This is a very calm and peaceful book, who's only purpose is contemplation, a bit like a scholars stone, merely a fragment of pseudohistory; a history which does not exist, places that cannot be 'used' for anything and which signify nothing other than themselves.
This is from the 'golden period' in genre art, from around the mid 1970s to the 1990s. It was an age of ink, digital did not exist. For whatever reason, this age birthed titans in fantasy art, of which Stewart Cowley isn't necessarily one; these images are good, but if ranked up with the contents-irrelevant paperback covers of the 70s, you wouldn't pull them out. Here though, they are arranged amongst themselves, given large and luxurious room to breathe. They even have fold-out pages for a glorious widescreen feel!
That these wrecks are given _as_ history seems significant. This is a post-war book
in our world and the imagined one, (an memory strikes of Chris Foss, growing up on Jersey, inspired by the rotting ruins of WWII fortifications and reproducing them in space), and nearly a post-exploration tome, for, while wars and explorations are going on, there is little time to scratch lines.
Book such as these belong to the periods of peace, and periods of contemplation and reconstruction between ages of crisis. Fere are doomed explorations ruined by the hallucinations of poison planets, quarantined bio-plague investigation ships, the tombs of wild military adventures, returning on unexpected parabola to the scenes of their deaths, strange alien craft, empty, or filled with corpses, sargasso seas of wrecked ships. Here also are the memories of stories, for each of these wrecks is the end point and memory of a science fiction story; the story of the pirate who crashes on an island/planet, encounters aliens/primitives, and becomes a god, the story of a rag-tag fleets last-ditch attempt to stop a planet-death, the story of a resource-poor world consumed by war, leaving only ruins.
We contemplate these stories specifically after their end. In many cases the end is the only thing we are certain of and, like in many cases where the arc of time is subverted or reversed, this makes things a little existential - by removing and possible tension from events we are left with everything else.
These are specifically things to dream about, as one might dream about a 'real' mystery,
they invite the reader to build ecologies of wonder, combining the restless outgoing considerations of the explorer or invader, with the calm, centred and somewhat sorrowful perspective of the historian or philosopher. Probably Ursula LeGuin would like this book - all the tumults ended and what remains is the slow reclamations of entropy.
The pseudohistory may be the strangest kind of play, for it is very much a product _of play_, yet has no play in it, at least, certainly this sort, which has no grand explicit theme, no dark warning, no massively interlinked _lore_, and nothing clever and subtle going on with its construction of imagined events, (we are not going to find out that this or that is behind-it-all, or discover the book itself is a cognithazard, there is no monster in the background and no epistolary game between imagined interlocutors), it is, entirely and only, the sensation of one child in a garden finding something 'weird', and calling others round to look, a direct sharing of strangeness.
A wreck is a ruin, a graveyard, a memory of disaster - an image of human hope which overreached, or otherwise failed, and in some cases, a pure mystery, its origin unknown, unknowable, a tenious fragment of an inferred larger world. One things for certain - there is nothing left to do but remember, and witness what remains.
Here, like a ruin, is a symbol left by God, a little watermark in reality, or a fragment of html left in the main text of a web-page, making it very explicit that what we see and live within, the tumult of our sensory world, is like a little sheen of breath on metal, evaporating round the edges, part of something strange and large. Ruins are the keys of time in this way, and wrecks also, are doorways, symbols of a time-sense larger than we can currently perceive, the mind leaps here intuitively, into scales and measures which formerly hit, or resisted contemplation.
It is hard to be hysterical around a wreck.