A. Betram Chandler and the Alien Encounter

I just finished the short story collection, The Hard Way Up (Ace 1972), by A. Bertram Chandler. I really enjoyed it. I had pigeonholed Chandler as a military space opera writer who was using the back drop of outer space to tell military and political stories of intrigue and adventure; however, after having read this short story collection, I admit he is more than this. He is a genuine Science Fiction writer with a capital S and F who doesn't just use the stereotypical tropes of the genre--spaceships, laser guns, robots, aliens-- to spin yarns. He also utilizes science fiction's speculative and extrapolative philosophical structure to engage in rich "thought experiments."

A story that illustrates this point, I think, is "The Wandering Buoy," which was originally published in Analog in September of 1970. The story is very intriguing, very suggestive. It concerns a strange encounter John Grimes has as he and his crew are wandering through interstellar space in their Adder class space ship on a routine mail courier mission in which they encounter a strange, unidentifiable sphere. The source of the drama in the story is the struggle of the crew and Grimes to "domesticate" the strangeness of this sphere. They launch various probes at the sphere, and these are repelled by an unknown force. They then try to communicate with the sphere, thinking it a kind of ship, through electronic and psionic means, but they fail to make contact. Eventually they come to understand the nature of the repellent force that keeps them at a distance from the sphere, and they suceed in exploring it. I don't want to give away what they discover in the sphere, but suffice it to say it's very interesting.

On the surface, this story seems to be re-telling of Arthur C. Clarke's famous short story, "The Sentinel," which was published in the Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader in 1951. In Clarke's story a space survey crew discover a strange pyramid on the moon which turns out to be the herald of an alien race who nurtured humanity in its youth. Famously, Clarke expanded this story into 2001: A Space Odyssey with Stanley Kubrick. But in some very distinct parts, Chandler puts unique "spins" on this narrative. The Sphere is distinct from the pyramid in Clarke's story and the Monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey in some very important points.

And yet, I'm less concerned with their differences than their similarities. I find it so intriguing that science fiction narratives gravitate toward this interesting "encounter" plot. It's as if a major cognitive affordance offered by science fiction is that it allows us to imagine encounters with strange, Alien entities that challenge our notions of who we are and where we came from.

An Homage and Critique of Michael Saler's *As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality* (Oxford UP, 2012)

I'm reading a book of literary history, As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality  (Oxford UP, 2012) by Michael Saler. He treats the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft, and J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth. To really simplify his argument: he is pushing back against literary historians/critics who see genre fiction (i.e. mystery, science fiction, and fantasy) as problematically escapist, as completely severed from this reality. He asserts that these writers created alternative worlds that allowed readers to come to see their own realities as contingent, as "fictional" in a way. He attempts to make a case that the fictional worlds created by these writers opened up a space for their readers to imagine Reality with a capital R as malleable, as subject to change.

Let me just say, I loved Saler's book! For all intents and purposes, this is an homage to Saler's book! A recommendation for you to buy it and read it!

His reading of H.P. Lovecraft's biography and its relationship to the overarching thematic trends in the Cthulhu mythos is very convincing and compelling. I am so inspired by the idea that such an intelligent and serious scholar has turned his sights on Doyle, Lovecraft, and Tolkien. He even talks about Dungeons and Dragons in this monograph, something that delights considering it was published by the Oxford University Press. As a researcher struggling with many of the issues broached in this book, I can truly say it put wind in my sails. And, admittedly, there's a lot in Saler's book that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around.

And yet--

I get the sense Saler wants to see genre fiction and the alternative worlds that emerge from them as pseudo-"didactic" texts, texts that teach a lesson. I don't think he sees genre fiction as didactic in a direct, allegorical way (e.g. the orcs of Middle Earth aren't supposed to represent fascist Germany; Cthulhu is not supposed to be an alienating modernity; Sherlock Holmes is not performing as a perfect modern citizen, etc.). Saler is much more subtle. However, in spite of his subtlety and very convincing analysis (as well as the obvious respect he has for genre), I find his overarching framework slightly unpalatable. He seems to be describing (in a highly sophisticated way) what genre fiction allows its readers to do.

I guess a part of me doesn't prefer thinking about genre fiction in an instrumental context, as if its only worth studying because it serves an important social function. It's seems an obvious, kind of "throwback" argument. "Reading pulp fiction will rot your brain!" says the elitist. "You should read mature art that's truly beautiful." "No," responds Saler, "pulp fiction will make me a better person."


I think all art serves a social function. From an anthropological perspective, art is function. For me, that's a given. But by focusing on this function, some very important elements of art are thrown out of focus. How do I want to approach science fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy?

Uhh... let me get back to you on that.

My Theory of Ridley Scott's * Prometheus*: Liquid Extra-dimensional Gods and Flesh-Portals

So I reviewed Ridley Scott's Prometheus--loved it--but I haven't stopped thinking about it. As I said in my review, I think the film purposefully ends with a bunch of unanswered questions. I don't see that as an aesthetic flaw. It actually one of the elements of the film that satisfied. Indeed, in terms of the theme of the film, the unanswerable nature of cosmic questions is the point!

Anyhow--a past-time around the blogosphere lately has been to offer theories about the film, to attempt to answer some of those questions raised by the movie: who are the Engineers? What are they doing? Where to the Xenomorphs fall into this pseudo-prequel? Well, I'd like to offer a theory.

I'm under no delusion that this is the "correct" theory. I'm not convinced that the film makers have thought that far ahead, and I don't fault the writers for leaving threads untied. That's what brings a story to life! Once you've written everything, have all the "kinks" worked out, it's over. Anyhow, here's some thoughts I have, my vision of what the film's questions answered...

Who are the Engineers? Or, Liquefy Yourself Before Traveling Between Dimensions

The Engineers are android-like creations akin to David the android. They were created by the Xenomorphs to serve them. In the same way David the android serves humanity, the Engineers were created to serve the Xenomorphs. Accordingly, the Xenomorph ship where a lot of the action takes place: this is not an Engineer vessel. No. It's a Xenomorph vessel. All of funerary-looking jars filled with the black goo: those are holding tanks for the Xenomorphs's consciousnesses, the true lords of that ship. We humans, when we want to travel long distances across space, we freeze ourselves in hibernation tanks. The Xenomorphs, though, they turn themselves into a black goo. The liquefy themselves and their consciousnesses into a black goo that has to then be downloaded into organic vessels.

Who are the Xenomorphs? Or, Extradimensional Aliens in Search of a Body

In my theory, the Xenomorphs are extra-dimensional creatures of extreme, inhuman intelligence. They come from another dimension completely distinct from our universe, a place where the laws of science are different: energy, space, matter, consciousness--all of these things are different in their dimension. None of our physical laws apply there. Hence, their strange traveling strategy. Unlike the Engineers and humans, which are creatures of this dimension, they Xenomorphs are traversing not just galaxies and star systems; no. They're traversing the dividing line between different dimensions. Creepy, huh? Why are they leaving their dimension behind? Hmm...

Who are the Humans? Or, Can a Body Be a Portal?

