This last slew of posts sparked some comments, some locally and some elsewhere. I wanted to touch on a few of these, and conclude my discussion of masscult in SF&F with some directional suggestions....
This last slew of posts sparked some comments, some locally and some elsewhere. I wanted to touch on a few of these, and conclude my discussion of masscult in SF&F with some directional suggestions.
In my previous posts about Dwight Macdonald's concept of "masscult" and how it affects SF&F (part one; part two), I wrote about how the creation and marketing systems in place for SF&F have been affected deeply by the assumptions masscult...
In my previous posts about Dwight Macdonald's concept of "masscult" and how it affects SF&F (part one; part two), I wrote about how the creation and marketing systems in place for SF&F have been affected deeply by the assumptions masscult brings to the field. Many of these assumptions are normative, not cosmetic: another key problem with masscult, as Macdonald points out, is how it lets us confuse what we're given for what we want. It allows real creative work to fall off the map.
In reviewing David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, Dale Peck pointed out that the book's attempt to critique American consumer culture (yes, that whipping boy again) fell down because the author couldn't seem to tell the difference between people who are compelled to consume junk food culture and those who freely choose to do so.
More on how masscult has made SF&F into its lackey.
In the first part of this article I talked about how SF&F is peculiarly vulnerable to the problems of masscult, in big part because the publishing industries that are built around those genres champion masscult values often even without realizing it. I've talked about this sort of thing before -- how publishers discovered it was better to sell people five books instead of one (better revenue stream!) and so a generation of both readers and writers (and for all I know, editors too) grew up assuming you had to pump a story full of air to make it marketable. Among other things, this means the few books that really did work as trilogies (e.g., Gormenghast) got pushed to the bottom of the pile.
Strictly speaking, none of this is a new development. The "sword-and-planet" book cycles were doing that long before Lester del Rey brought out Terry Brooks's Shannara series, which for me is when the fossil record indicates things really began to slide. Not because of the books themselves, but because of the machinery surrounding their production.
How a literary critic from the 1960s casts light on the dilemma of SF&F publishing today.
The New York Review of Books remains one of my favorite publishers along with Melville House, and for many of the same reasons: their editorial staff picks and reissues material that deserves to be brought back into the light of day, the reputation of which is if anything deeply underappreciated. NYRB gave us back many of the ridiculously prolific Georges Simenon's better work; they re-printed Yasushi Inoue's excellent Tun-huang; and they've reissued many SF authors who straddled the literary and the fantastic with ease (Christopher Priest, Jan Morris, Robert Sheckley).
Among their recent reissues is Masscult and Midcult: Essays Against the American Grain, by critic Dwight Macdonald. I have been reading this book non-stop in between bouts of work, and for something whose most recent material was written while Kennedy was still President, it is amazing how relevant it remains. The main essay, "Masscult and Midcult", put Macdonald on the map for many people who had not yet noticed him, and for good reason. It's a sustained blast of vinegar at the way American culture (and, by extension, Western culture) has become a commodity engine -- an easy-sounding target, but the way Macdonald attacks it is worthy of detailed discussion. It has more relevance than I thought to what I've been writing about here. It deserves some detail, so here we go.
It all starts when near-penniless Kiriko makes the trip to Tokyo to enlist the help of lawyer Kinzo Otsuka. Kiriko is a hapless woman trying to scrape together a legal defense for her brother; he stands accused of a murder...
It all starts when near-penniless Kiriko makes the trip to Tokyo to enlist the help of lawyer Kinzo Otsuka. Kiriko is a hapless woman trying to scrape together a legal defense for her brother; he stands accused of a murder for which there seems a preponderance of solid evidence to send him to the gallows. Otsuka, on the other hand, is everything she’s not: well-heeled, surrounded by peers who appreciate his hard work, enjoying the affection of a woman who runs a classy French restaurant.
Kiriko presents herself in Otsuka’s office, minutes before he’s about to run off and enjoy a tryst with his ladyfriend, and he finds himself having to give her one piece of bad news after another. It’s not just that she can’t afford him, but that he’s also convinced she wouldn’t be getting significantly more robust legal representation by paying for a “name” lawyer. And no, he won’t take her case on pro bono. She tries to change his mind, and her single-mindedness instead leaves a impression with a journalist who’s been sniffing around for a story that might look good in the issues-and-controversy magazine he writes for. But even he has to admit the deck is stacked heavily against Kiriko’s brother—and the whole thing seems to end with a thud when the brother is convicted and dies in prison before his execution.
