I first encountered the writing of Philip Pullman in 1979 or 1980. My friend Barry Schwabsky had discovered Pullman’s novel Galatea (1978) on the new books shelf in the library; after reading it, he passed it on to me. I read it too, and found it utterly remarkable. Galatea was (and still is) is sui generis, not much like anything else I have ever read. It’s a fantasy novel for adults, but very different from Tolkien or any other fantasy that I know of. At the start of the book, the narrator’s wife leaves him, and in order to find her again — though he never does — he embarks on a strange journey that takes him to Amazonia, where he encounters strange ruined or unfinished cities, and strange beings, some of whom have supernatural powers, and much of the time whose gender and sexuality do not fit into our usual binaries. Magic and imagination seem to be tied up with money (or more properly I should say with capital), and vicarious experience — the sort you get through literature and music — is just as vivid and present as ‘real’ experience. The narrator is evidently quite naive, but the beauty of the book comes in great measure from the way that, although most of what happens exceeds the scope of the narrator’s own abilities to perceive and understand, his initial naivete itself is never destroyed, mocked, or overthrown. It is something entirely refreshing, although, but also because, it offers such a weird perspective on our actual world of (what had not yet been called) capitalist realism.

I was delighted with Galatea, and I passed it off to other people just as Barry had passed it off to me. For a good while, I never encountered anybody who had read the novel, or even heard of Pullman, independently of the route of occasions, or the thread of acquaintances, that had started with Barry’s discovery of the book. Evidently Galatea did not sell very well; in the early 1980s, there were stacks of remaindered copies, available for a dollar or two, at used bookstores (such as, I most remember, The Strand in lower Manhattan). I would buy extra copies just to give them to people. I wrote about Galatea in my 1990 book Doom Patrols, though I fear I failed to do the book justice, because it was shoehorned into my own tendentious assertions that unfortunately characterize that book.

It took me a while to hear anything more about Philip Pullman. He had in fact written a novel prior to Galatea, but it was hard to find and turned out to be nowhere near as good. He subsequently, through the 1980s and early 1990s, wrote and published a good number of young adult novels, as well as short works for very young children. It took me a good while to find out about these (I did not have children of my own at the time). But I endeavored to read whatever I could find by him. I had read enough science fiction and fantasy pitched to younger readers, that the non-adult categorizations did not bother me.

Pullman became world-famous with the trilogy His Dark Materials, the first volume of which (The Golden Compass) was published in the United States in 1996. I was excited by these volumes, which constituted Pullman’s most ambitious work — the most complexly articulated and developed since Galatea, and far more ambitious in scope, since they constituted an epic spread across multiple worlds, including our own as well as the alternative Earth where most of the action takes place. [Sidenote: I have no liking for the “many worlds” version of quantum mechanics, which seems to me to make dubious and arbitrary metaphysical postulations in a futile attempt to conciliate quantum randomness with physical determinism; but many worlds has been a gift of inestimable value to science fiction and fantasy writing]. His Dark Materials deals with questions of freedom and tyranny, good and evil, and the relations between parents and children; it mounts a Blakean and Shelleyan defense of the imagination, of sexual liberation, and of moral autonomy, in opposition to the reductive Christian moralism of, most notoriously, C S Lewis. I note that Pullman published a scathing critique of Lewis at one point, accusing him of religious bigotry, misogyny, and narrow moralism. I find Puillman’s criticisms to be entirely justified, but the article caused enough controversy that he was forced to backpedal his assertions a bit. Pullman is no naive idealist about human character and human agency, but he always pushes against the assumptions of our contemporary hyper-atomized capitalist culture.

His Dark Materials came out at around the same time as J K Rowling’s Harry Potter novels, which overshadowed them but which at the same time made the literary world in general more open to “young adult” fiction, which as a result became increasingly legitimated for adults as well. I was living in Seattle at the time Pullman’s books came out, and he made American book tours for all three volumes, which allowed me both to meet him and to see the growth of his audience. He gave a reading from The Golden Compass at Elliot Bay Bookstore; there were barely a dozen people in the audience, and I was the only person there who was neither a child nor an adult accompanying a child. His reading from The Subtle Knife was held in the University Bookstore, with an audience of fifty or sixty. For The Amber Spyglass, they had to move the reading from the bookstore to a larger auditorium (ironically enough, given the novel’s opposition to traditional Christianity, a church down the street from the University Bookstore), which accommodated several hundred people, with more not able to get in.