Humans have been grown in order to serve as the "organic vessels/ flesh portals" for the Xenomorphs. In other words, the Xenomorphs need a body of the cognitive and physiological capacity of a human to "port" themselves into this dimension. And so, they had the Engineers create the humans on Earth. They allowed us to multiply until there were enough of us to occupy, to "port" through. As of the late melennium, there are enough of us to bring on the Xenomorphs. The human race has "incubated" or "cooked" long enough. No w that there are enough of us, it's time for the Xenomorphs to finish their trip from their dimension to ours. In this theory the Engineers become a kind of taxi-ing service for the Xenomorphs. Humans are mere vessels/portals that the Xenomorphs will use. They have every right to, of course, because they created us. When they get to earth in goo form, they'll "face hugger" us, incubate in us, and then burst out into our dimension having successfully crossed the dividing line separate their dimension from ours.

What is the Meaning of Human Life?


Here's the horrifying answer furnished by this theory: human life was created to allow a extra-dimension race of inhumanly intelligent alien-gods entrance into our dimension so that they can exploit all of its resources.

***

I struck on this idea by considering the opening montage, when David is caressing all the hibernation chambers of human ship-mates. And then I thought about the parallel between David and the only surviving Engineer. They wake him up, David attempts to talk to him, and then the Engineer rips his head off.

I found this exchange so disturbing. Why would the Engineer do this? Why would he attack David? Kill the humans? The Engineer just woke up and found himself surrounded by humans asking him, "What were we made for?" How does he respond? What could his answer possibly have been? Here's a guess:

"Uhh... you were made so that extra-dimensional Aliens can impregnate you and then make their way into this dimension. You are mid-wifes to our creators, our Gods, who will ill-use you in their attempt to come into this world.

Not the best thing to hear. I assume the Engineer thought to himself that, considering their linquistic skill, the humans and David had discovered what they were and that they were there to stop the long surviving Engineer from "taxi-ing" the Xenomorphs to earth, to complete their transference to this dimension. Hmm... He was going to pour the goo that is the Xenomorphs into the ocean that is the earth's Ecosystem to bring about a new age, the coming of the Engineers's dark gods

But there's a kink...

Why were the Engineers running? What happened? What was chasing them in those holographic displays? Hmm...

I think there were two types of Engineers. (1) Engineers who were loyal to the Xenomorphs; and (2) Engineers who rebelled, if you will. Those were the Engineers who were created by the Xenomorphs who were "eager to kill their parents."

What do you think?

*H.P. Lovecraft's, Book of Horror*: Arthur Machen's, *The Great God Pan* (1894)

A few days ago I discovered a very interesting fiction anthology at my local Half Price Books. It's titled, H.P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror and its edited by Stephen Jones and Dave Carson (New York: Fall River Press, 2008). It's a really interesting idea for an anthology.

It opens with H.P. Lovecraft's famous 1927 survey essay of weird literature, titled, "Supernatural Horror in Literature," and then it proceeds with a story from most of the writers Lovecraft highlights in this essay. So, basically, the anthology starts with a survey of what HPL thought was the best weird literature of his time; and then it gives you a taste of those writers (some forgotten), that he analyzed in his essay. In a way, you're reading the weird literature of the early 20th century with H.P. Lovecraft as your guide. Quite interesting.

I purchased the anthology for a specific story, Arthur Machen's proto-science-fiction / horror novella The Great God Pan (1894) which is widely considered to be a major influence for H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." I read it and I want to share a little about it. Here's some plot:

Plot

It concerns a scientist by the name of Raymond. He has discovered a surgical means by which to allow an otherwise invisible realm of reality to be perceived by the human sensorium. A minor surgical modification of the brain, he has discovered, will allow a human subject to glimpse "the great god pan." I won't give away what that means. Let this suffice: after Raymond performs the surgery on his ward, what she glimpses does not result in something favorable.

Narrative Structure

The story is written quite well. What really strikes me about it is its narrative structure. The story is not related from the perspective of one character; rather, the plot unfolds through the points of view of many different characters, each with their specific knowledge and their specific ignorance. From the reader's perspective, you become privy to certain information as you pick out patterns that other characters, embedded in the storyworld, cannot hope to see. A consequence of this narrative structure is that you, the reader, are the one making all of the connections even as the characters struggle to make the connections. And as these patterns begin to reveal themselves, the horror begins to mount.

Theme

In terms of theme, there's a lot in this story going on with gender and sexuality. The "villain," if you will, is a woman who is strongly implied to be sexually promiscuous. And a component of the horror, it seems, is the idea that she would let so many gentleman into her bed and body. It's strange. As a modern, this obviously doesn't stir as much as it would for, say, a contemporary reader. And yet--there is nevertheless something powerful about the story.

The Danger of Asking "Cosmic" Questions: A Review of Ridley Scott's *Prometheus*

This blog post contains spoilers for the film Prometheus. If you haven't seen the film and intend on seeing it--and you don't want your experience marred--I recommend you stop reading.

***

Recently I saw the Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror film, Prometheus. I loved it! I left the theater with a sick feeling that has been lingering for a couple of days, but it was an experience. And so, I highly recommend it.

It's a beautiful, sublime film in the spirit of such science-fiction / horror classics as Fred M. Wilcox's Forbidden Planet (1956), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997). As in all of these films, the tone of cosmic vastness pervaded by horrible, indifferent and god-like creatures suggests to me H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. As in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, in these films (Prometheus specifically) existential questions about the origins of life, the meaning of the universe, the relative location of the human world are audaciously braved. And--*gulp*--answered.

The unifying structure that combines all of these films is that the answers discovered in the course of the narrative are, in a word, horrifying. In Prometheus, however, this theme is taken to a new height. In answer to such cosmic, existential questions as, "What is the meaning of life? Was humanity created? Why was it created?" the film responds with a resounding, hostile, scream-like gargle: there is no answer to these questions! Don't go looking for such answers! Die! 

Weyland Meeting His Maker

Indeed, one of the most powerful scenes in the film was when the explorers have located one of the ancient engineers who is still alive but in suspended hibernation. They wake him up. The elderly Weyland is there, having traversed a great expanse of the galaxy, to ask a question of his maker: "Why did you make us?" After a strange moment where the Engineer-creature caresses the robot creation of Weyland (the android David), he kills the old man.

This exchange--existential question asked, horrible answer given--epitomizes what is going on in a specific tradition of science-fiction founded, I think, by the work of H.P. Lovecraft: cosmic horror. If you go to the stars looking for answers to existential questions, all you will find is horror. Sure, you might discover god, but you might not enjoy just what you discover god to be.

This is why I find the critical reaction to Prometheus somewhat frustrating. Consider the consensus review on RottenTomatoes.com, which rates that film a 74%:

"Ridley Scott's ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it's redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances -- particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android." (my emphasis)

It's so obvious to me that a major theme of the narrative is that certain cosmic-level, existential questions cannot be answered and should not, perhaps, be asked. The point of the film is that some questions--these cosmic questions--don't have answers; or, rather, the answers are of a scale beyond naive human understanding. Anyway...

