Here’s an admission: I’ve never been interested in Space. I know – crazy, right? Who isn’t interested, at least on some level, in the vast secrets of the universe? To lack interest is almost an act of hubris, a willful ignorance of the fact that we – Earth and all its individuals – are very small things indeed.
I’m not quite sure why astronauts and aliens didn't perk my childish curiosity. Maybe it’s because I hated math as a kid, and just about everything regarding Space and Space exploration involves complicated numbers. Or it might just be that I found the Civil War so awesome I didn't need anything more. It’s probably a combination of the two. (Certainly, it wasn’t my busy social life).
Last month, I watched a multipart documentary on the 1980s, a decade dear to my own heart. (Oh, to come of age in the Time of Zubaz and Slap Bracelets). Included in one of the segments was the 1986 Challenger disaster, which killed all seven crew members. For a fleeting moment – reliving that horror that I vaguely remember from the nightly news – I desperately wanted to learn something about Space exploration. About the men and women who looked heavenward, who dared all and gave all.
And it turns out that I had William Burrows’ This New Ocean on my bookshelf, where it had sat unread for the past thirteen years.
This New Ocean states its humble mission as the “Story of the First Space Age.” That Age runs from Daedalus to the date of the book’s publication in 1998.
Cramming the entire history of Space exploration between two covers is certainly ambitious (the book is actually a manageable 646 pages of text). And I always applaud ambition. So, here, I give my due respects to Burrows' vision.
Unfortunately, ambition is just about all This New Ocean has going for it. Indeed, the book’s ambition, its scope, its odd checklist approach to history, contributes to a volume that is ultimately inert and unforgivably free of wonder.
Burrows begins with an agonizingly slow recounting of the history of rocketry. These early sections are a dress rehearsal for all the structural, editorial, and literary problems that plague This New Ocean. For one, there is no technical grounding or context. I’m not a rocket scientist. I don’t want to be a rocket scientist (because of the math, you know). But in a discussion of rockets, I think it’s appropriate to explain how one works; how various rockets are different from each other; and to define the essential terms (solid verses liquid propellant; single verses multi stage) that will be used throughout the book. Burrows utterly neglects to do this.
He is also all over the place, jumping from the theorists of antiquity to the reclusive, secretive Robert Goddard, to the Nazi chameleon Werner von Braun, whose intellect allowed him to escape his sins and make a tidy little life for himself. Dozens of scientists scattered around the globe are introduced. None of them – not even von Braun – are given a personality. Burrows provides their names and a thin bio and that’s it. It is never clear who accomplished what.
Furthermore, in devoting so much time to rocketry, Burrows completely neglects the other necessary prong of Space exploration: aviation. He never explains why he focuses on one or the other, so the reader is left to ponder why there is barely a reference to the Wright Brothers or Chuck Yeager.
Despite my hopes, This New Ocean never gets better, even as Man heads towards the Moon. To the contrary, the lack of narrative control becomes ever more frustrating. This is a book in desperate need of sharper editing (or, at the very least, a timeline). Burrows is constantly jumping forward and backward, so you’re never quite sure where you are chronologically. This wouldn’t be a problem if he had better storytelling capabilities, if he had created memorable personalities, if he had given us a lodestar. Instead, there is a complete lack of contextualization.
For instance, he never takes the time for even a cursory explanation of the American Space Program. Don’t get me wrong, he mentions Project Mercury, Project Gemini, and Project Apollo (though he mostly ignores the X-15). But he never lays out what each project was meant to accomplish, or even their sequential order. He just drops their names like he’s a Hollywood producer at a cocktail party. (As I recall, Burrows dispenses with the creation of NASA in something like a single sentence).
In a work of scope, depth is necessarily sacrificed. It is inevitable that lasting moments, both good and bad, receive less attention than they merit. I wanted longer discussions on Apollo 1, Apollo 8, Apollo 13, STS-1, and the Challenger. I can accept that that’s not always possible. What I can’t accept, however, is the amount of space (pun totally intended) devoted to extraneous terrestrial details.
I’m talking about the budget discussions.
Oh, the budget discussions.
Pages and pages filled with quotes and analysis of the government’s on-again, off-again affair with launching things into Space. The thing is, not even the budget discussions are done right. They aren’t detailed or placed into any kind of political-social-economic paradigm. There is no analysis of the costs-benefits of manned verses unmanned space flights. No answer to the philosophical and pragmatic questions of why we need to travel upward and outward. There is no well-thought argument as to why NASA should exist. (I can think of one reason: Tang!).
Burrows is clearly a passionate Space lover. I respect him for that. But his descriptions of the various budget morasses (especially once we reached the Moon) come across as whiny more than anything else. (Spoiler alert: NASA’s budget is always getting slashed. Burrows doesn’t like that).
A lot of shortcomings can be forgiven if something else is done really well. Upon reading the first page, I hoped this book’s great virtue would be its prose. Again, disappointment. There are no memorable passages, no deftly drawn personalities, no glorious descriptions of the beautiful infinity. With few exceptions, Burrows’ passion for his subject remains hidden.
There are certain joys to be had. For one, the book is thoroughly researched and comes with a bulging bibliography. For another, Burrows does a very credible job exploring the Russian side of the Space Race. Their travails are some of the more memorable in the book. After all, who can forget the image of Laika, the pointy-nosed mongrel who died in an attempt to orbit Earth? (Burrows reports that Laika actually orbited Earth and was euthanized by the Soviets. Apparently, documents released after this book’s publication showed that Laika actually died from overheating hours after the launch of Sputnik 2). At the very least, I came across dozens of topics for further exploration.
This New Ocean is too much a mess to provide a coherent argument for or against Space exploration. My own opinion is that manned space flight is a luxury, an adventure that is worth taking when times are good and coffers are flush. It is the kind of voyaging that makes us human and does wonders for the soul. But it certainly isn’t necessary. (Of course, many of its byproducts – scratch-resistant lenses, memory foam, Tang!! – are greatly appreciated).
As for unmanned space flights, my favorite part of This New Ocean was its treatment of the Voyager program. Voyager consisted of two probes launched in 1977 to study Jupiter and Saturn. Burrows recounts the launch, and periodically checks in on the probes as they continued into the outer Solar System.
I became strangely fond of Voyager 1, anthropomorphizing it to an extent unusual for a man over thirty years old. In a book that is – for the most part – dramatically flat, the Voyagers gripped my imagination.
People used to look skyward to see the weather and to imagine their gods. At night they could see beyond the sky and wonder at the stars. Now we know that out there are worlds upon worlds upon worlds. A universe of the possible. Space exploration often flies in the face of theology, removing Earth and her good citizens from the center of all things. But there is something unbelievably profound - even religious - in the image of our little Voyager probe on its one-way mission.
It has been pinging back information for thirty-six years, alone in space and darkness that can be measured but not grasped. And maybe it will keep on traveling forever, even after its signal disappears, lost to humans and lost to time but still there, still in existence.