On looking forward (in SF) while at the same time looking around -- because that's all you really can do.
You have to remember that [Star Trek: The Next Generation] was 20th century men, for the most part, writing a show about 24th century people.
That summation could apply to the vast majority of SF that peers into the future (instead of looking at a slightly-altered present).
I've written before -- typically while invoking Barrows Dunham's Man Against Myth -- about how the man of the past could not have begun to conceive of the man of the present, and how that leaves the man of the present fighting similarly losing odds when trying to conceive of the man of the future.
Serious SF (as opposed to mere pulp) tries to be as untrammeled as it can about such things. Pace, Heinlein imagining a future far less molded by the moralizing forces that shaped his own life. But a lot of the future he imagined was, likewise, shaped by his own counter-moralization -- sexual freedom and polyamory, etc. His idea of a "better" future was just that: his idea of a better future, one conditioned a lot more than it might seem by his moment in time and space.
Gene Roddenberry's ideas about the future were similarly conditioned, and while he too had optimism about mankind's ability to make a future for itself, the ways he saw man doing that were quite particular to his vision. We tend to think of Star Trek as being a little too optimistic for its own good these days; our ideas of the future now run to scruffier things like Firefly rather than the clean-scrubbed Utopianism of Trek. (I suspect many people also grew annoyed with the way Trek fell back on time travel as a plot device, or used technological gimcrackery as a Solomonic solution to an intractable social problem.)
None of this is meant to be considered problematic or objectionable. It's just one of the products of being a particular person in a particular place at a particular time. You can only see so far forward, and you're only going to be able to use your existing frame of reference as a starting point. Samuel R. Delaney's Triton drew heavily on his time and experiences in Greenwich Village, and while some of that has given the book a dated veneer, many ideas explored in it are still prescient. It's just clear that if anyone--Delaney included!--sat down to write a book like this today, it wouldn't come out anything like this.
I get varying impressions about what people think is the real value of SF, depending on who I talk to. Some place most of the value on the work as a predictive thing, which I've groused about before as being way too limiting. Others have seen SF as being a way to speak obliquely or allegorically about the here and now, with the longevity of a given work often being a function of its more general literary merit. The Stars My Destination may have some individually dated details, but the timelessness of the underlying story only deepens with each passing decade -- and the things Bester was zinging that were present in his own society (e.g., the rise of the corporation as a political entity) have only become that much more relevant.
It's not a question of which of these is more important -- the predictive value or the commentative value -- but rather how you make the best of each to serve the story. A story can have virtually no predictive value (does anyone really believe Ernest Cline's Ready Player One is a remotely accurate look at life a few years hence?) but can still be insightful. The trick is to make sure the insight becomes more important than the future vision -- which, if you ask me, requires some understanding of human nature to show up on the page generally. That's hard to do no matter what section of the bookstore you're getting shelved in, and the number of books that pull it off in any genre -- even literature with a cap L -- continue to be remarkably few.
The anti-"Memoirs of a Geisha". Moyoco Anno's manga, source for the film of the same name, is a brassy and sassy tribute to a milieu that often only gets the sleeve-wringing weepie treatment.
A while back I reviewed Sakuran, the motion picture, and I called it “the antidote to Memoirs of a Geisha”: funny, sassy, bold, and bitter, where Geisha was just wistful, sodden, and romanticized in all the wrong ways. The same good things could be said for the manga that was the source for Sakuran, now out in English thanks to—who else?—Vertical Inc., who are increasingly becoming to manga what Criterion or perhaps Kino International have been to film.
On why good SF&F should be concerned with details, not trivia.
MOST PEOPLE’S INTEREST in contemporary “literary” fiction, if they have any interest at all, is a matter of wanting to read the latest Big Novel while it’s still being talked about. If they like it, so much the better, but a sense of connection to their peers is what they’re really after. It would be wrong to think them gullible. They succumb to the loudest promotional campaign every year only because they recognize the recurring need for an “it” novel, something everyone can agree to read at about the same time. ... People used to expect literary novels to deepen the experience of living; now they are happy with any sustained display of writerly cleverness.
