Science Fiction is Not Immortal
Having spoken of the non-death of science fiction, it occurs to me that I should also talk about the would-be-death of the genre. Because, unlike general fiction (or “literary” fiction, if you want to call it that, though that would be unfair), science fiction does have a limited lifespan. To be fair to SF, that lifespan is a long one, since the inevitable death of SF cannot occur until one of two things becomes true (and I have mentioned these before): a) we are incapable of imagining the future any longer; or b) the future ceases to exist. I don’t know how either of these possibilities will ever worm their way into existence short of the apocalypse descending upon us, since, after all, the physical end of human history as we know it would constitute a complete absence of the future. But then, SF wouldn’t exist because there would be nobody there to think about it. So that is not a possible solution to the problematic nature of SF’s mortality. Instead, and I think I have touched on this at some previous point, science fiction will cease to exist in the first instance when some measure of hope (or the utopian ideal of such a thing) no longer occupies us as a bulk entity of fleshy masses, when we literally cease concerning ourselves with the present’s pursuit of the future. How? Perhaps through the creation of a utopian state, as much as one can exist, in which the needs of each man and woman are attended to, in some fashion or another. It’s hard to say what could produce the incapability of imagining the future, but when that occurs, SF dies. In the second instance, however, the future must cease to exist because the limitations of the future itself are as mortal as science fiction. The future is not indefinite, but is replaceable, recycling itself over and over, in a cycle that is finite. It is not a perpetual motion machine, but a machine with a long, slow, drawn out cease-ment-of-living. The future, thus, ends for mankind when there is nowhere else to go. Perhaps that is at the end of life as we know it, or at the end of the universe (the collapsing of the energy that created us all, which would then restart the cycle, restart time like a battery). More than likely, it is at the point in humanity’s inevitably long existence in which we simply have nowhere else to go. Imagine that, if you will: after all those centuries, we come to a point where technology cannot progress, where what is around the corner is little more than the same thing that we saw yesterday, and nothing we do changes anything in a significant manner whatsoever (on a global or galactic scale). That is where science fiction dies. But, a simpler approach, one that is less “philosophical,” if you will, is to try to think about the place we will eventually be in, where science fiction cannot possibly offer us anything else. If we already have space ships and aliens and AI and robots and all of those imaginative constructs, then, really, where else is there to go? Science fiction simply cannot exist in that sort of environment. It will cease to be speculative and forever become the present, the every-day. We’ll stop calling it “science fiction” and, instead, shove it in with all those mainstream and “literary” novels. That is, of course, if literature can survive the distant future. And that’s all I have to say on that. What do you think?
Science Fiction’s Not Dead, Fantasy is in the Golden Age
People are talking about the death of science fiction again. It’s not actually dead, far from it, but as soon as someone says “it’s dead” someone else goes crazy (either because they believe SF has long been dead or because they’re tired of hearing the argument). Apparently the genre has a few dozen lives and manages to die and be resurrected ten or so times a year. The End of the Universe said science fiction has nine lives, but I think that’s too conservative of an estimate. It’s died at least that many times in this year alone… The problem with science fiction isn’t that it’s dead. To be fair to the genre, it’s never actually died, but it has been overshadowed to varying degrees in history. Even in its supposed “Golden Age” science fiction was not exactly as popular people seem to remember. Yes, it was popular, but science fiction never had the popularity of mainstream pop-fiction. That’s not to say it was irrelevant or that no science fiction books sold well enough to make it to the bestseller’s list; quite a few actually did, but in comparison to traditionally larger genres (romance and quasi-mysteries), it really didn’t make the crossover into market dominance at any point in its multi-century lifespan. Fantasy, on the other hand, has, and not because the genre is necessarily better (and neither is it worse). Fantasy is doing well because it got lucky. Now, to be fair to fantasy, it has always done rather well ever since Tolkien became a persistent model for other fantasy writers. As a genre, fantasy had a lot of uphill battles to fight to get to a point where it had a secure market, but once