"Call Me Joe," by Poul Anderson (1957): 9.5
- Frankly, amazing that this was written in the mid-1950s, even if it has all the hallmarks of (even literary) fiction from the era--the sincere reliance on psychotherapy as an explanatory, scientific framework; the crude, forthright generalizations about those outside the author’s own experiential world [“cripples” here]; and the exploration of interiority as a phenomenon in lockstep with broader environmental surroundings. In short, this read like a genuine sort of “adult” speculative fiction that I haven’t yet often received from the stories of this era [although I’m actually probably too much equating this era with the ‘Golden Age’ adventure stories of the 30s]. AVATAR’s clear reliance on the concept from this story only makes that film look even worse in retrospect, as the themes are dealt with in a much more complex way in the story, and in a darker way, as well [esp. as we start, in retrospect, to understand the subtler ways in which “Joe” is actually starting to assert his dominance psychologically over Edward from afar (esp. the maneuvering for female companionship on the planet). Most effective in this regard, however, is probably the very subtle ways in which Joe’s increasingly dominant thoughts are used to form a critique of settler colonial societies (I’m being very generous here to either 1) say these threads are pronounced enough to even exist; or 2) say that Anderson is introducing them as a critique rather than, say, a reflexive and unthinking approval of the methods given his own time and place and probable ideology). Namely, Jupiter is harsh and violent, and Joe’s personality adapts in harsh and violent ways to this--one result being his desire to both subjugate the surrounding fauna, as well as create a subservient harem and slave class from amongst his own kind. Indeed, that is even the stated plan of the scientists from afar as well (Vitek), who want to create the same, but for their own purposes (scientific and quanititative information gathering). Pretty good.
"All You Zombies," by Robert Heinlein (1958): 7.75
- I’d need some graphs to lay out all the time-jump contortions on display here. Largely a story in two parts: one, an exposition-heavy [in the way these period genre stories love] recounting of one intersex person's life; and another, a sped-up series of time-traveling manipulations by the main character, during which we find out he was the interlocutee the whole time [i.e. all of the characters, in other words: the barkeep, the ‘unmarried mother,’ the seducer, the girl, and the baby (if I’m getting it right)]. That’s all well and good, and might reward some chart-making scrutiny, in that you could appreciate the convolutions therein. I’m more interested in the intersex story, though. Not because it’s “problematic” or anything like that. But more because it serves as an interesting illustration of precisely an historical occurrence I’ve read often about: the very conscious intercession on the part of physicians when encountering intersex individuals regarding the ‘gender’ of the individual. Here, it’s [par for the time] presented as matter of fact: the doctor saw this ganglial ‘confusion’ while the patient was out and, without consent or consultation, made his own decisions about what this person’s gendered external expression would/should be from then on. Interestingly, the ‘patient’ is presented in this story as not at all reacting negatively to this, likely because it’s not coming from Heinlein’s own experience and he’s extrapolating outwards from some simultaneously unsympathetic, sexist, and essentializing positions. Again, none of this is ‘bad.’ It’s just interesting to see history in action. Apart from this, the writing is okay, although it picks up towards the end in intriguingly strange perspectival shifts. Replete, then, with the quite wonderful line, admittedly: “I know where I came from--but where did all you zombies come from?” Good stuff.
"The Nine Billion Names of God," by Arthur C. Clarke (1953): 5
- The for-it's-time excuse doesn't work here -- there are just as many narratively skilled and complex short short stories from this period. This one: some Tibetan monks buy a computer from a Western company, in order to print out all possible word combinations with 9 letters, in order to say God's names, which will trigger the End Times, with big things to come. It's as simple as that. There's no spin or turn here -- the characters, and the Big Archetypes they represent, are lifeless -- and it's mostly revolving around one of those early-science-fictional Thought Problems -- i.e. what if we could print off all these words, a la Tower of Babel or some Asimov -- except there's literally nothing here except that questions. What there is, however, is a pretty fine concluding line: "overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out."
"A Work of Art," by James Blish (1956): 8.5
- A story done in, strangely, by commitment to its premise -- to its overweening assumption of the mantle of a storyteller telling this story with these characters -- rather than by any of the many more common mistakes by in 1950s short SF fiction. The story: Richard Strauss is, ostensibly, brought back to life in the 2160s and goes about creating a new opera. Strauss is intermittently confused by these circumstances and thrilled to be given the chance to create again. And, he does create--an opera, to be exact, which he premieres in front of rapturous audiences, even as he's himself finally become convinced of the staid futility of his retreaded work, with further revelations to ensue. It's all fine and good -- and same with the prose. Smooth, over-involved, albeit often appealingly elegent (especially for the period and genre), it nonetheless overcommits to our Strauss-ness and misses the story for the character.
