SF Gospel

The Way the Future Never Was: A Visual Appendix

This post is a sequel of sorts to my previous post on Brad Torgersen and the Sad & Rabid Puppies, which you can read here.

To get a better idea of Brad Torgersen's problem with today's science fiction, let's take a look at some good, old-fashioned, reliably-packaged SF.

 

Hey, that looks like a space marine! This must be an old-fashioned classic of military SF, right? And, oh, hey, it won a Hugo in one of Brad’s favorite decades, the 1970s! Nope, turns out it’s really just some anti-Vietnam War propaganda. No fair drawing us in with gung-ho genre trappings and then giving us the horrors of war!

 

Hey, this one looks fun. It’s got space ships and all kinds of stuff. Wait, what? It’s about the evils of capitalism? Bait and switch! 

 

Good ol’ Moses of the NRA in a rollicking adventure where he fights gorillas? Nope, turns out it’s really about racial prejudice. Oh, and the horrors of war. Man, that's a popular one!

Hey, look-- this one won a Hugo AND a Nebula in the ‘70s. It’s got some outer space-y stuff going on. Some kind of weird ice planet thing happening. What’s that? It’s also entirely about gender issues? Huh. Wait a minute… does Brad Torgersen think this book came out in the 2000s? That would explain a lot.

OK, Galaxy is gonna set everybody straight. Here’s a house ad from their first issue, where they explain that all SF fans want is straightforward adventure. Ummm… Oh, wait. Actually, it kinda sounsd like they're making fun of straightforward adventure stories. Says they’re basically just space westerns, and implies that that’s boring. Yikes.

Well, this one’s got space ships and stuff. But I read it and it turns out it’s just some weepy beta-male character study or something. Nobody gets blasted with a ray gun at all.

 

This seems like some kind of fun, lighthearted portal fantasy. But apparently it’s actually just a big Christian allegory. (Does that count as Puppy-saddening?)

 

Oh, I know that guy—that’s Captain Kirk! This must be one of those straightforward, rock-‘em, sock-‘em, social-justice-messages-need-not-apply space adventures that attracted us to SF in the first place.  Yeah, and Brad even quoted its opening monolog when he was talking about what great SF is supposed to be! This must be the thing. Wait, what? This one’s about racial prejudice and the horrors of war?

 

Well, shucks. I give up. Maybe Brad Torgersen really is just pining for a future that never was.

 

The Way the Future Never Was

So you’ve probably heard about this Sad Puppies/Rabid Puppies thing.

I’m reading Brad Torgersen’s Sad Puppies 3 manifesto (which I use not as a pejorative, but as an honest-to-goodness genre term) from a few weeks ago, and… I’m just really confused. Maybe somebody can help me out here.

After an extended metaphor about breakfast cereals, Torgersen states what he considers the problem:

A few decades ago, if you saw a lovely spaceship on a book cover, with a gorgeous planet in the background, you could be pretty sure you were going to get a rousing space adventure featuring starships and distant, amazing worlds. If you saw a barbarian swinging an axe? You were going to get a rousing fantasy epic with broad-chested heroes who slay monsters, and run off with beautiful women. Battle-armored interstellar jump troops shooting up alien invaders? Yup. A gritty military SF war story, where the humans defeat the odds and save the Earth. And so on, and so forth.

These days, you can’t be sure.

The book has a spaceship on the cover, but is it really going to be a story about space exploration and pioneering derring-do? Or is the story merely about racial prejudice and exploitation, with interplanetary or interstellar trappings?

There’s a sword-swinger on the cover, but is it really about knights battling dragons? Or are the dragons suddenly the good guys, and the sword-swingers are the oppressive colonizers of Dragon Land?

A planet, framed by a galactic backdrop. Could it be an actual bona fide space opera? Heroes and princesses and laser blasters? No, wait. It’s about sexism and the oppression of women.

Finally, a book with a painting of a person wearing a mechanized suit of armor! Holding a rifle! War story ahoy! Nope, wait. It’s actually about gay and transgender issues.

Or it could be about the evils of capitalism and the despotism of the wealthy.

So… huh. OK, it sounds like Torgersen doesn’t like metaphor in his SF. If it’s got a spaceship on the cover, and it’s got themes that don’t have to do with spaceships, it’s apparently a problem. In a long-but-well-worth-your-time blog post on the 2015 Hugos debacle, Philip Sandifer describes this as “the spectacle of a grown man complaining about how he just can’t judge a book by its cover anymore.”