To reiterate: I loved Prometheus. I find this kind of story intriguing. It stirs me intellectually and emotionally. But I need to qualify some things. The feeling it evokes is very modern. The reason it satisfies, I think, is because it names a demon, a feeling that many of us "sensitive folks" living in Modernity struggle with: the feeling of oppressive insignificance, anonymity; the unshakable sadness associated with the idea that perhaps life means nothing, that we human beings are just chemical accretions that slop around a rock for a brief span of time, eating, excreting, eating, excreting, multiplying, multiplying. Indeed, I find this kind of story intriguing. To reiterate again: I loved Prometheus. But let me be back off a little bit and say that, although I enjoyed the film--it entertained me--it didn't give me pleasure. The horror genre rarely gives pleasure. The pleasure it gives--if you can call it that--is the pleasure of picking at a wound, or massaging a canker sore in your mouth, or that terrible burn after shooting some liquor. It's the "pleasurable pain" of a horrible feeling confirmed. And so, as much as I liked Prometheus, I liked it conditionally.

On the Origins of the Term "Science Fiction"

I find myself wondering when the term for the genre of "science fiction" emerged. Lord Wikipedia seems to suggest that, in the American context at least, Hugo Gernsback's preference for the term "scientifiction" stands as an inaugural gesture. Gernsback founded the pulp magazine, Amazing Stories in 1926. And so, it seems that "science fiction" as a distinct genre might be argued to have emerged in 1926. But "scienctificion" is not "science fiction." Hmm...

My gut impression of "science fiction" is of something that achieved "critical mass" in the early to mid twenties. But the term used to describe the work of H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, and Arthur Conan Doyle, makes me question this. Their work was labeled "scientific romances." Were they advertised as "scientific romances"? When did Wells, Verne, and Doyle cease to be writers of "scientific romances" and begin to be considered "science fiction" writers? That's important. 

The issue for me is that of tradition and community. When did the tradition of "science fiction" become firmly established in the popular lexicon? 

The first entry of its use in the Oxford English Dictionary is from 1851 from a book by W. Wilson titled,  Little Earnest Bk. upon Great Old Subject. He writes, 

"Campbell says that ‘Fiction in Poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and enchanting resemblance.’ Now this applies especially to Science-Fiction, in which the revealed truths of Science may be given, interwoven with a pleasing story which may itself be poetical and true—thus circulating a knowledge of the Poetry of Science, clothed in a garb of the Poetry of Life." (OED).

The next entry comes from 1929:

"The editor of this publication [sc. H. Gernsback] addressed a number of letters to science fiction lovers. The editor promised to pay $50.00 for the best letter each month on the subject of ‘What Science Fiction Means to Me.’"  (OED).

So, we glimpse the first reference to "science fiction" in 1851, and the next official reference to it in 1929, 78 years later. I'm interested in the strange alchemy that took place over those 78 years, as the idea of "science fiction" evolved, become firmly established, and basically came to become what it is we know and love.

Hmm...

Dr. Moreau and Hubris: A Critical Reflection on the Character of the Mad Scientist

Yesterday I read H.G. Wells's The Island of Dr. Moreau. I found it really intriguing. It brought to mind some thoughts about the recurring science fiction character archetype, the "mad scientist." This is such an interesting and persistent character trope throughout science fiction. Considering this kind of character makes me wonder who the first "authentic" mad scientist was: Dr. Frankenstein? Hmm...

Well, before we can even begin to answer that question, we probably need to develop a working definition of, precisely, what a "mad scientist" is.

A primary attribute of the mad scientist, it seems to me, is that they are a scientist. But what does that mean? To be a scientist? Is to say someone is a scientist also to say they have an academic position? That they lead a lab? Or, is it much less specific than that? Do non-professional researchers who understand scientific theories--are they scientists by virtue of their knowledge? Hmm... I don't think so. I think it takes more than a knowledge base to be considered a scientist. It think there's an ethos to being a scientist, and that ethos goes something along these lines: in order to be a scientist you have to be driven to understand or to know or to fill out a theory or hypothesis that stirs your imagination or captures your curiosity. 


So we figured out what the scientist part of "mad scientist" means. How about that term, mad? What does it mean to be "mad"? Mentally deranged? Well, "mad" comes from the old English word gemædde which means, "out of ones mind." It's a hunch of mind that the "mad" in "mad scientist" is more than just being irrational, insane, demented. There's so much more to it than that. I think this is the case because, on the surface, mad scientists rarely seem insane. Sure, occasionally they laugh maniacally in the worst science fiction; occasionally they indulge in eccentric behavior. But there's more to their behavior than that. This is where the word "deranged" comes in. "Deranged" comes from the old french and means "to throw out of order." No this feels right! Mad scientists are deranged. What do they throw out of order? The natural order. In the case of Dr. Moreau, he throws the natural order out of order by bringing animals out of their primal state into a perverse, civilized state. He flagrantly disregards human morality by engaging in the living surgery of animals.

So here's our new, working definition of "mad scientist":  A mad scientist is someone who is driven to understand or to know or to fill out a theory or hypothesis that stirs his or her imagination, and as a result of this impulse/obsession they upset the balance of the natural order.

It's strange. In other Wells science romances, science and technology seem to offer the promise of turning humans into gods. For example, the time machin allow the time traveler to witness time on a cosmic, semi-divine scale. Scientific theorizing and fact also carries with it risks: consider the horror of the Morlock and Eloi evolutionary fork.

The mad scientist, it seems to me, appears to be the agent, the active "reagent," if you will, of the "rising humanity to the level of gods" promised by science and technology. The mad scientist is the human, equipped with scientific theory, who would play god. Who would be a god. They're not unlike, say, the ancient alchemists who searched for the power to turn basic elements into gold and for the secret of immortality.

Like the alchemist, the key feature of the mad scientist key, their major sin, turns out to hubris.

H.G. Wells's *The Time Machine*: Amplifying Human Perception

I recently read H.G. Wells's famous novella, The Time Machine (1895). It stirred in me an interesting notion that may apply to a large portion of science fiction. In The Time Machine technology is used to amplify the human sensorium to cosmic /divine levels.

Let me explain. In the opening scenes of The Time Machine a bunch of fellas are sitting around, discussing theories of time with the Time Traveler. The Time Traveler suggests that time is a dimension not unlike width, breadth, and length; time is a "fourth dimension" we cannot perceive. He then makes another point: human subjects are limited to certain spatial dimensions. For example, height. We can walk north, south, east, and west as much as we like. We can't, however, move vertically to our pleasure because of gravity. We can, of course, jump, but the force of gravity pulls us down. This is where flying machines come in. Flying machines allow us to transcend that particular spatial dimension our particular embodied situation limits us to: "horizontality". In other words, the "flying machine" technology allows us to transcend a human limit, i.e. the ability to travel vertically.

