The Darkening of the Light

Tessa B. Dick The Darkening of the Light (2012)
Philip K. Dick's final novel would, in theory, have been The Owl in Daylight. I've read that it was the novel he was working on at the time of his death, back in 1982, although in the Exegesis he describes it as the book he found himself unable to write, the novel which broke him. His widow, Tessa, published her own version of The Owl in Daylight some years after his death, reputedly utilising some of what he had written, although I could be wrong about that detail. The book was criticised for diverging from what is known of Phil's original outline, and was in any case withdrawn from publication in response to objections made by the estate of the author.

The Darkening of the Light introduces itself as an expanded version of an earlier work by the same author, and clearly makes use of certain themes attributed to her version of The Owl in Daylight, and no third party has yet tried to have it withdrawn from publication so far as I'm aware, so let's just try to enjoy the fact of its existence and current availability without getting too bogged down in whether or not it should count as the completion of his last great work; because the answer to that one is probably yes and no. If we're treating it as a forensic reconstruction of Phil's last book as it would have been, then we're doomed to disappointment, because yes, of course it diverges and strays from the outline. Most authors diverge and stray from their own outlines, or they do if they're any good; and this was never Kevin J. Anderson expanding something A.E. van Vogt scribbled on the back of a fag packet to full novel length.

To answer a different but arguably more pertinent question, The Darkening of the Light really is a great book. Possibly excepting Frida Kahlo, our culture conditions us to a certain degree of squinting whenever a woman steps out from the shadow of her better publicised husband, but we really need to get over it and judge the work on its own merit rather than by our assumptions.

The Darkening of the Light isn't a Philip K. Dick novel, although it's built upon much of that which preoccupied him in later years, and not because his ex-wife is presenting a mere impersonation, but because she spent time with the guy, understood what made him tick, and has plenty to say on the subject. Her tone actually reminds me a little of Richard Brautigan, if anything, which is well suited to analysis of the nature of reality, and - most refreshingly - she writes with a gentle sense of humour, and a wonderfully understated pleasure taken in the absurd.

When Teddy arrived home on Friday afternoon, wistfully daydreaming about Lorelei, instead of a little stucco house he found himself standing in front of a stone temple with statues of grotesque gargoyles standing on either side of the entrance, a double door made of iron that refused to open when he pushed and pulled on it. This turn of events did not surprise him, since he had found that some sort of punishment was always imposed upon him whenever he made an unethical choice.

This pleases me greatly because this is the detail of Philip K. Dick's writing which everyone misses, hence all those groaning po-faced blue and orange movies with handsome young men questioning the reality of their own photogenic existences within what usually looks like a Nine Inch Nails video.

The Darkening of the Light is significantly more playful than we might expect, and is about - as you might anticipate - our relationship with reality, death, and I suspect represents Tessa B. Dick coming to terms with the passing of a husband. Without having known the man, I've always wondered about his attitude to women, specifically the repeating cycle of partners who age into reputedly stifling harridans from which the only relief is some newer, younger model; so it's nice to get something from the perspective of a better half, and a perspective which balances boldly honest reportage of his failings with a warm regard which I personally found both moving and something of a relief - he may have been hard work at times, but I guess it wasn't all uphill.

In terms of mood, the novel additionally reminds me a little of the immersive and autobiographical A War of Witches in which anthropologist T.J. Knab describes his life amongst the curanderas of rural Mexico. Knab's book runs with the idea that we each lead a post-mortem existence in Talokan, the realm beneath the Earth, and that this is also the place we visit when we dream. The Darkening of the Light feels very much like a communication of similar spirit, and without doing anything particularly spectacular or flashy, is one of the best novels I've read in a while. Whether or not this is the closest we'll come to reading Phil's Owl in Daylight probably doesn't matter.

If I Were You

L. Ron Hubbard If I Were You (1941)
L. Ron Hubbard was the most important science-fiction author who ever lived, and so it is fitting that Galaxy Press should have endeavoured to rescue his many mighty works from pulp obscurity and return them at long last to print - and with this opening sentence I have at least saved you the trouble of reading Kevin J. Anderson's introduction. Galaxy Press seem to be financially although not necessarily ideologically associated with Scientology by some means, existing principally as a vehicle for Hubbard's work; so fair enough I guess. I still think they may have been trying too hard in certain respects given that I would have thought the majority of people picking up copies of these novellas will most likely already be well disposed towards the man. The glowing biographical summary of Hubbard's life in the rear of the book reads somewhat as though puddings may have been over-egged - I'm fairly certain the guy didn't actually invent either science-fiction or fantasy as genres; whilst Anderson smiles beatifically and points out that Shakespeare and Dickens were popular in their days, and that Hubbard's tales in the pulp magazines of the thirties and forties were popular in his day, so L. Ron Hubbard was therefore just like Shakespeare and Dickens for as history has shown, good stories are much more than fancy prose.

