wayyyyyyy back in time, between the ages of twelve and nineteen i dove deep into the worlds of science fiction and fantasy. the combination of cerebrality, otherness, and escapism was very appealing and offered the sort of possibilities that afforded me the chance to leave this (for me at the time) otherwise unappealing world for a while.
when i look back at the books that really resonated for me in that period, they tend towards the more experimental, reinterpretation of the here-and-now; they had more of the flavour of "here is earth slightly skewed", than the "let's go to a distant planet and fight malicious androids" form.
i especially remember the work of author samuel delaney, particularly his brilliant novel dhalgren with its rich, complex, and lengthy (almost nine hundred pages) telling of the story of the protagonist "kid" who lives in a destroyed city named bellona despite - and partly because of - its colourful depiction of a dystopian society which had not been a feature of any book i had read to that point.
i had no idea that dhalgren was to be such an enormously influential book and that its children and grandchildren would in turn rewrite the perceptual framework of so many people. i simple knew that it was a powerful book and that even as i read it, i was changed.
here's the cover of the copy i have:
delaney is one of those people you google just because they're so extraordinary and yet somehow they've slipped under the popular radar. cyberpunk author william gibson is hugely indebted to the work of delaney in both form and quality. with its circular narrative - phrases are clipped at certain points in the book and can be looped back to hook up with earlier unfinished phrases to produce a seamless mini narrative within the larger narrative for example.
here's an excerpt;
"He swallowed, and the prickles tidaling along his shoulders subsided. He pulled himself the rest of the way, and stood:
It lay in a crack that slanted into roofless shadow.
One end looped a plume of ferns.
He reached for it; his body blocked the light from the brazier below: glimmer ceased.
He felt another apprehension than that of the unexpected seen before, or accidentally revealed behind. He searched himself for some physical sign that would make it real: quickening breath, slowing heart. But what he apprehended was insubstantial as a disjunction of the soul. He picked the chain up; one end chuckled and flickered down the stone. He turned with it to catch the orange glimmer.
Prisms.
Some of them, anyway.
Others were round.
He ran the chain across his hand. Some of the round ones were transparent. Where they crossed the spaces between his fingers, the light distorted. He lifted the chain to gaze through one of the lenses. But it was opaque. Tilting it, he saw pass, dim and inches distant in the circle, his own eye, quivering in the quivering glass.
Everything was quiet.
He pulled the chain across his hand. The random arrangement went almost nine feet. Actually, three lengths were attached. Each of the three ends looped on itself. On the largest loop was a small metal tag.
He stooped for more light.
The centimeter of brass (the links bradded into the optical bits were brass) was inscribed: producto do Brazil.
He thought: What the hell kind of Portuguese is that?
He crouched a moment longer looking along the glittering lines.
He tried to pull it all together for his jean pocket, but the three tangled yards spilled his palms. Standing, he found the largest loop and lowered his head. Points and edges nipped his neck. He got the tiny rings together under his chin and fingered (Thinking: Like damned clubs) the catch closed.
He looked at the chain in loops of light between his feet. He picked up the shortest end from his thigh. The loop there was smaller.
He waited, held his breath even-then wrapped the length twice around his upper arm, twice around his lower, and fastened the catch at his wrist. He flattened his palm on the links and baubles hard as plastic or metal. Chest hair tickled the creasing between joint and joint."
dhalgren is much more like poetry than pure fiction blending forms and narrative levels between the author and "kid" whose musings in a notebook occupy the narrative forefront interchangeably with the author's.
curious? go here .
new from rudy rucker: “post singular” .
william gibson also has this man on a pedestal. i have william gibson on a pedestal. that places rucker somewhere beyond my understanding. rucker’s "post singular" site can tell you more about the man, the book, and the principle behind making available the work that he undoubtedly created to help put bread and butter on his table.
for all of that go rucker’s homepage .
if you want to read his magnificent work then here is post singular . that's right - you can buy it in the usual places OR you can read it online for free!
finally. from england comes this entertaining and visually appealing offering.
for fans of graphic novels city of thamesis is a must see. half graphic novel, half collage animation, city of thamesis takes place on something recognizably londonish but then twisted and altered enough to make it other. enjoy the journeys!
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