corry’s face climb into view, Alicia’s face climb into view, or Allenby say, “Time to go, shut the door.”
Each possible ending would imply so much still.
Corry shows up and we think he shot Alicia
Corry shows up and we think he didn’t shoot Alicia but left her to be lonely
Alicia shows up and we think Corry shot himself
Alicia shows up and we think Corry volunteered to die alone
Neither show up and we think Corry decided to stay with Alicia
Neither show up and we think Corry decided to stay with Alicia but kills her before he dies so she won’t be alone
Neither show up and we think Corry decided to stay with Alicia but gives her the gun to make her own decision when he dies
It’s unfair to change an author’s story after the fact. But in this case, I’m suggesting my idea because it illuminates how people might have thought about the story in 1959 would be different from how we like to think about stories in 2024.
If you love reading about the history of science fiction, you should love reading Jim Emerson’s series Futures Past. I’ve previously reviewed the volumes for 1926 & 1927, and 1928. In the early 1990s Emerson started this project as a fanzine focusing on the history of science fiction, and published four issues: 1926, 1927, 1928, and 1929 before he had to stop. Then a few years ago when he retired Emerson started over with 1926 and expanded each fanzine issue to a softbound book. The latest volume, 1929, is 222 pages. The largest volume yet. Jim says 1929 should be ready to ship in mid-October. You can order pdf, softbound, and hardbound editions here.
Jim writes all the content, and I’m jealous of his knowledge of science fiction’s history. Each volume contains a Year in Review section that covers science fiction books, magazines, plays, and movies of the year, while documenting the people and events related to that year. But more than, that, Emerson includes in each volume a handful of long articles about the history of specific science fictional subjects that lead up to that year.
For example, the 1929 volume has a ninety page overview of women science fiction writers from 1666-1925. I’ve read a lot of SF history and I didn’t know about most of these books or their writers. Our collective culture forgets so much – why did they forget all these women writers?
Other significant articles include the “Evolution of the SF Name” which unearthed far more old examples of the term than I’ve previously known about. In the “Gernsback Bankruptcy” Emerson explains how Hugo Gernsback lost control of Amazing Stories and immediated create Science Wonder Stories. Hugo was a wheeler-dealer, and somewhat shady. Besides his magazines he had a radio station, and was an early broadcaster of TV. It blew my mind that Gernsback was paying himself $50,000 a year. That was a tremendous salary in the 1920s when the average worker was proud to make $25 a week.
I’ve always been fascinated by the history of science fiction. We tend to live in an awareness bubble that extends from decade or two before we start reading science fiction to when we lose contact with the genre as we age out. I grew up in the 1950s, starting to read science fiction in 1962, but I was reading stories that were mostly published in the 1950s, and some from the 1940s. I’m in my seventies now, but I’ve mainly lost contact with what’s going on in the genre in the early 2000s. Futures Past portrays the genre in the 1920s, and very early 1930s, and it’s very different. Have you ever thought about what being a science fiction fan in the Roaring Twenties?
One reason I like reading about the history of science fiction is discovering what science fiction fans and writers were like before my bubble of awareness began. The genre has changed several time over the course of my reading lifetime. And reading Futures Past shows how science fiction changed several times before it became the science fiction I knew as science fiction in the 1960s. Reading through the descriptions of the SF books of 1929, or the descriptions of the SF books written by women from 1666 to 1925 reveals that people have always had a fascinating with the fantastic and they’ve always speculated about the possibilities. But how they speculated depended on the common knowledge of the day. In 1929, people still thought there were things and places on Earth still to be discovered, including other intelligent beings.
Well, 1929 was also when the first science fiction clubs and fanzines were formed. Fandom arose concurrently with the early days of rocketry clubs, which were sprouting up around the world, and Emerson has articles covering the histories of both. All of that is fascinating to me. The 1920s and 1930s were when my parents grew up. I wonder if they even knew about science fiction.
For most science fiction fans this history will be too far in the past. So far in the past that it’s an alien landscape. They might be shocked by the weird ideas writers used to create their science fiction, such as lost races, hidden species, about prehistory civilizations like Atlantis and Mu, rejuvenation, utopias, eugenics, future wars, spiritualism, the occult, strange mutations, and so on. They just didn’t have the science we do now. And they believed that all the planets of the solar systems and their moons could harbor intelligent life.