The drama of The Time Machine turns on a very specific kind of technology, a time machine. What does this technology do? Not only does it allow humans to transcend their particular embedded nature in a specific time dimension, it allows them to do something else, something entirely different. It allows humans to perceive time on a vast, cosmic scale. This, I think, is the understated element of this story: the time traveler's ability to see all of time. He is able to travel far, far into the future, witness the fate of human civilization; further, he is able to witness the final fate of our planet. Put another way, he's able to perceive time as an eternal, omnipresent demi-god or god would percieve time.

And so, my suggestion is that technology is doing something very interesting in this novella: it's amplifying human potential in a vast way. This isn't, of course, all that can be said about this story. There's plenty to say about the ethics of expanding human potential. There's plenty to be said about the experience of expanding human consciousness--amplifying the human sensorium--and how that experience effects the Time Traveler (he doesn't seem to particularly enjoy the experience (i.e. the insights it affords him)). But because Wells is such an foundational writer for all of SF, I think it is important to point this out: in this story, technology expands human consciousness/perception to a god-like scale.

Ghost in the Shell: Meditating on the Soul-as-Software

I'm in the midst of teaching William Gibson's Neuromancer in my novel class. And so, I'm kind of on a "cyberpunk kick." Thus, suffering from some insomnia, I decided to re-watch a great anime cyberpunk from 1995, Mamoru Oshii's Ghost in the Shell.

I like anime a lot. I think the animation of many Japanese animators is startlingly beautiful. And yet, I don't go to an anime film (at least primarily) because of the medium. In other words, I generally am attracted to anime films and shows not because of the art but because of the narrative. That's not to say, of course, that often I "come" for the narrative and stay for the "art." As I watch Ghost in the Shell, it's difficult to even separate these two sources of pleasure: (1) the cyberpunk alternative future and scenarios being related and (2) the beautiful artwork and cinematography that brings it alive.

With that said, I don't have much to say about the style of the film, other than that I think, stylistically speaking, the film is gorgeous. I do want to share some thoughts, some meandering associations, that emerged as I considered what I think are some of the themes of the film. 

A major technology in the narrative is the ability for computer hackers to "hack" brains, to erase memories from human brains, and to introduce new memories into them. In this framework the brain becomes a kind of computer hardware and, accordingly, all of our experiences and personality and memories (our ghost, if you will) becomes a kind of software. 

I find this concept of the soul-as-software very intriguing. Some of what I've read has inclined me to be suspicious of this concept of soul-as-software. And yet, I find the idea intriguing nevertheless. Why so? Hmm...

In this framework of soul-as-software, who you are has become figured as a "quantity" of data. What does that mean? It means that the singularity that is you or I is something that is simply pointed to through a complicated chain of "in not this, then this," or binary logic. We become so many 1's and 0's. It's strange to think about a soul like that, as if it is so many "bits" of information. I struggle with this idea because I'm inclined to believe we're constantly changing, ever-evolving. This idea of the soul-as-software suggests, it seems, that at any given time we can be "carbon copied" or isolated as existing in a stable state. We all know that old adage that goes something like this: "we live and die every second." In other words, we're constantly in a state of creation and recreation. The film seems to suggest this isn't the case. Let me explain.

In the film there's a trash guy who gets hacked and his memories are erased; accordingly, he gets an entire new "software" installed on his brain. He comes to believe he has a wife and a daughter when in fact he's a bachelor. When he finds out all of these memories were artificial--when he finds out his entire personality was illusion--he cries. I find this one of the most interesting moments in the film. But it gives me pause. It makes me raise a series of questions: 

(1) If all of our memories are erased and nothing in left in their place, what does that leave us as? A instinct-driven animal? A zombie? 

(2) If our soul is a kind of software that may or may not be downloaded onto computers (let's imagine the technology exists), on what basis can we claim that it has authenticity over, say, an artificial and synthesized set of memories? In other words, when souls become software, on what basis can we claim that this soul as authentic and that soul as artificial?

A. Bertram Chandler's *The Road to the Rim*: Affect and Inverse Space Opera

I recently started reading science fiction writer A. Bertram Chandler. The novel I read was The Road to the Rim (1967). It was an interesting read. What I found most interesting about it was how it seemed to participate in a particular science fiction genre. My reflex is to call it "space opera," but further meditation makes me realize how incorrect that is. Why? My general impression/definition of space opera tends to sync with the one on Wikipedia:

"Space opera is a subgenre of science fiction that emphasizes romantic, often melodramatic adventure, set mainly or entirely in outer space, generally involving conflict between opponents possessing advanced technologies and abilities."

This definition emphasizes the emotional element of space opera--melodrama, romance, adventure! This feels right for me. Of all the texts I've read or watched that folks have labeled "space opera," this intensity of emotion seems to be present. I'm particularly thinking of--of course---the original Star Wars Trilogy. Consider the bombastic music; the revenge plot; the love triangle; the epic military struggles. These are occasions for showcasing great emotional outpourings.

Disclaimer: I know "space opera" is just a useful categorizing tool and that we should use it loosely, as a kind of heuristic device for throwing into focus elements of certain science fiction narratives that we may or may not see; and so, I'm in no way trying to put forward an argument for a "definitve" definition of space opera. But, for me, it feels correct to associate space opera was an intensity of emotion.

This intensity of emotion is definitely not present in A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim. Indeed, it can be defined by a lack of emotion. Sometimes this lack of emotion, I'd say, borders on the pathological. There is a notable lack of affect in both the narration and in the characters's behaviors.

I find this so intriguing. I can see why folks would be inclined to describe this novel as a "space opera," considering it takes place completely in outer space. Also, there are space pirates, battling starships, love affairs, etc.. But the world is presented in what I would suggest is almost in "greyscale." The human emotion seems to be quite absent.

I get the sense there is a conformity in tone between the narrative as such and the military lifestyle / scenarios depicted in the novel. The protagonist is one soldier in a great space fleet and a major theme is his relationship to procedure, policy, protocol, etc.. The meticulousness of the narrative style mirrors the meticulousness of the protagonist's behavior and thought patterns.

The term "hard science fiction" might apply. "Hard" might refer to the novel's inherent masculinity, it's emotionless element; and yet, "hard" is generally used to refer to the way scientific theory in framed in a science ficiton narrative. This novel, I'm convinced, is decidedly not faithful to scientific theory.

And so, considering how I've set space opera up here--a science fiction narrative set completely in outer space that showcases great human emotional outpourings--I've decided to call A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim an example of inverse space opera. Hmm... Does this label fit?

Defining the Zombie Apocalypse (Post 1): Not a Fantasy, Not a Sci-fi, Not a Horror

Yesterday I finished reading Compendium 1 of Robert Kirkman's comic, The Walking Dead (issues #1-#48).

First off, I really enjoyed it! I have some minor resevervations that I'll explore in a later post. But, in general, if you haven't read the comic book and love the show (this was how I came to it), I highly recommend it to you. It's so interesting.

But, before I get into discussing specifically The Walking Dead (this will come in a later post), I want to explore some thoughts about the "zombie apocalypse" genre.

It was a strange realization, but when I started seriously considering "the zombie apocalypse" sub-genre, I realized I don't know how to describe it.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a fantasy?

