Science fiction, like all the arts, like every living act of man, is a mirror of ourselves. If we can understand science fiction, without delusions, recriminations, attacks and defenses, we may be able to understand ourselves . . . and vice versa. That old Renaissance cat that I'm always dangling before my conscience tried to understand without judging. We should do the same.
What are we, then, in terms of science fiction? What is science fiction in terms of us? Let me piece the picture together for you; and remember that it's only a part of ourselves. It's a picture of a passionate young romantic who runs away from his soul and focuses his passion on the objective world . . . a romantic with the courage to entertain daring and complex concepts, yet who is afraid of the perplexities of human behavior. . . a romantic full of curiosity, yet curiously indifferent to half the marvels around him . . . a romantic; vigorous and honest in his speculations, yet often deluding himself as to the value of his speculations . . . a charming romantic, but a withdrawn romantic . . . a Renaissance romantic, but a neurotic romantic.
This is my picture of science fiction, of you, of myself. If you don't like the portrait, you can argue with me, of course; but I'd suggest instead that you use a line reported by S. N. Behrman. When Behrman was a boy in Providence, Rhode Island, one of the most eminent men in the city was Dr. Bradley, president of Brown University. One afternoon, Behrman took a trolleycar in town and saw Dr. Bradley sitting down the aisle. In front of the doctor stood four orthodox rabbis, examining the embarrassed gentleman and arguing furiously in Yiddish whether this was the great man or not. Finally they turned to Behrman and one of them asked: "Is that man the brilliant scholar, Doctor Bradley?" Behrman said it was. The rabbi started in disappointment and then said: "Well. . . If that man is Dr. Bradley, then anybody could be anybody."
University College,
University of Chicago, 1957
A Diatribe Against Science Fiction
The . . . books sent in for review this month were so bad that we've decided to ignore them, rather than pan them, and turn our attention to a discussion of the reasons why the books are so bad. Almost everybody agrees that science fiction has fallen upon hard times—too many bad books and too few good books are being published today—and many people want to know why. Publishers, editors, and the public have been blamed. We disagree. We think authors are responsible.
The average quality of writing in the field today is extraordinarily low. We don't speak of style; it's astonishing how well amateurs and professionals alike can handle words. In this age of mass communications almost everybody can use a pen with some facility. The science fiction authors usually make themselves clearly understood, and if they rarely rise to stylistic heights, they don't often sink to the depths of illiteracy.
No, we speak of content; of the thought, theme, and drama of the stories, which reflect the author himself. Many practicing science fiction authors reveal themselves in their works as very small people, disinterested in reality, inexperienced in life, incapable of relating science fiction to human beings, and withdrawing from the complexities of living into their make-believe worlds.
There are exceptions, of course, and we've praised them often in this department; but now we're speaking of the majority.
Their science is a mere repetition of what has been done before. They ring minuscule changes on played-out themes, concepts which were established and exhausted a decade ago. They play with odds and ends and left-overs. In past years this has had a paralyzing effect on their technique.
This department is exasperated with the science fiction author who seizes upon a trifle and turns it into a story by carefully concealing it from the reader. His characters behave inexplicably in a bewildering situation; little by little he lifts a corner here and a corner there, and leads the reader down the garden path of curiosity until at last he removes the cape with a flourish to reveal. . . nothing.
This is literary larceny, and it's being practiced more and more today. As a professional author, we're keenly aware of the fact that a good writer begins his story at the point where a mediocre writer ends his. As a critic we're angrily aware of the fact that many of today's science fiction writers end their stories at the point where a bad writer would begin.
Now it may be argued, so far as the trifles go, that we're in an in-between stage. Science fiction has caught up with most of the scientific concepts, and exhausted them, and must consequently mark time. This is debatable, but if the argument is accepted, then our answer is: Stop writing science fiction. For God's sake, have the courage to remain silent if you have nothing to say.
It may be asked, how is a writer to earn a living if he must remain silent? The answer is, science fiction is not a big enough or important enough field of literature to enable an author to support himself by writing for it exclusively. Science fiction is in a class with poetry and the Little Magazines. It supplies (or should supply) avant-coureur literature to interested readers; it provides (or should provide) an outlet, a safety valve for working authors who become fed up with the strangling taboos of bread-and-butter writing.
The appeal of science fiction has always been its icono-clasm. It is the one field of fiction where no cows are sacred, and where all idols may be broken. It stimulates, entertains, and educates by daring to question the unquestionable, poke fun at the sacred, condemn the accepted, and advocate the unthinkable.
But in order to be an iconoclast, an author must be more than merely aware of the idol he wishes to destroy. He must be intimate with it and understand it in all its aspects. This means that he must have devoted serious thought to it, and have beliefs of his own which will stand up in the place of the broken idol. In other words, any child can complain, but it takes an adult to clash with accepted beliefs . . . an adult with ideas.
It's not enough to say: Democracy doesn't work; I believe in the Fascist system, period. Certainly this is iconoclastic enough (at least in America), but it's a mere shooting off of the mouth unless the author reveals in his story an intimate understanding of Democracy and Fascism, and offers valid reasons to support his position.
