Candide

Voltaire Candide (1759)
It seemed like time I dipped in a toe, never having actually read anything by the man whilst having lived with his influence for most of my existence. I'm actually listening to a Cabaret Voltaire album as I write this, funnily enough.

I was hoping for wacky proto-science-fiction, which Candide sort of isn't, but never mind. It turns out that I was thinking of Micromégas.

Candide describes the global journey of a young man identified as such, his progress notably incorporating the fictional land of Eldorado, vaguely situated in south America and probably commenting either on Thomas More's Utopia or else its legacy. The novel was a relatively new thing at the time of writing in so much as that it was still doing all sorts of weird things which no-one really seems to bother with these days. Candide is allegorical in the sense of Gulliver's Travels being allegorical - and I'm quite excited by the realisation that Voltaire met Swift whilst living in London - and so our hero's progress serves as a sequence of philosophical metaphors illustrating his ruminations on society, humanity, existence, and how these relate to the religious thought of the day. Specifically it's mostly concerned with whether or not we're living in the best of all possible worlds, as suggested in 1710 by Gottfried Leibniz as a means of accounting for the persistence of evil in a cosmos ruled over by a loving God. Voltaire found plenty of evil upon which to pass comment in 1759, and if he reaches an actual conclusion, I seem to have missed it, so I assume this is more about asking questions, ensuring that certain institutions feel duly uncomfortable, and taking the piss - although not quite to the extent of Swift.

As is probably obvious, I'm somewhat out of my depth here, so any or all of the above may actually be bollocks, but to continue regardless: Candide seems much softer focus than Gulliver, being closer to a ribbing than the weapons grade sarcasm of Swift, excepting infrequent incidents of rape, hanging and related horrors; although it could be that the translation has dulled the narrative's sharper edges. This one was handled by Lowell Bair who did a pretty decent job on Jules Verne as far as I recall, so who knows?

Candide seems fairly light, but was nevertheless a pleasure, and sufficiently so as to justify my keeping an eye open for the aforementioned Micromégas. Where my appreciation may be muted due to having precious little clue about the politics of 1759, the novel still represents a fascinating cameo of eighteenth century attitudes, not least those regarding science and evolution, with the relationship of ape to humanity being something which people were quite clearly thinking about.

The Blal

A.E. van Vogt The Blal (1965)
Having just done the calculations, I realise there are now only five novels by A.E. van Vogt which I am yet to read, which is pretty weird considering how many times I've struggled through one and consequently ended up telling myself it will be the last. On the other hand, it seems there are still a fair few of his short story collections I haven't tackled, which is probably only because I never see them in any of the usual second hand stores. I'd say that I'm maybe not so keen on his short fiction, but it's obviously bollocks because I keep reading it, and for all those incomprehensible brain scramblers I've had to wade through, the good stuff always makes it feel as though the tears and headaches and double vision have been worth it. Of course, one problem with the short story collections is that they tend to feature a lot of the same material, but then seeing as half of his novels were short stories welded together, I don't suppose I have much grounds for complaint.

Of this bunch, I'd already read five of the eight, some in short form, some human centipeded into larger novels, some both, but van Vogt can be absurdly dense and difficult to retain so second or third readings are often rewarding, not to mention surprising when a particular story turns out to be nothing like how you remember it. I'm sure War of Nerves did something completely different the last couple of times I read it.

Enchanted Village and Vault of the Beast render this collection approximately essential, in the event of you not already having either in seven other van Vogt collections. If The Blal falls short of qualifying as the absolutely definitive selection, it's decent and there's nothing bad here. Also, Final Command is interesting for its arguably bearing a closer resemblance to certain themes which inform Blade Runner to a more pronounced extent than anything from the Philip K. Dick novel of which Ridley Scott apparently managed thirty pages, which would be the second occasion of Mr. Hovis advert filming something which just happened to seem a teensy bit reminiscent of a particular van Vogt short story.

Ham on Rye

Charles Bukowski Ham on Rye (1982)
Bukowski only wrote a handful of novels, the bulk of his published work being poetry. This was the first one I read, recommended by my late friend Andrew, an unfortunately dedicated alcoholic who shared some of Bukowski's habits and much of his general outlook. It was a good place to start. The general composition of Bukowski's narrative has calmed down since Post Office, less of the screaming capital letters, and with thirteen additional years of boozing and falling over seemingly providing further distance from the emotional battering laid down during his childhood years, here described in roughly autobiographical terms through the fictionalised persona of Henry Chinaski. I didn't have a bad childhood, but neither was it one so idyllic as to leave me with any soft focus desire for a return revisit; and I think anyone who engages in at least some degree of honest reflection will recognise the description of reality kicking you in the teeth over and over, even if child battery played no actual part.