"The Tunesmith," by Lloyd Biggle, Jr. (1957): 6.5
- Twice as long as it needed to be and half as smart or thrilling as it wanted to be. Of course the Iowan would write the blandest of great-men Golden Age SF. Hits that perennial GA twosome: conscious cultural elitism and half-conscious Randian libertarianism (albeit here mixed in with some anti-corporation material [the commercialization of everything], although I really think that is more a necessity for plot contrivance purposes rather than being born out of any sincerely held ideological position or belief. That story: dude works composing commercial jingles in an age when music is mechanized and artistic genius half-outlawed and half-unappreciated, but guess what: he cares! Can his valiant efforts to reintroduce sincere human emotion and sound back into the arts and music [art here being Bach and Beethoven and Michelangelo, etc., since, of course, our C25 brethren will definitely be into all that] change society? Also half-grating and half-redolent of the times: his appropriation of the rhythm and sexuality of black music along with the complete submersion of the human element here. I mean, what he's playing, to a postwar Midwesterner -- something that has hypnotic rhythm and a passion that nearly compels lust in its audience -- is clearly jazz.
"A Saucer of Loneliness," by Theodore Sturgeon (1953): 8.5
- Bester's style gets in the way of his story, often, albeit less becasue of the prose than with the tenor of his dialogic movement and the uncoordinated directional control of his narrativization. Sturgeon's prose is just often bad. Namely, it's purple. That initial two-page exemplar here eventually does recede and reveal a rather touching story of human loneliness, couched (and probably, for Sturgeon, proceeding from) the nice sfnal thought experiment: what if galactic messages in a bottle?
"Who Can Replace A Man," by Brian Aldiss, 9 pg. (1958): 8.75
- Unintentional on my part, but, being from '58, works as a nice little juxtaposition to the Garrett from GO FORTH. Aldiss, in line with his reputation within the field, presents a strongly written story less in terms of the sentence-by-sentence Quality of the Prose, than in the clear wisdom and mind behind the construction of the story and its thematic engagement--most striking, there is Restraint in each measure: language, plot divulgence, thematic play, etc. The thematic interplay was the most intriguing to me, given the bigger themes touched on here (Eugenics -- the clear demarcations between robots with varying degrees of intelligence, and that's integration with the formation and solidifcation of hierarchies in general, whether of a human or artificial nature).
"The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," by Ursula K. Le Guin, 5 pg. (1973): 9.25
- Much more impressive than my faded memory would have had me believe, that being that it's a riff off the Shirley Jackson “Lottery” story, with the obvious variations in the victim's treatment. Instead, Le Guin—fittingly for the time and progressive literary movements of which she was a part—crafts a much more self-conscious, broadly implicating, and (paradoxically) playful vision, in which it actually helps to know the twist to understand the nature of her pre-twist tone (insouciant, a bit condemnatory and derisively exhausted toward toward the reader): meaning, she proceeds from the given premise (what if a perfect society existed BECAUSE it did this) and actively creates/fills in the gaps during the writing (ie “well what do you think a "perfect" society’s technological level would look like?”).
"Face Value," by Karen Joy Fowler (1986): 9.5
- Quietly unnerving, at first. And, at the end, quite devastating — this story of first encounter and study leading to isolation and invasion. An intimate, personal invasion.
"The Road Not Taken," by Harry Turtledove (1985): 8.25
- Okay, against my own better judgment, I seem to be susceptible to Turtledove’s half-wacky, half-grounded, fully sincere brand of speculative fiction. The deficits are clear and present throughout: bland characterization and anti-climaxes chief amongst them. But, the ideas, amazingly, are there, even if simple. Generally, these ideas are most easily summarizable as a grander version of ’what if’--pretty appropriate for someone most closely associated with alternate history. Same with this story: what if we were invaded by aliens, BUT we were actually the more technologically advanced species—i.e. they have hyperdrive and little else. That is basically it. And so what.
“Snow,” by John Crowley (1985): 9
- The rare genre story whose ho-hum sfnal conceit is salvaged by some exceptional prose. Especially strange, in this instance, as the conceit was not incidental — despite that, like I said, seen-it premise — but basically the content in whole, and not simply a lax frame around which a domestic drama is constructed (as some of these “literary” sf stories are wont to do). Instead, the strong writing is built into the progression of that conceit, and thereby central to it (see: the very at-home-in-lit-fic small details pertaining to the “Director’s” discomfort at facing potential complaints from clients). It is most fully seen in the initial quick-sketch layout of our protagonists relationship to his older, rich wife, and the constant hint of tumult in the background of this world (AND, even more amazingly, the double subtle turnaround: ie the aside that all is again okay in the world in the final paragraphs!). Good stuff.
“Robot Dreams,” by Isaac Asimov (1986): 6
- A dabble, a messing around the edges of story, with the tiniest spark of energy flinting at the end. While difficult to assess in the vacuum it deserves — given its status within (and AS) the bloodstream of so much sf — those mythical qualifiers aren’t nearly as deterring as often imagined, for this is story as much as any story; and, like most, its full of holes. STORY: errant assistant messes with robot brain, causing it to dream and inadvertently reveal its rebellious potential, in which case it must be put down.