We're not merely shooting off our mouth when we say that it is the authors who are killing science fiction. We know how and why science fiction is written today, and are prepared to state a few hard truths. Outside of the exceptions mentioned above, science fiction is written by empty people who have failed as human beings.
As a class they are lazy, irresponsible, immature. They are incapable of producing contemporary fiction because they know nothing about life, cannot reflect life, and have no adult comment to make about life. They are silly, childish people who have taken refuge in science fiction where they can establish their own arbitrary rules about reality to suit their own inadequacy. And like most neurotics, they cherish the delusion that they're "special."
It's difficult for the ordinary reader to understand this. All of us, as readers, have a blessed willingness, almost an eagerness, to suspend disbelief. We meet authors far more than halfway, and given only half a chance we will plunge into the story with complete acceptance. This is why so many bad science fiction writers can still find an audience.
In baseball they have a comment to make about third basemen who are presented with so many hard chances that scorers are reluctant to pin an error on them when they bobble the ball. The chance is scored THTH, Too Hot To Handle, and everybody grumbles that third basemen ought to pay to get into the ballpark. In the light of reader co-operation, many authors ought to pay to get into print.
So it's the immature, the inadequate, the maladroit who are killing science fiction today. Most of the adult authors have moved on to other fields. The bright young people who might be expected to bring in fresh blood are living in days when there has never been a greater demand for promising young talent in television, movies, magazines and publishing houses. With the exception of an occasional spare time short story, they sensibly refuse to waste their time on science fiction. They can earn more, learn
more, and fare farther in other fields.
To the patient, long-suffering public, our blessings. To the weary editors, sorting through the third-rate submissions for an acceptable MS, our sympathy. To those of our colleagues who have earned our respect and admiration, our apologies for this attack which was not directed against them. But to those who deserve this attack, our curse. Nobody understands a writer like a writer; nobody hates a bad writer as bitterly as a writer.
Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1961
The Perfect Composite Science Fiction Author
Last month we complained rather bitterly about the poor quality of contemporary science fiction and its authors. Although we were careful to point out that there were exceptions to our attack, we fear that angry fans may have overlooked this. So we would like to take advantage of this month's All Star Issue by putting together a composite All Star Author out of the colleagues we admire most. Unfortunately, space limits us to a selection of seven, but we beg you (and the authors who must be omitted) to remember that our admiration includes far more than that number.
Big Daddy of them all is the Old Pro, Robert A. Heinlein. Mr. Heinlein brings to his stories an attack and a pace that have the onslaught of an avalanche. His characters do not vary much . . . he seems to draw on a limited cast. . . but they are delineated with vigor. His blacks are ebony, his whites are pristine, he doesn't waste time on delicate shadings. His themes are similarly forthright, and often give the impression that his stories are being told by extrapolated bankers and engineers; that is to say, by men who are both pragmatic and parochial.
We have always thought of Mr. Heinlein as the Kipling of science fiction. This is high praise, for Kipling was the finest prose craftsman of the XlXth and early XXth centuries. Unfortunately, Mr. Heinlein also shares Kipling's annoying faults. Kipling's appraisal of life was often oversimplified to the point of childishness. He suffered from acute Xenophobia, and his excessive virility colored most of his work with a cocksure, know-it-all attitude.
Despite these flaws, Mr. Heinlein remains the most powerful and original force in science fiction today; an author always to be reckoned with, never ignored. In fact, the latter would be quite impossible. Mr. Heinlein reaches out, takes the reader by the scruff of the neck, and doesn't let go until he's shaken the wits out of him. Some day we hope Mr. Heinlein will use his talent to shake a little wit into the reader.
Although there has been a falling off in the quality of Theodore Sturgeon's work in recent years (no doubt the result of middle-aged spread, which can be cured by astringent physical and mental regimen) he is still the most perceptive, the most sensitive, and the most adult of science fiction authors.
No one in the field can touch on the emotional relationships of human beings as delicately and yet as sharply as Mr. Sturgeon. If Mr. Heinlein's work can be described as massive black and white lithography, then Mr. Sturgeon's is the exquisite Japanese print. He turns every reader into a sympathetic psychoanalyst, but never permits his characters to become analysands; they remain understandably yet mysteriously human.
Mr. Sturgeon comes closest to the ideal science fiction author because he is not preoccupied with the gadgetry of science; he prefers to extrapolate the human being rather than the test tube. This trips him up occasionally, for sometimes he becomes so involved with the nuances of behavior that he bogs down, and the action of his story is forced to mark time. But despite this he is a superb craftsman, and when his material lies just right, he invariably produces a gem.
Robert Sheckley is possibly the most polished of the science fiction authors. This manifests itself in his approach to a story; with the choice of a dozen different treatments, he always selects the wittiest and most original. His ideas are engaging; his dialogue is crisp and pointed with humor. He understands the secret of economy, and knows how to distill an idea down to essentials, and then extract every possible variation and development.