Ham on Rye is, unsurprisingly, a far from pretty picture, and it would be shocking to read of Chinaski's dabbling with the politically far right in any other context. Tellingly, this seems to have been a gut reaction, as I suppose it often is, inspired by a distrust of the vocally and demonstratively liberal, which I can at least understand. What's more significant here is the author failing to give a shit about presenting himself as a sympathetic figure, not even really a victim of circumstance - which seems a fairly rare thing; and the visceral element is perfectly balanced with glimpses of beauty snatched here and there for the sake of contrast, or if not beauty then at least reasons to be alive: discovering the novels of D.H. Lawrence at the local public library, solitude, drink, fighting just for the sheer fucking fun of it.

America, regardless of James Dean, Marlon Brando, and whatever else it has told itself, never really did rebellion. It's a nation of boy scouts, good little soldiers, and loyal snitches who regard diversity and imagination as dangerous gateway drugs to Communism and homosexuality, and whose minds are easily blown by Michael J. Fox dancing on the hood of a gridlocked car so as to teach the grown-ups a thing or two about what it means to be young. This is why America's fuck-ups and square pegs tend to be pretty hardcore, at least Manson levels of craziness; although of course they don't quite count as America, not officially, not until we get the commodified Tarantino version, probably with Brad Pitt saying motherfucker in an amusing way which will inevitably give rise to a thousand cool memes, as they will be regarded by those fuckwits who place stock in the term cool holding any value whatsoever.

So that's a massive generalisation right there, but I'd guess it explains Ham on Rye and is therefore a recommendation.

Fantasy & Science Fiction 613

 

Gordon Van Gelder (editor) Fantasy & Science Fiction 613 (2003)
I have new books, or at least books newly purchased which I'm yet to read, but somehow nothing is sticking. I read a few pages of London Fields, a few of a Kornbluth, part of a short story by A.E. van Vogt, but I'm not in the mood for any of them; so I'm really beginning to appreciate having accumulated unread back issues of the digests just in case, particularly those such as this one which has been mostly light without feeling either insubstantial or crappy.

This is my third back issue this year, bringing us up to 2003, and it's been the best one yet, seemingly representing a further refinement of what Fantasy & Science Fiction does. Back in April, I wrote:

Unfortunately I am no more able to read fantasy than I am able to attend renaissance fairs dressed as a fucking minstrel. As soon as I read a sentence suffixed with my Lord, my brain shuts itself down.

I guess it wasn't just me, because by 2003 the magazine is happily free of anyone with pointed ears wearing a green hat, and what we have sits loosely between speculative fiction and the modern ghost story - I'd say something in the Gothic tradition, but I'd be guessing. M. Shayne Bell's Anomalous Structures of My Dreams and Jeremy Minton's Halfway House are probably the stand-outs, but there's nothing bad here, and everything reads very much like the work of authors who care about their craft. I stumbled a little upon Mary Rickert's The Machine and Albert E. Cowdrey's Grey Star, but second run ups taken next morning paid off, particularly with The Machine, which is, on reflection, probably one of the more satisfyingly intense things I've read this year.

Perry Rhodan: Enterprise Stardust

K.H. Scheer & Walter Ernstling Perry Rhodan: Enterprise Stardust (1961)
I remember seeing a shitload of these in WHSmith when I was a kid, and yet only recently have I come to realise that Perry Rhodan is the main character of the series rather than its author. I hadn't bothered with any of them because I generally prefer to start a series at the beginning for obvious reasons, but it turns out that this was the first one, so here we go.

Actually, it's a translation of the first two, Perry Rhodan having been a weekly digest first published in Germany - each week a new novella amounting to sixty or seventy pages of text. A minimum of research has revealed that Perry endured for decades - still keeping to that weekly schedule - was massively popular, and seems to have given birth to the story arc, from what I can tell. By story arc I mean self-contained tales which form part of a larger narrative within an even broader evolving continuity, as distinct from three or four novels with the same setting or the sort of stuff Edgar Rice Burroughs used to churn out. Maybe there have been earlier story arcs, but I can't think of any right now.