With the aid of the internet, The Internet Archive, and YouTube, you can read the futures past science fiction in old books, magazines, fanzines, and watch the old movies. Emerson summarizes every issue from six SF magazines from 1929: Amazing Stories, Amazing Stories Quarterly, Science Wonder Stories, Air Wonder Stories, Science Wonder Quarterly, and Weird Tales, and quickly covers several general pulp magazines that featured science fiction. He also reviews the science fiction books that came out that year too. 1929 will go into public domain in January, but most of the magazines are already available online at the Internet Archive. Just search on the magazine’s name plus 1929. Search for book titles on Google and the Internet Archive. Search for the films on YouTube.
By the way, the YouTube channel, Mars Wants Movies, is running a history of science fiction films, and is currently up to the year 1948. It covered the 1920s in six episodes, and devoted a whole episode to 1929. This makes a great supplement to Futures Past with links to those old movies you can watch on YouTube.
Also, you can read the early fanzines at Fanac.org, including The Comet v. 1 n. 1. mentioned in Emerson’s article on the first science fiction clubs.
Here’s Volume 4’s Table of Contents:
I subscribed to Futures Past when it was a fanzine back in the early 1990s. I was disappointed when it stopped publication at 1929. Jim tells me he’s hard at work on 1930 already, and plans to cover many more years in his retirement. I’m really looking forward to the 1930s. I used to think of the 1930s as the early days of science fiction, but Futures Past shows that the origins of science fiction go way back. Emerson’s etomological search for the origins of the phrase science fiction reveals it began way before Amazing Stories.
Let’s imagine two science fiction writers. The first is a person who wants to avoid a lifetime of working the nine-to-five grind and decides they want to become a science fiction writer. This person studies all the classics and bestselling SF novels and writes what they hope readers will passionately love and make them a million dollars. The second is a person who thinks deeply about life and has what they believe is a brilliant philosophical insight. Their inspiration is to use science fiction to convey their insights into humanity to the rest of us.
Whose book do you want to read?
I read Farewell, Earth’s Bliss by D. G. Compton because my favorite YouTube reviewer, Bookpilled, praised it highly in two videos. He warned the novel was one of the bleakest books he’s ever read. The story is grim indeed. Not as existentially dark as The Road by Cormac McCarthy, or as depressingly dystopian as Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, or even as bleak as those literary novels that make you want to kill yourself, such as The Painted Bird by Jerzey Kosinski, or The Tin Drum by Günter Grass.
Back in the mid-sixties, science fiction was changing, and it was interesting that in 1966, two science fiction novels came out about shipping convicts into space. The most famous of the two was The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein. A forgotten title was Farewell, Earth’s Bliss by D. G. Compton. I find it odd, that right in the middle of the 1960s great space race, when all the excitement and glamor was about how to get to the Moon, and during the thrilling Project Gemini missions two science fiction authors would imagine the Moon and Mars as a Botany Bay prison colony. Instead of sending people with the Right Stuff into space, Heinlein and Compton imagine sending people with the Wrong Stuff. Why? In 1967, Robert Silverberg would publish “Hawksbill Station” about using time travel to exile criminals to the Cambrian period. (I should compare all three someday.)
I believe in the 1950s, Heinlein wanted to be more than the biggest fish in a small pond. He was already the most successful science fiction writer in the world. I can’t prove this, but my guess is he saw the potential of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged in 1957 and wanted to swim in the bigger pond Rand created, so he came out with Stranger in a Strange Land in 1961. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress was Heinlein’s third book he used as a soapbox to express his philosophical and political ideas. My other guess is D. G. Compton was inspired by New Worlds magazine, and the initial stages of the New Wave and decided to take a piss on science fiction, the space race, and humanity. Heinlein’s view of a penal colony on the Moon wasn’t exactly positive, although he thought it was. He saw his story as recreating the American Revolution. Maybe I need to reread and reanalyze that story. I don’t think Compton had a chance to read Heinlein’s book, so it wasn’t a reaction to it, but it is worthwhile to consider them together as two views SF takes on 1966.
