#7: The Demolished Man (1953) by Alfred Bester

“Eight, sir; seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir; four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one! Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.”

As you probably know, the Hugo Awards are given to (mostly) science fiction works and are doled out every year at the World Science Fiction Convention (Worldcon), which is the oldest convention of its type. The award was named after Hugo Gernsback, a pulp publisher who all but created American science fiction. Hugo Award Winners are determined by the “members” of the Worldcon, and the awards, while prestigious, are generally considered to reward the more popular works out there since the voting body is mostly made up of fans, as opposed to the Nebula Awards, which are determined by writers. The first novel ever to receive the award was Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man in 1953.

Bester (1913-1987) is a generally beloved writer in the science fiction community. He worked in almost every facet of the genre at some point, including radio and comic books. Bester is often credited with creating the Green Lantern Oath (say it with me: “In brightest day, in blackest night…”), though he pooh-poohed the credit later in life. While he didn’t produce many novels, both The Demolished Man and The Stars My Destination (aka Tiger, Tiger) are regarded by most folks foolish enough to put together a list of the best science fiction novels as two of the greatest works in the genre. So, not surprisingly, they both make David Pringle’s list.

The Demolished Man revolves around two main characters. One is Ben Reich, a powerful corporate businessman who runs an entity known as Monarch. The other is “Dishonest Abe” Lincoln Powell, a police prefect with powerful ESP abilities. ESP is at the heart of the novel, which is set in a future society where mental abilities of this type are common in a minority of the population (known as “peepers”). Peepers are part of every influential segment of society–most importantly law and law enforcement. For instance, peeping has basically eradicated premeditated murder…until Reich comes along. Reich wants to off his main competitor, a man named D’Courtney, because he refused to merge his company with Monarch when Reich’s back was to the business wall. Reich enlists the help of several individuals to help him, including a corrupt peeper, and he uses a repetitive, advertising-like jingle (see top quote) as a mental smokescreen to protect him from mind readers. This is all fine and good until a witness appears at the murder scene. And from there, the story moves into a decidedly noire direction, but with plenty of proto-cyberpunk imagery (a psychedelic brothel born from the heat of a vicious war for instance) and Freudian symbols thrown in (Reich is chased at night in his dreams by a man with no face). Powell becomes the main investigator of the murder, and he stops at nothing to bring Reich to society’s ultimate punishment–Demolition, a mental stripping of one’s personality.

I used to love TDM. I thought it was a fascinating journey into the mind, while also a revelation about the future possibilities of ESP and non-physical perception. Years later, it’s not my favorite book anymore but I’d still highly recommend it to folks. Even if ESP doesn’t thrill you (I’m right there with you), Bester knows how to entertain. He also pushes pulp writing in fascinating ways throughout the novel. For instance, when peepers gather together in social situations, their conversations are, of course, far from mundane. Bester represents these conversations graphically, showing how meaning is enhanced by the physical arrangement of words (basket weaves, musical notations, mathematic curves, etc.). And beyond all that, Tenser, said the Tensor…

#6: Limbo (1952) by Bernard Wolfe

“So then: Immob started as a joke. A joke that miscarried. But every one of the big Salvationist movements in history–from the Ten Commandments all the way down to the Mormons’ Later Day Sainthood and Christian Science and Jehovah’s Witnesses and Fletcherism and Bolshevik-Leninism and Dianetics and Orgonotics and Santa Monica Vedanta and Mandunga–every one of them started out as a great Swiftean joke. That some humorless man got hold of and took literally.”

Wolfe (1915-1985) is an interesting figure with a diverse background. A BA in psychology from Yale, he spent 2 years in the Merchant Marine before working as an editor, writer, and journalist. He also served for a time as one of Leon Trotsky’s bodyguards, and, judging by this novel, he was a raging misogynist. But with that said, I must say that Limbo is clearly one of the best sf novels ever written by an American in terms of ideas and literary value, which makes the fact that it’s a very, very difficult book to find that much more sad and frustrating. I have to admit that I myself had never heard of the book until I picked up David Pringle’s text five years ago, and I’m not sure why that is. Wolfe’s investigation of the possibilities of cybernetics predates similar issues addressed by cyberpunk writers by almost 30 years. How has this book been so forgotten?

