New Weird and Scifi Strange: Part One — Placing New Weird in the Aesthetic Moment
Adam Callaway has been talking about New Weird and Scifi Strange lately in response to Jason Sanford’s recent fictive table of contents for an anthology of Scifi Strange stories. One of the things that I find most interesting about discussions of genres, specifically subgenres, is how often readers and writers quickly dismantle the genre by spreading it thin. While I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, it does have a tendency to destroy genres or reduce them to vague descriptions and definitions. Two primary examples of this are science fiction (in general) and cyberpunk. The former has always been too large to accommodate everyone with a definition, resulting in the continued debate over what defines science fiction (conventional wisdom would suggest that the assumed, but unofficial definition, is a catch-all for pretty much anything that resembles science fiction, but isn’t necessarily of that category). The latter is an obvious result of the dispersion of crucial generic themes (in the literary sense) into aesthetic elements (i.e. the reduction of cyberpunk to stories with cyberpunk furniture, such as computer hacking, cyberspace, and so on). I’ve discussed the “what it is” aspect of cyberpunk before, which you can start reading about here (it begins with the general issue of the “punk” suffix and develops into a detailed explanation of cyberpunk after a couple of posts), so I won’t tread into that field again. The problem now, I think, is that the same thing that happened to cyberpunk could happen to New Weird and, to a lesser extent, Scifi Strange. The former was an “established” subgenre from the early 2000s (the quotes are intentional, since there are still some debate over it, as there always is in issues of genre) and the latter developed out of an association with New Weird, though any actual connection is thin at best. I think it’s important to establish from the start a foundation for defining texts, not necessarily for the economic purposes, but for the purpose of maintaining some semblance of order and the potential for explanation, while also allowing for the presence of outliers and cross-genre affairs (New Weird being a cross-genre-genre). For these posts (yes, there will be more than one), I want to address Callaway’s views on New Weird and Scifi Strange; particularly, I want to critique his definitional elements and his ideas about these two genres. My hope is to open up the dialogue on New Weird, Scifi Strange, and, more generally, genre studies. Now for part one: I. Horror: Placing New Weird in the Aesthetic Moment Callaway begins his discussion by suggesting that New Weird has more in common with horror than science fiction. Knowing Callaway personally, this is a very curious position for him to take, particularly since he takes the word “science” in SF quite seriously. To suggest that New Weird is built in this way is ignoring a crucial element of almost all New Weird stories: the science-ing of fantasy. As a prime example of this, we can look to Perdido Street Station by China Miéville, considered to be the principal text of the New Weird genre. The story is set in a world population by fantastic creatures and magic, to a certain degree, but it is also a world in which scientists are actively engaged in the understanding of their world in a way that reflects the approaches of scientists in the late 1800s and early 1900s, with a moderate dose of pseudoscience. There is a deliberate attempt on Miéville’s part to evoke the past without compromising the fantastic, meaning that the stories feel real because of its adherence to a proto-scientific vision. That Callaway has neglected to take this into account in his post is odd. I wouldn’t say that science is a constitutive element of New Weird, but it certainly is an important one to acknowledge. More importantly, New Weird has been rightly suggested as a response, critique, or attack on Tolkien-derivative fantasy, something that should perhaps be obvious when one reads Miéville or Jeff VanderMeer, both authors who I would consider to be foundational writers in the two schools of New Weird (British and American). What New Weird texts tend to do is diverge significantly from what many would call the “epic narrative” (chosen ones, impending societal collapse by a generic evil, massive wars, excessive or lightly-controlled magic attached to heroes, generic and otherwise, and a host of derivative figures who we have seen before, such as the bearded wizard, and so on). They approach fantasy from an altogether unusual angle that suggests that there might very well be an appropriate divergent path from Tolkien’s masterpiece (The Lord of the Rings); i.e. that one can design worlds with as much detail and precision, but with an eye on modern concerns and alternative originary points (Tolkien and Tolkien-derivative works look toward medieval England, while Miéville and VanderMeer draw heavily from the present and earlier periods in colonial-era England or America). The idea that New Weird is defined by the aesthetics of the horror genre (or, perhaps, the gothic genre, since that seems to apply more effectively here), then, is suspect. Horror elements absolutely exist in New Weird texts, but they are superficial to the science and the critical response the texts evoke. In fact, I would argue that much of what Callaway perceives as aesthetic elements of horror are not actually horror elements at all, but representations of the grotesque, which does not belong to horror (though it is often found there). Taken further, I see New Weird as imagining the grotesque within the aesthetic scope of “beauty.” Miéville is a master of this aesthetic. Perdido Street Station combines grotesque imagery with narrative in a way that recreates the grotesque as an almost appealing object. Isaac and Lin, for example, are two individuals who are, by most modern accounts, disgusting (Issac an overweight, “juicy” human, and Lin a parasite-infested woman with a large insect head instead of a human one); yet, as their relationship is made clear to the reader, they
