A definition of “science fiction”

I read a lot of “hard” science fiction in my misbegotten youth. Isaac Asimov, Larry Niven, Ray Bradbury, Frank Herbert, Robert Heinlein, Stanislaw Lem, Arthur C. Clarke, and I’m probably forgetting a few. How I devoured that stuff! I don’t read it so much any more, but I still think about it a lot.

Science fiction is different from “regular” fiction because, at least in its classic form (e.g., early Asimov), the protagonist is not really a character. It’s a hypothesis: what if. The job of the story is to take that hypothesis to its logical conclusion, for better or for worse. And the fun of science fiction is, however improbable the hypothesis may be, it is, in fact, possible that a planet with the characteristics of Dune exists, or that one day we will build robots with positronic brains that follow the Three Laws, or that there is a monolith somewhere on the moon. [Aside: This is why I hate it when people lump sc-fi and fantasy together. Fantasy, at least in in its typical swords ’n sorcery / heroic quest form, strives to take you away from the real world. Sci-fi, as escapist as it might seem, is actually very much grounded in reality. The few fantasy stories I really like are the ones that include some reference to our world, or provide some quasi-rational explanation for the existence of magic. Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber are a great example of this. So are the Narnia books.]

What’s wrong with science fiction movies?

The problem I have with so many modern blockbuster special effects extravaganza movies with spaceships is that either they don’t really start with a hypothesis for a protagonist, or if they do, it totally gets lost under all the special effects stuff. The worst example is probably the Star Wars series, which could just as easily have taken place in a fake middle ages fantasy setting — it’s completely character- and romance-driven, with not a speck of “science” in it anywhere. And movie adaptations of “real” sci fi books can be just as bad. The movie version of Dune, for example, is all about how huge are the sandworms, and how gross-looking is the Baron Harkonnen — the cautionary tale about ecology is barely discernible. And Starship Troopers? It’s nothing but special effects, ooooooh look at the cool scary monsters! I’m not saying these are necessarily bad movies, but they sure ain’t science fiction.

Pixar Studios does it again!

When we took the kids to see Wall-E I was expecting to like it just because I like everything from Pixar. The incredible attention to detail, the grown-up jokes, the amazing visuals: it’s all good. But I wasn’t expecting that it would be such a great science fiction movie. I mean, sure, it’s character-driven — just take a look at Wall-E’s soulful expression — but it is also very much about a hypothesis. Not, perhaps, a stunningly original hypothesis, but certainly good enough for me: What if the earth got so filled with trash that there was no more room for humans? Wall-E gave me the exact same “wow, what if, oooh we gotta be careful that doesn’t happen” feeling that I got from all those great classic sci fi stories. I betcha whoever wrote the screenplay was a big fan of Asimov too.

What do you think? Do you agree with my definition of science fiction? Do you like sci fi movies? Have you seen Wall-E?

Wow!

Is this not the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen?

As you may have heard, archaeologists recently discovered this late Neolithic double-burial. According to the news reports, double-burials from that time period were rare. Huggers, non-existent. Archaeologists are removing them all in one piece to preserve their position, and hope to learn something new about Stone Age society in the process.

Well, you know me. I’ve been a paleoanthropology buff ever since I read Clan of the Cave Bear as a teenager. As you can imagine, I’m a little bit excited about this find. “Steve, Steve, Steve! C’mere, you have to see this,” I shouted, waving and flapping the newspaper at him.

Steve took a look. He was silent for a moment, and then he said softly, “They should just cover them right back up.”

‘Mr Rowbotham,’ he called to a midshipman on the leeward side, ‘jump up to the foretopmast crosstrees and tell Mr Jagiello, with my compliments, that I would like to speak to him, when he is at leisure. And harkee, Mr Rowbotham, he is to come down through the lubber’s hole, d’ye hear me? There is to be no skylarking, no sliding down the backstays.’

‘No sir. Yes sir,’ said Rowbotham, and shot into the rigging with the speed if not the grace of his cousin the ring-tailed lemur.