The story revolves around the figure of Dr. Martine, a neurosurgeon who went AWOL from the military 18 years prior to the novel during a time when World War III is being waged by the States and the Soviets, both controlled militarily by EMSIAC: MAD computer strategists bent on total victory. Martine spent those eighteen years performing lobotomies for a tribe of pacifists (who are such because of the lobotomies) on a secluded island near the Indian Ocean. Martine has mixed feelings about the surgery because it removes not only aggression but also its “Siamese twin” the ability to orgasm. Martine flees when a group from the Island Strip (the remnants of the United States) arrives. Oddly, the folks that show up are all quad amputees wearing powerful mechanical prosthetics.

Martine eventually ends up on the Island Strip and finds a world where men (and only men) voluntarily have their limbs amputated as a sign of their pacifism (know as “Immob,” as in immobilization). Philosophically these men are split into two groups: pro- and anti-prosthetics. The pro-pros are comprised of folks like the ones who arrived at Martine’s island. The anti-pros spend the rest of their lives in baskets, cared for by sisters, wives, mothers, etc. Martine is horrified by all this, and he becomes almost delirious when he finds out…Immob’s principles are based on Martine’s own journal writings from his time in the military! Satirical jokes he made about the sacrifices of young men were taken seriously, and he is held up as a martyr for the cause. The fascinating conceit here then is the idea of a society’s savior being able to return “after death” to witness the distortions of his writings and thoughts and then comment on them. One can only imagine if someone like Marx was able to do the same thing.

Limbo is loaded (pun intentional) with sexual frustration, Freudianism, metaphorical castration, and even a couple of highly disturbing rape scenes. There’s no question that Wolfe knew Civilization and Its Discontents backwards and forwards, and that’s equally true of his character Martine. It often seems that Martine’s major qualms with Immob are its progression towards voluntary castration and its resultant flip-flop in sexual predation. Of course, women are not really up to the task of being sexual hunters for Wolfe, and Martine suggests that “when a woman [is] cavalier in her handouts, the suspicion [arises] that what she [has] to offer [is] less a rare gourmet’s delicacy than a soggy free lunch.” And there’s a lot more of that type of thing in the book, which is a fascinating and quite disturbing look into the mind of a writer dealing with the tensions and frustrations of the cold war, women’s lib, and the beginning of modernism’s slow death. But by no means is that a reason to throw the book on the fire. Wolfe’s sexual dwellings are at least honest, and I think it’s awfully difficult to separate ideas about human/machine relationships, international conflicts, and power relations between developed and developing nations from sexuality and gender. And sex isn’t Wolfe’s only focus. The book is filled with the complexities of pacifism, the individual’s responsibilities to society, and just what handing culpability over to a machine (namely a computer) means. But as LeVar Burton says, don’t take my word for it…

#5: The Day of the Triffids (1951) by John Wyndham

“You know, one of the most shocking things about it is to realize how easily we have lost a world that seemed so safe and certain.”

John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris (1903-1969) first published pulp stories in the 30s, but it wasn’t until this novel was published and he changed his pen name to just “John Wyndham” (thought by many to be a new writer because of it) that his career first took off. Triffids came from a long tradition of British science fiction, dating back as far as Mary Shelley’s The Last Man (1826), which features disaster stories. Brian Aldiss refers to this narrative type disparagingly as “cosy catastrophes,” and Triffids is often held up as the quintessential novel of this type–middle-class values couched in mindless adventure narrative. Personally, I don’t think that’s necessarily a fair description of Wyndham’s work, but this story is certainly about whites rebuilding white civilization.

The storyline is easy. Bill Masen, the narrator, wakes up one day in a hospital after a terrible tragedy (think 28 Days Later). Seemingly everyone but him is blind from a comet explosion/weapons system gone wrong/unknown reason. He was lucky enough to have been recovering from an eye injury during the event and thus avoided the effects. Anyway, London, Britain, and perhaps the world have gone crazy from the disaster. And then the triffids rise up. A triffid is an ambulatory plant perhaps developed by Trofim Lysenko or from outer space or originating from god knows where. They were once regarded as quaint by the Brits, showing up unannounced in cherished garden plots when Masen was a boy. Later it became clear that they could be dangerous–they can lash out with seriously damaging sting-y “tongues.” And they get totally out of control after the blinding event. Along the way, Masen finds others with sight, takes a trashy novelist to be his lover, considers joining a community based around plural wives, has a run in with a man who enslaves the sighted to care for the blind, is disgusted by a puritanical commune, deals with an out-of-control military unit, and finds lots and lots of triffids.