Farewell, Earth’s Bliss is about twenty-four new one-way exiles to Mars. Compton uses several point-of-view characters to project a multifaceted take on humanity. All the people on Mars are convicts, and they shape their own society. Their life is brutal. They’ve found they can eat lichen and one small Martian animal they call a rabbit. Everything else must be recycled from the spaceships bringing the prisoners to Mars twice each Martian year. It’s an extremely hard and bleak existence. This isn’t Star Trek, another science fiction story that came out in 1966.
Compton’s insights deal with racism, feminism, gender, homosexuality, government, brutality, inequality, religion, and other subjects that feel completely contemporary to today. Most of the insights Compton explores didn’t need to be set on Mars. Because they are, it makes us question the desire to explore other worlds.
Ultimately, Farewell, Earth’s Bliss ends in a kind of dark Darwinian optimism. Was Compton trying to be funny? Ironic? Satirical? Existential? Compton uses his novel to show how everyone and all societies are flawed, that life is grim, but there’s a kind of nobleness in surviving, even if you’re killing others to do so.
Like Joachim Boaz at his blog Science Fiction and Other Ruminations, I’ve been into reading science fiction that is critical of the final frontier dream. As a kid, Mars was my Land of Oz, my Big Rock Candy Mountain, my Shangri La. Compton laughs at people like me in Farewell, Earth’s Bliss. Boaz also reviewsFarewell, Earth’s Bliss, and rates it 4.5 out of 5. Now that I’m older, I realize the fallacy of my fantasies. Mars would be a horrific place to live.
Over the decades I’ve tried reading D. G. Compton’s work, but I usually give up because his stories were too grim, too adult. But it seems like in the past year that everyone is rediscovering Farewell, Earth’s Bliss and Compton.
What’s the point of exploring the depressing side of reality? Compton makes Mars very unappealing. Years ago, there was this story about people volunteering for a one-way trip to Mars. A lot of people said they would sign up. Mars has always been the Middle Earth for science fiction. No matter how grimly realistic it is portrayed, readers still find it a magical destination to daydream about. I think Compton is asking why people would fantasize about Mars like that.
The leader of the criminals is a ruthless man who is smart enough to manipulate people yet is unaware of his own delusions. He reminds me of Donald Trump. And the laws the criminals choose to live by remind me of what MAGA people want. They embrace religion, even insane religious ideas, reject education because they want to protect their kids from intellectuals, and they want punish rule breakers and people who are different harshly to maintain the orderliness of their community.
I used to think that spreading humanity across the galaxy was the purpose of our species. I haven’t felt that way for years. Reading Farewell, Earth’s Bliss makes me think we shouldn’t infect the rest of the universe with our madness. Compton sees us like cockroaches that are impossible to kill.
Is that the kind of science fiction you’d want to read?
Why?
Amazon currently has Farewell, Earth’s Bliss as a $1.99 Kindle ebook.
I added several best science fiction book lists to our database of citations. See the List of Lists to see the kind of lists we use. The new lists were from 2022, 2023, and even a few from 2024. Whenever I do this, some titles reach a total of 12 citations. We call all forms of lists citations. 12 citations is the minimum number for getting on the Classics of Science Fiction List v. 5. Before I started there were 127 titles on the list, now there are 137. With version 5 of the list, an online database, I can add new lists anytime and the totals are recalculated. If any book reaches 12 citations, it automatically gets on the list.
This is how newer books eventually get remembered and recognized. We now have two titles from 2014, the most recently published on the list. That suggests it takes about a decade to be remembered well enough to make it to the Classics of Science Fiction List. Here are the new titles with links to Wikipedia in case you want to know more about them:
If you look at the Classics of Science Fiction List, be sure to click on the citation number to show where the citations come from. Or you can click on “Show Citations” at the top of the list to see the citations for all the books. The CSF list has been in production since 1989. See our About page.
It’s interesting that only one old novel finally made it onto the list, Hothouse by Brian W. Aldiss. The YouTube book reviewer Bookpilled put it on his “15 Best Sci-Fi Books I’ve Ever Read” video. That one citation was all Hothouse needed. Bookpilled is my favorite YouTube reviewer. He’s young, but he’s quickly reading all the classics of science fiction and he’s very discerning about what are still credible reads today.