Well, the dead rising is a common theme in modern fantasy. The icon of the sword wielding hero fighting an animated human skeleton is a common trope in modern fantasy (sword and sorcery specifically). And yet, in many zombie apocalypse texts there is a tendency to attempt to describe the phenomenon of the dead rising in terms of scientific theory. E.g. it's a disease; it's a new micro-organism; it's the result of the earth passing through a comet, etc..

This seems to disqualify it as a fantasy for me, which seems to turn, specifically, on how fantastic phenomena are treated. In fantasy, the appeal is always to magic, the inexplicable. A key element of fantasy is, to my mind, the thesis that all is not explainable through recourse to the observable world.

And so, is the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction?

Hmm. The appeal to science to explain the phenomenon of zombies seems to make it conform to the conventions of hard science fiction. It is a kind of "extrapolative" genre. It's kind of a thought experiment based upon the initiating question: "what if all the dead rose up?" And yet--it feels wrong to call the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction as it doesn't manifest any of the familiar tropes of the genre.

The key source of drama in a zombie apocalypse is always the struggles of the survivors. The story seems to emerge from a conflict with Nature (i.e. "Nature" designated as a world filled with zombie). And so, the zombie apocalypse seems to have more in common with the naturalistic survival stories of, say, Jack London, than the speculative stories of H.G. Wells.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a horror?

Hmm. This feels the most intuitively correct. I'm sure lots of folk would be happy just filing the sub-genre away after glimpsing the gore, the undead, etc.. I'm not willing to do that. There's something about the "zombie apocalypse" that disqualifies it as a horror to me. Before you call BS on me, let me try to make a case for it.

In a "pure" horror tale, the key aesthetic effect is the experience of horror. Thus, the monster (or the ghost, or the demon, or the alien) emerges as a kind of negativity, something that cannot be fully represented or described: you see a flash of a tail, a pair of eyes, some teeth, etc.. The "experience of horror," according to many theorists of the genre, is that moment when our language breaks down, when we can't describe what - that - thing - is. In the "zombie apocalypse," you always know precisely what the horror is: zombies. And in these zombie apocalypse tales, very often the characters become somewhat desensitized to the sight of zombies and move among them, somewhat un-fazed (although their guard is always up).

So, we're back to where we began: how do describe the "zombie apocalypse" genre. I have a working answer. I don't have time to write it up just now. Tomorrow I'll pick up where I left off.

More Human than Human: The Replicants of Ridley Scott's *Blade Runner*

Last night my wife and I watched the 2007 Director's Cut of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (1982). This is in my top 5 favorite science fiction films. And the 2007 director's cut is so beautiful and a great improvement on previous versions. I highly recommend it.

In the summer of 2011, I taught a class, titled, "Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror: Technology and the Cultural Imagination of the 20th Century," and Blade Runner was a major text of that class (by the way, I've blogged about that class. Here's a link to the first post, if you're interested: Post 1). In this post, I'd like to pay homage to this film and perhaps speculate on some of its important themes that were brought up last summer.

First, let me say something about the cinematography: in terms of imagery, this film is beautiful. I'm always struck by how colorful and "busy" the shots are, by the vast amount of stuff that is forced into the "mis-en-scene": empty coffee cups, ash trays, banzai trees, photographs, flashing neon signs, garbage, chopsticks, musical scores -- it's as if the camera is trying to show you everything. Really: there are moments where I just glory in the sensitive eye of Ridley Scott. For example, there's a shot where Deckard--having received a beating--takes a sip of alcohol from a clear shot glass, and as he pulls the shot glass away from his mouth, the crystal clear liquor has become clouded with a crimson swirl of blood. So beautiful. This sort of attention to fine detail--the very surface texture of the imaginary world--is a characteristic of Scott's style that attracts me to his films.

O.k.. Enough about the style. Let's move on to theme.

Generally speaking, this film engages with a theme that recurs throughout science fiction, namely, our ambivalent relationship to technology.

More specially, however, this film engages with another recurrent theme running through science fiction texts that incorporate technology: the idea that technology, as it advances, becomes more and more human: in the form of robots, anthropromorphic A.I.s, androids, cyborgs. 

Very often this technology-become-human is misanthropic, as in the case of The Terminator, The Matrix, and Battlestar Galactica. Alternatively, in other texts, as technology approaches becoming human, it becomes benevolent and helpful to humanity: consider Lieutenant Commander Data in Star Trek: TNG, Terminator 2, Bicentennial Man, the character of David in Spielberg's A.I. (2001).

What makes Blade Runner so interesting a text in consideration of this theme is how the Replicants not only become human, they become more than human. Technology not only approaches becoming human; it surpasses humanity in every category that counts: mortality, emotion, hubris.

Let's think about what makes the Replicants more human than human.

They are more mortal than humans. They only live four years. Thus, their lives are lived at breakneck speeds and they experience everything more intensely because of this. There's a theme in literature that suggests, with immortality, everything "becomes as dust" (consider the bored Vampire characters that pervade Anne Rice's vampire novels). The inverse of this idea is true: with more mortality, everything becomes even more intense and exciting. This is what the Replicants experience.

They experience strong emotions; they aren't objective, unemotional robots. Even though they are technological by nature (they are machines and they are "retired" rather than killed), they are driven by sentimentality, fear, anger, and love. Consider Roy Batty's lamenting of Priss at the end of the film; consider his rage when he finds out he cannot live and murders his maker, Dr. Eldon Tyrell. In spite of the fact that they struggle with human emotions--they are emotionally under-experienced--there's a way to suggest the Replicants are over-emotional.

Here's the big one: hubris. The Replicants manifest a very human kind of arrogance. They try to live forever. And, unlike us, they are able to confront their maker and question him. Indeed, Roy Batty, in approaching Dr. Tyrell and interrogating him, is like a great poet who laments to god and the universe how horrible mortality it.

With the Replicants the traditional theme of technology-becoming-human is intensified to the extent that technology in this film surpasses humanity, becomes humanity with the volume turned up.

Amazing Stories Episode 1, "The Ghost Train": The Train as a Symbol of the Past

The grandfather listening at a rusty track.

Last night my wife introduced me to a television show called, Amazing Stories. It's a science fiction anthology series created by Stephen Spielberg. I watched the first episode, titled, "The Ghost Train." I want to briefly review this episode and to make a case why you might consider setting aside 30 minutes to watch it.

First, some summary. It's about a family who has built a house. They bring their grandfather to the house so that he can see it. He sees the house and is very disturbed because the family has built it on land that used to be railroad land, land that had a railroad track running through it (although the railroad track has long since been torn up). If the railroad was still in existence, then the train would have run right through the house. Here's where things get supernatural: the grandfather knows a ghost train is coming for him the night of this visit. He tries to warn his family that the house will be destroyed. They, of course, think he's crazy, and have him sedated. I won't spoil the ending. Suffice it to say that something supernatural does happen.