At all three of these readings, Pullman signed my copies of his books, but I didn’t get the chance to talk with him for more than a couple of minutes. That was enough to give me the sense that he was a genuinely kind and generous human being. My personal impression of him somehow synergized with my love of his novels; somehow his personal warmth (behind a level of entirely justified reserve) goes along with the psychological insights of his novels, which range from Galatea‘s chamber of wonders to his depictions of the ways that people interact with their daemons, or embodied souls, in His Dark Materials and related works. I have come to consider Pullman one of the rare sources of wisdom in our age, even if I do not always agree with him, and even though I much of the time lack his faith in the redemptive possibilities of storytelling. (I should note that he has supported the rights of trans people, in opposition to the bigotry of his better-known contemporary J K Rowling).

Pullman wrote several other books after completing the trilogy of His Dark Materials, in addition to a few short pieces set in the world of the trilogy. But he only returned to the world of those novels in a big way two decades later, with a new trilogy, The Book of Dust. The first volume, La Belle Sauvage, came out in 2017. The second volume, The Secret Commonwealth, was published in 2019. And the third and final volume, The Rose Field, just came out today — which is what has occasioned my discussion here. Pullman has now published six volumes concerning his heroine Lyra Belacqua, aka Lyra Silvertonge. At age 11 or 12, she was the protagonist of His Dark Materials. In the new trilogy, the first volume went back to her infancy, while the second and third volumes re-introduce her to us as a college student, age 20. I am now about to start The Rose Field, which begins just where The Secret Commonwealth left off, with its cliffhanger ending.

I know that I have not said very much here about the intricate details of Pullman’s vision, which brings the Romanticism and radicalism of poets like Blake and Shelley into the late 20th and early 21st centuries. And I still have to start reading The Rose Field, which I pre-ordered and which showed up on my Kindle this morning. Philip Pullman is not the only contemporary author whose writing I love — I just completed reading Thomas Pynchon’s wonderful new short novel, for instance. But there is a way that, unlike any of my other favorites or fan obsessions, Pullman has seemed to me to be like a companion, a wise guide, someone whom I have had the privilege of walking alongside of, ever since I first encountered Galatea forty-five years ago: which is to say for more than half of my life. Pullman is seven and a half years older than me — he recently turned 79 — but I hope that he will continue to write more books, and I will get the opportunity to read more of his words, in the years to come. Nonetheless, the publication of The Rose Field, the sixth and probably last of the volumes featuring Lyra, feels like a culmination of some sort, a stopping-point (even if not the ultimate end) of the journey I have taken with Philip Pullman for all these many years. Which is why I felt impelled to write about him today.

I scarcely have the words for this stupendous novel, whose visceral horror is only matched by its eloquence. (I should probably say, “elegant eloquence”, because its power comes in part from the way its gross splatter in terms of content is recounted in so artful a prose style). I have read horror fiction by Cassandra Khaw before — she is Malaysian, but currently lives in Canada; her day job is as a game designer — but she surpasses herself in this new book.

I guess you can say that Hellebore, where the novel takes place, is the anti-Hogwarts. It’s a school for young practitioners of magic, only the magic here is entirely violent, destructive, and feral. The narrator and protagonist, Alessa Li (a name with the same syllabic pattern as the name of the author), has the magical power of tearing bodies apart: a power she first discovers when she uses it in self-defense against her stepfather, who tries to molest her. But there is no innocence in the world of this novel: Alessa has no sense of being a victim, and she sees no distinction between self-protection and aggression. She claims that all the people she killed deserved it, but not that she was always defending herself. It is almost as if the novel is telling us: ‘oh, you say that there is no such thing as society, but only individuals and families? You say that the world thrives through competition, all against all? Well, I will show you what that is really like’.

