The Purpose of Science Fiction (and, Technically, Fantasy)
In the 200th episode of The Coode Street Podcast, the hosts (Jonathan Strahan and Gary K. Wolfe) and guests (Kim Stanley Robinson, Robert Silverberg, and Jo Walton) briefly discussed the seemingly nebulous question, “Does science fiction have a purpose?” It’s worth a listen. I would respond initially by saying that the question is somewhat malformed. In what sense does any literary product have a purpose except that provided by the author, which is necessarily individual? Even if the author defines a purpose, should that have any bearing on whether the text is perceived as having that defined purpose? I personally subscribe to the view that in matters of interpretation, intent is irrelevant. What the author meant to do, insofar as we can even know it, has no bearing on how the work can or should be perceived, in no small part because what a reader perceives is more valid than what the author thought they were creating. Perception is the conversation. I also tend to think that unless we can have universal access to intention, by which we would need not only biographical and personal writings, but also actual access to the mind, then an author’s intent is useless to us. How am I supposed to know what the author really intended to do? This is not to suggest that we can’t discuss intent, mind; rather, I’m suggesting that we shouldn’t assume intent as the sole arbiter of interpretation or perception. However, purpose is something quite different from intended-reception. whatever the author intended as the purpose of a written work need not determine how we interpret that text’s purpose. Intent and purpose, in other words, are different beasts, as the former concerns the activity of production while the latter merges production and perception together. We can, after all, discuss the success of a text in its presentation of a message while also discussing the other interpretative possibilities of a given text. Indeed, the purpose, insofar as one is defined, only offers possibilities, as it does not suggest “this is the only way to read the text,” but rather that “the author meant to do Y, but what we see are A, B, and Q.” (Alternatively, it might be helpful to avoid the total linguistic separation and simply make a distinction between “purpose” as an intention” and “purpose” as an end product. But maybe that’s abstract, too. Oh well.) To return to the question of science fiction’s purpose: as I noted in my post on the taxonomy of genre, science fiction doesn’t seem to me to fall under the traditional category of genre anymore because it lacks the narrative devices which define all of the other market genres (crime, etc.); science fiction, in other words, is a supergenre because it is conceptual, though it s possible to think that at one point, science fiction had a narrative practice. In a similar sense, I think the purpose of science fiction has been obscured by time. At one point, the most obvious purpose for the genre might have been to entertain (as in the Pulp Era) or to expound upon the radically changing world of the 40s, 50s, and 60s, and so on and so forth. Now, I think the genre’s purpose is less apparent, and perhaps for good reason. It can entertain, experiment, extrapolate, examine, elucidate, and encapsulate. There is no singular purpose anymore than there is a singular narrative space. And that’s another reason why I think science fiction is one of the most important literary genres, as its narrative spaces, purposes, and perspectives exist in an endless sea of variations. One can write science fiction for any number of reasons — and one should feel comfortable doing so. Entertainment, experimentation, whatever. The idea that we can identify a singular or minute number of purposes for this genre is an exercise in futility, because science fiction cannot be a genre of limits if it is to also be a genre of endless narrative possibilities. What do you all think?
The Taxonomy of Genre: Science Fiction as Supergenre
I recently stayed with Maureen Kincaid Speller and Paul Kincaid, two wonderful people whose book collections would make almost any sf fan drool. One of the brief discussions we had before I headed off for my final days in London concerned the often pointless debates about what science fiction “is.” Paul suggested that thinking of sf as a “genre” in the narrative sense is not accurate to the use of “genre.” Unlike romance or crime, there is nothing unique to the narrative practice of sf that can be separated from everything else. This might explain, for example, why there has been so much discussion about the nature of sf as a cross-pollinating genre – crossovers being so regular an occurrence that one would be hard pressed to find an sf text which does not cross over into other generic forms. Paul’s observation, it seems to me, is spot on. Even if I might define sf by such vague features as future time and extrapolation, these are merely functional terms to explain sf to someone who does not know what it is; outside of that narrow space, these definitions are practically useless, as the academic world has yet to define sf in any concrete, generally accepted sense – as opposed to other fields, such as biology, whose name defines itself (the study of life). Likewise, no two people can agree on what sf “is,” with academics and non-academics alike debating the wide range of critical definitions, from Darko Suvin to Carl Freedman to Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, Jr. During this conversation, I suggested that it might be more fruitful to think