Why Science Fiction is Important to the Third World (Part One)
A little over a month ago, one of my professors asked me a question that, at the time, I was unable to answer. That question has haunted me since, largely because I really should have had a good answer at the time. The question was: Why do you think science fiction and other “fantastic” literary forms are important in the third world? A simple enough question, don’t you think? Or is it? Questions like this are rarely applied to other forms of literature, specifically those works which are published as “general” or “literary” fiction. Only fantastic forms of literature seem to have to defend themselves in an academic context. I doubt my professor meant it as an attack, but it’s something that genre readers and writers have had to deal with in attack form before, which means that asking the question, regardless of the intentions, always stings a bit of the past. The question equally applies to literature as a whole, though, since literature has had to defend itself from the anti-library crowd, the anti-English-department crowd, and so on (all of which are the embodiment of evil, if you ask me). But the point of this post, and the posts that will follow it, is to address the question thrown at science fiction. One reason that I think science fiction is an important literary genre, particularly in the third world, is that it is a safe genre. It is the only genre that allows us to see the darkness of our past in way that also allows us to disengage from it. Science fiction deals with both the present and the past without actually being there, which means that we, as readers, can choose to remove ourselves from the present (as influenced by the past) and “escape” into an unknown future. Yes, science fiction is often allegorical, but it doesn’t have to be read as such; there’s no requirement to put the pieces of the past together. With general literature, there is, since it is often planted immediately in the moment, whether that be in the present, or the past. Reading general literature is like reading about ourselves as we are now; it’s reading about people that weren’t in situations that were. Science fiction is the antithesis to this because it allows readers to get away. From a critical perspective, this means that readers are able to see the light and dark of the human soul, but from the perspective of a place that does not necessarily conjure feelings of regret or shame. Since it is not about something that has actually happened–in the sense that the events in a science fiction story, outside of allegory, are entirely fictional–readers have no reason to face “reality.” It becomes a safe zone in which to experience our weakness and faults and to experience the conditions that make all of us different and the same at the same time (different cultures of human beings). That’s not to say that it has to be this way, or that it always is. People read science fiction in very different ways. To pretend that there is a set reading practice for SF is ridiculous at best. But what is different, in my opinion, between SF and general literature is that SF doesn’t demand that you read it in a certain way. It doesn’t make it a requirement for you to feel the regret or shame of the past. When people call SF an “escapist” genre, we should be quite pleased with that, since it is one of the few genres that is both an “escape” and a “reflection”–fantasy, in contrast, is usually only the first (“escape”), since it is rarely about the past or present (though New Weird might have changed that somewhat). That’s what, to me, is one of the most important aspects of science fiction in a third world context. Third world writers can use the furniture of science fiction to tell stories about their present and past without actually writing about either. The genre represents a gateway for third world writers to expose readers of SF to the themes, problems, and issues that plague third world nations without forcing people to deal with the immediacy of the moment. Perhaps it is naive of me to say, but I think this makes it possible for us to avoid repeating our past mistakes. Whether we’ll actually pay attention well enough to make that happen is the real issue (history, sadly, suggests that we won’t). Science fiction’s “safe” status isn’t a perfect one, though. Yes, there are texts that inject science fiction elements into the present (or the very near future), and the alternate history genre, which many consider to be science fiction, even though I do not, is littered with examples that contradict the safeness of the genre. But, generally speaking, I think I’m right here. Science fiction is disconnected from the past and present in a direct sense; it is the ultimate form of cognitive estrangement–the ultimate novum.
