"Cannot you see that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives is the Machine?" —Kuno, to his mother in The Mach"Cannot you see that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives is the Machine?" —Kuno, to his mother in The Machine Stops.
This very short story was written in 1950, when the USA and the USSR were hell-bent on posturing and flexing some nuclear muscle. It's set in the far-distant future of 2026 and Ray Bradbury brings to the table a similar level of clairvoyance that E.M. Forster displayed in The Machine Stops, way back in 1909.
In his take on the 'machine taking over humanity' trope, Bradbury ingeniously imagines an Amazon Alexa-style electronic assistant whose daily purpose is to wake people up and orate diary events, chiming merrily away like Jiminy Cricket on crack cocaine. In stark contrast to the chirpy home management system, the post-apocalypse house in which it is installed stands alone in a killzone landscape of rubble and ashes. Outer walls are stencilled with the silhouettes of citizens incinerated by nuclear blasts. Written in a frenetic style that suits the piece, Bradbury cleverly allows the story to unfold… I shall say no more lest I spoil the outcome.
This is a thought-provoking story that stayed with me long after I'd finished reading. Four stars, rather than five, because E.M. Forster, the all-seeing polymath, got there first four decades earlier.
Big thanks to Adrian Glenister, whose intriguing review caused me to grab this without a moment's hesitation. Adrian's review.
"The saddest aspect of life now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom." —Isaac Asimov
This is a short sci-fi story in"The saddest aspect of life now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom." —Isaac Asimov
This is a short sci-fi story in which English humanist author E. M. Forster astonishingly predicts the internet age way back in the early 1900s (when a selfie would have left you with a blast of magnesium dust all over your face). In this dystopian future, people no longer get together for a chinwag over a mug of coffee; instead, they are hermetically sealed into rooms that resemble beehive cells and only communicate via monitors. Gosh, imagine such a thing ... humans spending all day talking into a little screen! The world is controlled by technology, so face-to-face social interaction and, gulp, touching each other have long since flown out of the window. All human needs are mechanically catered for at the press of a button, and the main character, Vashti, has no need to even get up out of her armchair, for it can glide across her hexagonal floor as easily as a Dalek.
And in the midst of this nightmarish vision, Forster offers the reader a bouquet of sumptuous prose to ease the cheerlessness of our future world, and to remind us of what humankind will one day forfeit...
It was night. For a moment, she saw the coast of Sumatra edged by the phosphorescence of waves and crowded by lighthouses, still sending forth their disregarded beams.
*sigh* beautiful, yet so desperately sad. But, for all Forster's remarkable clairvoyance, he does fail to predict that Peking would not be called Peking in the future (or will it?). Nostradamus would've known that, just like he'd have foreseen that Bedford Falls would become Pottersville if George Bailey had never been born. : )
Wow! For having such vision and possessing such astonishing prescience, I couldn't possibly award this work of genius anything less than five stars. If I owned one, I would take my hat off to E. M. Forster. —And of course, in the future, there would be a machine on hand to do that for me!...more
. "Much of the wisdom of one age is the folly of the next." —Charles Simmons
"Transformers: Robots in disguise." —TV ad
In the ashes of a post-atom. "Much of the wisdom of one age is the folly of the next." —Charles Simmons
"Transformers: Robots in disguise." —TV ad
In the ashes of a post-atomic war, where the U.S.A. has been blown off the face of the Earth (this was the 1950s, so Putin is blameless for once), a Soviet soldier is headed right towards an American bunker and is attacked from all angles by a colony of murderous spheres who butcher him with robotic efficiency. In this chilling short story, Philip K. Dick explores the oft-mooted hypothesis that robots will one day turn against their creators. America has the edge in this futile war (because of the killer robots they've invented) and word arrives that Russia, who've since realised that these machines have become a threat to both sides, want a pow-wow to discuss a way they can work together for the sake of humankind.