I try to use only lists created by people who are well read in science fiction, or lists made from polls. Younger readers tend to know the most recent books or the most famous science fiction books of all time. So, when I add new lists, the standard classics get more citations, while some newer titles get more recognition. For example, The Left Hand of Darkness now has 52 citations, the most of any title.
Of the ten new titles, I haven’t read Oryx and Crake or Blindsight. That increases my list of books I need to finish reading the entire list. My TBR of CSF now includes the titles below. Their current number of total citations is in brackets.
We’ve been without our connection to the internet for ten days now, and it will be many more before we are reconnected. I type this with one finger on my iPhone.
I’ve been sidetracked from my reviewing projects, making me restless. Living without the internet is revealing, reminding me of life back in the 1980s, but it also shows just how much I depend on high-speed internet in my daily living.
I can’t pursue my social media activities, stream TV, music, audio books, or chat with Alexa. I’m cut off from my security cameras, printer, and cloud storage. My tablets are useless. I can write with Word like it’s 1989 but the results just sit on the hard drive.
I can turn on a Wi-Fi hotspot on my phone, but the one bar service only lets Microsoft Edge run in an unusable slow mode. There are so many background processes going on in a modern computer that they need high speed internet to function.
I’m left feeling restless. I would be feeling much worse if I didn’t have my iPhone. This experience has shown me that I’ve built a life around being connected. But it also makes me wonder if I shouldn’t reevaluate how I live.
I grew up addicted to television and now I’m also addicted to computers and the internet. We’re evolving towards a hive mind. The second AT&T repairman who came to the house told me he likes living in the country and getting away from computers and networks. I don’t know if I could do that anymore.
You’d think I’d just read books, but my feelings of Internet withdrawal won’t let me. I wonder how long it will take to get over that. Could I ever go back to living like we did in the 1980s, or 1970s?
I’m trying to imagine a society where the only people you talk to must be in the same room. It boggles my mind.
Just imagine living without smartphones! Or even cellphones. I’ve tried watching over the air TV but it’s abysmal. I’m back to playing CDs and DVDs, but it’s so damn restrictive. I wonder what life would be like if I was limited to vinyl, paperbacks, newspapers, and TV from an antenna. Hell — thing about going back to typewriters!!!
They say you don’t know what you miss until it’s gone. Damn, those old sayings can be painfully true.
“Nine Lives” by Ursula K. Le Guin is story #31 of 52 from The World Treasury of Science Fiction edited by David G. Hartwell (1989), an anthology my short story club is group reading. Stories are discussed on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. “Nine Lives” was first published in Playboy (November 1969). This story has been reprinted an amazing number of times, and translated into several languages. And it has 13 citations in the CSFquery database.
“Nine Lives” is about two experienced planetary explorers, Martin and Pugh stationed at the Libra Exploratory Mission Base who are about to be relieved. Before they can, they must help a new crew from the Passerine, and Exploit Team, settle in to start mining the planet. Martin and Pugh are surprised when the mining crew turns out to be a 10-person clone — five men and five women. The clones look very much alike, work and play together as a tight unit, and pretty much ignore the old-timers. Then there is an accident, and 9 of the 10 clones are killed. The story is about the singleton struggling to survive as an individual.
Strangely, Le Guin uses up most characterization development on Martin and Pugh. I was hoping to know more about being a clone, instead, it’s really Martin and Pugh’s story.
“Nine Lives” is well done but it didn’t have the impact for me that “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” or even “The Day Before the Revolution” or “Vaster Than Empires and More Slow” did. I’m used to Le Guin making a big social, political, or philosophical statement, and I just didn’t get one from “Nine Lives.”
I guess we’re supposed to contemplate the idea of clones, and in particular, the idea of a clone group. Clones don’t interest me. A DNA replica won’t be a replica of a person. I suppose ten cloned brothers and sisters should be more interesting than the Dionne quintuplets but I didn’t find that so.
I tried to imagine living with nine copies of myself and that produced a very weird sensation. Maybe I need to think about that for a while to really get into the story. In “Nine Lives” the ten clones form a utopian relationship. I’m not sure I’d get along so well with people like me.
