Category: Book Reviews

Can’t Anybody Here Write Fantasy?

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Yesterday I was invited to review a newly-published fantasy novel. I won’t tell you the title or the author’s name, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

I turned to the book’s amazon.com page and started to read the sample chapter. Brand-new book, no customers reviews as yet–nothing to prejudice me one way or another.

I didn’t finish the chapter. I couldn’t. My wife tried, but she was unseated by a line about a wizard who had had it with some other character’s “snarky attitude.” I didn’t make it past the description of another character as “incredibly handsome.”

You don’t find this kind of impoverished prose in other genres of literature, but fantasy delights in it. When I used to teach creative writing at adult night school, it seemed to me that every student who didn’t have the foggiest idea how to put two words together immediately embarked on writing science fiction. I don’t know if that’s still the case; but certainly a lot of these disadvantaged persons are now producing fantasy.

What can we do to make fantasy better, and make it more respectable as a literary genre?

I suggest, first, a total ban of wizards, sorcerers, magicians, etc. When a “wizard” becomes as commonplace a figure as the guy behind the counter at your local dollar store, he has lost all reason for being.

Any writer who drops into his fantasy such words as “snarky” or “incredibly handsome” ought to be fitted with an electric shock collar that would give him a jolt every time he so transgressed.

While we’re at it, we’d do well to ban hulking barbarian sidekicks, clever and personable thieves who never get caught, lusty tavern wenches with enormous knockers, and invincible warrior women. Their presence might well liven up Serious Mainstream Literature, but it kills fantasy. As soon as the reader sees one of these characters, he knows exactly what to expect from him or her for the rest of the book. There are never any surprises.

Fantasy is supposed to ignite the reader’s imagination, not put it out.

A Cautionary Tale (and a Cold One)

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In 1913, the American Museum of Natural History sent a scientific expedition to the Arctic to discover, map, and explore “Crocker Land,” dubbed “the Arctic Atlantis.” This was because Robert Peary, the great explorer who would be the first to reach the North Pole (if Frederick Cook’s claim is disallowed), said he saw it, from a distance, with binoculars. Peary named it Crocker Land and estimated it lay some 120 miles distant from where he stood on the mainland.

Speculation ran wild. Peary himself, inspired by Eskimo legends, thought Crocker Land might be an ice-free paradise. The folks at the museum thought he might be right.

And so for four years the expedition, led by Donald MacMillan, flailed around the ice and snow looking for this happy, sun-kissed hunting ground.

What they found was endless hardship and privation: because there was no such place as Crocker Land. Peary had seen a mirage. MacMillan’s second-in-command, Fitzhugh Green, went mad and murdered his Eskimo guide. What was left of the expedition returned to New York in 1917. It is recorded that the Museum Director, Henry Fairfield Osborne, was furious at the cost of the expedition–to say nothing of its total failure, and even less of the looming scandal of a murder.

All this on account of a mirage.

[My source: Dinosaurs in the Attic: an Excursion into the American Museum of Natural History by Douglas Preston, St. Martin’s Press, New York: 1986]

Well, it wasn’t the first time Big Science chased a mirage, and it won’t be the last. And Heaven help anyone caught standing in the way.

 

A Writer Who Can Write About Race

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The Australian mystery novelist, Arthur Upfield, never wrote a book that was any less than very good. But No Footprints in the Bush was a high achievement even for him.

First published in 1940 as The Bushranger of the Skies, used copies of this masterpiece are still available sometimes on amazon.com. I’m reading it now, and I’m in awe of it.

Not only does Upfield tell a fast-paced, exciting story; not only does he bring to life an exotic Australian landscape, and put you there; not only does he populate it with characters who live and breathe and get you emotionally involved with them–besides all that, Upfield probes his country’s history of racial strife and breaks through the polemics and the stereotypes to connect with the rock-bottom humanity of white settlers and black aborigines.

He doesn’t get all misty-eyed and sappy about the aborigines and their ancient way of life. He has too much respect for them, for that. Nor does he even try to sidestep the realities of prejudice, hatred, and mutual misunderstanding. Beyond that, he’s passionate about the subject.

It’s a far cry from what we’re used to in America, these days–whites can do no right, blacks can do no wrong, and because there was slavery here 150 years ago, black teens are entitled to play knockout and a black president can only be opposed or criticized by “racists.”

But then no issue in our time is shielded from the impact of massive foolishness.

We could use someone like Upfield to talk sense to us.

 

My Second-Favorite C.S. Lewis Fantasy

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Outside of the Chronicles of Narnia, the C.S. Lewis novel that I return to again and again is That Hideous Strength, which Lewis described as “a modern fairy tale for grown-ups.”

In this novel, post-WWII Britain has been taken over by a scientific consortium, NICE (National Institute for Co-ordinated Experiments), which aspires to create an earthly paradise by the application of “science,” along with a few not-so-scientific tactics like murder, brainwashing, propaganda, and terror. Their utopia will be organized and regimented along strictly “scientific” lines, doing away with obsolete hindrances like religion, morality, and the worth and rights of the individual. Their ultimate goal is to scour the earth clean of life itself–and somehow nothing but “pure mind” will be left.