Designed to hunt and destroy non-American human life, the robots (view spoiler)[have evolved their artificial intelligence and are now capable of deception and subterfuge. (hide spoiler)]
Considering the story was written in the 50s, this was remarkably prescient. It's also shadowed by a dark cloud of fatalism (I guess Philip K. Dick was trying to warn us of the consequences of man's folly).
This was an engaging and thought-provoking read; one which I thoroughly enjoyed, although the poignant ending was entirely foreseeable.
I preferred his Ubik, but this was a real cracker of a short story, nonetheless.
Big thanks to my sci-fi sensei, @apatt, for another great recommendation!...more
Nonentity pencil pusher, George Orr, increasingly worried tha"The dream is the aquarium of night" —Victor Hugo
Oneirophobia: noun. A fear of dreams.
Nonentity pencil pusher, George Orr, increasingly worried that his dreams can alter past and present reality, has therefore become afraid to dream. Caught using another person's pharm card to obtain drugs to keep him awake, he's referred to dodgy psychiatrist, Dr William Haber, for an innovative course of dream therapy. The book started brightly and the first chapter promised much, a nice run of assonance feeding proceedings: jellyfish, abyss. Then, to further reinforce Le Guin’s writing credentials, some beautiful imagery: …the moondriven sea. A-ha! A sci-fi author fond of her literary devices. We bonded almost immediately. Sadly, the second chapter became mired in some stodgy science stuff that had me glazing over… s-states, d-states, v-c induction, blah, blah, blah. I'm not in the least bit techy (I still use an abacus and a sextant) and, man, I was becoming bored!
But happily, things improved dramatically. Doctor Haber asks Orr to don a trancap, which is wired to a dream machine that monitors his sleeping thoughts. Right off the bat, this seemingly unremarkable patient ruffles the psychiatrist's clinical countenance by effecting an outlandish happenstance right before his eyes. But Haber is a man who wants full control over his human guinea pig/goose that might lay a golden egg and seeks to muddle Orr's grasp of reality by deploying some devious misdirection. Orr is the underdog we are all rooting for; his innate goodness contrasting with Haber's artfulness and allowing the story to become somewhat parabolic. More than a few sessions continue and, after another bout of assonance saddles, hobbles; slogging, plodding; Brownian, roundian, an astonishing event, in glorious Technicolor, unfolded in my mind's eye. An event so monumental, so Orrsome that it had me bouncing up and down in my seat. "Bravo, Ursula Le Guin!" I shouted in honour of her memory. "THAT was stupendous!"
In due course, Orr's God-like powers run amok and all manner of crazy things start to occur, notably the introduction of dreamt-to-life aliens whose tentacles retract like a carpenter's flexible rule. Now I've been frequently told that I don't know my arse from my elbow, and that I'm inclined to talk out of my arse... WELL, the aliens in this story ALL talk out of their elbows, so if Planet Earth is ever invaded for real, we'd get along famously!
I'm delighted to say that the book is extremely well written. I purred over much of Le Guin's prose and marvelled at the ingenuity of her fascinating storytelling. I loved the graceful, esoteric ending, but because Le Guin kept ploughing the same doctor/patient furrow throughout, and because of the tedious science bits, I deducted one star. Overall, this was a marvellously entertaining read that lovers of old-skool sci-fi will revere! I loved it!
Big thanks to my supercool sci-fi pal, @Apatt, for recommending this cracking story, and also to @KimberSilver for agreeing to be my buddy reader....more
"Those whom we love are often the most alien to us." —Christopher Paolini
My review centres on Bloodchild, the better-known segment in this antholog"Those whom we love are often the most alien to us." —Christopher Paolini
My review centres on Bloodchild, the better-known segment in this anthology - an extremely short sci-fi story, recommended to me by @apatt and @cecily. As the story’s curtain rises, we are led into an intriguing scene of surreal domestic bliss, whereby (view spoiler)[‘something’ resembling a walking lobster/scorpion is casually cuddling up to a human on a sofa. (Please excuse my flippancy, it’s way more evocative and macabre than I’ve described. I’m someone who just can’t help himself). (hide spoiler)]
The story is told from the viewpoint of Gan, one of many earthlings subjugated by an alien species (the Tlics) to be used as (view spoiler)[breeding hosts (a similar premise to The Handmaid’s Tale: enslaved and nurtured for the sole purpose of impregnation and fertilisation (hide spoiler)] - only with a volte-face spin on things).