As with both Doctor Who and 2000AD comic, the pressure of a weekly schedule compelled the creators to a certain degree of homage, borrowing, or whatever you would prefer to call it, and the legend accordingly has it that Perry Rhodan has been caught up in more or less every conceivable science-fiction scenario at one point or another, and so we begin the saga with first contact.

These books have a reputation for being somewhat pulpy. This one is more uneven than anything, albeit uneven with a certain pulpy sensibility in evidence here and there. The story is quite slow, even laborious as it tells of Rhodan's historic moon landing in detail which clearly foreshadows the Apollo missions and reads very much like the work of Arthur C. Clarke. Our guys encounter the scout ship of an advanced alien race stranded on the moon, at which point traces of pulp become discernable. One of the aliens is a female called Thora, summoning unfortunately intrusive images of Songs of Praise - at least for me; and we learn that the marooned Arkonides have become a degenerate race, meaning they've reached the peak of evolutionary perfection but now spend all day sat on their fat asses watching telly. This is literally why they're stranded on the moon - because they can't be bothered. Rhodan returns to Earth with a couple of the livelier Arkonides, obliging all of those nuclear superpowers of the sixties to unite and cooperate, having at last realised that Earth is just one planet at the edge of a much larger galactic civilisation. This last element of the story actually seems to have drawn inspiration from accounts of the space brothers as related by Adamski and all of those other flying saucer abductees of the fifties.

So it isn't great literature, but neither is it the worst thing I've ever read, and it's easy to see why Perry Rhodan was popular. The writing is a little uneven, and the narrative occasionally treads water - presumably stretching things out just enough to make up a page count - and the characters creak a little, but it was written - or at least translated - by people with some ability, and doesn't suffer from any of the ineptitude I've seen perpetrated by certain more recent authors. There's a sort of screwy enthusiasm here, that of a fairly stupid story told well, and perhaps Perry deserves to be remembered with a little more dignity than has generally been the case.

William the Ancient Briton

Richmal Crompton William the Ancient Briton (1965)
I never developed any particular attachment to William as a kid. I had William and the Space Animal - a book my father passed on from his youth - but I only recall looking at the pictures. I came across this one in an antique shop when visiting England and bought it for my stepson on the grounds of his being named William, and because he has fixated on certain aspects of my homeland. He reads more than I ever did at his age, but mostly because he's obliged to do so by his school. I didn't read much, but what I did read was usually read because I wanted to read it. Hypocritical though it may be, I really wish my stepson would read for pleasure rather than wasting time and brain cells on shitty games and YouTube wankers.

'Here,' I said, having just sat down and pulled a few things from my bag following more than twenty hours in transit. 'I got you this.'

I placed the book on the corner of the table in the front room. He looked at it, then looked at me, then started to tell his mother about some new fact he'd just learned from the internet.

Because we're a somewhat slack family, William the Ancient Briton was still there on the corner of the table in the front room one month later. 'Is he even going to look at the thing?' I asked my wife.

She relayed the question next day whilst giving the kid a lift to school. Of course, was apparently his reply, adding that he certainly wasn't one of those people who fails to appreciate a gift. The book remained where it was for another three weeks, at which point I reclaimed it; and now, three years later, I'm getting around to reading it so that someone has. There doesn't even seem much point in being disappointed in the boy. I was never a big reader at his age, and Crompton's William Brown is an outdoorsy sort of kid who has adventures, and I think our gamer would be out of his depth.

I have a theory regarding the cultural differences which divide England and America, and one which is thrown into sharp relief by Crompton's William. We grew up with Dennis the Menace, the Bash Street Kids, and of course this guy, chuckling as our heroes got away with it, or were else punished for misdeeds whilst remaining gleefully unrepentant. America grew up with the Hardy Boys and Superman, wholesome boy scouts who righted wrongs and taught us how the coolest kids are those who brush their teeth and obey the rules. This is a massive generalisation, as Enid Blyton is my witness, but I firmly believe there's something in it, and that these formative and quite different attitudes to authority reflect how the rest of us got here - how someone as relentlessly cuboid as Trump could ever be regarded as rebellious; or even that Boris Johnson has ascended through somehow passing himself off as one of Lord Snooty's pals for that matter. Anyway, this is a debate for some other time.