The novel is entertaining as all, but also quite strange. Wyndham never really explains things: where the triffids come from, what the blinding event was, whether the triffids are sentient, what’s going on outside of the UK (though many are unwisely convinced the mighty US was spared or is too resourceful to be in chaos), and even details about some of the more important characters in the book. Many folks in the novel make odd decisions, and there is much less emphasis on philosophical implications as there is in a book like Earth Abides. But that’s almost part of the fun. Wyndham’s narrative allows the mind to wander, which I often find is the point of such a disaster piece. He’s particularly full of innuendo and leading comments in the area of sexual relations and gender, and who can beat that (no pun intended)?

Triffids on the web:
-on the Gorillaz website there’s a potted triffid in the kitchen of Murdoc’s trailer
-this art piece
-a textile
-a nebula

-a craft project
-an Australian rock band from the 80s
-a nursery
-and so many more…

like a plant distributor and the classic sf film and tv series

#4: The Puppet Masters (1951) by Robert A. Heinlein

“The Russian propaganda system began to blast us as soon as they had worked out a new line. The whole thing was an ‘American Imperialist fantasy.’ I wondered why the titans had not attacked Russia first; the place seemed tailor-made for them. On second thought, I wondered if they had. On third thought, I wondered what difference it would make.”

Let’s get something straight, Robert Heinlein (1907-1988) was a great writer–he’s known as the “Dean of Science Fiction” for god’s sake–but he was also an irritating, perplexing, stubborn son of a gun, too. His novels overflow with machismo, radical individualism, libertarian ideology, and militarism. But if you can stomach the ride, it’s fantastic.

The Puppet Masters is from an early part of his career (he didn’t start writing until he was 32) and one of his most entertaining novels. A page turner about slug-like creatures that invade Earth (landing first in that Mecca…Grinnell, Iowa), attach themselves to the spines of humans, and rule their “puppets,” body and mind. Anti-communist propaganda? You bet. The affected zones are red (gee, what color is associated with communism?); the liberated zones are green (what’s the color of money?). The slugs are intellectual but devoid of culture and physical ability. They secretly take over positions of power, they scare citizens with false news stories and misinformation, and they are sexless (what could be worse? One of the main characters, a hottie named “Mary,” is able to “sniff” out the “hagridden” men by seeing if they are attracted to her or not. Yikes!). On top of that, there is a subplot about a freaky human commune gone bad, people run around naked to prove they are free of parasites, and there are some not too subtle jabs at American liberalism. It’s always a political feast with the H-man!

The book is written in first-person, with a feverish narrative that seems to be fed on the hardboiled writers of the time. It gives a particularly delicious entertainment to the novel, especially when the narrator becomes the host for his own sluggy parasite. There’s also the strange, typically Heinleinian characters: a strong and resourceful woman who’s ready to bootlick her lover like a pet after he treats her like dirt (“I’ve loved you ever since you slapped me.”), the cold father figure who uses his “children” like Kleenex and later claims it’s to build character, ineffectual members of Congress, a perception-driven President, and a narrator who’s as likely to crack a terrible joke as cry (Heinlein’s idea of a strong man).

I’ve got much more to say about Heinlein (like the Socialist party membership he tried to hide evidence of later in life), but there’s plenty of time for that–this is the first of a couple of his novels on David Pringle’s list. And with reason. Heinlein is one of the heavy hitters from one of the most popular periods in sf’s history.

(P.S. There’s a really bad movie version that stars Donald Sutherland…don’t bother.)

