By Mary Shelley
Frankenstein is, I think by broad consensus, the first science fiction novel. Yes, the science is only glanced at, and in the 1831 edition is actually played down to the point where it’s unclear even in the most general terms how Victor Frankenstein gives life to his creation. But it’s clear that Victor isn’t using black magic to raise the dead, and as a type of the mad scientist he would go on to have a long life within the genre. Such figures aren’t punished by God or the gods (indeed we can’t even be sure if either Victor or his creation has read the Bible) but instead must be judged by the results of their experiments. After all, Victor can’t really help himself when it comes to pursuing his passions. Elizabeth is such a cold figure — more sister than lover — and he’s so lonely. The Creature is his true love, albeit of the type one regrets in the morning.
By J. G. Ballard
Is it science fiction? Well, it’s prophetic. It describes itself, paradoxically, as a vision of “a future that had already taken place, and was now exhausted.” Shouldn’t that mean that its particular dystopic vision is now passé?
Not quite. This is a novel that juxtaposes the shallow surface of modern life with its lower depths, inviting all kinds of obvious Freudian and Marxist interpretations. The abyss, however, abides, which is why we continue to see so much of ourselves in the residents of the high-rise. Their need for comfort and security, for example, and their selfishness and narcissism are drives no less important than their unleashed libidos. Wilder’s camera would be a cellphone now, but otherwise it seems very familiar.
As a vision of the end of the world High-Rise is as resonant now as ever. This may well be the way the world ends: locked inside our dirty apartments, drowning in our own filth, and each of us (even, or especially, those of us with families) entirely alone. If not happy, at least content.
Make Room! Make Room!
By Harry Harrison
No, soylent isn’t people in this 1966 novel, which was the basis for the 1973 film Soylent Green. In fact, the movie didn’t have much to do with Harry Harrison’s book at all, aside from the general message about overpopulation.
Reading it today, I find that message to be the least pressing part. We’re no longer so hung up on contraception, and the big scary numbers don’t impress. In the novel, on the eve of the millennium the population of the U.S. is 344 million and the global population 7 billion. It took a bit longer, but both numbers have been surpassed. The population of NYC is high at 35 million (it’s only 8.5 million today), but it’s not out of the ballpark for the global champs.
Instead, what still seems most relevant is the vision of a future running out of resources (fresh water, oil, food, living space), and the enormous gap between a very small elite and the miserable masses. Both the material and moral collapse of society are nicely realized in a naturalistic tale of crime and punishment that still has teeth.
The Midwich Cuckoos
By John Wyndham
The Midwich Cuckoos spends a lot of time locating Midwich in relation to the roads that lead in and out of it and its proximity to neighbouring communities, but I was at first confused as to when it was set. It was first published in 1957 but for some reason I thought it had been written earlier. The town itself is described as existing in a “thousand-year doze,” and it has the same cozy air of 1930s golden age detective fiction that triggered Brian Aldiss’s “cosy catastrophe” critique of The Day of the Triffids. There’s no reference to any war, past or present, or much in the way of technology. In short, it could be taking place at any time, though certainly not anywhere.
You then notice odd things you wouldn’t see in a cozy novel, though they are still only suggested. The minister’s wife has had an abortion. The town has a lesbian couple. And as for the aliens, they’re either sex tourists or practical jokers looking to punk homo sapiens.
It’s an odd mix of what are familiar elements, used again by Wyndham to dramatize his favourite theme of the incompatibility between evolving species. Humanity is something that needs to be surpassed, but only over our dead bodies: a stark message that seems to have become more relevant in our own time.
Kurt Vonnegut: The Complete Novels
By Kurt Vonnegut
Kilgore Trout, a prolific author of paperback SF, is a reccurring character in Kurt Vonnegut’s writing. Though not commercially successful, Trout’s books endure hard use, turning into bundles of paper resembling “lopsided old softball[s], swaddled in different sorts of tape.”
If that describes the condition of the Kurt Vonnegut paperbacks on your bookshelf, and it probably does, you might want to treat yourself to this deluxe edition of all fourteen of his novels published by the Library of America. Every title from Player Piano (1952) to Timequake (1997) is included, along with a nice selection of stories, essays, introductions, and other material wrapped up in a four-volume box set.
Vonnegut’s attitude toward SF was ambivalent. On the one hand he was aware of how it could become a dangerous drawer for an author to be placed in, “since so many serious critics regularly mistake the drawer for a urinal.” He was, however, always drawn to SF as a form of satire, and often used it to explore aspects of our relation to consumer culture and technology that remain relevant today.
R. U. R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots)
By Karel Čapek
It’s ironic that what R. U. R. is best known for today is its introduction of the word “robot” into the English language, when the meaning of that word has changed so completely in the years since. Čapek’s robots aren’t machines but vat-brewed organic constructions. Politically, they are Marx’s proles, Wells’s Morlocks, or plantation zombies: human facsimiles who function as a servile underclass so that a new global aristocracy can be liberated from labour.
Of course things don’t work out. R. U. R. is a comedy of unintended consequences: as humans are freed from labour they find themselves redundant, to the point where they even (voluntarily!) give up breeding. Evolution has been directed to a dead end, and humankind, which Nietzsche thought something to be surpassed, has finally suffered that fate, having engineered itself into a position of superfluity. Meanwhile, our inheritors are left with nothing to do but to continue mass-producing crap for which there is no longer any market. The new Adam and Eve have inherited a sterile wasteland. This is the real singularity we are working toward, and, in retrospect, the best our civilization could do.
The Man in the High Castle
By Philip K. Dick
First published in 1962, Philip K. Dick’s Hugo-winning alternate-history novel (a relatively new genre at the time) has been re-released to coincide with the miniseries being produced under the same name.
The series, however, only borrows the novel’s basic premise: that the Axis powers won WW2 and now the U.S. is occupied by the Nazis in the East and the Imperial Japanese in the West, with a neutral zone in-between. The plot of the novel is a loose, hard to summarize affair, following the adventures of a number of tangentially connected characters as they struggle to adapt and survive in this threatening new political environment.
Uncanny and unsettling, The Man in the High Castle is also one of Dick’s most accessible books, moving beyond politics into the sort of speculations he is famous for about the nature of reality and who the ultimate author of the script of our lives might be.