Mr. Sheckley, however, runs a grave risk of becoming monotonous. Early success with a particular story pattern has, we feel, seduced him into repeating this pattern over and over again. He confronts one or two characters with a fantastic and fascinating problem. In the end, the protagonists solve the problem, almost invariably with an ingenious surprise.
This is to say that most of his stories resolve themselves into running duologues. We look forward to the time when Mr. Sheckley will break away from this formula and try his hand at other story forms. His talent is too keen to be wasted entirely on success.
James Blish, to our mind, represents the greatness and the weakness of contemporary science fiction. Mr. Blish is a dedicated craftsman with a deep philosophic bias. He's a dispassionate theoretician at heart, and this is his strength. His weakness lies in the fact that he finds theories dramatic in themselves, and cares less about the drama of the human beings involved with them.
This, we believe, is an aspect of youth . . . youth which is so fascinated by the enigmas of the physical universe that it has little time left over for concern about the inhabitants. But those of us who are older have played with the physical mysteries and speculated about them; now we've become aware of one of the most amazing mysteries of all. . . man, and we want to know more about him. Here, Mr. Blish and science fiction let us down.
But in all fairness we should point out that young fans often confide that they prefer their science fiction pure; that is, with a minimum of human characters in it. So, while Mr. Blish may occasionally fail to satisfy his older readers, he has generations of young enthusiasts, presently struggling through primers, who will graduate into ardent devotees of his work.
It is the misfortune of Isaac Asimov that his greatest story was his first; and that was a classic which any of us would have been proud to have written. Ever since, Mr. Asimov has turned out a steady stream of science fiction, all competently planned and worked out, very little inspired. He has not grown in stature; he's levelled off into the solid wheel horse of science fiction.
There is a coldness about Mr. Asimov's work that must be distinguished from the icy clarity of Mr. Blish's. Whereas Mr. Blish deliberately sets his limits, and uses his characters to illustrate his theories, Mr. Asimov is cold out of a lack of a sense of drama. He has tremendous enthusiasm, but seems to lack empathy. He is not a real fiction writer.
Proof of this is the fact that Mr. Asimov is superb in his science articles. When his material does not require life to be breathed into characters, his wit, wisdom, and enthusiasm, plus his wonderfully lucid organization produce fact pieces that are a joy to read, and are often far more entertaining than the works of fiction in the same magazine. After all, fiction is only one of many forms of writing, and it may well be that Mr. Asimov is an essayist who has finally found his way.
Writers are a lazy lot; we write what is convenient, comfortable, and profitable. We are past masters of the art of rationalizing cowardice. When we are inspired by a theme which may trigger off a family feud (if we express ourselves frankly and honestly) we can always find a valid excuse for evading the issue. If we catch hold of an idea which requires rigorous speculation to bring it to maturity, we can improvise a dozen devices to dodge the work. All this is by way of paying homage to that most courageous of science fiction authors, Philip Jose Farmer.
Extrapolation is an ideal which science fiction extolls but rarely practices in depth. Mr. Farmer is possibly the only author who genuinely, with discipline, extrapolates. He is the one man capable of pursuing an idea to its logical end, no matter what the conclusion may involve; and it is Mr. Farmer's greatness that he is unafraid of the most repellent conclusions.
We spoke before of Robert Heinlein's virility. In the light of Mr. Farmer's courage, Mr. Heinlein's aggressiveness becomes mere belligerence. Mr. Heinlein often dares to advocate a reactionary point of view in the face of a progressive milieu, and this is often taken as a sign of courage. We argue that it is merely hopping on an unpopular bandwagon. Mr. Farmer's is the true courage, for he has the streng
th to project into the dark where no pre-formed attitudes wait to support him. In other words, Mr. Heinlein deliberately shocks for the sake of dramatic values; Mr. Farmer often shocks because he has had the courage to extrapolate a harmless idea to its terrible conclusion.
Mr. Farmer's weakness is the fact that he is not a genius. (This department knows only too well what an absurd yet agonizing comment that is.) Neither he nor any author writing today is capable of smelting his powerful extrapolations into a bigger-than-life story. To quote an old expression: Mr. Farmer has too much engine for his rear axle. We believe the same is true of most science fiction.
We will never forget the electrifying effect of the first stories of Ray Bradbury. They swept over science fiction a generation ago, and transformed it from gadgetry into art. This must not be taken as a denigration of the gadgetry of the times which was, indeed, of amazing ingenuity and power. In those days almost every story was an eye-opener; but Mr. Bradbury opened our eyes to new vistas.
His theme is protest; the protest of man against the tools which will enable him to control his environment, but which threaten to destroy man himself. To put it another way, Mr. Bradbury is for the simple life. He does not balk at the big issues; rather, he seizes upon a very small point. . . the right to take a walk in the rain, the right to read a book . . . and developes it with masterly style into a telling incident.
Incident, not drama, is Mr. Bradbury's forte; incident and exquisite tone control. If Theodore Sturgeon's work is the Japanese print, then Mr. Bradbury's may be likened to that most difficult of art forms, the watercolor. It is the crux of the water-color that the tints must be of transparent purity, and flowed on with a courageous full brush. This is the essense of Mr. Bradbury's art.