of sf as a supergenre rather than a straight genre, as doing so would allow us to apply the crossover potential of sf to a different set of parameters: namely, the interaction of subgenres or genres with the supergenres to which they belong. The supergenres would include realism, science fiction, and anti-realism, with the traditional genres of crime, romance, historicals, fantasy, and so on underneath. These supergenres would not necessarily define the genres beneath them, but they would suggest a relationship between genres that moves beyond narrative practice, but never quite leaves it behind. A fantasy novel might be as much historical as it is anti-realist; the former is a narrative practice, while the latter is a conceptual “game.” In this respect, sf would be defined by its most basic roots – its conceptual concerns, not its narrative ones. Futurity, extrapolation, and social or hard science, to give a rough sketch. Of course, sf can interact with the other supergenres, producing sf-nal works which are more realistic than not (or the other way around); this seems a supergeneric necessity, as to define “realism” as anything other than “literature which attempts to represent the world as it is” would not allow for the widest range of possibilities, which I submit a supergenre requires in order to be defined as such. A terminological shift from “as it is” to “as it could or might be” is fairly negligible in the long run. Thus, an sf text can adhere to the rigors of science in its imagining of a possible real future, and a realist text can do the same in reverse order; whichever conceptual mode is dominant would determine the supergenre to which that text most aptly belongs, but the divisions would never be hard so as to discount the cross-supergeneric influences. One might think of a typical Asimov or Bacigalupi novel as more sf-nal than realist and a Jane Rogers novel as more realist than sf-nal. Naturally, this could make things rather messy.[1] In a similar fashion, one might think of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings as both anti-realist and realist at once, which might suggest a contradiction if not for the fact that the rigor with which Tolkien wrote LOTR would seem to subvert the anti-realist tendencies of fantasy, if only minutely. I’d suggest that LOTR is dominated by its anti-realist practices simply by being more tied to myth and folklore than to the Realist tradition (in the literary sense, not the supergeneric sense). In that respect, one would place myth, fairy tales, and folklore firmly under the anti-realist banner. Defining genre this way would also kill the endless discussions about how to classify texts which seem to borrow narrative traditions from all over the place. A romantic comedy featuring a detective could be shoved into three separate genres (or subgenres), neither marring the value of the other in relation to the text. Whether dominance should determine classification at this point is up to debate, though I suspect out of a need to keep conversations about texts relatively smooth and unencumbered one would need to focus on the dominant trait rather than apply a text’s multiplicities. Outside of conversation, an acronymic practice might make things easier.[2] These are all preliminary thoughts – ones which I’m expounding upon while on my train to London Victoria. I do think they are worthwhile ones, though. Expect more on this in the future. And on that note: I leave the comments to you lot. *** [1]: Obviously, this concept is only useful outside of the marketing apparatus. [2]: If one is clever, the acronyms could be turned into clever words. A romantic comedy set in 18th century France would become a HRC, or “horic.”
On Grit, Gore, and the Fantasy of Everyday Life in SF
I’m not going to re-hash old arguments about grimdark or gory fiction or whatever. Originally, I had meant to respond to the question “can fiction be too gritty?” I’m not convinced that fiction has limits in any standardized sense. Some of us may not like gore or grit (or that grr feeling we get when an author kills a favorite character), but others do; the idea that fiction as a whole cannot have material for each of us on the basis of some arbitrary standard about what is “too much” seems preposterous to me. You like gory fiction? Great, here’s a whole bunch of stuff just for you (says Fiction)! I think the more interesting question is “why does grit bother some of us?” There are a lot of ways to approach that question. Take Game of Thrones as an obvious example. (Spoilers ahead) As a show, Game of Thrones is often violent and “unsafe” in the sense that its characters are always on the chopping block. People die painful, horrifying deaths when we least expect them to. The recent death of Oberyn at the hands of the Mountain is a great example. Most of us who had not read the books had a few expectations: either he would defeat the Mountain, he would die by getting quickly cut down, or he would survive long enough to be killed at some other time. Up to Season 4, I think most of us loyal viewers knew that Oberyn was too good to be true (or too awesome to live). What we got was one of the most gruesome death scenes in the show’s history. Personally, I had two reactions to Oberyn’s death: one of absolute shock that a favorite character died (putting another favorite character, Tyrion, at risk) and one of horror at the imagery I was shown. Oberyn’s death was graphic. It was gory, it was “real,” and it was the kind of gritty realism we’ve come to expect from the show. And it shocked us (well, it shocked me). If you’re