This already sounds depressingly familiar, doesn’t it?

Key to their scheme is a plan to dig up and revive the body of Merlin, King Arthur’s great magician. Merlin isn’t really dead, you see; they’ve discovered he’s in a state of suspended animation. Once they’ve got him back among the living, they believe they will have access to the lost “science” of Atlantis, of which he was the last practitioner.

Granted, this is by no means as fantastic, or as loopy, as today’s fantasies of Global Warming or Income Equality. What do you want for a book written in 1945? But NICE’s fictional  master plan has much in common with these real-life idiocies: to wit, the faith that the human race is perfectible by human efforts–especially the efforts of an all-powerful government. They realize they’re going to have to break an awful lot of eggs–but the omelet will be worth it!

To me, the most impressive aspect of That Hideous Strength is its depiction of the academic or “intellectual” mind-set. Although Lewis was an academic, and loved the academic life, no one ever more devastatingly analyzed the failings of the academic mind. As long as there’s adequately intellectual window-dressing, the academic with terrible ease discards both morality and common sense: he can rationalize any crime, any outrage, as long as it serves the Great Cause.

And what is that cause? Simply the expectation that if enough coercion is applied, perfectible man will be perfected by men who have power, and that “experts” will lead us to a perfect world. As long as this bait is held out in front of them, academics will–with a clear conscience–do just about anything to glom onto it. This explains why, throughout modern times, academics have a track record of enthusiastically embracing Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Mao, and every other bloodthirsty tyrant who ever vexed the human race.

That Hideous Strength speaks more clearly to us today than it did in 1945. And its message can be summed up very neatly in a single line from the Bible:

“All they that hate me love death.” (Proverbs 8:36)

This is a book you need to read if you want to understand our demon-haunted modern world.

A Very Far-Out Fantasy

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Taking a break from reporting on the slow murder of our civilization at the hands of its ruling classes…

In 1924 Lord Dunsany published one of the strangest and most creative fantasy novels ever, The King of Elfland’s Daughter. If you’ve ever gotten bored with same old-same old in fantasy, this might be your antidote.

So… there’s this English town whose elders want to be ruled by “a magical lord,” because they think it will make them famous. And so the prince sets off for Elfland and, after some odd adventures, comes back with the King of Elfland’s daughter as his bride; and in due course they have a son.

But Elfland is a parallel universe. Everything is different. Elfland is entirely and uncompromisingly other. So the elders get their wish, and they have a magical lord; but it has not turned out as they expected or desired. Not even close.

I don’t want to spoil the story for you, so let’s say no more about the plot. Lord Dunsany’s writing style, though, will surprise you. Every word is chosen with care, with the eye of a jeweler. The effect is almost hypnotic. There are very, very few writers who can do this.

Dunsany himself was quite a character–soldier, big-game hunter, writer and producer of plays, famous for his weird short stories, and a great amateur chess player (he once played to a draw against the immortal Capablanca–you can find their game on http://www.chessgames.com).

The King of Elfland’s Daughter is in a class by itself. A few writers–most notably H.P. Lovecraft–have tried to imitate it, but fallen far short of the mark. Today, 90 years since it was first published, it remains one of the most original fantasies ever written.

Getting Rid of the Human Race

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You can learn a lot from reading novels. Case in point:

Agatha Christie wrote Curtain while the Nazis were bombing London, locked it away in a safe, and didn’t publish it until 1975, the last year of her life. So in addition to its many virtues as a mystery novel, Curtain is a kind of time capsule of England circa 1940.

In its most disturbing scene, all the characters are sitting at dinner and discussing euthanasia. One zealot declares that “the unfit” and “people who lead useless lives” should be destroyed: she reckons that could be about 80% of the population. Instead of jumping down her throat for spouting wicked and ungodly babble, instead of demanding to know why she isn’t siding with Hitler, who is the poster boy for the ideas she thinks are so enlightened… instead of doing that, all but one of the persons at the table sort of nod their heads in agreement and throw in little comments to the effect, “Well, of course you’re right about that…” They don’t agree enthusiastically; but it’s plain to see that at the time this scene was written, Hitlerian ideas about eugenics had made their way into the mainstream of English culture, and English Christianity failed to keep them out.

Compare this with something written 100 years earlier–A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens: in which Scrooge wishes “the surplus population” to “die and get it over with.” Instead of everybody else sitting around and agreeing with him, Scrooge gets a sharp lesson that he’ll never forget. When proto-eugenics raised its ugly head in the 1840s, English Christianity was quick to shut it down.

What a difference 100 years makes.

Today the ruling classes of the Western nations, including ours, are gung-ho for euthanasia–yes, Obamacare does indeed include death panels: public employees who will try to talk you into having yourself humanely killed off, if it’s costing too much to keep you alive–and at the same time, they do everything in their power to encourage people to become “useless”! Read my posts for the past two days, and you’ll see what I mean.