We get a backstory for the novel, contemptuously dumped by the narrator in a single page, telling us how magic thrived in the older world, but was driven underground by the rationalism of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. These years were characterized by people’s craving to “cut the cosmos open and see what was inside.” This led to what we know as modernity, “a revolution in human thinking. We went from soothsayers to science, gods to generating electricity. Our lifespans grew; childbirth stopped being a macabre lottery.” The narrator’s point is that this flourishing of rationality, involving the absolute rejection of an earlier world of magic, for all its benefits was itself a sadistic drive to dominate the world. Rationalism and enlightenment were as barbaric as magic itself. And so, after “these years of frenzied development, interspersed with decades of war”, by a sort of inevitable backlash the magic returned. It quickly became a problem, because “this plague of global re-enchantment led to a decimation of the workforce… Capitalism was unsustainable without bodies to feed to the machine”.

What I have just summarized is passed over quite quickly in the novel. But it seems important to me because it sets up everything that follows. Alessa is not admitted to the Hellebore Technical Institute for the Ambitiously Gifted by some owl messenger; rather, she is brutally kidnapped, and finds herself there against her will. She tries to escape, but discovers that this is impossible. The students are nasty, and continually bicker with one another; but the faculty is even worse. I think this resonates with the actual world in which I live, and in which I read the novel: what Fredric Jameson once called “the bewildering new world space of late or multinational capital” is extremely difficult to grasp in objective, cognitive terms; rather, it is experienced on the subjective, individual level in the form of neofeudalism (as Jodi Dean and many others have argued). Although social relations are, in their overall structure, highly abstract and highly mediated, we experience these relations in the most immediate, visceral, and personal or sub-personal terms, through vast hierarchies of mastery and subordination. While the social world as a whole may be governed by ineluctable and inscrutable laws, as is envisioned and explored in Kafka’s texts of a century ago, today my individual experience of these structures is a partial and extremely localized one: the power to which I am unwillingly subjected is embodied, immediate, and directly branded into my flesh.

Khaw only intimates this historical background. For the most part, The Library at Hellebore narrates body horror as it fills the register of immediate experience. Everybody at Hellebore, student or faculty, is a monster: “someone with the potential to destroy the world three times over, and still have time for a good long brunch”. Put a lot of such people together, and they will both ally with one another and brutalize one another. Everything horrific about them will be cultivated and drawn out by the faculty, intent on shaping them into their worst selves.

But there’s even more. The novel mostly takes place at a crisis point. At the end of the school year, when the students graduate, the faculty devour them in a cannibalistic orgy. Many of the novel’s chapters are marked as “Before”, and give an account of the entire year Alessa spends at Hellebore. But these sections are interspersed with chapters set in the present: a few students have escaped being consumed, and they barricade themselves in the school library, doors locked so the faculty cannot enter. (They still have to deal, within the library itself, with the Librarian, a monster with the face of a human woman, but with a long caterpillar-like body). As the students try to defend themselves, and also fight among themselves, Khaw’s glittering prose (I can only call it that) details a seemingly unending series of wounds and aggressions, spillings of blood and gore and internal organs. But these are accompanied by subtle internal, affective shifts: moments of fear, but also moments of caring and (strange as it may seem) intimacy.

The realm of fear and violence is also, subtly, a realm of affection and sensitivity, in which Alessa and her peers experience surprising moments of otherness-contact, or what the philosopher Joseph Libertson called proximity. These moments are expressed in prose that is surprisingly delicate and subtle, even as it describes sheer atrocity. For instance, at one moment Alessa describes experiencing "a vertiginous sensation half like food poisoning and half like the worst migraine ever..." Something like this is as much excitingly unfamiliar as it is excruciating; and this is the way that the prose of the novel moves us forward, although what it describes is unremittingly horrific and bleak. Even at its most caustic — as when Alessa says that “years spent around men who believed that their dicks were reliquaries taught me how to smile despite the wave of nausea rolling through me" — the novel’s language is carefully exploratory, and illuminating in its precision and lack of pretense.