Treated as status symbols by their alien benefactors, they ‘enjoy’ an interdependent relationship: the aliens need a host, the humans rely on the aliens for their own safety.
The piece is dialogue-heavy, therefore fast flowing, and is extremely well written. I’m already a fan of Octavia Butler having researched her work following the advice of @apatt....more
“It’s as much fun to scare as to be scared.” —Vincent Price
A windfall of writers from around the globe have collaborated to bring us a cross-genre “It’s as much fun to scare as to be scared.” —Vincent Price
A windfall of writers from around the globe have collaborated to bring us a cross-genre anthology of short stories, evoking memories of the creepy tales told over the sound of a crackling campfire. The writers approach the task with great gusto, each stirring a cauldron of ghoulish accounts that are sure to unnerve and enchant. The capriciousness of life and death is deftly realised by the participants. And it’s all here: the naivety of a boy trained to kill in one story, set against the born-to-kill detachment of a serial killer in another. Furthermore, we are introduced to a mélange of dystopian metaphors and terrifying doppelgängers, which in turn leads us to nightmarish relationships, flesh-eating monsters and a contingent of extra-terrestrials. Our very own Richard Van Holst pitches in with a scholarly and delightfully quirky homage to Flaubert’s Parrot that, for me, outshines Lincoln in the Bardo in the posthumous bickering department. I spent a wonderful time in the company of these talented writers, many of whom are able to channel their dark side with worrying ease. Great stuff!...more
This seemingly innocuous short story wafted into my consciousness with a halcyon, pastoral scene: an English village on a summer's day, suffused with This seemingly innocuous short story wafted into my consciousness with a halcyon, pastoral scene: an English village on a summer's day, suffused with the scent of blossoming flowers and fresh-cut grass. I could almost taste the cucumber sandwiches and the jam scones. But there is a sub-level to the seemingly twee storyline. An allegory stealthily unfolds that immediately put me in mind of The Lord of the Flies. Shirley Jackson's fictitious village, like the island in William Golding's book, seems to serve as a microcosm of life. Her prose is crisp; the piece is very well written and (view spoiler)[I didn't anticipate the dystopian-style ending (hide spoiler)]....more
I’m ###typing% this with a frigging scarf* over£ my eyEs, so pLease# forgive @any typos+
Please, please don't do what I did, my fellow bookaneers. Do NOI’m ###typing% this with a frigging scarf* over£ my eyEs, so pLease# forgive @any typos+
Please, please don't do what I did, my fellow bookaneers. Do NOT watch the movie first. This is a big mistake; one to be avoided at all costs.
The story began pulse-like. Staccato sentences that suited the stop/start tempo of a life lived in fear. Malerman's Morse code narrative drew me in from the start. In an apocalyptic alternative reality, an abstract thing inhabits our planet; a demonic indescribable entity that, if gazed upon, will send a human to his or her death. Malorie, our beleaguered heroine, has no option but to embark on a twenty-mile river trip to possible safety, blindfolded and in a small rowing boat. To make matters worse, she has two small children on board who are also blindfolded. The kids, used to living life under instruction, never complain. They just do what they're told. Kept in the dark for much of their young lives, the children's hearing is acute and so the river becomes their amphitheatre. And this is where the book knocks spots off the movie. The book's raison d’être that humans must not see in order to survive is compromised in movie format because we, the viewer, can see, and so the fear of the unknown becomes diluted. Sound becomes so much a part of the book's DNA that I was almost listening to the pages!