curious, the scene can be found here (I can’t watch it again… Warning: it is extremely graphic). Perhaps what bothers us about these instances is a kind of subconscious longing for a fantasy — not necessarily for a world that literally does not exist (i.e., a fictional fantasy), but rather for a fantasy of action wherein some small piece of the good vs. evil dichotomy is maintained. Game of Thrones consistently shatters that dichotomy. Villains survive while our heroes fall. Villains become our heroes. Heroes become our villains. Everything is gray and messy. Gritty fantasy represents a kind of hyperreal that counteracts our everyday fantasies — fantasies we maintain for ourselves by selecting what we see, hear, and read (and in a totally meta way, reading/viewing Game of Thrones is a deliberate action on our part). Fantasies about right and wrong, good and evil, life and death. They make up life on this planet. Those fantasies are, I think, partly why some hold onto the idea that Superman is a kind of adult boy scout. Man of Steel (2013) broke that — to a certain degree. It took what many have come to love about the character and shifted it ever so slightly to the side (in my estimation) so that what we saw was a Superman living in a world not unlike our own. A Superman who had grown up with the fantasies of everyday life tossed aside by the gritty truth of what it means to be an alien super being in a world that can barely handle its technological powers. Man of Steel never needs to talk about weapons of mass destruction, but the commentary is always there. Superman is a weapon of mass destruction. But he’s worse than that: he’s a weapon that nobody can seem to control, much like his Kryptonian counterparts. There’s a brilliant scene in Man of Steel where Superman willingly gives himself over to the authorities after the Earth is threatened with destruction by Zod; the military shackles him, but it’s all a show on Superman’s part, as he eventually breaks the bonds to make a point: Let’s put our cards on the table, General. You’re scared of me because you can’t control me. You don’t. And you never will. But that doesn’t mean I’m your enemy. In the context of the United States’ attempts to control who has WMDs, Superman is the ultimate threat — a veritable bomb waiting to go off in mankind’s backyard that nobody can control. And that bomb does go off in Man of Steel. Superman’s very presence serves as a flashing beacon that says “super beings can come destroy shit here.” And they do. Superman included. They destroy a lot of shit. It’s only a natural response on humanity’s part to try to determine where Superman lives at the end of the movie. That Superman tries to wave that away by saying “hey, no worries, I’m an American, dude” shouldn’t inspire any of us. After all, America is hardly the bastion of restraint. The attempt to make Superman a grittier figure is, for me, a good thing, in part because Superman is supposed to exist in our world. It makes little sense for him to have developed a sense of morality and justice that doesn’t represent a reality that is accessible. But I understand why people disliked Man of Steel and Snyder’s/Nolan’s gritty reinterpretation. The film performs the same attack on the fantasy of everyday life as Game of Thrones. Worse, Man of Steel shatters the double-fantasy of the comics by discarding the Superman many have come to love in favor for a gritty alternative. The idea that a fantasy pervades our everyday lives or that it can be supplanted by another fantasy property suggests, I think, the intersection between the desire for narrative depth and the relationship between grit and complexity. As television properties become increasingly more narrative-based and series like Game of Thrones or movies with the same agenda as
Kim Stanley Robinson and Exposition (or, No More James Patterson, Please)
Just this past weekend, I saw Kim Stanley Robinson give a talk about narrative and time at the Marxist Reading Group Conference at the University of Florida. During this talk, Robinson suggested, as I’m sure he has elsewhere, that science fiction has been the victim of casual writing instruction, which has mistakenly convinced us that exposition is terrible writing. He argued that exposition is, in fact, the bedrock of sf, as it provides much of the formal variance necessary for the genre to thrive, particularly given the genre’s history. In a sense, what Robinson argues is that the formal uniqueness of sf lies in its ability to represent what does not exist, and so exposition, by dint of representing the unreal, is a necessary tool for any writer of the genre. His argument likewise reduces the “show, don’t tell” rule to a curse of narrative zombification — what he calls a zombie meme. I find this view rather compelling as a way to define sf by what it does, as opposed to what it is. Much like Delany, who Robinson probably intentionally hinted to by referencing Heinlein’s oft-cited sf-nal sentence (“The door dilated” from Beyond This Summer[1] (1942)), Robinson seems to view sf as a genre without definition; rather, it is a genre best understood by its applications and methods.[2] The method Robinson is perhaps famous for (or infamous, depending on your interpretation) is exposition, a fact which he seemed delighted to declare in his talk. Even in something like The Gold Coast (1988), exposition is almost a necessity, for the sf-nal frame of the work only works within a functional world.