William was not originally written as a children's book in the strictest sense, which explains the tone of the stories collected here - wry, sardonic, and expecting readers to keep up rather than simplifying anything. Mostly they are short, sharp bursts of absurdist slapstick of the kind to which Arthur Askey and others almost certainly aspired, but the kindly yet long-suffering narrative voice conveys a wit which might be seen to foreshadow much of Peter Cook's career. William himself is a pain in the arse for sure, but not actually a bad lad, and is allowed to get into all sorts of trouble without anyone having to learn a lesson at the end because Crompton clearly trusted her readership to have developed a moral code without requiring that it be spelled out in primary colours. These are therefore lessons in idiocy featuring a wise fool who tends to come out on top through finding himself pitched against persons more idiotic than himself, often adults but not always.

Some of the tales work better than others. The story which lends its name to the collection as a whole is a little underwhelming, but elsewhere we have William Enters Politics, William is Hypnotised, and other gems approaching near Dadaist levels of peculiar brilliance. The former features himself spying on a local council meeting by pretending to be a portrait painting hung on the wall, which he effects by leering through a hole in the aforementioned wall whilst holding a gilt picture frame around his face; and in William and the Campers, our boy is scheduled for a scrap with a neighbouring gang even as his own group is perilously reduced to just himself and Ginger. He swells the numbers with otherwise pious, well-behaved children from a visiting Sunday school by fooling them into treating the scrap as an exercise in cultural anthropology. This he achieves by delivering a lecture about tribal traditions, pretending to be a visiting speaker by agency of a false beard, having somehow managed to derail the lecture the Sunday schoolers were supposed to have received.

I gather this collection is something of a greatest hits featuring material written as far back as 1924 - William's Extra Day which first appeared in William the Fourth - which itself speaks well of Crompton's ability and the versatility of her creation, which, if something of a one joke character, is at least a joke which survives endless retelling.

Post Office

Charles Bukowski Post Office (1971)
To begin at something of a tangent, I recall being told that no-one actually reads Bukowski - or William Burroughs for that matter - but we tell people we do so in order to appear sophisticated, or because we think we're lush when we really aren't or something of that sort. I was told this by a person on a forum dedicated to Doctor Who, the children's television programme, and it is, I suppose, typical of the sort of bollocks rattling around in the heads of those who can't cope with anything but adventures, one after the other, an endless fucking line of thrills, scrapes, and companions captured for the sake of shifting the story along towards yet another ballsachingly familiar conclusion. I mention this only in the hope of annoying anyone reading who might subscribe to this view, and in the hope of annoying them so much that it causes them to grow the fuck up and invest at least some of their time in something besides adventures, because we really, really, really, really need as many thinking adults in the world as we can get right now.

I first read Post Office many years ago back when I was working for Royal Mail. I wouldn't say I loved it, because it isn't the sort of book you love, but it is nevertheless a great book which left me with mixed feelings over how something written in the American sixties so precisely described my own working conditions in the English nineties - mixed feelings incorporating equal measures of depression and satisfaction, specifically satisfaction at having my suspicions confirmed regarding the universal experience of bullshit. Reading it again in 2019 is interesting from the point of view that although I'm no longer in the job, I now live in America and some of the other details have accordingly come into sharper focus.

Bukowski keeps it plain and simple, just the things you need to know but assembled in such a way as to resonate with a more or less common experience which ends up saying something arguably more profound than that which is given in the text. This is probably why dunces of the kind described in the first paragraph don't get Bukowski, because they lack either the common experience or the imagination to work with anything which isn't directly spoon fed to them as adventure.

To be fair, most people have Bukowski all wrong, also meaning those who need this to be considered transgressive literature because our man likes a pint and has sex with ladies. This probably accounts for his receiving notice in the same open mouthed breath as William Burroughs. The two of them never met, although they once stayed in the same hotel. Burroughs sent a message inviting Bukowski over for a drink, and Bukowski declined because he preferred to drink alone and didn't see what the two of them could possibly have to talk about, the only common ground being their shared disregard of authority. Burroughs dissects power structures, even proposes solutions up to a point, where Bukowski simply reports, tells it how it is, and we can take what we like from that because it's mostly bullshit - even the good bits, those details which might seem worth remembering.

Where the transgressives have it wrong is that this isn't even nihilism. Like I said, Bukowski keeps it plain and simple, the unsteady testimony of a drunk, but a gentle drunk, laced with warmth and humour in the face of horrible reality but without the wasted effort of cracking jokes, or any other ploy used by lesser writers in pursuit of your sympathy. Post Office probably isn't a great novel in the sense of Mountainhead by New Juche being a great novel, but it doesn't try to sell us any bullshit, which is a rare thing, and is therefore good enough.