Though not usually a lover of lean prose and meagre character development, this book kept me in its thrall. And hats off to the author for imagining such an original and terrifying premise. Granted, it has its inconsistencies, but the story was fraught, sensory and claustrophobic. I applaud John Malerman for hitting the ground running with a nail-biting debut horror-thriller and I dearly wish I hadn't seen the movie first....more
"She can barely remember the last time she slept without pain or fear, and she is groggy with it. The rooms are dim, lit only by the glow of the st"She can barely remember the last time she slept without pain or fear, and she is groggy with it. The rooms are dim, lit only by the glow of the street's gaslights flickering alive like fireflies."
As I begin my review, I would like to 'fess up and state that dystopian novels really aren't my thing. Prior to reading this, I felt dystopian to be a byword for introspective, poorly-written tosh. I even swore an oath that I would rather tip Tabasco onto my eyeballs than ever read anything resembling The Handmaid's Tale, or Never Let Me Go again.
So it was with a degree of trepidation that I picked up this dystopian/sci-fi hybrid, which was recommended to me by @Apatt, who knows a great deal more about sci-fi than any man I know.
Phew! Big sigh of relief. It became clear, very quickly, that this had the makings of an intelligent and evocative read.
In an ecologically-damaged futureworld, Bangkok is in steep decline and gradually sinking into the sea (sadly, this is something that is actually happening in real life, partly due to climate change and partly as a result of humans planting a forest of skyscrapers on land that's as spongy as a Black Forest gateau). In this cheerless metropolis, concrete towers, without electricity to power their aircon, have become hulking, airless ovens under the blistering heat of the Thai sun. The people are starving and subjugated by Stasi-style white shirts, who work for the authoritative environment agency. In the absence of fuel, genetically-modified elephants, known as megodonts, provide the muscle to power turbines.
As a Thai-friendly frequent visitor to the area, I'm happy to report that Bacipalupi has done a decent job of capturing the sights and sounds of an imagined Bangkok in a sad state of decay. I do feel however that some of his representation of the Thai dialect owes more to Google than to first-hand experience. It's good to see that he's made it possible for Buddhism, garland sellers and food vendors to still be able to flourish in his nightmarish vision.
Emiko, our eponymous windup girl, is the beautiful product of Japanese biological engineering. Originally designed as polite company for rich Japanese men, she is abandoned and then smuggled to Bangkok, where she is forced to endure terrible sexual degradation for the sadistic pleasure of voyeuristic fuckwits at a seedy drinking establishment. She's a realistic Westworld-style fembot, but with human DNA. She desires freedom but, alas, her marionette gait and lack of bodily climate control make it almost impossible for her to go anywhere without attracting attention. Her only hope (and a wafer-slim one at that) appears in the form of Anderson Lake, a blue-eyed, body-scarred American whose clandestine mission is to find blight-resistant crops in a world where you cannot buy a banana or a rambutan for neither love nor money.
Call me a soft, romantic fool, but the cliché of an artificial female yearning to be human, tugs at my heartstrings every time, and I was fully behind Emiko, wanting only the very best for her. The most exciting scenes in the book (view spoiler)[are the ones in which Emiko makes various bids to escape, hoping to get to encampments in the far north where windups live free from human bondage. Sadly, rather than her becoming a dystopian Pretty woman, there is very little that Anderson can do for her, which is a shame. I would have so liked for her to have found love and happiness, and for a revenge-seeking army of windups to come barreling into Bangkok on the backs of rampaging megodonts. Why did this not happen? (hide spoiler)]
Faults in the book? Yeah, there are some.