But this is where I get really confused, folks: what the hell era of SF is he talking about? Later in the post he indicates that he’s talking about the 1960s through the 1980s... which I’d say is a period pretty well defined by the metaphorical treatment of social and political ideas in SF. If you want to go back to a time when rocket ships and ray guns really meant just rocket ships and ray guns, you’d have to go back to the 1940s. And there are surely people who like Golden Age SF quite a bit, but for my tastes, I think it wasn’t really until the dawn of the digest era in the 1950s that SF got really, really good. 

So I’m really confused. I can’t even recognize the picture that Torgersen paints as a caricature of SF publishing history. And since he coyly generalizes, you can’t even identify what books or authors he has particular problems with. (One name that’s emerged as one of his major bêtes noirs is John Scalzi—whose Old Man's War series has its sociopolitical scales tipped so far in favor of gee-whiz adventure that it should float Torgersen’s boat right out of the bathtub.) (It's pretty militaristic, too, if that's a factor.)

He says he’s OK with SF about social and political issues, as long as we don’t “put these things so much on permanent display, [so] that the stuff which originally made the field attractive in the first place — To Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before! — is pushed to the side”. But to thousands of readers, “boldly going” means exploring just those issues that Torgersen has a problem with. And exploring those issues in SFnal terms is a time-honored tradition, going back a decade or so before the time that he considers the good old days.

For a lot of us, SF’s ability to deal with current problems in metaphorical terms is the whole point. It’s why we got interested in the genre, and why we’ve stuck with it—because there will always be new questions, and new angles on them. Does Brad Torgersen really want SF to be a genre about space ships and ray guns with no resonance with current society? Does he really want SF authors to abandon the time-honored tradition of exploring social issues with SFnal metaphor? That sounds to me like an SF that’s afraid of the future. 

Recent & forthcoming work

A couple projects have been percolating behind the scenes here: First, I've contributed material to the forthcoming book Enjoy The Experience: Homemade Records 1958-1992. The book is a detailed look at privately-press/self-released records from the '50s-'80s and the sometimes quite idiosyncratic minds that created them: from hotel lounge bands to slightly cracked basement folk crooners and everything inbetween. My contributions to the book are biographies of several religiously-slanted recording artists who pressed their own records in the '60s: Christian rock pioneer Ron Russo; Jimmie Davis, the founder of a fundamentalist summer camp; Darwin Gross, the disgraced former head of Eckankar; and gospel trumpeter Ray Torske. (A bio of Thurlow Spurr, founder of traveling high school/evangelical/car safety band the Spurrlows, was cut for length, but will hopefully find its way into online publication in the near future). The book is available now for pre-order at store.sinecurebooks.com.

I've also contributed to a forthcoming book on Doctor Who. I can't say much more than that now, but look forward to more information soon!

SF novels in the Christian Century's holiday gift guide

The current issue of the Christian Century features a list of some of the year's best SF novels, reviewed by myself and the inimitable James McGrath. Our reviews of Doctor Who: Shada by Gareth Roberts, Existence by David Brin, Redshirts by John Scalzi, the Library of America's 2-volume anthology of 1950s American Science Fiction, At the Mouth of the River of Bees by Kij Johnson, and Triggers by Robert J. Sawyer are on the Christian Century's website, and appear in print in the December 12th, 2012 issue. 

Alas, there was not room for every book worth mentioning in the list. Below are three reviews that didn't make the final cut for the final piece, but would definitely still make great gifts:

Merge/Disciple by Walter Mosley

Tor Books, 288 pp., $24.99 hardcover, $7.99 Kindle edition

Presented in the style of an “Ace Double”—a format from the 1950s in which two short novels were bound back-to-back, each with a separate cover—these two novellas use SF tropes to explore the nature and ethics of power. In Merge, a man becomes enmeshed in a struggle for the future of the planet when he shows compassion to a strange and possibly dangerous alien being; in Disciple an unambitious office drone begins receiving mysterious messages from an otherworldly power that seems able to grant his every wish. 

