BLOG/RELIEF: SCIENCE FICTION/FANTASY FOR THE HOLY FOOL. Because he gave to Catholic Charities, and requested recommendations for five sci-fi/fantasy books he hadn’t read yet. I apologize in advance (which should be my motto!) that most of these will be repeat-recs, from my old Booklog blog.
1. Pat Cadigan, Mindplayers. A hard-boiled, episodic sci-fi novel about the future of identity. In a world where people buy and sell memories, personalities, even neuroses, how can we tell who we really are? Cadigan roams into Walker Percy territory: Why do we want to be other people? Why do we desperately seek out an identity? And Mindplayers‘ presentation of marriage and divorce had startling echoes of Maggie Gallagher’s excellent The Abolition of Marriage. The plot demonstrates, I suspect unwittingly, that marriage reinforces our sense of self while divorce disrupts it. The many references to the narrator’s divorce build up to a very “pro-marriage” plot twist. This is a tough, compassionate book, with a lot of insight into human nature, identity, and relationships.
2. David Gerrold, The Man Who Folded Himself. I read this because it was described (by National Review‘s John Derbyshire, I think) as “getting time travel right.” I didn’t expend the effort needed to verify that statement–the logical puzzles involved in time travel make my brain hurt–but certainly from a casual, vacation-type reading Derbyshire’s praise seemed warranted. The book was lots of fun most of the time, a bizarre workout for the brain, a suggestive look at what one man does when he becomes the only person he knows who can travel in four dimensions.
But the narrator, the time traveler, was a truly disturbing character. It was difficult to tell whether Gerrold was aware of just how disturbing this guy really was (not that the author’s obliviousness would make the book worse, necessarily). The narrator is lonely, alienated from others, and he becomes progressively more self-centered as he travels through time. Instead of folding himself, he seems more to collapse in on himself. There are some parts of the book where the damage caused by this self-centeredness is made explicit, but there is simply no alternative presented–there are virtually no characters except for different time-slices and “versions” of the narrator, and selfishness or the pursuit of personal happiness/pleasure is the only value system ever discussed or acted on in the novel. So you get the impression that although an excess of self-involvement is ultimately harmful, taking one’s own pleasure as the standard of value is A-OK as long as you’re careful–yes, you’ll have regrets (the sections of the book dealing with the nature of irrevocable acts are really good), but basically selfishness is the way to go. The novel begins to feel claustrophobic, and ultimately pretty hopeless, which I don’t think was the author’s intention. (Could definitely be wrong here.) It’s a quick and exciting read, and I recommend it to any sci-fi or time-travel fans, but in the end TMWFH feels like a parable about anti-eroticism, fear of difference, and personal collapse.
3. Tim Powers, Declare. There’s been quite a bit of chatter in the Catholic blogosphere lately about Powers, due to this interview. I wouldn’t say the things he says (I think experiences in the world do tend to reinforce our worldviews, and so if we draw upon or describe those experiences in order to illuminate those worldviews that isn’t necessarily special pleading or “message” fiction), but that doesn’t matter, because Declare is one of the most striking novels I’ve ever read. Admittedly, I was the target audience for this novel: I believe that seemingly random patterns and events often do in fact have existential and religious meaning; I’m Catholic, a recurring (though in no way preachy) theme of the book; and I was already obsessed with the Cambridge spies. (Oh come on–you could have guessed that!) Declare retells Kim Philby’s story in a world where mystical and demonic forces explicitly and directly affect the outcome of the Cold War. It’s fascinating from the first page.
4. Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn. Okay, so this is hardly an obscure work. But I get the impression that people avoid it because, ick, unicorn. I think people expect this book to be fluffy and happily-happily-happily-ever-after.
It isn’t. It uses all kinds of elements that in lesser hands would become cliches; but the book itself is full of rich characterization and poignant reflections on the interlocking nature of love and regret. (Yes, a theme of my senior essay in college.) There are elements of picaresque, and an extraordinary balance between sublime and ridiculous elements. (The scene where a sort of wild magic conjures up images of Robin Hood and his fellows, deluding a group of epigone bandits, might be the best example of that balance.) This is a bittersweet book with a lot of wisdom and many unforgettable images. …I should note that it’s also maybe the only novel that made the translation to the silver screen with all its virtues intact. The movie of “The Last Unicorn” is also quite beautiful and moving, with an obvious Japanese influence in the flowing lines, and a sly, homespun, Jewish-influenced sense of humor. You should read the book and watch the movie–really, you won’t be disappointed.
5. Rebecca Brown, The Terrible Girls. A lush, resentful little book full of linked parables about love and betrayal between women. Brown sometimes uses class as a metaphor for the power differences brought on by love–the one who loves more is a pawn of the one who loves less. It’s not clear whether, in her stories of furious self-sacrifice, she acknowledges that even a self-sacrificing lover can be selfish, enthralled by the image of herself as martyr rather than concerned for her beloved’s well-being. Nonetheless, this book is well worth your time.