His cousin the ring-tailed lemur. His cousin. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that phrase suggest at least a passing familiarity with the theory of evolution? However, On the Origin of Species wasn’t published until 1859, long after the novel takes place. Can someone help me out with this? Is there another reasonable interpretation, or does my idol have feet of clay?

The sentence I previously quoted from the opening story about “science . . . bent by loneliness and longing” pretty much sums up the whole collection. That’s what these stories are about: science, bent by loneliness and longing. Each one is about some aspect of science — biology — and most are set in the late eighteenth to mid-nineteenth century. Recurring themes include intelligent, interesting women who are stifled by society’s sexist conventions; frustrated men who feel inadequate in comparison to their peers; the beauty of the natural world.

A lot of these stories are not really my style, apart from the subject matter and gorgeous prose. They are the kind of stories that (I guess) are meant to capture a moment in time, or to illuminate a certain mood or relationship. Not much actually happens. “The English Pupil,” for example, consists almost entirely of the meandering stream of consciousness of a very elderly, senile Carl Linnaeus:

Rotheram. Rotheram. The sound was like the wind moving over the Lappland hills. Rotheram, one of his pupils, not a fiancé at all. Human beings had two names, like plants, by which they might be recalled. Nature was a cryptogram and the scientific method a key; nature was a labyrinth and this method the thread of Ariadne. Or the world was an alphabet written in God’s hand, which he, Carl Linnaeus, had been called to decipher. One of his pupils had come to see him, one of the pupils he’d sent to all the corners of the world and called, half-jokingly, his apostles. This one straightened now, a few feet away, most considerately not blocking the fire. What was his name? He was young, vigorous, strongly built. Was he Lofling, then? Or Ternstrom, Hasselquist, Falck?

“The world was an alphabet written in God’s hand.” I just love that. And the idea that Linnaeus’ classification scheme was a way to decipher God’s alphabet — or that he believed that it was — is extremely moving. Plot: not necessary.

The last story, “Ship Fever,” actually a novella, was the best of all. This one had plenty of action to go with the gorgeous prose and fascinating subject matter. This was about a horrible episode in history that I’d never heard about before. In 1847 when Irish immigrants fled the potato famine they arrived in Canada bringing with them a typhus (“ship fever”) epidemic. I believe the reason they were arriving in Canada is because the U.S. turned them away. And Canada might as well have turned them away, too. The ships were sent to an island, supposedly to be quarantined, but the resources the government provided to care for these people were so pitifully inadequate that they couldn’t follow the quarantine rules and the typhus spread to Montreal, Quebec, and wherever else the immigrants ended up.

The story is told mainly from the point of view of the insecure young doctor helping on the island. The descriptions of the sickness, the living conditions on the ships and on the island, the false beliefs about contagion and hygiene and the nature of disease, are extremely painful to read. But set against this gruesome backdrop is the story of the doctor’s inner journey from immaturity to wisdom, not to mention all the men and women who risked their own lives for the sake of these dying, penniless, nameless immigrants. (And an ironic aside: at the end, one of the penniless immigrants who survives decides to get away from the evil country of Canada and go to Detroit, a city of hope, opportunities, new beginnings. Whereas I — born and raised and still living within commuting distance of the godforsaken hopeless urban blight that is Detroit — have always thought of Canada as this paradise where same-sex couples marry, native tribes govern themselves, and everyone has free health care and reads Robertson Davies all day long!)

I read Barrett’s novel The Voyage of the Narwhal some years ago. I don’t remember too much about it. I know I mostly liked it, but also thought it had some annoying flaws related to its structure as a novel. I do remember thinking at the time that maybe she’d be better off writing short stories (or getting a better editor). I don’t know if her novels have improved since Narwhal, but I can tell you that these short stories are well worth your time.

The consensus seems to be that I should ditch My Life as a Fake for now. I agree. Next on my stack is Esther, by Henry Adams.

This is the reason I’ve been able to get so much reading done lately. Can you tell? It’s a sandbox filled with water. My god, it keeps him happy for hours at a time. Hours, I said. On nice days, anyway. So I just get out a lawn chair and sit there with my book while he splashes and digs and fills and empties and swirls.