#3: The Martian Chronicles (1950) by Ray Bradbury

“They came because they were afraid or unafraid, because they were happy or unhappy, because they felt like Pilgrims or did not feel like Pilgrims. There was a reason for each man. They were leaving bad wives or bad jobs or bad towns; they were coming to find something or leave something or get something, or dig up something or bury something or leave something alone. They were coming with small dreams or large dreams or none at all. But a government finger pointed from four-color posters in many towns: THERE’S WORK FOR YOU IN THE SKY: SEE MARS!”

Bradbury (b. 1920) is one of my favorite writers. He brilliantly slips in, out, through, and between science fiction, horror, fantasy, and straight literary writing in almost all of his work. He’s particularly deft at inserting macbre scares and psychological horrors into stories that also flow with symbolism and emotional depth.

Although his novels are fantastic, Bradbury’s strong suit, as with many sf writers of his generation, is the short-story format. And that’s why The Martian Chronicles is so good. In this novel/short story collection hybrid, Bradbury strings together a series of narratives connected limitedly by characters, themes, and chronology. On the face of it, they’re all stories about the colonization of Mars. But like most Bradbury stories, they speak much more about the present–at least the present that was the late 40s/early 50s: nuclear paranoia, racial tensions, late colonialism/early postcolonialism, Midwestern idyllism, the rise of suburban living, and a gnawing sense of loneliness. I find it a pleasure to read every time I pick it up.

Some favorites of mine:

“The Earth Men”: When the second expedition lands on Mars, the native Martians find the human astronauts crazy and put them in a mental institution.

“The Third Expedition”: The third Earth party finds Mars populated by humans from the 1920s, including several dead family members and friends. As they reunite with their lost loved ones, the captain spends a sleepless night next to his formerly dead brother pondering the best way to execute a sneak attack on foreign invaders. Wouldn’t…really take them by surprise? Still makes my skin crawl.

“Night Meeting”: A human and a Martian from the past (maybe?) meet at the crossroads of space and time. Whose perception of the “present” and “truth” is most valid? Does it matter?

“Way in the Middle of the Air”: All the black folk in a southern town board rockets for Mars to flee Jim Crow. A sole white taskmaster tries to stop them.

“There Will Come Soft Rains”: Probably one of the most famous and popular science-fiction stories ever. A self-sufficient house continues its daily chores after its inhabitants are vaporized in the explosion of an atom bomb.

“The Million-Year Picnic”: The last refugees of war-torn Earth meet the next generation of Martians.

#2: Earth Abides (1949) by George R. Stewart

“Generations come and go, but the earth abides forever.” –Ecclesiastes 1:4

Stewart (1895-1980) was a literature professor at the University of California, and he’s thought to have used the real-life case of Ishi (“man”), the last surviving member of an American Indian tribe who surfaced in California in the early 20th century, as inspiration for the main character in Earth Abides, Isherwood “Ish” Williams. Ish is a graduate student in geography who’s out in the hinterlands when a terrible viral plague washes out most of the human population. When he comes to find what’s happened, he looks at the incident in almost Malthusian terms and decides to become the documenter of the natural world sans humanity. Later, he becomes the leader of a new community called The Tribe, along with his lover/partner Em (who is clearly, though not explicitly said by Stewart, black–how amazing is that for a 1949 science-fiction novel?). The rest of the novel sees Ish’s frustration in trying to instill culture and creative thought (i.e., what he calls “civilization”) in a group that’ll have none of it–food and supplies are too easy to get from the stores, and who needs book learning when there’s no human society outside the small group? In the end, we see the real direction of humanity after civilization fails, and you’ll have to find out for yourself what that is.

This is truly a lost classic. Once a book taught in high school and college English classes, try finding ten people who’ve even heard of it now. And that’s a shame because it’s fantastic. The post-apocalyptic subgenre, along with dystopian literature, has been the backbone of sf writing during large periods of its history. This particular member of that subgenre is unique. No biker gangs warring over gasoline or large insects prowling the Arizona desert or apes ruling over humans in slavery. Stewart instead ponders the effects humans have on the natural world, and he takes a refreshingly pragmatic view on how easily/difficultly the leftover humans would survive if 99.9% of us kicked it tomorrow.

