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OtherRealms Issue 30 Part 02
Electronic OtherRealms #30
The Parody Issue
Science Fiction and Fantasy in Chaos
Spring, 1991
Part 2 of 4
Copyright 1991 by Chuq Von Rospach
All Rights Reserved.
OtherRealms may be distributed electronically only in the original
form and with copyrights, credits and return addresses intact.
OtherRealms may be reproduced in printed form only for your personal use.
No part of OtherRealms may be reprinted or used in any other
publication without permission of the author.
All rights to material published in OtherRealms hereby revert to the author.
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Fear and Loathing in F & SF
Hunter S.M. Key
[[Hunter S.M. Key is the pseudonym of horror writer Samuel M. Key,
who urges you to buy his books, even if it means you've got to go
without a couple of beers to cough up the cover price. His hobbies
include nit-picking and haranguing, but mostly he can be found
lounging around his desk in a Hawaiian shirt, shades and straw hat
while listening to loud music and sporadically typing a word or two
of deathless prose.
He's not normally this cranky; you just caught him on a bad day.
{editor's note: he made me say that. Normally, he's worse}]]
It all starts with me minding my own business when this guy who shares
my house -- let's call him Bozo -- comes rapping on my study door late
one night. I consider ignoring him, because the thing with Bozo is, he
always wants something, and it's usual a major pain in the, you know,
let's be polite, the derriere, but I'm feeling generous, so I stagger
over to the door and let him in.
So there's Bozo standing there, looking sheepish (and well he should,
considering how he shamelessly steals all my best ideas, if you want
to know the real truth), and he starts right in on it, whining about
how he's got this column due, but he's got no time to write it and
could I, maybe, do it for him, like I haven't got better things to do
with my time. But what the hell, I can be an accommodating kind of a
guy, if you catch me in the right mood, and it was the holiday season,
so here I am.
Trouble is, I don't read this stuff much. You know, spaceships and
spells and aliens and the like. I've got enough weirdness going down
in my life, without needing to read about it, but like I said, I was
in an accommodating mood, and I said I'd do it, so the first thing I
did was I went out and bought a couple of six-packs, a carton of
smokes and some other peripherals. Then I grabbed a mitt full of books
and magazines from Bozo's library and sat down to check it all out.
Here's what I managed to get through:
The Little Country
Charles de Lint
Morrow, Jan1991; 544pp; $22.95; 0-688-10366-9
What's with these big books anyway? It seems like you either get some
gargantuan volume that crushes your chest while you're lying down
trying to read it (not to mention the way the lines of type in a fat
paperback always seem to bleed into the spine) or you have to go out
and buy a half dozen skinny installments in a series just to be able
to read the whole story. And this guy's name. How're you supposed to
take a writer seriously when he sounds like something you'd find in
the bottom of your pocket?
Okay, so the book's not so bad. It's got a bunch of people running
around in it, trying to find this and do that, and it's a little
confusing because every other chapter you're someplace else, having to
deal with a whole new set of characters and stuff, but it moves along
and its got a couple of pithy lines in it--most of 'em being the
chapter epigraphs that the writer cribbed from other writers, but hey,
at least he gives them credit.
But he really ought to change that name. And write shorter books. I
just about got a hernia lugging around this one and Tigana by that
other Canadian guy which has maybe more characters and just as much
switching around. But at least that guy--just a sec' while I look up
his name. Oh yeah. Guy Gavriel Kay. At least Kay's pithier moments are
his own.
The Stress of Her Regard
Tim Powers
Ace, Sept 1989; 392pp; $17.95; 0-441-79055-0
I never got past the flap copy on this one. Look, if I want to read
about the lives of nineteenth century British poets, I'll check out
some biographies by reputable scholars. Like what kind of insights are
we going to get from some guy living in twentieth century California?
I could tell just by nipping through a few pages that he'd made it all
up. What's the deal? We're supposed to believe that this is how it all
really went down? Or maybe he collaborated with Shirley MacLaine to
get the real scoop?
Gimme a break.
Cold Fire
Dean R. Koontz
Putnam, Jan 1991; 384pp; $21.95; 0-399-13579-0
I met this guy once and there's no way he writes these books. I mean,
I don't want to badmouth a basically nice guy, but he's got a
vocabulary of about three words and as for class--you call taking
people out for dinner to a place with a cowboy motif class? Yeah, right.
But the books are hot stuff. Good guys up against bad guys, lots of
neat ideas and real smooth prose. I figure his wife writes them. Now
she's one smart cookie, bright without being obnoxious about it (you
know how some people like to parade how much they know because they
think it'll give 'em a few extra points in your estimation of them?)
and obviously patient as hell, since she married him.
What's patience got to do with writing books? You try writing one
sometime.