[3] One can’t quite fully understand the conflict between Jim McPherson and his father without the in-depth examination of this “new” culture in which they exist. Much of that examination has to come through exposition, lest The Gold Coast become a 10,000-page monstrosity which has to show us every little darned thing so we really understand why Jim acts the way he does. Much of this made me wonder why this rule — “show, don’t tell” — has stuck with us when it so clearly compromises any work which wishes to do more than simply “entertain” in the most banal definition of the word. In this respect, I agree with Robinson that the removal of exposition may have helped some sf reach wider audiences — particularly among the “I don’t write sf even though I do, but don’t tell anyone” NYT bestseller crowd. But it’s that limitation on the language and vision that often produces inferior works — works which do little more than present a story without requiring the author to provide an explanation for the world itself or some deeper examination of the world as a container for criticism. This is not to suggest, as Robinson doesn’t either, that one must become Tolkien to produce an sf work which engages with the best activities of the genre; rather, I’m agreeing with Robinson that a genre which seeks a universalization of its modes of writing is, indeed, a zombie genre. Repetition. Rinsing and repeating. This might be why I find works like Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie (2013), Midnight Robber by Nalo Hopkinson (2013), or The Violent Century by Lavie Tidhar (2013) so fascinating.[4] At the same time, this assertion about exposition cannot possibly be universal. Indeed, I doubt Robinson would suggest that the absence of exposition is necessarily the default of an inferior work, as the removal of exposition could serve a literary purpose. For example: while I cannot speak for Robinson, I suspect that a surface level view of Tobias Buckell’s Xenowealth Saga would result in a number of loaded assumptions, the most of important of which is that these are just not good books because they aren’t loaded with exposition.[5] But part of what Buckell’s writing style does, whether this was intentional or not, is tied to Buckell’s oft-cited desire to represent “people like him” or “people he saw while in the Caribbean” within the genre he has so come to love. This is a charge we’ve heard from other writers who put QUILTBAG or PoC characters into their work: so much of sf/f doesn’t include characters who look like me, and so I’m going to fill the gap on my own.[6] That is that Buckell’s Xenowealth Saga takes characters which have been perhaps “trapped” in the literary sphere or the literary sf sphere and throws them into the high-flying adventure and mayhem universe of Space Opera. He plays in a particular literary mode, albeit a modern re-imagination of the form. His books do not contain mountains and mountains of exposition; they are rather subdued in that realm, in fact. But they are also excellent books precisely because of what they do with the mode. If it’s not clear, I’m not suggesting that Buckell is a bad writer; rather, I’m suggesting quite the opposite. Of course, I could be wrong. Perhaps what Robinson was pointing to were the extreme forms of anti-exposition writing found in, say, James Patterson, who I personally think is one of the worse prose stylists whose works routinely appear on the NYT Bestsellers list. His writing lacks the kind of depth that Robinson called for in his talk, so much so that I couldn’t finish one of his Alex Cross novels. It was too limiting. Too removed. Too oriented around the plot and not oriented enough around the characters. In the case of science fiction, which Alex Cross most certainly is not, I think Robinson sees exposition’s value in its ability to convey the unreal in potentially liberative ways — in the sense that our understanding of a world and our ability to immerse within it can be, in some cases, contingent upon that world seeming fully realized, allowing us to extricate ourselves from our (mundane) lives into the otherworldly. Patterson’s prose, if I’m honest, does not do that. I am not extricated. I am not compelled. I am simply “there,” reading, aware. But I want
Post-Post-Event Thoughts on Loncon3 and Jonathan Ross
Jonathan Ross is not hosting the Hugos this year. He’s made what I think is the right decision and stepped down. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you missed all the “fun” on Twitter. You can get a decent overview of the situation over at The Wertzone. In any case, what I’m going to talk about here aren’t the things everyone was throwing out on Twitter — mostly. Here, I’m interested in some of the whys and hows and whats that are underneath all of this and why, ultimately, Jonathan Ross was a poor choice within the current climate of sf/f. First, I’ll say that I hold no animosity towards Ross. I don’t know the man, as you’d expect, and have, in fact, viewed some of his material and found him rather amusing. I also agree with Adam Whitehead that the motivation to bring in Ross, who himself is a supporter of sf/f and its various properties, is a good one: high profile tv personality who happens to be a vocal fan = good for business. But the problem Ross posed was two fold: 1) He is, as Whitehead and Farah Mendlesohn (who stepped down from the Worldcon committee over Ross’ appointment) and others have noted, a divisive figure, most notably because his comedy has frequently gotten him into trouble. You can read about some of that on his Wikipedia page or here. If I’m fair to you and myself, I have found some of his more offensive jokes humorous, though not necessarily the ones