Why Electronic Publishing Will End Civilization
You might be asking yourself: how the heck can something so revolutionary and so seemingly wonderful bring about the end of civilization? And I might ask you where you’ve been the last five years and why you haven’t considered the most important and most dangerous thing to a technology-oriented society ever imagined: zombies. You see, in the post-apocalyptic zombie-ridden future, the people who are more likely to survive are going to be those old curmudgeons like myself who think that holding a real book in your hands is still far more enjoyable than a little electronic device. I’m part of a group of endangered species that actually favors page texture and smell over the click of a button when it comes to my reading. And I’m going to survive the zombie apocalypse while all you traitors who have begun to forsake the printed form in favor of something without texture, smell, or function in the post-apocalyptic world are more likely to end up infected, dead, or starving somewhere in a hole, bored out of your mind because your silly little electronic reader ran out of batteries ten weeks ago, leaving you in the dark with nothing but some rotten food and the sound of zombies pounding on the door. And the reason for all this? When push comes to shove, a good book can also be a good weapon, in the most literal sense, and using it as such doesn’t make the product unusable. Maybe I should explain that better. There are three kinds of books in the world: normal paperbacks (light, slightly flexible, and conveniently sized), hardbacks (slightly heavy, hard, and less conveniently sized), and Big Bertha books (i.e. massive dictionaries, encyclopedias, and so on). If, for whatever reason, I have run out of suitable bludgeoning tools, guns, or other forms of traditional weaponry, I can use all three of these book forms to not only entertain myself, but also to combat the undead. How? Here are a few examples of books turned into weapons using little more than some pointy things: The Pocket Star If you have a few pocket-sized books (preferably square) lying around, you can easily convert them into brain-busting throwing stars. All you need are some nails, or other pointed items, and some rubber bands. Stick them through the binding, tie the book up with the rubber bands, and start practicing. One good throw from these suckers can put down a zombie in seconds. The Whacker Any trade paperback or light hardcover can become a decent whacker. The taller the book, the better (because of your wrist movements), but you also want a fairly light book. All you need is one really good nail pushed through the binding (preferably a thick one), some rubber bands to hold the whole thing closed, and a willingness to run around whacking zombies in the head. You’ve got to be quick, though. The problem with the whacker is that it’s really easy to get stuck in skull bone. If you’re really good, you can create some sort of wrist band that keeps the whacker attached to your arm during battles. The Distractor Some books won’t do the job of killing zombies, but will do the job of confusing the hell out of them or getting them out of your way. A world atlas book makes a particularly effective Distractor, since it can be used to whack zombies out of the way if swung properly and with the appropriate amount of force. One good smack to the head will send a zombie reeling. It’s an easy tool to find and can absolutely work in a pinch. The Devastator If you’re a true book lover, you’ll most likely have some books with unusual dimensions and very thick covers. These kinds of books make wonderful Devastators for two reasons: they can take a lot more damage than other kinds of books and they are easier to swing like a baseball bat. All you need for a Devastator is a very tall or very wide hardcover book, some pointed objects, and some rubber bands. Instead of putting the nails or pointed things through the spine, put them through the cover and wrap it all up with the rubber bands. The Devastator has the effect of being extremely deadly–especially if you concentrate your nails/pointed objects in one area–and distracting due to its weight–kind of like the Distractor. If you’re really adventuresome, you can create a Double Devastator by using both sides of the book. There are plenty of other book-based weapons you can make, but these four should provide strong enough support for having a large and diverse personal library of books, because without them, you’re not likely to survive very long. Your Kindle or Nook or whatever isn’t going to last long against a zombie’s head. It’ll likely break after the first couple blows, leaving you without anything to read (assuming, of course, that your battery didn’t die well before that). Beyond that, there are some other good reasons for having a diverse personal library: Guns and Other Weapons Will Be Scarce Those of us with zombie contingency plans likely have “acquire weapons” somewhere high on the list. The problem? So does everyone else. You’re not the only one who wants guns, bats, swords, and ski poles. Everyone wants them, because that’s the best way to defend yourself when the heat is on and that’s one of the first things other than “run like hell” that pops into our heads when something terrible happens. The reality is that most gun stores will be emptied of their stock in the first few hours, leaving you and a whole lot of other people without projectile weaponry or bludgeoning tools. With a few books, you can avoid this problem entirely. You also shouldn’t forget that ammo is limited. You will run out of bullets, and those guns you tried so hard to get will become little more than heavy nuisances. They’re Good in a Pinch
Science Fiction and the Sensawunda
The other day I wrote about what makes a good science fiction movie. In the comments, a number of people quoted the phrase “sense of wonder” (or “sensawunda,” as many fans like to abbreviate it). We’ve heard this phrase before. Some have argued that science fiction now lacks “sensawunda,” and others have argued that “sensawunda” is one of the defining characteristics of science fiction–specifically, good science fiction. But the thing that always surprises me about such discussions is that few people have actually provided an explanation for what “sensawunda” is, let alone how it operates within the movies and novels they so enjoy. And when someone points to an example, I’m even more surprised that the thing in question is hardly surprising at all. Maybe the “what is it” question is a good place to start to figure this out. While definitions vary from critic to critic, most agree that “sensawunda” is some sort of paradigm shift (a phrase from John Clute and Peter Nicholls, but not an original phrase) in much the same way as the phrase is used in science: a change of our basic assumptions about something (in this case, literature and reality). If that be the case, then “sensawunda” in science fiction relies