it got there it never let it go. Now, however, fantasy has exploded. Some have said that fantasy is experiencing a “Golden Age” of its own–and I would have to agree. Why? Well, as unpredictable as the market often is in regards to what will be the hot item of the year, I would say that fantasy simply got lucky. The publishers had no way of knowing that urban fantasy would plow through the roof like it did, or that other forms of fantasy (more traditional forms, if you will, and even the exceedingly non-traditional–literary, ultra-weird, etc.) would grow moderately over the last couple decades. It just happened. Now, if I were to argue for a reason, I would say that the last eight years have had a lot to do with the rise of fantasy. Publisher Weekly almost acknowledged as much in the last year when the recession hit and sales of escapist titles (science fiction and fantasy) actually rose (it was temporary in the sense that, while people were going to SF/F for a presumed escape from the present, the downturn of the economy eventually led to an almost universal drop in sales in almost all markets, some of which have yet to fully recover). The reality seems to be that when the proverbial crap hits the fan, readers flock to literature that is less likely to make matters worse. They want heroes and adventures, of a sort. I don’t know if this is true for everyone, but sales seem to reflect that. I am unsure how urban fantasy fits into this assessment–UF tends to be somewhat dark in nature. Either we have to accept that people are somewhat darker at heart than we ever anticipated, or urban fantasy offers a bit of harmless, well, fantasy. I don’t know how long fantasy’s “Golden Age” will last. As with all booms in literature, there are limits, and I suspect that urban fantasy, which seems to be the genre largely pulling fantasy up out of the pool, will eventually wear out its welcome–fantasy, as a whole, will not. For now, we can sleep soundly knowing that science fiction isn’t dead and fantasy is doing quite well. That’s good news.
Entrenched Opposition: A Rebuttal (Part Two)
Riadan, one of the commentators on my recent post on science fiction’s battle against an entrenched opposition had some interesting things to say. Since his or her comments were rather long and deserved significant rebuttal and discussion, I thought I would approach them via a dedicated post. So, without further adieu, here goes a (mostly) line-by-line counter argument to Riadan: No, Science fiction does not have a near impenetrable no-mans land to cross. No, Science fiction does not have an impenetrable social barrier to destroy. Science fiction has grabbed the hearts and minds of the populace. Who these days are not born with the concept that maybe, just maybe, the future will be awesome. Maybe, just maybe, our race will not lob deathweapons at every soul on earth. I know you are a young white male. Who of your peers are not touched by science fiction in a very personal manner? Do you have friends who are Star Trek geeks? Or Star Wars nerds, perhaps. We are fucking science fiction, and many people realize our scientific and technical world. I think we have the problem here of science fiction style. True, science fiction has grabbed the dominant culture fairly easily in recent years, but this is through the medium of film more-so than the medium of books. Film, unfortunately, is not approached, consumed, or even perceived as the same thing as a book, and so is a separate entity. But, film, especially in film studies, has had a hard time trying to make the case for the value of science fiction film, particularly because what has been most successful in film are not those occasional films with something “valuable” to say (making a personal judgment here on “value”), but those films most recognized as flashy or indicative of what Ellison and others have angrily called “scifi” rather than “science fiction.” So, while Star Wars and Star Trek and Transformers and all those other massive franchises, and even small ones like Firefly, et al, have captured the minds and hearts of the general viewer, they have not wormed their way into the esteemed clutches of the academia at the same pace. There is, I would argue, far more work to be done in film than in literature. That said, working back to literature, I think it is fair to say that this assumption of widespread adoption of science fiction literature is not nearly as true as you might think. We frequently see talk of science fiction literature sales dropping (with the exception of media tie-ins); if that is true, then it is hard to say that science fiction has even managed to maintain its own selective readership, let alone been properly exposed to or adopted by those outside of it. What argument are you rallying against?You quote Margaret Atwood without taking into account her context. She does write literary fiction, even though I sneer at her applying such a label to herself. She has never denied that she has written sci-fi novels. Her commentary to Oryx and Crake proves