"Beam Us Home," by James Tiptree, Jr. (1969): 7.25
- I know I need to take into account the time this was written and the actual context, that is The Vietnam war and the many ways in which people were dealing with the fallout back home. That said, it still strikes me as a bit weird to hang such an ominous story, with both high stakes narrative and contemporary implications, on a Star Trek connection. Partially the reason that it doesn't work is that the protagonist is so shoddily sketched out, with little evidence given for any of his many many possible character motivations, before it's just explained to us at the end. At the same time, she does about as good as she can with such a weak original concept, building up its realistically messed up world, in which foreign relations have gone bad, but not in the most evidently disastrous way that many genre writers would create, and painting a picture, if you would like to read the story this way, I've just a young person adrift in the world and I only have sure if what they want to do once they see how much they've messed up.
"Something Ending," by Eddy C. Bertin (1971): 6.75
- These ones are a bit sad; some people really want to join a club. It's of a piece with the story from the German writer: they look like an SF story, the walk and talk and quack like one. But they're just missing something--and that something's, no matter how small, the difference between a cringe and an 'hmm, okay.' Our story: a man meets -- three times, in the parable way the worst of these older stories ape -- another, older man who insists that nothing around him is real, i.e. that it's all an illusion manufactured just for him to give the semblance of other consciousness. A generous reader could say that Bertin is laying out a conte philosophique -- or a small fable-like story intended to illustrate or serve as a platform to interrogate one or more philosophical 'problems' -- in that he's dealing with [in the Illusion thought] one actual theory of consciousness. That's giving this a lot more credit than warranted, I believe, as, even if that was the intention, it's quite lazy, in simply placing the description in the exposition-spewing mouth of the drunkard. And also, come on, it's not doing that.
"Ministering Angels," by C.S. Lewis (1955): 6
- It is an unexpected pleasure, after first being so familiar with the stereotypes of the Bad Old SF -- namely, that it was racist, sexist, libertarian, callously colonialistic, and much more -- and second reading so much of it, to find, now so deep into the thing, that the single worst culprit of the claims, the story that, more than any other, actually and unapologetically embodies those expectations, is one by fucking CS Lewis. Just priceless. The piece: scientists on a years-long mission to Mars are surprised when a relief ship appears before their allotted time is up. They're there not to wrap things up, but instead to drop off two women to act as government-mandated Relief Women (otherwise ... what? space madness or some shit). The two women are, simply, grotesqueries: one, the "Fat Woman" constantly ridiculed in the prose for her girth and lasciviousness and disgustingness and complete indifference to her lack of desirability; and the other, the "Thin Woman," clearly meant to be a priggish, stern lesbian, only there because of her sincere devotion to science (as a Uni prof) and otherwise completely androgynous to the crew (they didn't initially know she was a woman). Other than the Thin Woman, they're all given cockney accents (!), and the classism seeps through. It's really quite remarkable stuff; the genuine hatred for women just seeps off the page. In short, some of the men escape, rather than have to live with/fuck these women, and the others are ready to revolt -- all except one: the saintly Monk, who is happy that he's able now to minister to the Fat Woman. Unfuckingbelievable. It's like a fair and Lewis is lining up all the socio-cultural developments he hates and just shooting wildly at them in the stupidest most puerile way possible. Every megachurch simp who ever talks about MERE CHRISTIANITY should likewise be required to teach this at Sunday School, although of course they would cause they'd love it. I mean, more, it's just real funny that I'm sure there are like really considered, labored annotatations of this tripe in some necktie Christians stupid Collected CS Lewis and they're giving space and thought to this reactionary drivel. Just really amazing stuff.
"He Who Shapes," by Roger Zelazny (1966): 9
- Zelazny wades in a world of literary possibility. Peep the drunken dreamvision scene: allusive language, some studiously non-purple purple prose, and some essential measure of authorial emotional remove, leavened, nonetheless, by what can only be called an excessive amount of sentimental emotional investment (that last line: “And he was afraid”). None of this is to say, however, that he’s doing any of this particularly well. Indeed, the joys to be found here (and they’re here aplenty) are largely the joys of well-done speculative fiction (very much of a very certain era, bear in mind): i.e. the noirish crackle, the explicit, psychoanalytically influenced philosophizing around the central SF conceit, the techno-utopianism. What bridges both of these modes, however, is his knack at the turn of phrase—at conveying an emotion or scene in the 85th rather than 30th percentile. Zum Beispiel: “Knowing she verged upon beauty, Jil took great pains to achieve it.”
"Fire Watch," by Connie Willis (1982): 8.25
- don't think I bought into the transcendent message (experience as a way of living on) as much as she would have liked, but enjoyable nonetheless. btw, what kind of history department is this??
“The Music Master of Babylon,” by Edgar Pangborn (1954): 8.5
- An ultimately overlong story, whose length nonetheless flits between necessary world ethos construction and dilatory reflection. The tone is, however, touchingly (but not cloyingly) sentimental and solitary—something that, in this circumstance, fits. It is also relatively propulsive for a last man alive story, impressively (for a short story) accustoming his audience to the silences of the mans days, as well as his fixations. Thus leading to the drag, for all this comes crashing to an abrupt stop by the turn towards that knee-jerk veneration of the mythical Artistic Genius in the wilderness that so much Golden Age sf found somehow irresistible.
"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.