If nothing else, this does at least support my hunch that I don't really need to read anything written by Kevin J. Anderson. Oddly - and I realise I am here asking us all to pause and take another look at Hitler's paintings because some of them were quite nice really - I would say that all of this editorial reverence actually does Hubbard's fiction something of a disservice because - quite aside from what one may think of the man and his deeds - If I Were You is good enough to stand on its own merits. I'm not saying it's the greatest thing I've ever read, or that it necessarily represents a little known masterpiece, but Hubbard, if nothing else, was an accomplished writer within his field. Whilst it may be argued that his field was somewhat limited to romps and adventures of the kind which made names for Edgar Rice Burroughs and others, if his tales lack poetry, they were better told than those of many of his contemporaries. That is to say that If I Were You at least reads like the work of someone who knew exactly what he wanted to do and how to do it, and someone who couldn't really be described as a hack with any justification. True, it's the story of a circus midget swapping bodies with that of an unpleasant scheming ringmaster, with a splash of romance and just deserts duly served at the end, but it's an engaging read nevertheless; and I suppose you might also argue that certain themes prefigure the mythology Hubbard later expounded with the Church of Scientology, if you feel inclined to do so.

The Last Drop, the much shorter back up story follows the theme of size by shrinking its protagonists to gnomic proportions, and is less satisfying, but serves as an interesting snapshot of its era nonetheless.

While I'm sceptical of Hubbard's credentials as the neglected genius described in Kevin J. Anderson's introduction, it seems equally dubious to pretend that he never existed or to relegate his writing to a mere footnote in science-fiction history, because for the most part it seems to have been better than you might imagine.

Dune

Frank Herbert Dune (1965)
I advise you to read this book as soon as possible, I was once told by an individual posting on an internet forum under the name Gargamel. This came in response to my idly commenting that I'd never read Dune, apparently the best-selling science-fiction novel of all-time. I was put off by the strident tone of the suggestion, as though Dune should be considered essential reading for anyone with a brain, and everyone knew that! I was also put off by Gargamel's further insistence that once I was done with Dune I would be well advised to read Herbert's six follow up novels followed immediately by all the related books written by Herbert's son in conjunction with Kevin J. Anderson. As a rule I tend to discount the testimony of persons who describe themselves as fans, regardless of that which has inspired their devotion, because generally speaking most expressions of fandom require too great a suspension of critical faculties in order to keep the faith; besides which, I wasn't about to take advice from anyone named after an evil wizard from the Smurfs cartoon.

Still, here I am at last, and in its favour, Herbert's years of research have provided Dune with an impressively thorough and fully realised alien environment. The problem is that most of said alien environment is fully realised in the form of notes and essays in the appendix, leaving the five-hundred page novel somewhat top heavy with dynastic intrigue and people with funny names stood around in throne rooms exchanging vows regarding deeds to be done in the name of their children, and their children's children. In fact the balance is such that Dune might be viewed as having more in common with Tolkein's Lord of the Rings than the genre from which it emerged, at least as of when it was published. Possibly excepting Asimov's Foundation series, Dune might be regarded as the first definitively epic space opera in the Star Wars sense - empires rising and falling, yer ancient wisdom, chosen ones foretold by prophecy and in possession of mysterious powers, dynastic struggle, and a hell of a lot of sand.

So depending on your expectations, it's fairly readable in so much as it does what it does with conviction, and the background noise of pseudo-Islamic terminology serves to hint at a narrative with a great deal occurring off the page, so to speak. In the context of the mid-sixties, it's probably the written equivalent of the Beatles' Revolver or something, the teenbeat science-fiction of rockets, spacesuits, and little green men maturing into something more worldly, more ambitious, and which places emphasis on myth, ecological concerns, and supposedly mind-expanding drugs; which is nice, but five-hundred pages is perhaps too much, and the novel spends it's final chapters as a droning progressive rock uncle making portentous statements about civilisations waxing and waning...

'This was my father's ducal signet,' he said. 'I swore never to wear it again until I was ready to lead my troops over all of Arrakis and claim it as my rightful fief.' He put the ring on his finger, clenched his fists.

Utter stillness gripped the cavern.

'Who rules here?' Paul asked. He raised his fist. 'I rule here! I rule on every square inch of Arrakis! this is my ducal fief whether the Emperor says yea or nay! He gave it to my father and it comes to me through my father!'

Clench; declare; avenge; clench; argue; more clenching; prophecy; clench, and on and on and on...

I can see why it might be regarded as a great novel, provided you don't mind the absolute absence of a sense of humour and you haven't read much else, but Dune really outstays it's welcome on one's bedside table - a shame really, as it starts off so well.

So screw you, Gargamel. Smiley face. Smiley face.