Boneyards by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Pyr/Prometheus, 301 pp., $16 trade paperback, $8.69 Kindle edition

The third book in Rusch’s “Diving Into the Wreck” series chronicles the further adventures of Boss, an enterprising far-future archeologist. Boss specializes in leading tourist excursions to the hulking wrecks of ancient spaceships, particularly ships known as “Dignity Vessels” that operate using the mysterious, otherworldly technology of the anacapa drive. This volume expands the backstory of Rosealma (nicknamed “Squishy”), a character tortured by her role in anacapa research that led to the death or disappearance of hundreds of researchers. It’s a fine entry in this series of moody, atmospheric space opera. 

Only Superhuman by Christopher L. Bennett

Tor Books, 352 pp., $24.99 hardcover, $11.99 Kindle edition

Bennett’s richly-imagined novel is a hard-science fiction superhero story. Set in a future where the solar system is populated by genetically-modified “Troubleshooters,” the story follows Emerald Blair, a young criminal-turned-hero who travels the asteroid belt righting wrongs and battling gene-modified maniacs. Blair’s story is interesting, but the texture and detail of the universe she inhabits that stands out is the novel’s most notable feature. 

 

 

Adjustment Bureau: Choosing your Destiny

In The Adjustment Bureau, Matt Damon plays a politician named David Norris who gets an accidental peak behind the veil of everyday reality. Right before making a big speech, he runs into an impulsive young lady named Elise in a hotel bathroom. She inspires him to throw his boring old speech out the window and do something off-the-cuff and utterly unforgettable. The speech is a hit, his political future seems assured-- and, we soon learn, Mysterious Forces never want him to see the young lady again. But he does, and before you can say "Dark City" he's being chased around Manhattan by strange guys in fedoras. (Apparently, if you cast John Slattery, you get to borrow freely from Mad Men's costume department.) They're agents-- don't call them angels!-- of a distant and unseen Chairman, who has devised a Plan for Norris, and indeed for the entire world. And those agents will stop at nothing to keep Norris from seeing his inamorata again.

As Gary Westfahl's review ("Philip K., Diminished") points out, The Adjustment Bureau is not so faithful to its source material. That's not, in and of itself, a bad thing: great films are often the result of unfaithfulness to source material. (Heck, look at Blade Runner-- or, more x-tremely, Total Recall!) It's what you do with those changes that matter. Westfahl points out how making the protagonist of the story an up-and-coming politician, rather than insignificant real estate man Ed Fletcher, changes the tone of the story. More disappointing for me is the fact that the film completely chucks out what I consider the centerpiece of the original story: a nightmarish sequence in which the protagonist sees the world around him collapsing into dust and ash. But so be it: that's the name of the adaptation game, right? You take what works, and you leave what doesn't, and maybe that scene just wouldn't have served what George Nolfi (Adjustment Bureau's writer/director) was going for. 

So, what was he going for? Adjustment Bureau is rather clever, when it wants to be. I rather like how Norris plays out the proverbially oxymoronic "honest politician" part, the design of the would-be angels' Plan-tracking notebooks, the inventiveness of the early footchases. But all of this culminates in a conclusion that requires a mess of contrived, arbitrary rules; the angels can teleport, but only if they're wearing their magic hats! They're virtually omniscient-- but not around water! (The latter rule implies that every naval battle in history threw humankind off-Plan, but that's another matter.) It starts to feel a bit... silly. Ever see Lady in the Water?

But, more centrally, more naggingly, the concept of God as "Chairman" just doesn't work here. It's one thing to posit a God who works through efficient means, and entirely another to posit God as an arch-bureaucrat, a beancounter of souls. This is far too simplistic a picture of divine providence-- and, moreover, it makes God into not just a foil for our self-determining protagonist, but an outright villain-by-proxy. Furthermore, Norris' rebellion ends up being too darned easy, on an ontological level. His decisions, once he steps outside the prescribed path, are no different than any impulsive decision you've ever made. The centrality of the Plan implies that every impulsive decision we make is predetermined. the story thus requires that Norris's impulsive decisions be ontologically different somehow-- but this never receives an adequate explanation. Sure, his adjustor napped on the job, but this does not sufficiently account for why his will somehow then becomes more free than everyone else's. 

As for what that freedom is in aid of-- well, tying the "adjustment" that Norris's guardian agent messed up so directly to the Plan's ends serves to streamline the story a bit. In Dick's original the Plan is complex, and the fruits of the adjustment don't become apparent until long after the insignificant protagonist is out of the picture. But that's exactly the point: this is the smallest change possible to achieve some very, very big ends. But Norris, a rising star in national politics, is already part of the big picture, so these means don't end up looking quite so efficient. This doesn't elevate the everyday to cosmic significance-- quite the opposite, in fact. The folks in charge really are the ones that matter, and that's the way it must stay. The angel/agents show a callous disregard for the everyman-- just ask that cab driver who they just "adjusted" into a three-car wreck. 