that (forgive me for not citing correctly). Her commentary has never suggested that she calls herself a “science fiction writer.” Quite the contrary. In fact, she goes to great lengths to get around the fact that she does write science fiction by pulling the “furniture” argument or using terminology that was never meant to be used the way she proposes (speculative fiction began as a term to mean science fiction and has since been adopted as the umbrella term for SF and fantasy; she seems to think it’s something else). The problem with Atwood is that even when she seems to be accommodating, she is simultaneously defending her high-brow position of literary quality and other such mumbo jumbo. Take her 2005 article for the Guardian. Sure, she starts to admit, there, that she writes science fiction, but also goes to great lengths to say she does not. She’s saying “you can call it whatever you want, but I call it this, and that’s that.” The fact that Atwood actually does write science fiction, but refuses to use the label herself implies that the little bit of literary snobbery that keeps SF out of the literature party on Saturday nights is still alive and kicking. You do not provide an adequate counter-argument for your statement. There is no pro to your anti. There is no thoughtpolice to your Winston. Instead you fawn over the achievements (and great achievements they are) of the sci-fi greats of the past (though you missed out a few. The genius of Olaf Stapledon, and the portentous paranoia of Ballard and Burgess did well to establish sci-fi as mainstream and as *ahem* winning) and while fawning you provide no counter. What is the counter? Science fiction certainly has made great strides. There are, as I mentioned, a handful of programs dedicated to the stuff and even a research organization, and colleges have begun to include more science fiction curriculum. But that doesn’t counter the fact that science fiction isn’t there yet. It hasn’t secured its place. It has a very big leg in the door, sure, but it has yet to break through with its torso and head. The anti-SF crowd periodically slams that door against SF’s leg just to make a point. I get that SF has come a long way, as a film genre and a literature genre, but coming a long way is not the same as making it. It’s getting there, but we shouldn’t be too secure as SF fans to think that the war is over. The entrenched opposition is waging a fierce battle. Instead you use an “us-vs-them” mentality, which does nothing to forward the so-called “cause” of science fiction. Science fiction was born (as we know it. Fiction magazines of the thirties etc) as a product of the popular.Science Fiction is a Popular Movement. “We” won with the printing of the first paperback sci-fi novel. We won when the first person
Entrenched Opposition: Science Fiction Ain’t There Yet (Part One)
(This is part of a potential new series of posts. I really want your thoughts on this, particularly constructive criticism. If you hate this, say so. I don’t care if you hate it. It’s what’s on my mind, and if it’s leading me in pointless directions, I’d like to know.) When can we say that science fiction has officially crossed the boundary into becoming a legitimate field of study in the eyes of academia (or, at least, the scholars that fill up the positions that, collectively, are known as the literary academia)? Is it possible for science fiction enthusiasts, critics, fans, readers, lovers, obsessives, or psychotics to raise up their hands and say, “Victory?” Science fiction has earned its place in history and in the classroom; we, the science fiction enthusiasts and lovers, know this as well as we know that the sun must rise every day (perhaps only a handful of you would argue otherwise). Science fiction deserves to be taught just as Mark Twain deserves to be taught. These are facts, incontrovertible. And science fiction has, in a way, reigned victorious over the opposition, and has reigned for as long as it has existed as a genre (even hidden and un-remarked-upon by its makers, for Mary Shelley and the handful of others before her could not have known that their speculative visions would have sparked an entire literary movement that stormed onto the scene in the early half of the 19th century and never let up). 1984, we would argue, is science fiction; Margaret Atwood, Mary Shelley, Cyrano de Bergerac, and all those names forgotten by, or never exposed to, public school students have written science fiction, no matter how hard some of that lot would argue otherwise. But, despite all this, despite 1984, Fahrenheit 451, Brave New World, Utopia, and other “literary” tales, science fiction has not won. Despite the extensive study of the genre in universities across the world, despite the Science Fiction Studies degree program at the University of Liverpool, the Science Fiction Research Association, the Modern Language Association’s inclusion of a science fiction and fantasy discussion board, or the various high-profile literary critics like Phillip Wegner, Frederick