Pulphouse #9: Dark Fantasy
Edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Pulphouse Publishing, Fall 1990; 259pp; $20.00
Let's get a couple of things straight, right off the bat: A magazine
is something you can buy at the check-out counter of your local
supermarket. You can fold it up and stick it in the back pocket of
your jeans. It's got, you know, columns and eye-catching ads for stuff
you could never afford, or wouldn't want, but are kind of neat to look
at, and it's got pictures. The more pictures the better. Nobody wants
to read about, say, Patrick Swayze or Claudia Schiffer. They just want
to look at them.
So what've we got here? A thick hardcover with some green embossed
lettering and a sketch on the cover and no, I repeat, no, pictures
inside. No columns, no ads. Just lots of stories.
Okay, so the stories are pretty good, but I was looking for a break from
all these fat books I found in Bozo's library. I wanted gossip and
reviews and stuff like that and what did I find along those lines? Nada.
Oh yeah. And maybe the folks at Pulphouse should give a thought about
the frequency of their publication. A magazine comes out monthly, or
even weekly, not just a few times a year. And it's, like,
eight-and-a-half by eleven-and-a-half, saddle-stitched and-- oh, just
go down to your drugstore and check 'em out. (Want to lay bets that no
one's brought this to their attention before? And five-to-one says if
they do change their format and frequency of publication, they'll
never give me credit for suggesting it. Like I care.)
The Last Coin
James P. Blaylock
Ace, Nov 1988; 328pp; $17.95, 0-441-11381-8
Bozo told me that this Blaylock guy won the O'Henry, which is, like,
high stakes class, the way I see it, so I figured I'd end off this
column by giving his book a try. Well, I've read it twice and I still
don't know what it's about.
It's got something to do with carp, and the thirty pieces of silver
that I guess Judas lost because everyone's running around trying to
find them, and lots more to do with setting up an inn, but going about
it all assbackwards, and old ladies and cats and possums and pig
spoons and, well, I guess you get the picture. Right now you're
probably thinking !?! Yeah, that's what I thought, too.
I let Bozo look this all over before I printed it up and he says I
haven't made a single valid criticism or properly discussed one of the
items reviewed here. Hey, you want epigrammatic, insightful critiques,
check out one of the other columnists in this rag. It's not like I got
paid for this.
On Boobs
Reviews by Bored Sirs
Cousin Kzin
Man-Kzin Wars Vol. MCMXII
Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle & Dean Ing
Ben Books, $6.95
Despite complaints that this series has gone on just too long, Niven &
Co., here serve up a fresh dish of unknown origins from the Known
Universe. The book consists of three novelettes loosely connected by a
plot device centering on the politics inherent in Human-Kzin peace talks.
Niven's "Cooking For Mr. Goodbar," deeply delves into the background
and struggles of Kzin pastry chef Chutz'pah as he tries to ignore his
warrior past and please the various delegations who come to eat at the
restaurant in the hotel in which the peace talks are being held.
Niven's snappy dialogue, especially between Chutz'pah and his human
boss, Chef Tom Mouser as the two--joined by their love of cooking,
must come face to face with their almost instinctual hate of each
other. Additionally, Niven's vivid descriptions of Kzin eating habits
and cultural basis of food preparation go a long way to filling this
too-long-left-blank piece of Kzin history.
Equally entertaining and illuminating is Pournelle's "Is There A
Dentist In The Den?" a rousing adventure dealing with a human dentist
captured by the feared Hoc'k Phooe legion of the Supreme Kzin Military
Forces. The Doctor, one Reginald Altinor Fitzwafer, is at first
shocked and denying when confronted with the decayed and badly
infected incisor of the Hoc'k Phooe Legion Commander. Reggie's
struggle against cultural bias and propaganda generated images is
slowly overcome by his love of dentistry as well as his code of
ethics. It may be an alien tooth in need of repair, but _t is a tooth
none-the-less. Of course, Pournelle's vivid imagery, particularly of
the drilling, lancing of the infection and eventual extraction is
first rate. Once again, Pournelle shows he is a master at building
tension and the final confrontation is nothing but first rate.
Finally, Dean Ing's contribution, "Kitty Litter," if the lesser of the
three is so only due to the strength of the first two. Ing's detailing
of life on the Kzin home planet through the eyes of a lovable,
laughable pair of disgruntled waste management engineers is a fitting
addition to the Kzin myth. His two over-the-hill garbage collectors,
Fweet Fwoo & Chunn Kee, dream of being warriors in the worst way.
Ing's decision to follow the pair on an average day gives the reader
an opportunity to get deep within the Kzin psyche. Ing also takes full
advantage of the opportunity to get deep within the Kzin culture
through descriptions of their waste products.
So, for all of you who thought this series had gone too far, Niven,
Pournelle and Ing show that is has not yet gone far enough.