What Adjustment Bureau's characters, divine and otherwise, really care about is a Hollywood romance that doesn't make too much sense. By the end of the movie, we've seen very little reason why Elise should want to be with Norris; he's treated her like crap for much of their relationship, including abandoning her for months at a time, dumping her while she's in the hospital, etc. (Shades of Twilight here.) And yet, by the rules of romantic logic if not by the Plan, their relationship is destined, so their love must conquer all. If anyone is suffering from an absence of free will, it is these characters in the hands of their screenwriter. At the end of the film, when the Chairman-- spoiler alert!-- abolishes the Plan and hands the reins back to humankind, we haven't been given enough evidence to support believing it's a good thing. Sure, these two get to be together, hooray-credits-roll, but we've already been told that the last time this happened it led directly to the Holocaust. God may have declared this was all a test, but you have to question why he passed: all we've seen him do is make impulsive decisions, consequences be damned. As Jay Michaelson asks in his review for Religion Dispatches, is that really the path we should be leading ourselves down?

In any event, what the film has done by its conclusion is completely invert the attitude of the original story toward predetermination. By the end of "Adjustment Team," Dick's Ed Fletcher has come to a shaky acceptance that our world is controlled by incomprehensible forces. It's a bit like an optimistic Lovecraft story: Fletcher sees behind the veil, and is driven, not to insanity, but to a nervous but respectful understanding. Later in his life, Dick became an admirer of Nicolas Malebranche, a medieval theologian who saw God as the only true actor in every event in the universe: created reality, including human beings, is just a gathering of "occasions" for divine action. Adjustment Bureau just won't have it: its libertarian, if not Nietzschean, dedication to the individual will will brook no consideration of the Chairman's point of view, let alone a really omnipotent deity like that of Malebranche. 

But enough of the big words: is it a good movie? I could say that it's better than I've just made it sound. But here's a more appropriate answer: I'm not at liberty to say...

"That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made": Mormon Sun-Whales!

The single most up-my-alley story of the last year has been nominated for a Nebula Award: Eric James Stone's "That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made," published in the September 2010 issue of Analog. It's the story of Harry Malan, a Mormon not-really-missionary living on a science station orbiting the sun. He's not a scientist-- he's a banker, sent to make stock trades based on solar gas-mining operations, which he can do with an eight-minute lead over his Earthbound competitors-- so he's understandably not too knowledgeable about the natives. Yes, the sun has natives: enormous plasma beings called "swales" or "solcetaceans." A handful of these enormous sun-whales have converted to Mormonism, and Malan-- who is, almost by default, the leader of the sun station's Mormon congregation-- is thrown into both a moral dilemma and a diplomatic debacle when one of his swale congregants complains of having been forced into sexual contact by a larger, older swale. The swales have very different ideas about sex and consent than humans do, but Malan can't help but view the situation through the lens of human laws and customs: a member of his flock has been raped, and he sets out to right the perceived wrong. The plot soon thickens when Malan finds himself embroiled in a power struggle with Leviathan, the oldest known swale, who claims to be the originator of its entire species, and possibly the oldest living thing in the entire galaxy-- certainly something akin to a god. And this god is angry about being questioned by lesser beings. 

Stone's story is chock full of scriptural allusions to the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, and the Book of Mormon-- some stated plainly, others less so. Most intriguing for me is the Job-like confrontation at the story's end between the finite Malan and the all-but-infinite Leviathan. The idea that limited, contingent, mortal beings can have some influence and importance in the infinite, eternal eyes of the deity is, arguably, the core of all human religion. Stone's story presents this concept in the context of a speculative ethical puzzle, and is quite entertaining to boot. Its Nebula nomination is well earned. 

Through the end of March, you can read "That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made" for free on Stone's website.

Recent reading roundup

I recently bought a complete run of my favorite SF magazine-- If, later known as Worlds of If. Which is great-- but I need to make some room for it. And that needs I need to clear off the shelf that's been holding all the books I've wanted to write something about for the last, oh, 16 months or so... So, in the order they're piled up next to me...