Jameson, Samuel R. Delany, Darko Suvin, Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, Jr., science fiction has not won. The opposition is entrenched, buried like a human being’s personality under a mountain of psychosis. We are the foot soldiers marching across flat terrain to an “enemy” set up in fortified positions, in trenches and bunkers and underground tunnels, who have been preparing for this battle without knowing they were doing so. And they have superior numbers. You see, for all that we have managed to achieve, science fiction has yet to claim “victory.” It can’t, because whenever we say “well, science fiction has been in school curriculum for decades,” the entrenched opposition throws an un-combatable argument back at us: “1984 is not a science fiction novel. It’s literature. It just uses the furniture of science fiction, but it’s not SF. It’s real literature!” (Image found here) Margaret Atwood, bless her soul, has been one of the most vocal about this position, along with Harlan Ellison. They do not write science fiction; they just use the furniture. Interesting how you don’t see it work the other way: imagine a science fiction author being called “literary” and telling everyone, “I do not write literary fiction. I just use the furniture.” Does the argument make sense? Of course not. But if the entrenched opposition made any sense, this “war” would have ended long ago. But these arguments are what maintain the divide. The indefatigable persistence of this position lends itself well to the ears of those who turn their noses at the SF/F community. Science fiction, they say, is not literature. It’s mindless fluff. It’s escapist drivel. It’s nonsense masked by weak prose and hebetudinous style. Therefore, 1984 cannot be science fiction. It’s too good for that label. Margaret Atwood is a literary writer; she does not stoop to that all time low embodied by the science fiction genre. No. We are too good for that. You see, science fiction must combat this entrenched mentality; it must push against the fold that cannot be unfolded, and must learn the tricks that are not tricks. We cannot use their language; we cannot say “it is science fiction, even if you say it isn’t,” because our realities are different. We do not presume to hold science fiction up as perfect. Just as the literary establishment segregates itself from the popular literature (that, they claim, devalues all that is wonderful about the written language), science fiction enthusiasts and critics segregate. We have to, because we are not naïve to think that all science fiction is good or worth subjecting to critical inquiry. Science fiction is a mixed bag, but we seem to have a decent idea on what constitutes good and bad, what is worth more than the label of “escapist fluff.” Some of that fits into the rigid universe of the entrenched opposition; some of that does not. It is that which fits that we must reconcile and drag out of the abyss the opposition has created for it. 1984 is science fiction. It does not “use the furniture.” It created the furniture (dystopian furniture, to say the least) and became a model. The models are our friends, our allies in the fight. But how do we wrestle away that which fits? How do we un-entrench the opposition long enough for them to see that science fiction is not a label of debasement, but a mark of honor? To be called a “science fiction writer” is not to be called “garbage,” but to be seen as worthy of the adoration of a niche, of rabid fans who devour anything under the science fiction label with at least half as much fervor as the fans of Twilight devour Edward. This is the question to be asked and answered. I have asked the question. The answer will come
Science Fiction, Writing, and the Race Gap
I have recently been reading a unique book called Astrofuturism: Science, Race, and Visions of Utopia in Space by De Witt Douglas Kilgore (that name is a mouthful). One of the unique points he tries to make is that science fiction is, in some respects, racist; Kilgore does not argue that the fiction of writers like Clarke, or other more recent authors, supports racism, but that the very absence of people of color suggests, as he puts it, the extinction of non-white, non-European people. To put it differently, Kilgore makes the argument that science fiction in the past, and this is, I would argue, still true today, imagined the white European state as the continued dominant cultural pattern (think Star Trek, Star Wars, et al.). Plenty of other arguments are made in the introduction to Kilgore’s book, but this one is what struck me most. Kilgore’s take on race and how it has been perceived interests me because I have to lodge a disagreement. If RaceFail has taught us anything, it is that writing outside of one’s comfort zone is difficult, if not impossible, and that attempting to do so can lead you into a lot of trouble. One can attempt to write from a black perspective as a white male, but there have been few writers who have pulled off such a feat to the satisfaction of those most