Dave's favourite SF, part 5

This is a celebration of weird language, and an excuse to talk about one of the greatest SF books of all time.

For sheer fun (that is, fun for the kind of weird person like me who finds language funny) and for a weird take on the use of Saxon-Norse mythology as a basis for scientific nomenclature, try 'Uncleftish Beholding' by Poul Anderson. A few samples of the scientific words: ymirstuff = uranium; forward bernstonish lading = positive electric charge; minglingish doing = chemical reaction; lump beholding = quantum theory.

I found it got funnier the more I thought about the words; 'weeneitherbit' for neutrino and 'roundaround board of the firststuffs' for periodic table of the elements cracked me up. (Maybe that's just me.)

Written in what English might look like if William the Bastard had failed to take England, it is available as a free text from here.

Another dystopia, Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban, has jumped into my top 10 SF novels ever. Written in 1979, it depicts Kent over 2000 years into recovery from a nuclear war, and maybe a fusion power disaster too. The language is fragmented, "worn down"' as Hoban himself describes it; all backstory is told in a shattered English patois that reveals starkly how much scientific understanding had been lost. The names of towns are transfigured by an earthy, vaguely pagan culture, so that Herne Bay becomes Horny Boy. A correspondent of mine hooked me into this book with the following quote:

Lorna said to me, ‘You know Riddley theres some thing in us dont have no name.’

I said, ‘What thing is that?’

She said, ‘Its some kind of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its looking out thru our eye hoals. May be you dont take no noatis of it only some times. Say you get woak up suddn in the middl of the nite. 1 minim youre a sleap and the nex youre on your feet with a spear in your han. Wel it wernt you put that spear in your han it wer that other thing whats looking out thru your eye hoals. It aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and sheltering how it can.’

I said, ‘If its in every 1 of us theres moren 1 of it theres got to be a manying theres got to be a millying and mor.’

Lorna said, ‘Wel there is a millying and mor.’

I said, ‘Wel if theres such a manying of it whys it lorn then whys it loan?’

She said, ‘Becaws the manying and the millying its all 1 thing it dont have nothing to gether with. You look at lykens on a stoan its all them tiny manyings of it and may be each part of it myt think its sepert only we can see its all 1 thing. Thats how it is with what we are its all 1 girt big thing and divvyt up amongst the many. Its all 1 girt thing bigger nor the worl and lorn and loan and oansome. Tremmering it is and feart. It puts us on like we put on our cloes. Some times we dont fit. Some times it cant find the arm hoals and it tears us a part. I dont think I took all that much noatis of it when I ben yung. Now Im old I noatis it mor. It dont realy like to put me on no mor. Every morning I can feal how its tiret of me and readying to throw me a way. Iwl tel you some thing Riddley and keap this in memberment. What ever it is we dont come naturel to it.’

I said, ‘Lorna I dont know what you mean.’

She said, ‘We aint a naturel part of it. We dint begin when it begun we dint begin where it begun. It ben here befor us nor I dont know what we are to it. May be weare jus only sickness and a feaver to it or boyls on the arse of it I dont know. Now lissen what Im going to tel you Riddley. It thinks us but it dont think like us. It dont think the way we think. Plus like I said befor its afeart.’

I said, ‘Whats it afeart of?’

She said, ‘Its afeart of being beartht.’

I said, ‘How can that be? You said it ben here befor us. If it ben here all this time it musve ben beartht some time.’

She said, ‘No it aint ben beartht it never does get beartht its all ways in the woom of things its all ways on the road.’

Wel I cant say for cern no mor if I had any of them things in my mynd befor she tol me but ever since then it seams like they all ways ben there. Seams like I ben all ways thinking on that thing in us what thinks us but it dont think like us...

The story circles round the ring of towns celebrated in an old song that no-one can remember the meaning of, spiralling into the radioactive ruins of Cambry (Canterbury), where the Ardship of Cambry is chosen from amongst the mutated, blind survivors. The idea is that the Ardship will be tortured (torture is called 'helpin quirys'!) in the hope that his tranced-out shamanic journey will bring back knowledge of the lost sources of energy.

The story has various mythic layers - the half-forgotten songs, a poem describing a rood screen, one of the few fragments from Canterbury Cathedral, and ultimately the story's heart of darkness, the Punch and Judy show. Not the polite modern version, but a future regression to a tale of ancient brutality suited to brief and savage lives.

This book is strangely uplifting, because of the spirit of the main character. I've read worse dystopias, and the language is stunning, no harder to penetrate than that of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange, and it's a deeper and more powerful story than that.

Null Immortalis - Nemonymous 10

Nemonymous 10, Null Immortalis, is now open for submissions. The book is planned for publication in July 2010. It will be the last Nemonymous.

Deadline is 30 April 2010. Payment is 1p a word up to a maximum of £100. All submissions must include a character called SD Tullis, Scott Tullis, Mr Tullis or Tullis. Stories should be submitted as Word .doc attachments sent to both bfitzworth@yahoo.co.uk and dflewis48@hotmail.com.