I Am Not a Serial Killer and Mr. Monster by Dan Wells

I mentioned these in my "best things I read this year" list for SF Signal's Mind Meld a couple months ago. They're not SF, but rather supernatural young adult mysteries with a horror edge (or is that horror stories with a mystery edge?). They're of some interest for, surprisingly enough, Dickian reasons: their protagonist is a teenage sociopath who desperately wants not to end up a serial killer (hence the title of the first book). I liked Wells' approach to his emotionless hero: this is a portrait of PKD's "android mind" from the inside. (Credit this connection to my recent research and writing about Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?). 

Doctor Who: The Coming of the Terraphiles by Michael Moorcock

Pretty good stuff, though a bit slow to start. I am not too big a fan of Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels-- the first one is good, but feels like juvenilia; the three that follow are... let's say "meandering." (I suspect I'd like the short stories more.) The first hundred pages of Terraphiles meanders in a similar way, basically depicting the teatime conversations of a handful of far-future socialites. Wikipedia tells me it's an homage to Wodehouse. Shrug. But when the classic Moorcock mythology starts up, things get a bit more interesting-- the whole "struggle for balance between the cosmic forces of Law and Chaos" thing is exactly the sort of scale that Doctor Who thrives on. And there are a couple characters that would have fit brilliantly in the Tom Baker era-- the two-headed space pirate Frank/Freddie Force and his Antimatter Men are particularly inspired. This definitely made me want to dig a bit deeper into Moorcock's more deliberately mythological stories, certainly.

Makers by Cory Doctorow

Makers is basically a novel about Disney World-- I think it's a deliberate update/cannibalization of the ideas from Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. The central characters are a pair of culture-hacking inventors who create a theme park-cum-art installation that can be identically reproduced anywhere in the world, and is entirely open-souce and modifiable by any user-- basically the polar opposite of the rigidly controlled Disney ideal. What interested me most in the novel was the extent to which "the ride" becomes a sort of religion for its devotees. One character, a one-time Disney devotee who goes by the ubergoth nickname "Death Waits," puts it this way: "There had been a time... when he'd really felt like he was part of the magic. No, the Magic, with capital letters. Something about the shared experience of going to a place with people and having an experience with them, that was special. It must be why people went to church." This reminds me of something. I rather like Doctorow's novels, but I rarely find anything to say about them; religion is not exactly high on his list of priorities. The one thing I hated about Eastern Standard Tribe-- probably my second-favorite of his books that I've read, next to Little Brother-- he wrote my alma mater out of history. At one point, a character states that Harvard doesn't have a divinity school. In the audio version of the novel, Doctorow puts in an aside saying that he had received a number of e-mails about this, and that the point of this statement was to say that "they don't have one... in the future," or something to that effect. I just don't buy it, and I don't see what the point is. There's a lot of questions begged by such a minor detail-- not just questions about cultural shift, which I assume is what he was getting at, but questions about institutional politics and departmental financing. HDS has been there for a couple centuries, and it's not going to disappear so quickly that people in a near-future novel should be able to get away with assuming it doesn't exist. (end slightly ranty aside). So, yeah, Disneyland as a religion. That's pretty interesting, and the first hint I've seen in any of Doctorow's works in the direction of some sort of understanding of the kind of communal experience that is central to a lot of people's experience of religion. 

Pleasure Model and The Bloodstained Man by Christopher Rowley

No theology here, but something worth noting, however briefly. These are the first two novels in Tor's "Heavy Metal Pulp" line, a series of self-consciously pulpy adult-theme-filled SF, à la Heavy Metal magazine. I didn't go into these with high expectations, but I was impressed with the spirit of fun in these books-- they read like a particularly compelling half of a good Ace Double. 

The Cardboard Universe: A Guide to the World of Phoebus K. Dank by Christopher Miller

An intriguing book from its form alone: this book is written in the form of an encyclopedia on the work of its imaginary titular character, with alphabetically-organized entries written by two of the foremost experts on his life and work, who happen to deeply hate each other. At first I thought its picture of "Dank" was a bit too cruel a caricature of Philip K. Dick, but it soon became clear that Dank has very little to do with Dick at all, initials aside. He's more like a cross between Kilgore Trout and Ignatius J. Reilly from Confederacy of Dunces: an off-putting, obese imbecile who writes intriguing trash. One of the two encyclopedia authors hates Dank, which reminded me of Thomas Disch's slanderous The Word of God. But other than that, the PKD material in this novel is all on the surface. It's an entertaining book, to be sure, but trying to read PKD into its title character-- or vice versa-- would be headache-inducing, so it's best not to try.