There’s another story that explores this idea in a variant way, The Man Who Folded Himself by David Gerrold. It’s about a time traveler who gets together with different versions of himself. In both stories, all the selves get along, but I don’t know if that would be true. I might bring out the worst in myself. I’m pretty sure my wife wouldn’t want ten of me.
However, as a kid, I always wished I had been a twin. I wonder if “Nine Lines” would have had a greater emotional impact on me if there had only been two clones. It’s logical to have ten for a group of workers, but it would have been easier to relate to if the story was only about a pair. And in the story, the clones tended to pair off and work together.
David Hartwell liked “Nine Lives” so much that he included it in another one of his giant retrospective anthologies of science fiction, The Ascent of Wonder.
I think this story is for people who wish they had more friends like themselves.
“The Golem” by Avram Davidson is story #8 of 52 from the anthology The World Treasury of Science Fiction edited by David G. Hartwell (1989) that my short story club is group reading. Stories are discussed on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. “The Golem” was first published in the March 1955 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.
You can read or listen to “The Golem” online here.
Avram Davidson (1923-1993) uses his own childhood pop culture references to get us to visualize the setting “The Golem” at the beginning of this 1955 story:
Anyone who attended the movies in the twenties or the early thirties has seen that street a thousand times. Past these bungalows with their half-double roofs, Edmund Lowe walked arm-in-arm with Leatrice Joy, and Harold Lloyd was chased by Chinamen waving hatchets. Under these squamous palm trees Laurel kicked Hardy and Woolsey beat Wheeler upon the head with a codfish. Across these pocket-handkerchief-sized lawns, the juveniles of the Our Gang comedies pursued one another and were pursued by angry fat men in golf knickers. On this same street—or perhaps on some other one of five hundred streets exactly like it.
And he does the same thing at the end:
Presently the sound of the lawnmower whirred through the quiet air in the street just like the street where Jackie Cooper shed huge tears on Wallace Beery’s shirt and Chester Conklin rolled his eyes at Marie Dressler.
I assume that Davidson was nostalgic for the films he saw as a kid in the 1920s and 1930s but how many readers today will know them? I was familiar with all those names and images, but his story keyed in another era for me, the late 1950s and The Twilight Zone. I visualized Mr. and Mrs. Gumbeiner, an old Jewish couple sitting on their porch with their uninvited Golem guest as one of the comic episodes of that classic TV show.
The tone of the story reminded me of Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, and Richard Matheson, so in 1955, Avram Davidson was ahead of his times — by four years.
Of course, in 2023 we’re starting to get worried about AI and real robots while science fiction readers are still enchanted by stories about friendly androids, cute robots, or sexy sexbots. So I assume modern readers could still be enchanted by this quaint old-fashion story. It’s the kind of Jewish comedy schtick that was once very popular, but I wonder if modern readers concerned with cultural correctness might consider it a stereotype? Essentially, “The Golem” is a time capsule of history, that mixes 1955 science fiction with Jewish folklore while asking us to remember old Hollywood films that kids loved twenty and thirty years earlier.
It’s interesting that David Hartwell included “The Golem” in The World Treasury of Science Fiction. How many stories in that anthology are there because of Hartwell’s own nostalgia? Other editors have loved this story too, just look at the long list of reprints it’s gotten over the last several decades.
However, even though I enjoyed this little blast from the past, I have to wonder if its storytelling hasn’t become too quaint for modern readers. Right after reading it, I started listening to “The Affinity Charm” by Jennifer Egan, the first story in her fix-novel The Candy House. The setting for that story is an apartment where people have gathered after a lecture to discuss what everyone thought. Egan presents a diverse group of intellectuals all arguing from different academic perspectives. To these modern sophisticates, “The Golem” would be an overly simplistic tale they’d quickly dismiss. I wonder if even uneducated young people today would be too sophisticated intellectually to enjoy this story?
I only considered “The Golem” mildly entertaining, mostly for its nostalgia. But then I can remember 1955. How will people born after 1985 or 1995 see it? Hartwell’s anthology came out in 1989, and I’m starting to wonder from its first eight stories if it isn’t already a relic of the past?
Classics of Science Fiction 