See here for the full guidelines.

Dave's Favourite SF, Part 4

Although I tend to think of myself as more of an SF fan, some of my favourite stories are better classed as fantasy. Before stepping out onto the wobbly pontoon of distinctions, let me venture the opinion that both SF and fantasy are mechanisms for bringing the miraculous and fantastic, for better or worse, into a tale, so that more possibilities of experience can be examined.

SF is usually set in the future, featuring some new technology that is important to the story. It is more or less believable in terms of what we imagine the future might be like, without invoking any extra laws to hold that reality together.

Fantasy can be set in any time, and no technical explanation is required for the weird and miraculous stuff that happens. The miraculousness comes from other dimensions with their own laws, usually some version of magic, which may be kept to rigorously, but do not need explaining.

For an unusual take on the genre of sword and sorcery, something I usually avoid like the Magus's curse, there is Tim Powers' tale of a grizzled mercenary and reincarnation of King Arthur fighting against the Saracen in the 16th century siege of Vienna, The Drawing Of The Dark. This book generates such an intense sense of place that when I first visited Vienna a couple of years after reading it, I looked for a basis for the pub that features extensively in the story – and found a 16th century candidate, embedded in a remaining section of 16th century city wall.

Akif Pirincci's feline whodunit, Felidae, is the story of a cat who sets out to investigate cat-murders in his neighbourhood, and via some carefully-researched material on cat behaviour (Pirincci has also written a book on cat habits) eventually succeeds in uncovering a horrifyingly brutal conspiracy. Echoes of the Holocaust mingle with very funny exchanges between the felines. The roughest street cats swear continually and refer to humans as 'tin-openers'. Highly recommended, even if you don't normally read animal fantasies.

Among the greatest ever writers of fantasy I would include Tom Robbins, particularly Jitterbug Perfume and Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, but I shall leave discussion of his work for a specific blog about the fictional representation of magic.

What I want to get onto now is the kind of fantasy that stretches genre boundaries; is it fantasy or is it magic realism? I've ignored that almost ludicrous distinction for a while and gradually I'll take it as an opportunity to excoriate literary prejudices

Italo Calvino's Cosmicomics is a mighty boundary-crossing work. Calvino tells stories of beings who've existed since the Big Bang, now finding themselves in mundane jobs, like an agent for a plastics firm in Pavia, with a blithe, straight-faced ease that takes its absurdities in hand and plunges you into the story. These superbeings are human, in the sense that they have the preoccupations of children and adults – play, sex and love, reputation, fear and shame. A sample:

"One night I was, as usual, observing the sky with my telescope. I noticed that a sign was hanging from a galaxy a hundred million light years away. On it was written: I SAW YOU. I made a quick calculation: the galaxy's light had taken a hundred million years to reach me, and since they saw up there what was taking place a hundred million years later, the moment when they had seen me must date back two hundred million years.

Even before I checked my diary to see what I had been doing that day, I was seized with a ghastly presentiment: exactly two hundred million years before, not a day more nor a day less, something had happened to me that I had always tried to hide."

This story develops into an almost Kafkaesque toying with the paranoid basis of religion – that there's someone out there watching you all the time.

'All At One Point' is an elegant and funny modern exposition of an ancient myth. The Goddess principle concealed in the material world, that is mourned and sought by everyone, she who the Gnostics called Sophia, Wisdom, who is responsible for the expansion of the universe from its original point, is here called Mrs Ph(i)nk0 (approximately), and is characterised as a woman whom everyone loves, who wants to make pasta for everyone, which is how the universe starts, to give her the resources to do so.

Blundering on into the realm of "magic realism", this is often a device to make a point. In Irving Welsh's powerful dark tale Filth, the policeman's sentient tapeworm is able to give the reader a unique perspective on a torn-up life.

More genre-busters appear in the works of Flann O'Brien / Brian Nolan / Miles naGopaleen. The Third Policeman and The Dalkey Archive involve mad scientists, time travel and policemen with magical powers, set against a comedic take on the repressive morality of Ireland in the 1950s. No doubt the doorkeepers of mainstream literature, wishing to have such a fine writer as O'Brien in the tent, would class these books as "magic realism", the critic's stamp of approval of anything weirder than ordinary realism.

Peering through this lens of critical approval, let's take a look at the excesses of the magic realist style. Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses is, in my view, badly marred by trivial and obscure fantasy scenes. For example, on the first page Saladin Chamcha survives falling out of a plane, and later on a mass movement of Indian people walk under the sea towards the Arabic peninsula. All I can make of scenes like that is that the reader is supposed to fall down and worship the author for his sheer exuberant cleverness. To me, this is postmodern storytelling on the cheap, its pretentious chest-beating operating within the sanction of an academic PoMo establishment that has given up on awe, immersion, and indeed all the basics of good storytelling, hates entertainment and loves to strut its own obscurity along the lines of: "You don’t understand me therefore I’m deeper than you".

