In vain my fatigued, my tortured attention strained to follow…
I made the mistake of thinking this was going to be a quick read. Not so.
I have tried to construct an imaginative sketch of the dread but vital whole of things. I know well that it is a ludicrously inadequate and, in some ways, a childish sketch, even when regarded from the angle of contemporary human experience. In a calmer and a wiser age, it might well seem crazy. Yet in spite of its crudity, and in spite of its remoteness, it is perhaps not wholly irrelevant. - from the preface.
I don’t even know where to start writing down my thoughts about Star Maker. It is quite unlike most other novels I’ve read, even taking traditionally “niche” genres like speculative fiction into account. The book was published in 1937, and though my context is limited I reckon it is pretty dissimilar to anything else coming out of the field at the time. Part future-historical textbook detailing the history of the cosmos, part philosophical and religious musing, part travelogue of the universe (and, in fact, the multi-verse), part exercise in world building and exotic alien culture, part cosmic horror, et al.
The book contains sequences that are absolutely spectacular, and often the prose is extremely beautiful. However, there are also sequences that are dry and plodding, especially when the author gets bogged down in details about hypothetical cultures and their social evolution over countless generations etc. But when Star Maker soars, it does so in spectacular fashion.
Overhead, obscurity unveiled a star. One tremulous arrow of light, projected how many thousands of years ago, now stung my nerves with vision, and my heart with fear. For in such a universe as this what significance could there be in our fortuitous, our frail, our evanescent community? But now irrationally I was seized with a strange worship, not, surely of the star, that mere furnace which mere distance falsely sanctified, but of something other, which the dire contrast of the star and us signified to the heart. Yet what, what could thus be signified? Intellect, peering beyond the star, discovered no Star Maker, but only darkness; no Love, no Power even, but only Nothing. And yet the heart praised.
There is almost no plot, and yet the story gets ever bigger and bigger as it progresses. To get any joy from this novel you will have to read it to the end, since the culmination of events (where we get a glimpse of the author’s world view and belief system, or philosophy) is really at the heart of a book like this (which might seem like a pointless exercise to casual readers).
Personally, I found it a challenging read, but an eventually rewarding (and, in fact, momentous) one. Stapledon deals with ideas that have arguably never been rivaled since in sheer scope. Some of the themes and the nature of the Star Maker itself inevitably seems to have created a stir at the time, and divided opinion amongst Stapledon's contemporaries, but it is as grand a vision as you are ever likely to read when it comes to big idea Science Fiction.
Awed by this spectacle, we stayed long motionless in the void. It was indeed a stirring experience to see spread out before us a whole "universe," containing a billion stars and perhaps thousands of inhabited worlds; and to know that each tiny fleck in the black sky was itself another such "universe," and that millions more of them were invisible only because of their extreme remoteness. What was the significance of this physical immensity and complexity? By itself, plainly, it constituted nothing but sheer futility and desolation. But with awe and hope we told ourselves that it promised an even greater complexity and subtlety and diversity of the psychical. This alone could justify it. But this formidable promise, though inspiring, was also terrifying.
The take-home, I suppose, for me, is the juxtaposition of hope and futility, on a scale so as to hurt the mind (the eternal struggle) and the fact that (even now) we know so little and think we know so much.
To me, the little human individual, all that is most distinctive in it is now quite incomprehensible.
In the end, as an academic exercise (that's to say, as a faux-future-historical text about the beginning and ending of all Cosmoi, and as a theological musing on the nature of Creator vs Creation, and what it means to be "awakened" or sentient) this is a five star book. However, reading it is at times tough as nails, and therefore I have subtracted a star.