Sexism? Maybe. There’s certainly a 1940s separate spheres, division of labor thing going on, but Em and several other of the women in The Tribe are strong. However, the men make the decisions and do all the dangerous stuff. I give it a little slack because of the time in which it was written. Racism? Hell no. While there is a questionable scene with some “Negroes” in Arkansas, the white man Ish thinks the black woman Em is the cat’s pajamas, and he chooses her to be his lover/mate not because of her race but because she’s strong, tender, and intelligent. Anti-religion? Well…I’m going to cowardly claim ignorance on that one. How would someone with a MA in Comparative Religion know anything about that?

The book came back into print earlier this year, so read it for yourself already.

#1: Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) by George Orwell

“War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery. Ignorance is Strength.”

I must embarrassingly admit that I don’t know if this was the first time I’ve read 1984 cover to cover or not. I’ve certainly tried to read it a couple of times in the last few years and never made it through to the end for one reason or another. And really there’s no excuse because it’s not that long of a novel and the language is simple yet poetic. Most everyone is probably familiar with the plot: Winston Smith mentally and physically sins against a future government, which regulates top down through surveillance, manipulation, and torture. Orwell (aka Eric Blair 1903-1950) originally titled the book The Last Man in Europe, in reference to the fact that Smith appears to be the only human who still hides his real self…in a tiny section of his brain no less. And if he really is the last, then humanity is royally fucked because… Well, I can’t really tell you that, can I?

I’ve come to agree with Neil Postman’s argument that the world we live in is much closer to (or perhaps actually is) the world of Huxley’s Brave New World and not 1984, though the fear of Big Brother runs rampant through pop culture, conspiracy theories, and the political fears of the far right and left. While reading the book this time, I couldn’t help but think the novel is more of a reflection of European fears and despotic fantasies in the 1940s than America in the 21st century. I don’t think most Americans would recognize or understand Orwell’s portrayal of European socialism (as both he wishes and fears), proletarian culture, or Goldstein’s concepts of class consciousness and division of power as anything other than being part of something they know as “fascism.” But that’s not to say that parts of American culture aren’t seen in the novel.

1. Newspeak–the idea that language is more malleable by the elite when vocabulary is shrunk and ambiguities and shades of truth are eliminated through word choice and word corruption. This makes me think of two things in American culture. The first is the current executive administration, particularly its figurehead–limited vocabulary, black and white definitions, shrewd word choice. His inelegance creates meaning which is shielded from criticism by pseudo-pragmatism, jingoism, and fantastic constructions of “strength.” The second thing is advertising. If anything is a direct reflection of Newspeak in our culture, it’s this. Let’s all call it Adspeak for god’s sake.

2. Internal class warfare. Whether Americans want to admit it or not, the US is a class-based society. Perhaps there aren’t the same minute delineations as there are in a society like Britain’s, but Goldstein’s rather simplistic but bell-ringing truths about the three main strata of society and the realities of internal conflict are present. One out of every three US Senators is a millionaire. That’s compared to the less than 1% who are in the general population. And, of course, just by being in Congress, every member receives a six-figure salary from that job alone. But the US isn’t really ruled by the rich, is it? Certainly middle-class values don’t have an effect on urban decay, civil design, and social services, right?

3. Surveillance. I won’t even get into the federal standards on the issue. Instead, I’ll just mention that it’s my belief that the up-and-coming generations are becoming more and more comfortable in handing their privacy over. Look at any site for teen blogs. They’ve become confessionals–including biographical data, personal writings once reserved for “Dear Diary,” photos, and intimate video–that can be accessed by everyone from classmates to strangers halfway around the world. I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but I do worry about where this is headed, particularly if polling data does accurately reflect the belief in the general population that safety is more important than liberties and rights.

**But all this leads right back into my initial point that Brave New World might be here–a society governed by soft fascism and too entertained to care.**

Orwell’s novel is fascinating, even if an incredible downer at times. Proof of his writing’s power is in all the words we’ve incorporated into everyday speech from it: Big Brother, Orwellian, Thought Police, doublethink, and so on. Now it’s certainly speculative fiction, but is it science fiction? Rocketships and space aliens? No. Future technology like all-seeing televisions, speculation on humanity’s future and the future of warfare? Yes. Does it really matter considering it’s a thought-provoking, well-written novel? Not really.