Some justify this arch, narcissistic cleverness as exuberant fabulism, saying it honours alternative views of reality than the consensus of atheist humanism, that Rushdie created a style that enables us to grasp the complexity of modern India. This sounds to me like a species of exoticism, not far removed from 19th century Orientalism, which at least managed to entertain (try Gustave Flaubert’s Salammbo for a lurid, gorgeous video-nasty).

Having said that, it's about time I said what I like about Rushdie. I'm immensely glad he escaped the curse placed on him by the hate-filled old monsters of the Iranian clergy. I’d probably not have bothered with The Satanic Verses but for the fatwa.

Writers of this kind of PoMo fiction seem to be saying "Nothing is true, everything is relative, and I'm the one with the most stylish way of presenting my nihilism". It seems you're not supposed to immerse yourself in magical realism, but view it from some alienated, ironical PoMo position, whereas at least with fantasy the reader is being offered an experience of naïve immersion in a narrative, not a bloodless intellectual bit of one-upmanship.

Despite the distinguished roll-call of successful literary figures who've either written or been influenced by SF or fantasy, including a large minority of celebrated authors before the last 50 years, mainstream lit-crit often attacks SF, as if it has something to fear from it. (Maybe the exposure of the pathetically limited palette of a dodgy realism?)

This division may be a function of the cultural split that became noticed some time in the 20th century as scientific education began to be taken seriously, as the appearance of "two cultures", the gap between those educated in sciences and those in humanities subjects. On the humanities side, they come over as cooler, less nerdy than the science kids, largely because they don't have to work as hard on getting their qualifications.

So what are they moaning / worried about? That the superficiality of much humanities education doesn't fit people for living in this fast-changing civilization, and that those who cross over between the two cultures, like those who appreciate the best SF stories, are in fact better-fitted for life in this world than they are?

There follows a few examples of well-written stuff (from the SF side of the barricade) that shows how confused and prejudicial such judgments are.

Eric Brown's Kéthani is a novel built out of the stories of residents of a Yorkshire village as they begin to benefit from an alien immortalization technology. The examination of what makes people want to go on living, and how they recover from trauma is superb. This is just one example of writing which is surely as finely-crafted as most of what is admitted through the gates of mainstream lit.

A novel whose time has definitely come is Air by Geoff Ryman. This is a portrait of life in a peasant village in the Turkic Republics of Central Asia, just about the last place on earth to go online in a technological revolution. The new Air technology feeds the Internet directly into the brain. During the chaotic sequence where the new tech is being installed and routed in everyone, the protagonist finds herself holding in her arms her dying neighbour. The rest of her terrifying adventure at the hands of various vested interests is coloured by the fact she got possessed by the spirit of the dying old lady. Here we have a story that digs deep into human experience and gives a vivid glimpse of how the world is changing. It would be nice to see mainstream lit do that well.

carbon-neutral fairy tales wanted....

No doubt everybody has seen the recent ad campaign about global warming, featuring a dad reading a modern fairytale to his daughter. HarperCollins, via Authonomy, are launching a competition based on the Act on CO2 message. Write a short story or fairytale (3000 words max) on this theme, and winning entries will be published in an anthology.

Details are here: http://www.authonomy.com/CO2/

and the t&c's are here: http://www.authonomy.com/CO2/Terms.aspx

closing date 31st January 2010

James White Award 2009

The James White Award 2009 has been open since 11 July 2009, but there are only three months left until it closes on 28 February 2010.

"The James White Award is a short story competition open to non-professional writers and is decided by an international panel of judges made up of professional authors and editors."

First prize is £250 and publication in Interzone. Stories must be under 6,000 words, and writers must not be "professional authors" - i.e., have not made three short story sales to markets deemed as "professional" by the SFWA.

See here for the full rules.

Twelfth Planet Press open for novelettes

Twelfth Planet Press is looking for novelettes for its doubles series. Stories should be between 10,000 and 20,000 words, science fiction or fantasy ("speculative fiction"), and they "are particularly looking for works that feel fresh, different and take risks to push boundaries and ideas".

Submissions will be open from 1 December 2009 to 28 February 2010, and should be sent as RTF attachments to twelfthplanetpress@gmail.com. Payment is $100 advance and 8% royalty on subsequent print runs.

See here for full details.

No one would have believed...

Canadian "micropublisher" Northern Frights is looking for sf short stories for a new anthology, War of the Worlds: Front Lines.

"... we would like to see are stories influenced by HG Wells' The War of the Worlds and containing Aliens in some form against Humanity. They don't have to be the tripod riding, octopus-style Martians from the original novel. In fact, we would prefer seeing what your imagination can come up with. And while the title of the anthology is War of the Worlds: Front Lines, we realize that wars between man and alien could be fought on many fronts, and in many ways. Feel free to send stories that span time, space, and genres."

Stories should be no more than 8,000 words. Payment is one cent per word, up to $50.00 (plus one contributor copy). Deadline is 31st December 2009. Submissions should be sent as RTF attachments to nfpsubmissions@gmail.com.

See here for full details. Check the guidelines - the publisher is quite particular about manuscript format.