The implication I glean from the above is simple: most people no longer expect to get much of anything out of literature, because they've told themselves they know better. It's only a book, after all.
I'm reminded of Jacques Barzun talking about how "educated" people in the late 19th century told themselves they should not admire sunsets since they were witnessing nothing more extraordinary than the diffraction of light through the atmosphere.
Why it's sometimes hard to speak up for your own work, even if you're clearly supposed to do so.
Among the missions I set for myself when I began blogging about my new novel, Flight of the Vajra, was to overcome the reluctance I have for talking about works-in-progress. Not because of spoilers or what have you, but because of another problem I wasn't even fully aware of until very recently.
If I had to put a name to it, I'd call it the problem of false promises. I hate the idea of talking about something in such a way that I raise anticipation for it in a certain vein, only to have those anticipations go completely unsatisfied. I'd rather keep my mouth shut while working, then turn around when it's done and let everyone enjoy the fruits of the labor with no preconceptions. Under-promise and over-deliver, in other words.
"Beat" Takeshi Kitano's novel about religion and hypocrisy is a quiet little masterwork that invites multiple readings and interpretations.
Takeshi Kitano (or Beat Takeshi to his legion of fans) nominally gets notice as a filmmaker, but he's written a bevy of books -- some fiction, some non- -- slowly finding their way into English. Boy was a good taste of his talent; A Guru Is Born is even more ambitious and rewarding.
Further adventures in antisocial dating, in this sharp little psych-thriller series.
The second volume of this mix of antisocial-kid thriller and outsider-kid romance ratchets tension further as bookworm Kasuga is pulled all the more violently between the innocent girl he's had a crush on (Saeki) and the sociopath girl who's yanking his puppet strings (Nakamura). Against all odds, Kasuga manages to take Saeki out on something resembling a normal date ... even while the whole time the poor kid's wearing Saeki's gym clothes under his own, as part of his contract with Nakamura. In the end he collapses all the more definitively on the side of the devils, although how he does this or to what end I won't ruin here -- seeing how it unfolds is a major part of the book's substance. Further proof that psychological torment is far more effective (and affecting) than the physical kind, although one wonders if in the end Oshimi's going to be best known for introducing a new subgenre of manga for American readers: mental-torture-porn. But his yarn-spinning is tight and deft enough to make concerns like that secondary.
Word's custom dictionary feature falls short. Bullheaded resolve to the rescue.
Today's peeve is Software.
Microsoft Word is the load-bearing beam upon which a good deal of my daily activities are based. I don't think it's the best program ever written, but I do think by and large it's Good Enough. This past week, however, I ran into something which very nearly broke my covenant with it.
Word has a custom dictionary feature, which allows you to load dictionaries into the application on what I believe to be a per-user basis. What I'm finding, however, is that custom dictionaries for long-form writing -- e.g., for novels -- work best when they're attached to the document you're working on. E.g., as a way to have fancy made-up words or exotic proper names not marked as spelling errors, and even to have the proper spellings of those names suggested when you get them wrong yourself. Fine, except Word offers no way to attach a dictionary to a particular document. None.
On "escapism" vs. what's really often meant by that word: imagination.
Escapism isn't a very good word, actually, for the positive psychological qualities its defenders want to defend; it's less a question of breaking one's bars and running away (running whither, we might ask?); it's more about keeping alive the facility for imaginative play, that faculty that only a fool would deny is core to any healthy psychological makeup. Kids are good at play, and have an unexamined wisdom about it; adults, sometimes, forget how vital it is. What's wrong with Art that insists too severely on pressing people's faces against the miseries of actual existence is not that we shouldn't have to confront Darfur or Iraq, poverty or oppression; it's that such art rarely gives us the imaginative wiggle room to think of how things might be improved, or challenged, or even accepted. Imaginative wiggle room, on the other hand, is something SF/Fantasy is very good at.
It's a shame Richard Dawson's gone, because I can now imagine his voice barking out: "Top five epithets used to denigrate SF&F ... number one? 'ESCAPISM'!"
This page contains an archive of posts for the month of July 2012.
New York City
Other Lives Of The Mind