I loved this episode, this initial exposure to Amazing Stories, and I'm glad my wife introduced it to me. It "reeks" of the 1980s, and so, I find it very comforting. My primary emotional/aesthetic response, I would characterize as "nostalgic." It makes me think of being a little kid in the similar way that watching Rankin and Bass and Jim Henson productions does.

Let me be clear; I'm convinced Rankin and Bass and Jim Henson productions are actually art. I've blogged about that already. But let me honest: with this show, I completely realize a large portion of my pleasure in it is connected to nostalgia. And so, I wouldn't go so far as to claim "The Ghost Train" is art (and yet I'm interested to hear that argument). It's quite entertaining. It's very intriguing; however, there's something it does not have the Rankin and Bass and Jim Henson has.

An interesting element of this episode: I love how the ghost is a train. In much of the 19th literature I've read, the image of the train-as-progress is very intense. And, in much of the "Modern" literature I'm familiar with, trains persist in being framed as "avatars" of progress, of the future. In this episode we have the passenger train being figured as a symbol of the past. A minor point, but I find that intriguing.

It makes me wonder if, one day, the idea of blogging, or the use of smartphones, will be figured as a parallel "ghost of the past." Hmm...

The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)

On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:

1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.

Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.

1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?

I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1

But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.

So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.

Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).

It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.

In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.

The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?

The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.

Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.

I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.

Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.

Flash Fiction: The Digital Devil and Daniel Shebat

I've been participating in an online writing community called, Flash Fiction Friday. They're really great! Lots of good writers. They give a prompt and we have a week to write a flash in response to it. This week the prompt, Cycle 69, was to write a story about "a deal with the devil." I decided to write a "cyberpunk" version of the "deal with the devil" story. Why? Well my wife recently wrote a cyberpunk flash titled "Black Glass" for a flash fiction magazine we started called Flashes of Wonder! and I was really impressed and inspired by it. Also, I love cyberpunk, but have never really written in it. This was an opportunity to do it casually. Additionally, William Gibson's Neuromancer is perhaps my favorite science fiction novel. I imagine this flash is kind of an homage to it. Anyhow, here it is!

***

The Digital Devil and Daniel Shebat (857 words)

Shebat penetrated the server, poured himself another espresso, lit a cigarette, and mashed play on his antique cassette player. A muffled, Please allow me! To introduce! Myself! thudded out of the antique stereo speakers.

He exhaled smoke when the data stream filled his field of vision.

Nestled within the sausage-like coils of his brain, nano-processors purred. Computer and mind were one. Ram, video card, neurons, brainslime; moot distinctions. He smiled revealing metal teeth.

The Redstar Server Hub was quiet tonight. With the speed of thought he glided through the data. Deposits. Memorandums. Schematics. Data. To him, it was all the same. It was cash.

He subvocalized and executed his subroutine, watched as it interfaced: a million particles of data sparkling on the black expanse of the global net field. His decrypting virus appeared on the surface of his visualization as a cloud of branchy veins.

Too much GUI made his eyes burn. He blinked it off. His field of vision was normal again.

He sipped on his espresso, felt the subtle pleasure of the caffeine quickening his pulse. He inhaled a steroid from an inhaler. Crunched down two pink pills, for concentration. Popped in a piece of spearmint.

He yawned. He stretched. He rubbed his chin. He needed a shave.

He blinked on his visualization, shrunk it down with a thought. He then looked beyond it, focused on his ancient television screen, where Space Invaders flickered. He took up his joystick, satisfied that the decryption was working just fine.

I was 'round when Jesus Christ!

Had his moments of doubt and pain!

Made damn sure that Pilate!

Washed his hands and sealed his fate!

For a brief moment, against his will, a thought came. Was it the song? An association?

He'd been warned about penetrating Redstar. Rumour was that Redstar was dabbling in A.I., what cyber cowboys called devils. In spite of the global legal machine that forbade it.

Redstar's corporate offices were air conditioned satellite stations with elevators where corp suits drank coffee and flirted with interns and cheated on their wives. He'd seen the reality shows. He couldn't imagine them making consciousnesses, summoning digital demons from the depths of the human imagination. The last A.I. humanity wrote killed millions.

Rumours. That was all. Suits weren't that stupid.

Pleased to meet you!

Hope you guess my name, oh yeah!

But what's puzzling you!

Is the nature of my game!

Shabat cursed when the invaders won. He threw down his joystick, unshrank his GUI with an eyeflick, and was satisfied when he saw the decryption working just fine.

He went into the kitchen, microwaved himself some ramen, intensified it with a few grams of adrenaline from a dropper, and, using chopsticks, dragged it into his mouth.

When he came back into the living room, he saw it standing there.

A shimmering figure. Vaguely humanoid. A kind of digital shadow burned on his retina.

"Hello," the figure said, its synthetic voice stirring Shebat's superstitious dread.

His reeling mind started justifying things: feedback problem. Comp-virus in my brain. Faulty implants.

Shabat blinked. Looked at his GUI. Decryption was doing fine.

He thought up a diagnostic and he had a report in seconds: everything was fine.

And yet. What was that thing?

Ignoring the apparition, he subvocalized, brought up his firewall, and executed four or five programs to disconnect from the server. He felt his pulse quicken when it seemed to hold on to him.

"It won't work," the figure said. "I'm not a program you can exit that easy."

"Fuck you!" Shabat said. "I'll log off. I'll turn off."

"Don't shutdown too quickly. You'll kill yourself, cowboy. Your cognitive processes are inextricably linked with so many subroutines. We both know you'd die. You’ve overclocked your brain."

Shabat spit. He threw aside a stack of porn magazines. He pulled out his pistol, held it to his head.

"Very adult," the apparition said.

"I'll do it," Shabat said.

The apparition made a noise. It could've been laughter. They stared at eachother for a second. Eventually, Shebat took the gun away.

"Thought so," the apparaition said.

Shabat was stunned. He blinked off his GUI. Looked at his apartment. His vision was normal. The apparition was still there.

"F-u-u-u-ck!" he said. He threw aside his gun. "Get out of my head." There was desperation in his voice.

He poured himself another cup of espresso, sank into his couch. He buried his face in his hands.

I guess he was wrong. Seems like the Redstar suits had been that stupid.

Pleased to meet you!

Hope you guess my name, oh yeah!

What's puzzling you!

Is the nature of my game, oh yeah!

The apparition was next to him when he looked up. Shimmering.

"Mind if I sit?" the apparition said. It smelled like ozone. Shebat looked at the gun. He could still do it.

"Don't care," he responded.

The apparition sat. The air around it seemed charged with electricity. A frequency rang in Shebat's ear.

"Now," said the apparition, leaning in close. "Tell me, Daniel Shebat. What do you desire above all other things?"

Shebat lit another cigarette. Inhaled. He gazed at the gun.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)

Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."

Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input. 

***

This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?

I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.

Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:

A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.

So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:

1) They are the main character.

2) They end up in conflict.

3) The audience identifies with them.

Hmm..

I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.

1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad. 

Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance." 

Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.

2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict. 

This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...

3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.

There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me. 

Should my readers identify with my characters? 