So, next on the list of Penguin Classics is Esther, by Henry Adams. While I’m waiting for an inter-library loan copy I’ve been browsing the shelves near the thingy in the new library building. Next time we go I will try to remember to bring the camera so you can see this incredible thingy for yourself. You may recall from a previous post that the library designers had the wonderful foresight to place this Contraption That Is Toddler Heaven right smack in the middle of the adult area, thus enabling me to browse happily while my toddler plays happily.

The shelf that is closest to the contraption — where I need to be if there are other toddlers around because, I’m sorry to say, Daniel requires a bit of supervision when he’s not by himself — is between the end of the mystery section and the beginning of the regular adult section. This explains why I recently read that dumb mystery by Jennifer Weiner. (Can’t find the post to link to my one-sentence scathing review, can’t remember the title, the book was stupid, trust me.) This explains why I recently read something by T.C. Boyle. And a few more — you’ll notice the alphabetical pattern, I’m sure.

The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant. Disappointing, to say the least. I expected great things from this book that’s been hyped up so much. Let’s just say . . . if you haven’t outgrown your adolescent passion for The Mists of Avalon you’ll probably love this, too.

My Life as a Fake, by Peter Carey. I’m not very far into it (several days in a row of rain) but I like it so far. I loved The True Adventures of the Ned Kelly Gang, which I understand is being made into a movie. This one appears to fall into the same genre as Loitering With Intent, for all you Muriel Spark fans out there: it’s a novel about authors, the nature of fiction, writing, etc. It’s a beautiful book, by the way. Alfred A. Knopf. Slightly unusual page size: narrow, for its height. I love Alfred A. Knopf.

Ship Fever, by Andrea Barrett. A foray into the world of short stories. Ordinarily not my favorite place, but this just looked too good. Believe it or not, these stories all revolve around eighteenth- and nineteenth-century scientists. Story number one — hold on to your hats, ladies! — features Gregor Mendel. Be still, my heart! Carl Linnaeus features prominently, too. Did you know he believed that swallows spent the winter under water? And other naturalists of the time believed they wintered over on the moon? Here’s a brief quote from the beginning of the first story, which sets the tone for the whole book:

When Richard reached this point, he would look toward the back of the room and catch my eye and smile. He knew that I knew what was in store for the students at the end of the semester. After they’d read the paper and survived the labs where fruit flies bred in tubes and displayed the principles of Mendelian inheritance, Richard would tell them the other Mendel story. The one I told him, in which Mendel is led astray by a condescending fellow scientist and the behavior of the hawkweeds. The one in which science is not just unappreciated, but bent by loneliness and longing.

Science, bent by loneliness and longing. Wow!

Cat’s Eye, by Margaret Atwood. Actually, this is sort of funny. I got the idea to read it because I saw it at the library, though the copy I read was one I had at home. It’s from the U-Mich library, and my dad checked it out for me (can’t remember why) ten years ago. Ten years ago! The reason I know this is because that was before the barcode days. It has an actual flap with a date stamp. Every few years Bookworm Dad calls me up and asks me about it. He’s a prof, so no overdue fines, just polite reminders. And every time he asks I tell him I haven’t read it yet. Well, Pops, I finally read it, and I’ll bring it when I come for lunch next Thursday. :)

Cat’s Eye was a good read, and it had several elements designed to warm my bookwormy heart. I liked the structure of the novel: middle-aged woman artist is getting ready for her first “retrospective” show. Scenes of her coming to town to get ready for the show are interspersed with memories of her unhappy childhood and adolescence. So, it’s a retrospective on two levels. Nice! Even better, there are plenty of descriptions of her paintings, which are attempts to understand and resolve her childhood experiences — the third level of retrospective. Nice! What’s Bred in the Bone by Robertson Davies is my high watermark for “writing about painting,” and Cat’s Eye is almost as good in that respect. What I didn’t like? Well, I didn’t really like any of the characters. The childhood scenes were painful to read. The adult scenes of this woman who worries so deeply what others think of her (what should she wear to the opening? ack!) were equally painful.

Brought to you by Green Turtle.