entirely upon the genre’s speculative elements, since anything that does not shift us from the present in a fundamental way cannot produce the effect (at least for most). But now we run into a problem with the concept. Science fiction has largely become a self-referential genre. While the intention of authors is likely not to look to the past of the genre, that doesn’t change the fact that almost everything in contemporary science fiction has already been done before. Contemporary science fiction is, for better or worse, a genre that is always looking to its golden past, always conjuring images and ideas presented at a time when the genre inspired and shocked people based solely on its ability to present a vision of the future not found elsewhere (wondrous or terrifying futures, depending where you looked). And if science fiction is self-referential, replicating the same references without realizing it is doing so, then “sensawunda” no longer functions. It can’t–at least not for those who are well read in the genre. “Sensawunda” relies on some new thing (the novum) that draws us out of our comfort zone of reality and gives us a new reality, one tinged with the speculative details of a future that may or may not be (science fiction has never been a predictive genre). But this can’t happen multiple times for the same thing in different formats (i.e. different authors writing about the same concept). We’ve already seen it. The surprise comes, perhaps, from the movement of the plot, but that’s not something isolated to science fiction, let alone genre fiction. If all this is true, then that means “sensawunda” is dead for the old, and lively for the new in almost all cases. New readers certainly feel the moment we all secretly mourn, while old writers continue reading for…what? What is it about contemporary science fiction that keeps us reading, despite the near bi-monthly pronouncement of the genre’s death? Why do we still go to science fiction movies? Why do we want to see a possible future when we crack the first page of a new science fiction book? It’s not “sensawunda.” I suspect we’re all aware on some level that the “sensawunda” is gone–although, maybe it still exists in the movies simply because they visualize things we’ve only dreams about or read in books. I suppose the question I’m asking is whether we’re reading science fiction because of loyalty to the genre, a perspective we’ve adopted within ourselves that constantly looks forward (even to the bad), or simply an interest in the furniture of the genre (spaceships, aliens, future technology, and so on). I’m a pessimist, so I lean more towards the last of these by default. But I could be wrong. Maybe we are loyal to the genre and in possession of that future-oriented mentality. What do you think?
Irrelevant Debates About Science Fiction: The Academy
One of the oldest debates in the science fiction community is that surrounding the academy–i.e. the university and its literary academia. We’ve heard the arguments before: some institution somewhere views science fiction literature as a pointless literary endeavor, so much so that to discuss it or apply its features to more acceptable forms of literature is tantamount to literary blasphemy. But is pointing this out relevant anymore, or has the “academics hate science fiction” debate mostly over with? Being an academic with a focus in science fiction, I have often had the feeling that I am the outsider. There were few courses on science fiction at my undergraduate institution (University of California, Santa Cruz) and my first year was spent trying to figure out where I could go to study what I cared about most–which led me primarily to institutions in England, such as the University of Liverpool. During my time at UC Santa Cruz (and some of my time at the University of Florida, where I’m still located), I made several arguments about the literary academia’s prejudice against science fiction (or things related to it), many of them rehashes of arguments that had already occurred months and even decades before by others with considerably more clout. But when I moved to Florida to acquire my M.A. at the University of Florida, my opinion on this subject changed. In the last year I have attended three academic conferences, two specifically on popular culture (broadly defined) and one on a more rigid subject (21st century writing in English). Science fiction has played a prominent role in each of these conferences. But, even more important, these conferences and my schooling at the University of Florida have made it clearer than ever that science fiction is not only becoming acceptable publicly, but also acceptable for study. Universities are quickly opening up their curriculum to science fiction, if not explicitly via the introduction of science fiction classes, then at least silently by more frequently introducing science fiction texts into academic discourse (both in the classroom and in academic journals). In fact, I think the last year or so have proven that the divide between the “literary people” and the “science fiction people” is so fuzzy as to be almost meaningless. And the more this becomes clear (and it will as more and more academics and “literary” writers delve into the depths of science fiction), the more the discussion of the evil Academy and their anti-science fiction ways will become utterly irrelevant–if it isn’t already. We’re at a point now where the dialogue between these two worlds is becoming increasingly detailed and cordial. Look at people like Adam Roberts, Paul Kincaid, Samuel R. Delany, Fredric Jameson, and, dare I say, even Farah Mendelsohn, all of whom have been active in the critical scholarship on science fiction and who have successfully driven mainstream SF into the hands of those who, at some magical point in the past, had refused to consider popular literary forms as worthy of discussion. Or, look at the kinds of authors getting attention from “literary” folks: Iain Banks (with or without the M), Kazuo Ishiguro, China Mieville, Haruki Murikami, Salman Rushdie, all the major classic SF authors, and dozens of others who are now receiving the attention they damn well deserve. The fact of the matter is: we’ve won. Will institutions still exist that are anti-science fiction? Of course, just as there are still institutions that don’t have comparative literature programs or Marxist tracks. But they’ll become increasingly less relevant to the discussion of literature and, possibly, disappear from the literary map. but that means that there really isn’t much point in crying about feeling left out of the academic discussion, because we’re not. The past is now over. We can move on and press the literary academia to become more invested in our science fiction world, and, in the process, take some cues from them (because, hey, they do know what they’re talking about…sometimes). For now, let’s take solace in the fact that we’ve won the war that we thought would wage on and on forever.