Spock's World by Diane Duane

I picked this up after reading Adam Roberts' brief mention of it in his History of Science Fiction (which was excellent-- hopefully more on that soon)-- Roberts calls it one of the best SF novels of 1987, arguing that it was overlooked because it was a licensed tie-in novel rather than a standalone "literary" work. I have some growing bibliographical interest in licensed novels, so I figured this might be a good one to look into. I don't know that I can entirely agree with Roberts' accolade-- I'd have to see what else was published that year-- but it was definitely enjoyable. Most intriguing to me was the novel's explanation of Vulcan theology. According to Duane, the presence of God is not a mystery or a matter of faith for Vulcans, but a reality that they experience directly. The Vulcan word for this is a'Tha, translateable as "immanence." Spock states: "a'Tha is the direct experience of the being or force responsible for the creation and maintenance of the Universe... Vulcans experience that presence directly and constantly. They always have, to varying degrees. The word is one of the oldest known, one of the first ever found written, and is the same in almost all of the ancient languages." Spock even implies that this constant experience of the divine may be one of the driving forces behind Vulcan logical enquiry:

"Humans have no innate certainty on this subject and therefore must hink it would solve a great deal. In some ways it does. But there are many, many questions that this certainy still leaves unresolved, and more that it raises. Granted that God exists: why then does evil do so? Why is there entropy? Is the force that made the Universe one that we would term good? What is good? And if it is, why is pain permitted? ... They are all the same questions that humans ask, and no more answered by a sense of the existence of God than of His nonexistence... It takes more than the mere sense of God to create peace. One must decide what to do with the information." 

Forever Peace by Joe Haldeman

Haldeman's 1997 novel is a thematic sequel of sorts to his 1974 classic The Forever War (discussed here)-- it takes place in an entirely different universe, but explores similar ideas of the morality of war and peace. Forever Peace is centered on wars fought remotely, with professional soldiers undergoing extensive surgery to allow them to control distant robotic soldierboys." Most of the world south of the Tropic of Cancer is embroiled in permanent war, with U.S. corporations funding soldierboy invasions to repress guerrilla rebellions. The main plot involves two discoveries that threaten this world's status quo-- one of a doomsday weapon that could recreate the Big Bang; the other of a means for eliminating human aggression using the "jacking" technology behind the soldierboys. The apocalyptic implications of the first are clear. It's the moral conundrum posed by the second that I find the most interesting. Enlightenment-style humanism is the moral bedrock of much SF, according to which free will is an absolute good above pretty much all others. The bad guys brainwash; we know the good guys have won when their freedom to choose is no longer threatened. Forever Peace throws that moral picture into question. If we really did have a means of eliminating aggression and fostering permanent peace, how much would it matter if some portion of free will were thereby suppressed? If literally countless lives could be saved, isn't that worth more? In this novel, the possibility to eliminate the greatest human evil moves from theory to reality, and its use is urgent. I'm reminded of the doctrine of "expedient means" laid out in the classic Buddhist text the Lotus Sutra. In this text, the Buddha tells a parable about a burning house full of children who don't know it's burning, and don't want to leave. So their father tells them a lie-- that there are three spectacular kinds of carts for them to ride on, far more fun than any of their toys inside. When the children arrive outside, he gives them all the same kind of cart to carry them to safety. They may be disappointed-- but at least they won't burn to death. In the Lotus Sutra, this parable is intended to explain how the varying practices of the three main branches of Buddhism can lead to the same goal: the means are not important, but the end-- nirvana and the end of suffering-- is. Where suffering is involved, the Lotus Sutra argues, the ends justify the means. Forever Peace applies this argument to the question of war. Wouldn't true and lasting peace be worth the sacrifice of that portion of free will that makes war possible? 