vehemently concerned with this issue. RaceFail pointed out the futility of writing PoC. But Kilgore takes all this a step further and hints at an intentional or unintentional extinction of non-white races by the fact that they are, for the most part, practically nonexistent (and when they are present, they rarely have good roles, and are, more or less, there to act as furniture, as if to say “see, we still exist”). This seems too simple. For example, to make such a claim, one must know the psychological conditions that produce these sorts of white-dominated works of fiction (some assumption is made on Kilgore’s part that all the things he has read have all been predominately about white people; for clarification, there is no assumption on Kilgore’s part that any particular author is racist, though some may be). How might where someone is raised influence one’s writing? Could we say that an author living in a predominately white area might automatically be inclined to write about white characters? And on the inverse, could we say that an author living in a more mixed place may be more inclined to write about characters of various races? They say “write what you know,” and I have to be honest in saying that I only just recently began to understand what it is like to live in a place where white is not the dominant color. Coming from California, my exposure to people of other races was limited, particularly in Santa Cruz. There were Hispanics and blacks and Japanese and Chinese, and a few Indians too. Mostly, however, Santa Cruz and all the places I had visited in California were populated mostly by white people. But here, in Gainesville, the story is different. I only realized how different when I actually came here and saw it with my own eyes. In looking back at my writing, this absence of exposure does show up in my fiction. It was never intentional, but the world that I had lived in did not make easy the process of writing about people considered different by skin color (I don’t agree with this, but dominant society does; I think race is a stupid concept anyway). Now, however, I imagine myself becoming more comfortable with the prospect of writing about characters of different colors. It’s not that I did not want to write such characters, but that I never knew how. You can’t tell someone “write a Chinese character now, and it has to be authentic” if that person is not comfortable with doing such things. We write in our comfort zones because those are the spaces we know well enough to remain close enough to reality to be accurate. But there is a lot of fear, too; after all, if you fail to properly portray a character of a certain race, you will have effectively committed career suicide. Once the mob knows you exist, it’s game over. Similar things happen if you don’t write PoC. Maybe this is isolated to myself, though. I can’t say. I know little about the biographical histories of science fiction writers, but I do know my own history. I write in my comfort zone because it’s what I know. I don’t presume to know the “black experience” or the “Japanese experience” or the “Irish experience.” I know my experience. That’s where I write from. And since that is true, then Kilgore would say that my futures are tinged with the extinction of people of other races. That seems unfair. Now it’s time for you all to chime in, because I like hearing your thoughts on things like this. Have at it!
Preliminary Cyberpunk Curriculum, and Other Considerations
I mentioned somewhere (maybe Twitter, though, to be honest, my online correspondence has largely become a blur in the last few months) that I am considering developing an independent study graduate course dealing with cyberpunk and capitalism. This interest follows my attempts to conceptualize cyberpunk as a genre and the pressing curiosity as to the capitalistic claims of the genre. With that in mind, I’ve started putting together a preliminary “reading list.” I am, of course, quite open to suggestions or modifications to this list. Your thoughts are most welcome here. So, here goes (new additions added at 7:12 PM on Sept. 28th, 10:17 AM on Oct. 1st, and 12:34 PM on Oct. 8th — more additions are on the way, I just haven’t been able to update yet). Novels:Neuromancer by William GibsonVurt by Jeff NoonDead Girls, etc. by Richard Calder (love him)Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. DickCrash by J. G. BallardThe Integrated Man by Michael BerlynThe Shockwave Rider by John BrunnerWhen Gravity Fails by George Alec EffingerMemoirs Found in a Bathtub by Stanislaw LemSpin State/Spin Control by Chris MoriartySpacetime Donuts by Rudy RuckerSnow Crash by Neil Stephenson Mirrorshades edited by Bruce Sterling Nova by Samuel R. Delany Moxyland by Lauren Beukes Babylon Babies by Maurice G. Dantec Theory, etc.:Postmodernism by Fredric Jameson The Communist Manifesto by Karl MarxMarx and Lenin (or works on them, at least)(This section is really where I need suggestions, particularly for books that are not Marxist critiques of capitalism) So, any thoughts?