Robbing the Blind
The Shade of Shaharazzad
L. Sprague DeCamp
Hey Dey $5.97
Occasionally an author will call upon past works in order to expand a
story often thought finished. Occasionally the later version greatly
overshadows the first. This is the case here as DeCamp expands on a
little known but greatly loved short story (Shaharazzad's Closet)
which was published in the short lived but greatly loved Fantasticly
Weird Stories in 1952.
Where in 1952 DeCamp was wild, here he is wildly outrageous. As the
title suggests, the setting is middle eastern and takes place in the
same mythos as the Arabian Nights. The blind in question is a magical
artifact that will only operate when the correct window is found.
Decor plays a large part in the plot here as DeCamp moves his hero
from room to room in his sometimes dangerous, sometimes romantic and
sometimes clashing search. There are djins, princesses in peril, evil
emirs and a frantic interior decorator which only serve to add to the
plot twists. The fact that the story is ultimately quite predictable
does not detract in the least from its enjoyment.
Pissed Imaginings
Forgotten Treasures
Lawrence Watt-Evans
It's a funny thing--the greatest writer science fiction has ever known
is mostly remembered as an editor.
Seriously.
I mean, his memory is revered, awards are named after him, he's called
the Father of Science Fiction, but most people (if they've heard of
him at all) will tell you his claim to fame is that he founded Amazing
Stories and invented the genre of science fiction.
The truth, of course, is that he also wrote the greatest work of
fiction--not just science fiction, but any fiction--that a human being
has ever yet produced!
I refer, of course, to Hugo Gernsback, and the immortal Ralph 124C 41+:
A Romance of the Year 2660.
"So if it's so great," you say, "Why has it been out of print all
these years?" Because it's been suppressed, of course--and with good
reason! If you could actually go out and buy a copy and read it, you'd
see how everything written under the label "science fiction" since is
just cheap and shoddy imitations. Hundreds of authors and a dozen
publishers would be put out of business, because anybody with half a
brain would rather re-read Ralph than waste time on some silly bit of
fluff like Dhalgren. Consider the utter brilliance of this passage, in
which Ralph converses with an unknown girl:
"That's a long way from here," she said brightly. "I wonder if you
know where I am?"
"I can make a pretty shrewd guess," he returned. "To begin with,
before I rectified your speech you spoke French, hence you are
probably French. Secondly, you have a lamp burning in your room
although it is only four o'clock in the afternoon here in New York.
You also wear evening dress. It must be evening, and inasmuch as the
clock on your mantelpiece points to nine I would say you are in
France, as New York time is five hours ahead of French time."
"Clever, but not quite right. I am not French nor do I live in France.
I am Swiss and I live in western Switzerland. Swiss time, you know, is
almost the same as French time."
Both laughed.
What subtle mockery! What wit! And notice the sneaky way Gernsback
lets us know that this is a world where scientific advancement has
made possible a return to the leisure of yesteryear, bringing back
evening dress and mantel clocks, and where national borders have been
restored to their natural places--where time itself has been reshaped!
Throughout the novel, Gernsback pulls off similar feats of literary
legerdemain--for example, when the Swiss girl is endangered by an
avalanche, Ralph simply cranks up his ultra-generator and melts the
onrushing snow before it can harm anyone.
And to an inattentive reader, it's just another thrilling exploit, but
to the alert student--Ralph's ultra-generator is in the middle of New
York City, yet he casually throws around levels of power sufficient to
obliterate the entire city. His ultra-generator sucks the ether itself
from the surrounding environment, making the transmission of light and
heat impossible for a radius of several blocks.
And nobody objects! He isn't arrested, or even questioned! Nobody sues
him!
Gernsback had clearly envisioned a whole new sort of society, where
details like wanton endangerment and public nuisances are not
permitted to interfere with personal freedom.
And in fact, it's implied that nobody is in those several
blocks--which is clearly impossible unless New York City has been
largely depopulated by some unnamed catastrophe.
And then there are the Accelerated Plant Growing Farms, where any
possibility of famine is prevented by the simple expedient of glassing
over Connecticut and turning it into giant hothouses.
What wiped out everyone in Connecticut and allowed this miracle to
take place? We're never told.
These little hints of forgotten horrors add a whole new level to the
story--particularly when all the characters studiously ignore them.
No modern author has ever approached the spine-tingling chill that
hits the reader when all this first sinks in; what unspeakable evil
lies beneath the surface of Ralph's gleaming world?
Unfortunately, we never find out. I'm sure that all would have been
explained in the sequel, had the forces of darkness not suppressed the
book.
And perhaps that suppression wasn't merely jealousy or an attempt to
protect a degenerate publishing industry.
Perhaps Gernsback was trying to warn us.
So read this book now, while you still can!
------ End ------