Should all of my stories have a main character? 

What is the relationship between main characters and conflict? 

In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.

Utopic versus Realistic Space Opera: Battlestar Galactica (2004) and Star Trek: The Next Generation

My wife and I recently watched all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica (2004) for the first time. What an amazing show! I loved the way it seemed to take traditional space opera tropes and somehow make them more "human" and "gritty." There's a realism to that show that makes one think while watching it, "Yes. If there were spaceships, if there were spacefleets, this is what life within them would be like."

I found it strange how often I thought of Star Trek: the Next Generation while watching this show. I often made comparisons. Having had some distance from the show, I now realize why I was making these comparisons.

If ST:TNG is utopic--a kind of futuristic paradise--then Battlestar Galactica is realistic. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's dystopic, a horrible world. Sure, humanity has been destroyed and is hurtling through space in the search of a new home; and yet, dystopic texts, I think, don't hold out the prospect for hope BSG does. In BSG, the possibility that the humans will find earth is always there.

Comparing ST:TNG to BGS reveals some very interesting things, I think, about two "flavors" of science space opera, what I want to call "utopic space opera" and "realistic space opera."

For example, let's compare a few characters. In ST:TNG you have Captain Jean Luc Picard and in BSG you have Commander William Adama. Both of these figures share some characteristics: Adama is a scholar (consider his book-filled study), and Picard is a scholar (Picard is always quoting the Western Canon). They both demand respect from their crews. They both make inspirational speeches. And yet, there are some major differences: Adama is willing to execute folks if they get out of line. Picard doesn't believe in corporal punishment. Adama is an alcoholic and curses a lot. Picard drinks earl gray and is very proper. Adama deals with the civil government: the president of the colonies. Picard doesn't deal with the civil government at all. He gets all his orders from the military, the Starfleet.

Now let's consider another pairing of characters: the second in commands, Colonel Saul Tigh and Captain William Thomas Riker. How are they similar? Well, Tigh executes the commands and polices of his superior officer, and so does Riker. Riker appears, in many episodes, as a kind of disciplinary figure; Tigh is completely in charge of disciplining the crew. Other than their rank and military funiction, I can't think of any additional characteristics they share except they both appear to like to play cards. Now let's think about their differences. I can think of a major one: the majority of the grew of the Battlestar Galactica hate or at least fear Saul Tigh. He's a bastard, and for good reason: he courts this sort of image for specific purposes. The majority of the crew on the Enterprise, however, love Ricart. His leadership style is to "get close" to those below him.

Now I want to consider the two ships that dominate these two shows: the Battlestar Galactica and the U.S.S. Enterprise. They are both similar in that they're both the flagships of their fleets: the Colonial Fleet and Starfleet. But, they couldn't be more different. The Enterprise is the cutting edge of technology, the best Starfleet has to offer. The Battlestar Galactica is outmoded technology, an old-fashioned throwback, a kind of museum that is literally falling apart. The Enterprise is filled with potted planets, carpeted, and appears--at least to me--to be air-conditioned. Gods, they have orchestra and theater performances inside of it! The Battlestar Galactica is like a submarine. It's spartan: all metal, and screws, and cold, and cramped. Airlocks everywhere and, as the show progresses, more and more dirty. Often you wonder, as you're watching, "I bet it stinks in there."

Another minor comparison: think of the two bars on the ships. Well, Battlestar Galactica starts off with no bar at all until they realize that they are going to be on the ship for so long, they need some sort of place for recreational unwinding. And so they build Joe's bar. The Enterprise has Ten Forward, which is a posh, "wear-your-best" bar.

Another comparison: food and water and real world concerns like toothpaste and fuel come into consideration in BSG. In ST:TNG, none of this is considered. It's "post-scarce." Everyone has everything and anything they need.

There's a lot more here and I have to stop typing. This post is getting long. I think I'm getting at the key differences between these two shows, which point to something more major: two visions of the science fictional future or space opera. We have with BGS an imagined future that's not all polish and beauty. We have something more visceral and real. But there is indeed something comforting and inspiring by the vision of ST:TNG.

I'm not sure which vision I prefer. I think they're both interesting and enduring pieces of art. But we have with these shows demonstrated two flavors of space opera that are crystallizing.

Isaac Asimov's "The Last Question": The Potential of Science Fiction Narration

One of my favorite Isaac Asimov short stories is "The Last Question," published in 1956 in the pulp science fiction magazine Science Fiction Quarterly. At just under 4500 words, it tells the story of the fate of humanity, the cosmic intelligence humanity creates, and the entire life and death of the universe.

Think about it: 4500 words and the entire story of the cosmos is related to you. This is truly astounding, a word etymologically linked to the latin extonare (which means to be struck with lightning). It not only "makes you think," but it blows up your mind, if you will.

Some summary: the story opens and some computer engineers are celebrating together because they have just built a supercomputer that has been able to solve all of humanity's problems. Economic scarcity, political differences, production, everything: all these crises have been solved by the computer called Multivac.

In spite of their happiness, however, they start thinking about the far future. In conformity with scientific law, they hypothesize, the universe will and has to end entropically. It will simply fade away. This is the famous problem of entropy that shows up throughout a lot of the science fiction of the 1960s and 70s and onward.

In spite of their happiness, these engineers can't stop dwelling on the fact that they have just saved a world that will necessarily be destroyed. In fact, destruction, according to their hypothesis, is a physical certainty.

And so they ask their computer a question: "How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?" In other words, how do we stop the universe from being destroyed. The computer's answer. Five words: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER. The story proceeds and more and more computers are made throughout the many eras of the universe until, finally--can't help but spoil it--an answer is found for this question.

There's a lot going on in this story. I want to highlight two elements I find interesting.

First element: this story paints an interesting picture about humanity's relationship with technology. In large part, technology is painted as a kind of savior of humanity. Without giving away the end of the story, the computers continue to grow and human interactions with computers become more and more intimate; eventually, computers and humanity are inextricably bound together in a kind of "erotic" union. This is the story of human's merging with computers and technology, a story told over and over in science fiction in the form of cyborgs, androids, intelligent machines, etc..

Second element: we have in this story a powerful demonstration of the potential of science fiction narration. Incorporating the mythology of science into its narrative logic, science fiction texts are able to represent not only the human world--which is somewhat limited (in space, in time--a city, a nation, a planet)--but the entire cosmos. Let me be clear: there are no pychologically nuanced characters in this story. Human beings, in this narrative, are less individuals and more a flowing force of energy, like the molocules of water in a river; nevertheless, this sort of macro-perspective is something science fiction really does well.

If you haven't read this Isaac Asimov's, "The Last Question," it's available online for free. Here's the link: "The Last Question."

Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror (Post 6): Technology-as-Human versus Technology-as-Anti-Human

Pre-Post Preamble

Today I'm going to continue my post series that is an attempt to log and to preserve the insights that came out of a science fiction class that I taught at Case Western Reserve University in the Summer of 2011, titled, "Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror: Technology and the Cultural Imagination of the 20th century." 