most have cited (mostly because I wasn’t there and don’t have the full context in which these things were said). In fact, I’ve enjoyed other shock comedians such as Jimmy Carr from time to time, though even he crosses lines I just can’t handle (rape jokes are not funny to me). The question, in my mind, is not whether it personally offends me or other individuals, but the repercussions such offense has on the larger community. I think it was Kate Elliot who noted on Twitter that individual acts aren’t the problem, but a collection of those acts adding up to a whole. Which leads me to… 2) The sf/f community is, as Charlie Stross rightly asserts, in the middle of a serious discussion/debate about inclusion (a.k.a. house cleaning). Though I seriously doubt that Ross would have treated sf/f fans with ridicule, there is the very real problem that Ross’ public profile poses for sf/f fans: in certain respects, his comments damage the potential for a safe space. It doesn’t matter that Ross’ comments are frequently meant in jest. We live in a society where these types of things are also said with the utmost seriousness, such that people who are attacked for (seemingly) being “overweight” or “white and adopting non-white children,” for example, do not necessarily feel these jokes as jokes. For them, these sorts of comments are not unlike pouring lemon juice in a wound and saying “but it was only a joke; why did it hurt you so much?” This is why Seanan McGuire went on her mini-Twitter rant about feeling anything but safe at the Hugos. She has previously been in that beautiful front row for nominees, and may appear there again in the future. She is a prime example of this problem. There is also another side to this: in the interest of creating inclusive spaces for people, we have to realize that in the absence of those spaces, humorous pokes at previously excluded individuals just reminds them how much they are not in this community. Everyone’s experience varies, of course, but the sad fact is that we do not exist in an sf/f community which has set aside its sexist past en total (or its racism, for that matter). It’s still here, albeit missing one of its scaled legs. It’s still fighting to keep things like they were. That’s why there is such a concerted effort to push sf/f forward so those excluded-now-included groups can feel at home. However, the pain doesn’t go away just because we include people. The pain goes away when their inclusion is coupled with a sense of safety: the idea that you won’t be harmed, cast out, or burned for being a woman or person of color; that any criticism you receive is, with exception, appropriate, not a reflection of an individual’s opinion of you based on factors you cannot control. That your weight or your health conditions are not the subject of public scrutiny as a method for discarding your worth as a contributor to the community. Our community is not safe yet. It’s not. Seanan McGuire doesn’t have the benefit I have: she doesn’t always feel safe because things happen to remind her how far away from others she is/was/might be/could be. Me? I’m going to be cast out if I say something monumentally stupid. If I do something horrible. I’ll be cast out because I did something, not because I’ve got some stuff dangling between my legs or because of my heritage or because of where I was born. That’s an important distinction. Now, does this mean Ross can never be a part of sf/f? No. Does this mean he can never host the awards? No. But it does mean that the decisions our entities make need to keep in mind their long term impact. I’m not sure Ross would have been so good for sf/f. He might have brought a lot of attention with him, but it’s also possible he would have done a lot of damage to a field which is still trying to figure out how it can include everyone without pissing on everyone’s toes. We’re just not there yet. Maybe one day soon. Then, perhaps Ross will return. —————————– A few corrections from my day of Tweeting: I originally argued, as many have, that Ross shouldn’t host because he’s not a fan. I was flat wrong on that front, and tried
Fishing (or Publishing); Whatever
Person One: There is only one way to fish. Fly fishing. Obviously. You would be a fool to try anything else. Person Two: Nu-uh. Angling is the only valid method, sir. I have clearly done better than you via this method, so you really don’t know what you’re talking about. Person Three: Oh yeah? Well I know better than both of you. Netting is clearly the best method, because you can catch more fish at the same time, and that means you can be as fat and pompous as you like…I mean, you can eat lots. Person Four: You’re all wrong, and utterly stupid for not realizing that the best method is clearly spearfishing, which has the ability of bringing you closer to the medium of the fish. Without the spear, we would not be fisherman. Person Five: Bullshit. You’re all morons. Hand gathering is truly getting “into the fish.” This is how the masters do it, and if you can’t be bothered to do it this way, then I’d rather piss in your cereal than let you anywhere near the fish. Person Six: I kinda like all of them. Sometimes it’s nice to have all these different ways to do things. Persons One through Five: FUUUUUUUUUUUUU SHUT UP YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU DIE DIE DIE GGRRRRRAAAAAAA! The traditional vs. indie vs. self-publishing debate in a nutshell. Involving fish. As metaphors. The end. For the record: I don’t know anything about fishing, except that there are lures and things. And that you catch fish. And then eat them. I want fish…