Viewing the Icons

If you peruse the SF section of a modern library, you might be surprised by what you’ll find, especially if you are not accustomed to a personal search through the haystack, but rely mostly on digital inquisition. I admit it shook me to realize the effect of what publishers have done, for there are hundreds of thousands of titles with vague and strange names mixed among those more familiar. It’s easy to get lost or confused if you don’t have something specific in mind and if you depend on hype you are likely to become dissatisfied. I suppose it boils down to taste and your memory of who appeals to you, based upon prior reads. If you want something new and challenging, your options are few unless you are willing to accept the critiques of strangers.

So what does one look for? Objectively speaking, the racks present themselves with a kind of closure, as though all that is relevant and entertaining has already been said, that there is nothing viable left that the sun has not seen. Recently, I found myself in such a position and decided to reread several classics, perhaps to verify that my earliest conception of them was still valid. I chose The Foundation Trilogy by Issac Asimov and the Dune Series by Frank Herbert. According to the critics, these are among the epitome of science fiction and represent the best of the genre. Also, I felt tugged by the lameness of contemporary writers to find justification for the fame enjoyed by such great literary achievements.

Once again I allowed myself to be drawn into Hari Seldon’s conception of the universe, how the mathematical certainties of psycho-history fall into predictable paths. There he was, virtually dead in the first chapter of the first novel, the main character whose science and philosophy determined the entire course of mankind from its greatest exponent of civilization on a city wide planet to its reconstitution in the same place a thousand years later. Much ado about human beings and their choices. Not an alien in sight and virtually nothing to indicate that the universe is populated by anything other than ourselves. Notwithstanding Asimov’s genius, I found myself wondering about the impetus and influence of The Foundation and its author’s limited imagination. Is this the icon of escape fiction? Is there nothing out there in space beyond the repetition of Earth ad nauseum? Can the travesty of little green men have grown from such bland seeds?

I was disappointed to discover that this giant in my memory was discomforting in the extreme because of prejudices I have developed. Asimov, in perhaps his greatest work, does not depict anything new. There are no other species involved nor any attempt made to delineate alien thoughts, physiques or attributes. He wrote it over the course of several years, during the times when speculation included the probability that if there is life out there, it most probably will not look or act like us. It struck me that this highly heralded work is abysmally sparse in the matter of life’s diversity, that it does not rise to face the gauntlet posed by today’s readers. I don’t think it would be published in the present circumstances because it fails to intrigue. Filmdom apparently concurs.

Next I tackled Frank Herbert, aware that his inspiration came from his geologist activities on the west coast where he encountered unexpected life in the sands of Oregon and other states. Here at least we have gargantuan worms who, after poring though the series, turn out to be the recipients of mental domination by........ human beings.