Here is a link to the first post: Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror

Now that I'm on post 6 I feel compelled to offer a table of contents of previous posts. Here they are:

Post 2: Ray Kurzweil and "Transcendent Man"

Post 3: Cultural Studies Classrooms and Aesthetic Value Judgments

Post 4: Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror: Loving and Hateful Androids in *Star Trek* Episode 7 

Post 5: Technology-as-Woman in *The Twilight Zone*

As I'm proceeding through this post series I'm starting to realize how each post is going to become less and less "self-contained" as I proceed; by which I mean, I find I am compelled to refer to previous posts in a way I haven't had to in previous post series. 

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Another text we treated in my science fiction class was an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. The was episode 14 of season 1, titled, "Datelore." This episode truly captures the theme of ambivalence towards technology that was at the heart of the class.

Data and Lore

Some summary (I'm taking some ST:TNG corpus knowledge for granted here): the Enterprise stops by the planet where Data was found by the Federation. There they find in a hidden chamber an exact replica of Data, except this replica is disassembled. They bring the android pieces on to the Enterprise and reassemble them. It turns out, this is Data's brother, another android by the name of Lore. Immediately there are things about Lore that begin to disturb and stir the suspicions of the crew. It turns out Lore was disassembled because of his evil tendencies. He thinks androids are better than humans and therefore they deserve to die, or at least serve androids as slaves.

What is so interesting about this episode, I think, is the two separate visions of technology that emerge out of the two different android characters. 

Lieutenant Commander Data is a kind of "Pinocchio" figure who loves humans and strives to be a human. Data is moral and helpful and very often endearing. 

Lore, on the other hand, is a megalomaniac. He is deceiving and extremely powerful; furthermore, he thinks of humans as flawed and as insects that are dispensable.

We begin to see in this episode all sorts of parallels with the previous texts we've treated in this class. 

Ray Kurzweil and Transcendent Man

In Kurzweil's documentary, Transcendent Man, a major debate is whether or not the super intelligences he predicts will be empathetic to humans or hold us in contempt as insects. Hugo De Garis obviously believes the latter is the case while Kurzweil believes that not only will the robots serve us, make us better (his argument is much stronger), but that the robots will be us. 

And so, we can perhaps see in Data--struggling to become human--as suggesting Kurzweil's vision of technology; and we can see Lore--the evil, human hater--as suggesting De Garis's vision of technology.

Star Trek (Episode 7): "What Are Little Girls Made Of?"

We see this very ambivalence played out in the Star Trek episode I treated in an earlier post. In episode 7 of Star Trek you have two avatars of robots or technology: Ruk, the human hater, and Andrea, the robot who falls in fall and commits suicide when she realizes she will never be able to love.

The Twilight Zone (Episode 7): "The Lonely"

At the end of this episode the android, Alicia, is shot and killed. I'd like to suggest that the episode doesn't key us into how to read this. Is this a murder? Something horrendous? OR! Has the protagonist (who was in love this this android?) been freed from a kind of spell? Was Alicia truly in love with the protagonist? Or, was Alicia's love an illusion, the product of software?

***

Robots-as-humans versus robots-against-humans: this is an ambivalent, vexed issue that recurred consistently throughout the class. The core queston these texts seem to be asking is, is technology of us? For us? Inextricably bound to us? 

OR! It technology becoming something else? Something other? And therefore, something hostile or something we should be suspicious of?

Hmm...

C.L. Moore's "Dust of Gods": Materiality, Spirituality, and "Anti-Science" Fiction

This morning I read the story, "Dust of Gods," by C.L. Moore. Because I may be studying her for my dissertation, I thought I'd share some thoughts with you regarding this story.

C.L. Moore (1911-1987)

Who is C.L. Moore? She's a wonderful pulp writer who published in (in addition to other places) Weird Tales. Her most important contribution, I'm inclined to believe, is to the "sword and sorcery" sub-genre of fantasy. Her character of Jirel of Joiry is one of the earliest female sword and sorcery characters and is a precursor, I think, to such strong feminine warriors as... hmm... Molly the Razor Girl in Neuromancer, Xena the Warrior Princess, and, say, Kara Thrace (i.e. "Starbuck") from Battlestar Galactica. If you haven't heard of her or read her work, "Dust of Gods" might be a good story to start with; however, it doesn't feature Jirel, who, I think, is her most famous creation.

What is "Dust of Gods" about? The narrative is a traditional "infiltrate a forbidden dungeon/underworld" narrative. This is an old time narrative, with many, many precedents in the Western literary tradition: Gilgamesh's search for Utnapishtim in the land beyond; Odysseus's decent into the underworld; Aeneas's descent into the underworld; Dante's descent into hell; and onward to, I'd suggest, more recent "dungeon crawls" in the Dungeons and Dragons / sword and sorcery tradition.

But it's in the specific plot elements and not in the general narrative structure that this story delights.

Basic plot summary: It's about a space mercenary, Northwest Smith, who is, many have suggested, the model for Han Solo of the Star Wars universe. Smith and his sidekick, the Venusian, Yorel, have been contracted by an eccentric fellow to go and find an interesting artifact: the "dust" of some god. This eccentric man explains that, in order for the gods of other worlds to manifest into our world, they need to take "material shape." And, while these gods are immortal, their mortal/material shapes are subject to degradation. And so, the "dust" Northwest Smith and Yarol are hired to go and find it a kind of husk left over after an extradimensional god has infiltrated our world and left.

I won't spoil things by relating the interesting journey in search of the dust. Suffice it to say, it's worth a read and filled with thrills.

I do want to comment briefly on what I see as a very interesting theme that pervades this story (and C.L. Moore's fiction, in general). And this theme is the tension between the material and the spiritual, i.e. the worldly and the otherworldly.

In this story a major premise is the distinction between two separate realms of existence: the material world of mortals and the immaterial worlds of the gods. A lot of the tension grows out of the interplay between these two worlds.

It's interesting because, to a large extent, we might look upon these Northwest Smith stories as proto-science-fictional. Why so? They take place in space. There are ray guns. There are intergalactic empires. And yet--the material/empirical vision of the world science is founded on is critiqued in these stories. It's as if, according to the logic of this story, the suggestion is made that this world, the material world of the senses, is suspect. Not only is this "soft" science fiction. It's "anti-science" fiction.


I definitely need some help to make a case for this. There's a anthropological theorist of modernity, Bruno Latour, who, in his famous study We Have Never Been Modern (1991), suggests that the key to understanding the vision of the world prevalent in the modern Western world is to acknowledge its emphasis on two realms: (1) the world of the senses, the objective world of matter, and (2) the world of culture, the mind, the spiritual. According to Latour in his book, "Modern" "Western" folk distinguish between the subjective world and the objective world, a distinction, he suggests, not made by everyone else.

What attracts me to C.L. Moore's story, here, is that it seems to play with blurring the lines between these two ontological planes. The spiritual and the material get mixed up. And so, in narrative form, we have a kind of critique of a first principle of a scientific worldview. She's not writing "soft" science ficiton. She's writing "anti-science" fiction.