The Selected Letters of Philip K. Dick, 1980-1982

The issue of the SFRA Review containing my review of The Selected Letters of Philip K. Dick vol. 5: 1980-1982 has been posted at the SFRA's website. An excerpt:

Those familiar with the previous volumes of Dick’s letters will know, more or less, what to expect of this one. Dick is still exploring and expounding upon his religious experiences of early 1974, and much of this volume consists of extended philosophical speculations. (Indeed, most of the book’s first hundred pages are a single series of letters sent to Patricia Warrick, author of Mind in Motion: The Fiction of Philip K. Dick,in January 1981). But philosophical exegesis is not all that was going on in Dick’s life and mind in this period, and this volume presents vital information about other aspects of his work as well. Dick’s final two novels—The Divine Invasion and The Transmigration of Timothy Archer—were written during this period, and several letters shed light on their composition. A pair of letters to Ursula K. Le Guin (137 and 150–151) show Dick reflecting on the often-problematic nature of his female characters, and even suggest that Angel Archer, the protagonist of Transmigration and undoubtedly Dick’s most carefully thought-out female character, grew at least in part in response to Le Guin’s criticisms. Two letters (to Russell Galen, 89–92, and to David Hartwell, 154–156) contain detailed plot outlines for novels that were never written. Elsewhere, we can glean information about Dick’s knowledge of William S. Burroughs (145), Alfred North Whitehead (148), and Martin Luther (251). Other letters show Dick’s thoughts on the publication of VALIS and his response to the novel’s reviews, his shifting opinions on the film Blade Runner, and his brief love affair, a mere four months before his death, with a young woman known only as “Sandra.” Needless to say, there is much to reward the PKD researcher in this volume.

Read the full review, plus the rest of the issue, here (it's on p. 9-10 of the PDF). 

What I've been doing lately:

Don't mistake the sluggishness of this blog for inactivity: there's been much going on behind the scenes lately. Most relevant to our purposes here are a couple of Philip K. Dick-related writing projects. I wrote a review of the final volume of the Selected Letters for the SFRA Review. It's not yet available online, but it will hopefully be up soon at the SFRA's website. (I may post it here soon as well.) More importantly, I have a forthcoming essay in Boom! Studios' comics adaptation of  Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? My piece, which looks at the theological and ethical content of DADOES (but not quite so boringly as I just made it sound),  will appear in #21, due out sometime in March. I'm told that issue also includes some major material relating to the empathy-based religion of Mercerism and its enigmatic messiah, Wilbur Mercer-- quite appropriate, I think. 

Then there's my best-things-I-read-this-year roundup for SF Signal's Mind Meld, which you can read here. I hope to return to this soon with a bit more robust listing of recently-read materials. (I've been kicking myself since late December because I completely forgot to mention what was actually the best thing I read last year-- C.M. Kornbluth and Frederik Pohl's The Space Merchants, which is every bit as good as you've heard and more.)

Less theologically-relevant, but certainly no less fun, I've been involved in the operation of a gallery show featuring the work of the Sucklord, easily the best artist working in the art-toy idiom. His bootleg toys, mostly cast in resin from remixed molds, are irritating, hilarious, and firmly rooted in a brand of nerdishness that I appreciate greatly. The Suckadelic universe contains only supervillains, with names like "Star Chump" and "Galactic Jerkbag." The Sucklord's primary reference points are in the Star Wars realm, but my favorite piece is a bit more obscure:

The Salarystak is the middle piece in a series that also includes the "Altrusian"--a simple-yet-elegant knockoff of Land of the Lost's Sleestak--and the Starstak, a highly-evolved future form of the same. In addition to the great visual, I love the SFnal moral dilemma that the Salarystak embodies: 

"To which end of the spectrum is his pendulum swinging? He knows not, for he is ignorant of his place in the temporal timeline. He has closed the mental door of escape and filled the void with his Career, his family, his mortgage, his car, and his martinis. Only in his deepest subconscious lies the dim comprehension that there is a bigger picture and something greater is at stake..."

Of course, in the world of the Sucklord, a triptych is presented as a multi-figure blister-pack:

There is a very good chance that I'll be adding that little item to my collection before the show closes on January 23rd. Another contender, this one with a bit more theological flavor to it: A series of four Greek-ish gods, presented as supervillains, who govern everyday disappointments: Chronos (wasted time), Tyros (insufficient income), Daemos (aches and pains), Mordros (general aimlessness), Eros (a broken heart). Nicest touch: their heads are polyhedral dice. [UPDATE: How did I neglect to mention the most theological piece of all, the Crucifett?:]

You can check out what's for sale in the current gallery show at Suckshoppe.com and peruse the exhibit catalog below (warning: it's not for the faint of heart, the easily-offended, or those with good taste in general).