1) The characters are one-dimensional (seems to be a 'thing' in dystopian novels, God knows why). 2) Malaysia is referred to as Malaya, even though it hasn't gone by that name since the early 1960s! 3) Flower garlands appear to be in plentiful supply when food is not. How is that even possible? 4) There seems to be an all-embracing lack of emotion and human passion in every dystopian novel that I've read recently. Perhaps the fault lies with me? But, c'mon. Enough already, you dystopian authors! Yeah, I get it, the future's bleak, all hope is lost, blah-bloody-blah! Would it really hurt to add a little joie de vivre from time to time? 5) There is an ethical imbalance in this cautionary tale: (view spoiler)[Violence and rape forced upon poor Emiko is graphically described, yet when she metes out some righteous revenge, it's not shown at all! It's only alluded to after the event. In my view, this double standard can't be right, and I think that it shows poor authorial judgment. (hide spoiler)]
Despite these niggles, there are rare moments of poignancy; it is very well written, and The Windup Girl held my attention throughout.
. . "He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from the outside." -Philip K Dick
"A f. . "He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from the outside." -Philip K Dick
"A fool and his poscreds are soon parted." -Kevin Ansbro
Please allow me to preface my review by stating that sci-fi is not normally my thang. Aside from Asimov, when I was a teenager, I've preferred to watch it, and write it, rather than read it. In fact, were it not for Obi-Wan Cecily's recommendation, I might have erroneously imagined Philip K Dick to have been a 1970s' porn star!
Well, I'm relieved and pleased to report that this pre-cyberpunk gigglefest was an absolute joy to behold!
Written in the late 1960s, Ubik is set in the 'future' of 1992, a future we've overstepped without one sniff of dystopia. From way back then, Dick presents us with an analogue dreamworld that we can still enjoy in a digital age. Despite mention of videotape and typewriters, it still feels futuristic.
So how to explain this quizzical space oddity? I would bill it as a Truman Show-Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy-Barbarella-type of sci-fi, dressed in a groovy wardrobe of clothes that would make even Austin Powers seem sartorially conservative.
I confess to having had concerns at the start. The first few chapters had me wondering if I should permanently abscond from Goodreads altogether, for fear of offending friend-fans of this book. But then joyously it breaks into a canter and I was suddenly in sync with the timbre of its prose.
The anti-hero of the piece is sullen Joe Chip, a chap who is worn down by a futureworld of talking appliances and argumentative doors (frustrating for him, but completely hilarious for us). Joe falls under the spell of a Lara Croft-esque mind control babe, Patricia Conley. They, and their Magnificent Eleven parapsychological team of individuals are conscripted for an audacious project.
Without giving anything away, what ensues is a Memento-style mindfrig that will have you second-guessing everything.
The author writes in an idiosyncratically surreal way: he invents words and (deliberately?) misapplies adjectives to achieve an avant-garde effect. In addition, Dick uses near-synonyms of better-suited verbs in his bid to create additional quirkiness.
There is of course a cautionary message: he has presciently foreseen a future where automation hijacks our civilisation. Think about it; one minute we're scanning our own blasted shopping at crummy self-service checkouts, and the next thing you know we'll be held to ransom under the tyranny of obdurate machines and talking refrigerators!
I am delighted to join the fan base of this capricious nonsense. It is altogether bizarre, thought-provoking, visionary and hugely funny. Ubik is the work of a mad genius - and it has immediately gatecrashed my favourites list. The ending is as enigmatic as its beginning and is open to any number of interpretations. Here, for sure, the journey is get-down-boogiewoogie-fabulous. The final destination is partly left to our own imagination.
I owe a debt of thanks to Cecily, the Earth-based precog, who of course already knew that I would enjoy this read! And as a special treat to myself, I'm off to get me some gold lamé trousers, a pair of Spandex bloomers, some pink yakfur slippers and I'm hitting the town! Yeah baby, yeah!!...more
You know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang toYou know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang to mind as I endured the narrative voice of this glacially slow yawnfest of a novel.
This is a book so plodding, so dreary and so pretentious that I gave up on it halfway through. With a less-than-pleased harrumph, I shoved it into a slot on my bookshelf alongside The Remains of the Day, which I'd bought at the same time, anticipating dual sublimity.