This is not the time for Christ’s servants to be throwing in the towel.

‘The Wailing Octopus’ Rocks

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This is another “Rick Brant Electronic Adventure” by Hal Goodwin (writing as John Blaine), this one from 1956.

I love these books! For one thing, Hal Goodwin really knew what he was talking about. He worked for just about every government agency you could think of, and he visited all those exotic locales he wrote about. He was very much in the technological forefront of his time: without the electronics he knew and described, the hi-tech we take for granted in our own lives would never have come into existence.

But more than that, these books are out-and-out fun. Goodwin kept the series going for some 25 years, and yet Rick and Scotty and the other characters never age, never change. Sick and tired of getting recorded messages on the phone from your local cops, telling you there’s freezing rain outside and you’d better not drive? Had it up to here with judges and politicians redefining every aspect of human life?

Open one of these books and retreat back into a time of sense and sanity.

Today’s “Young Adult” fiction focuses on peer pressure, stupid school, and sex. Rick and Scotty are too busy solving crimes and having adventures in way-out places to bother with any of that. In this outing, they go down to the Caribbean for a little treasure-hunting, only to get caught in an undeclared war between the U.S. Navy and some very shady and desperate characters.

When this was written, scuba diving was cutting-edge new, Jacques Cousteau had yet to become a household name, and underwater adventure was a new thing for readers. Sea Hunt wouldn’t come along till  a few years later. Even so, you can learn quite a bit about scuba diving as you read this book. I learned something extremely alarming about scuba tanks, and am resolved to give them a wide berth in the future.

You can get this book via amazon.com, used, not very expensive: this year it was one of my Christmas presents. In fact, I asked for it. And I’m glad I did.

‘Freddy the Pilot’

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Sometimes I just can’t stand it anymore, tracking the slow murder of our civilization by its leaders and sages.

It’s times like that when a book like Freddy the Pilot, by Walter R. Brooks, really comes in handy.

In this outing, Freddy the pig–poet, detective, banker, newspaper editor, football star, traveler, magician–learns how to fly an airplane. In fact, he learns it just in time to use this new skill to save Boomschmitt’s traveling circus from the evil Watson P. Condiment, whose unrequited passion for the circus’s star performer has moved him to hire a plane to buzz and bomb the circus’s performances.

Yes, the whole thing’s totally daft. That’s the beauty of it. Freddy books are billed as children’s literature, but I’ve found they work even better for adults. Brooks’ humor operates on many age levels.

If you’re too old for Freddy the pig, see your doctor. You may be dead.

 

Swell Book, Lousy Title

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How many of you would be tempted to throw out a book entitled The Wierdstone of Brisingamen? Is that or is it not one of the worst titles ever?

I recently discovered this in my collection, a 1970-something edition with a special introduction by one of the true giants of fantasy and science-fiction, Andre Norton, who heaped praise on it. So how bad  could it be? I decided to re-read it, because I couldn’t remember anything about it.

It turned out to be really good.

Author Alan Garner—Wierdstone, first published in 1960, was his debut novel–liked to set his fantasies in the real world. The more of the real world that’s in the story, he reckoned, the more believable it’ll be. This story is set in Cheshire, England, where Garner was born and raised. In fact, most the details of the landscape are real.

The fantastic elements of the story all derive from bona fide Norse and Celtic folklore, with a pinch of King Arthur. Readers unfamiliar with these traditions may have trouble with the proper names.

Anyhow, the descriptive passages are truly excellent, the story itself moves along very fast, and we are amazed to discover that Garner himself, years later, called Wierdstone “one of the very worst books written during the last 20 years.”

But don’t listen to him. Find a copy of Wierdstone and enjoy it.

Did I Write That?

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I’ve been reading a book I wrote circa 1988 and published in 1990–and what I wrote has shocked me.

Mind Stealer was the last of four horror novels I wrote for Zebra Books during the 1980s horror boom. At the time, I didn’t know it would be the last.

I was never terribly proud of it because they changed editors on me and the new editor made a mess of the book. I had to work like crazy to restore some semblance of readability.

Mind Stealer is the story of a special, hush-hush management training program run by Japanese consultants somewhere in the North Carolina wilderness. Back then, America’s business community worshiped everything Japanese–especially their insanely fanatical devotion to their employers.

So I wrote about that. And I wrote savagely. I wrote raw. I read it now and wonder, “Why was I so angry? What was in my heart, to make me write like this?” I’ve found in it no glimmer of redemption, and I don’t remember writing any such thing into it.

If that was who I was then, and God has heard my prayers and changed me so that I can hardly recognize my own writing from that age of my life, then I give Him thanks and rejoice. If I had stayed the man whom I discern in the pages of Mind Stealer, I’d have burned out like a highway flare. The fire would have consumed me.

I would write that story very differently today, if I had to write it at all. But I’m sure I don’t have time for it.