Radio Free Albemuth: The politics of mystical experience

Radio Free Albemuth is generally considered an oddity in the Philip K. Dick canon. Initially entitled Valisystem A, it was Dick's first attempt at transforming his religious experiences into a novel. When he sent it in to a publisher they returned it with a request for minor revisions; instead he scrapped the whole thing and started from scratch, resulting in the masterful Valis. Valisystem A was essentially forgotten until three years after his death, when it was published under the title it's known by today. There is disagreement among the grand assembly of Dickheads over the relative quality of many of his lesser-known books, but perhaps none is so controversial as RFA. Some think it is a minor footnote in the grander story of Valis (Jonathan Lethem, who left it out of the third Library of America novel in favor of A Maze of Death,* is in this camp); but others-- myself among them-- think it's an overlooked masterpiece, a powerful fusion of theological exploration and science-fictional storytelling.

John Alan Simon, the writer, producer, and director of the recent independent film adaptation of Radio Free Albemuth, clearly falls into the latter camp, as evidenced by his ardently faithful adaptation. It's obviously a labor of love, as underscored by the story of the film's production: Simon has been working on the adaptation for over 15 years. The screenplay hews closely to the novel in both structure and content-- something that no other PKD adaptation has done except A Scanner Darkly. The story is all there: Nicholas Brady, a PKD stand-in, is contacted by a semi-divine alien satellite that hopes to rescue humankind from the ontological injustice underlying not only a growing fascism in the United States, but all human suffering everywhere. His friend, the science fiction author Philip K. Dick, is gradually pulled into Brady's understanding of the world and his attempts at revolutionary action-- an action that cannot be judged in worldly terms of success or failure. The film transcribes the story with painstaking care.

That's not to say there isn't some creative interpretation going on, but the film handles that interpretation smartly. This is especially evident in the numerous dream sequences: the dreams of PKD stand-in Nicholas Brady are a central aspect of the novel (and of Dick's real-life religious experiences), and the film captures the otherworldly quality of those dreams brilliantly. (The bemused look on the face of Jonathan Scarfe, playing Brady, as he receives a computerized message from an alternate-universe "Portuguese States of America" is a particular high point). The film uses an awful lot of computer effects for a movie without a car chase, and those effects pay off-- they are an otherworldly intrusion, just like the alien-divine messages they represent. There's a slightly different look to each dream, including a couple fully-animated sequences. Some are extremely polished; others are deliberately more sketchy, but there's a powerful aesthetic driving all of these sequences. It's clear that a lot of thought went into the look of Brady's visions, which are, after all, the backbone of this story.

There's also a strong emphasis placed on the novel's political message. It gives a sinister illustriation of an America gradually transforming into a police state that reminded me of Southland Tales.** In this context, those contacted by the alien satellite from Albemuth become not just religious visionaries, but revolutionaries as well. Collectively known as "Aramchek," they become the victims of brutal political repression. The falsity of the distinction between politics and religion is a recurring theme in the story. Near the novel's end, the narrator (Philip K. Dick himself, albeit a fictional version thereof) discusses this idea in dialogue closely reproduced in the film:

"[Aramchek believes] that we shouldn't give our loyalty to human rulers. That there is a supreme father in the sky, above the stars, who guides us. Our loyalty should be to him and him alone."

"That's not a political idea," Leon said with disgust. "I thought Aramcheck was a political organization, subversive."

"It is."

"But that's a religious idea. That's the basis of religion. They have been talking about that for five thousand years."

I had to admit that he was right. "Well," I said, "that's Aramchek, an organization guided by the supreme heavenly father."

This political theology-- in essence, a form of Christian anarchism-- is at the heart of Radio Free Albemuth, and the film highlights these concepts brilliantly. That's an element that was significantly diluted in the transition from Albemuth to Valis: bringing the story out of an alternate-universe police state and into something more closely resembling the real world reduces the urgency of this political theology. Simon also holds the film rights to Valis, which goes further down the theological rabbit hole, and has written a screenplay for Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, which depicts a particularly unpleasant police state. In this context, Radio Free Albemuth may end up occupying the central territory in a sort of trilogy exploring the breadth of Dick's philosophy and theology. The film is currently in search of a distributor, but when it becomes more widely available, it's definitely worth seeking out.

Fore more on Radio Free Albemuth, see the film's official website and the Wall Street Journal's coverage of the premiere.

*Admittedly an overlooked masterpiece in its own right, and an excellent fusion of SF and theology.
**I should probably note that I mean this comparison as a compliment, since not everyone is kindly disposed to that film. See also my comparison of Sunshine to Event Horizon.