So for the past few years there they both sat, on the bookcase equivalent of a naughty step, sulking like teenagers and glaring at me each time I passed. "Oh, get over yourselves!" I berated, turning them around so that only their pages were on show. Ha! That taught them a lesson they'll never forget!
But right now, I'm giving The Remains of the Day its day in the sun. It's highly spoken of by numerous Goodreaders, so I'm hoping that Ishiguro can belatedly turn my frown upside down.
As for Never Let Me Go, the only thing that I have in common with its improbable story line is that (view spoiler)[I carry an organ donor card in my wallet, though mine are only due to be harvested after my death. (hide spoiler)] : )
I remember someone describing this as being somewhere between Kafka and Enid Blyton, which is most apt. Read this book by all means, but don't say that I didn't warn you.
UPDATE:The Remains of the Day was a triumph, in my view! : )...more
"Nolite te bastardes carborundum." (Don't let the bastards grind you down.)
Because so many of my esteemed Goodreads friends have sung in praise"Nolite te bastardes carborundum." (Don't let the bastards grind you down.)
Because so many of my esteemed Goodreads friends have sung in praise of this novel, I felt that I was destined to join their burgeoning ranks. Instead, I was left scratching my head, wondering if I'd even read the same book!
I was that rarity - an Atwood virgin - and I was knee-tremblingly keen to pop my cherry. I would love to say that I was enthralled and that I am now a fan, but I can't. I simply can't. I'm not a polemicist; it pains me to do this but, aaaghh, I shall be putting my head above the parapet.
First, the positives: The concept is venerable, following the tradition of dystopian classics, such as Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World. This is a cautionary tale of what *might* happen were we to ignore the erosion of democratic and social freedoms, thereby enabling a right-wing Christian theocracy to take over. The author perfectly captures the resigned bleakness of such a subjugated existence. There were instances of genius and some moments where I could clearly see certain scenes playing out in the cinema of my mind (the illicit Scrabble games, for example).
Now, the negatives: (Apologies to all you Atwood fans; I am actually cringing as I type this). My read got off to an inauspicious start. Almost immediately, I encountered a post-modernist (imagine me doing air quotes) sentence that was so-o long it straddled different time zones. Here it is: >>A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls, felt-skirted as I knew from pictures, later in mini-skirts, then pants, then in one earring, spiky green-streaked hair.<<
So, please convince me, Atwood fans. Tell me honestly that this is not a clumsily-written sentence. And there are ten commas, for crying out loud! TEN. Count them! If you arranged the little buggers together in a line, you could almost simulate the legs of a millipede!
I'm clearly of the opinion that metafiction belongs in the same orbit as conceptual art, along with the collective denial that causes people to gush over the aesthetic beauty of a pile of bricks in an art gallery. Go to a building site, I say. There's no entrance fee! : )
I so wanted to like this book. I would have loved to join the legion of Atwood devotees and be here, right now, singing her praises. But, for me, her dictation prose is perfunctory, the similes are decidedly clunky, the syntax is dissonant, and the story just plodded along like an emphysemic tortoise. Were it not for the endorsements of my Goodreads friends rattling about in my mind, I would have abandoned it.
Despite its Chaucerian title, the book is set in an unspecified future where America has been hijacked by Christian Fundamentalists who treat enslaved fertile women as wombs on legs (an Old Testament-style version of the Taliban, I guess). It's told in the first-person narrative, from the POV of Offred, one such fem-slave, whose sole purpose in life is to endure loveless copulation in the hope of successful fertilisation. She remembers life before servitude and secretly wishes to be valued. "It's only the insides of our bodies that are important."
It gives me no pleasure to write this; I fully realise that I am swimming against the tide of popular opinion here. I feel like the mutinous child in Hans Christian Andersen's The Emperor's New Clothes. I know Margaret Atwood to be a kind, thoughtful and altruistic lady; her book is prescient and has topical relevance, but so does 1984 and Brave New World. Each is far better (in my humble opinion).
I am so sorry, Atwood addicts. I must be missing something.
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