National Identity in British science fiction
When I was asked to provide a guest post on British Sci Fi, I immediately called upon The Speculators, Leicester’s foremost group of short sci-fi writers, each of whom is a font of bizarre, random and extensive knowledge on the subject. At short notice I was joined by Catherine Digman, Will Ellwood and Daniel Ribot, so with huge thanks to them, I offer you some thoughts on British Sci Fi. I wanted to know what defines British Sci fi and makes it different from the US in content and tone.While any given work has its own style and mood, what general distinctions do people perceive between the UK & US? American SF heads into space with wide-eyed optimism and no-expense-spared military hardware, while here in the UK we are shaking our heads, convinced we are bringing about our own destruction on minimum wage. Even the science fiction magazines in the States demonstrated this sense of wonder, with titles like Amazing Stories & Astounding Science Fiction. It is perhaps telling of wider national attitudes, the Americans are often first to into any fray or exploration, with Britain pulled along in their wake (often tutting loudly). Not such a surprise then that our SF tends to be empire driven or inwards facing while the US is dashing off into outer space for shoot outs and show downs. Are the new imperialists now Britain’s empire has crumbled, or are they simply following on with that frontier spirit? Of course British SF isn’t all about gloom, it’s merely the side effect of stories that seek to provide social or political commentary without the shackles of real world situations. There is a subversive tension rarely found in the more apolitical American writing. Amongst those cited for this are HG Wells (socialist), Michael Moorcock (described as a radical anarchist) and Iain Banks who was part of a movement to have Tony Blair impeached for his part in the Iraq war. This is not just a British phenomenon, European writers take a similar approach. Polish author Stanislaw Lem (Solaris, His Master’s Voice, The Cyberiad), explored such themes as “speculation on technology, the nature of intelligence, the impossibility of mutual communication and understanding, despair about human limitations and humankind’s place in the universe” (wikipedia) There is a lighter side to British Sci Fi. This is thanks to likes of Douglas Adams. Toby Frost’s excellent Space Captain Smith series is not only only gleefully camp and silly, but also continues a grand tradition of the British sending themselves up. Certainly it should be included in our fiction legacy, offsetting the political gloom with a sense of humour. The difference is that rather than focussing on the larger scale issues of alien invasion and dying worlds, the lighter British SF tends to focus on the people, the relationships, while everything else simply forms an entertaining back drop. This suggests two strains of British SF. One reflects on large scale events, using characters to guide us through them, the second focusses on the personal melodrama of characters that could be anyone, anywhere… It’s just more fun to do it in space. A quick tweet asking ‘what do you think of when I say British SF?’ prompted more people to reply with TV shows – Red Dwarf, Blakes 7, Quartermass – alongside novelists such as Wyndham,. British SF in the worldwide twitter consciousness is largely visual. I had to specify books to get a few more suggestions. This is particularly interesting given my twitter stream is made up largely of authors, reviewers and avid readers, many of them in genre fiction. I would suggest this is because TV series and films are so immediately identifiable by their nation of origin, while books are selected and enjoyed and a casual reader is often not aware of the nationality of the writer. It’s not something I consider about a book. I may buy a book because I’ve come across the author on twitter and am entertained by them, or because I like the shiny cover, or the back blurb sounds interesting, but I do not enter a shop with the thought ‘today I want to buy dystopian sci fi by a british writer’ or ‘I absolutely must have American space opera’. It was only when I started considering this post I realised how few authors, particularly in sci fi, I could attribute a nationality to. I enjoy the tropes and a mix of approaches in my reading, so I read a mixture of styles, authors and nationalities, (Japan has produced some superb Sci Fi with it’s own distinctive style). I am more conscious of it now and will be looking for the patterns, for the tells in British writing that indicate the political and social concerns of the day, the passion for exploration from the US. Of course above all, what I shall be looking for is a good story. When all is said and done that’s what brings us all to the shelves in the end.