This extends even to the strange intimacy and recognition that sometimes passes between Alessa and the other monsters:”Minji smiled thinly and we sat then in a new silence, aware we had, very companionably and without a shred of animosity in our hearts, declared, in fewer words than perhaps were merited, that we would eventually be at each other’s throats. Whether such a time would come to pass was irrelevant. The words couldn’t be taken back and a sliver of me would always regret our honesty in that moment.”

Such quivering sensitivity at the heart of brutality is what really makes the novel work for me. I would not want to live in the world imagined by Khaw; but the really disturbing thing about the book is how insidiously it insists that, most likely, I already do. The few vestiges of saving grace the novel offers us only make sense in the context of its overall frightening vision; this is what is most deeply disturbing about it. Monstrosity is not an intervention from the Outside (as it is, for instance, in Lovecraft’s stories), rather, it is as intimate as my relation to my neighbor, or even as intimate as my relation to myself.

Joan Slonczewski is both a microbiologist (she is co-author of one of the standard textbooks in the field) and a science fiction writer. Her latest sf novel, MINDS IN TRANSIT, is a sequel to her previous novel BRAIN PLAGUE (2000), and overall the fifth novel in her Elysium Cycle (to which most of her novels belong). It would probably help to have read BRAIN PLAGUE before tackingly MINDS IN TRANSIT. We have a pair of planets with future technologies, the most important of which is that microbes are sentient, along with many artificial entities and systems. So the people in this world are continually negotiating both with one another and with the million microbes who inhabit them. There are evil microbes who take over their human inhabitants by manipulating their pleasure and pain systems, but most people get along with the microbes that inhabit them in a more or less symbiotic fashion. For instance, the main character Chrys is an artist, and her visual works are collaborations with the microbes within her. The novel mostly consists in all sorts of social and political interactions among the characters, including the microbial ones, and there is no clear line separating social interactions from political power moves. This may sound cynical, but the novel really is not so. The science fictional novum of intelligent microbes is really a way to dramatize how all life involves interactions among multiple life forms, all of which shape and are shaped by the physical environment as well as by one another. Interactions can exist anywhere along the spectrum from complete symbiotic mutualism to one-sided parasitic exploitation. And in fact, IRL our lives are profoundly shaped by such interactions, even if many of the partners (like the microbes that actually do live within our bodies) are not in actuality capable of language and conscious reflection. Slonczewski powerfully illustrates how the mutual web of life really works, through the extrapolative tactic of extended sentience. The plot, such as it is, is quite convoluted, but this makes total sense, given the ways that the book is depicting and making visible the sorts of connections and disconnections that all living beings are involved in. We are all — people, animals, plants, fungi, and microbes alike — involved with one another in multiple ways, involving both unit integrity and interconnections that mean that no unit is actually self-enclosed.

Charlie Jane Anders’ new novel, LESSONS IN MAGIC AND DISASTER, is a fantasy novel with a light touch — sufficiently light that it is barely fantasy at all. The fantasy element — the practice of magic — is barely an extension of the actual world we live in. Jamie, he narrator/protagonist is a trans woman: a graduate student in English writing her dissertation on British women writers in the 18th century. She is involved in a difficult relationship with somebody who I presume is also a woman — though this is never explicitly stated; since this person uses they/them pronouns. The narrator’s other most important (and difficult) relationship is with her mother, who is mourning the death of her own partner (another woman). So this book is really about queer families, and about personal connections: those we cannot help being part of, and those we construct for ourselves. We all need, and most of us have, family relationships of one sort or another, though this is true without necessarily privileging the heterosexual nuclear family, and without denying the difficulties of such relationships (William Blake once wrote that “A man’s worst enemies are those/ Of his own house and family”).

In addition, the narrator is a practitioner of magic. Here, magic is understood as a way to manifest one’s own intentions. It involves finding a place that exists in between nature and culture, like human refuse left in the woods or some other natural spot, and leaving in that spot several objects: something that symbolizes or references what is being wished for, and something that is given up as a sacrifice. There can also be additional adornments. Jamie explains, somewhat dubiously: “it’s about knowing what you really want, in your fucking secret heart, and putting your wishes into the world in a way that can be heard.”

In the course of the novel, Jamie teaches her mother how to do magic, in an attempt to cure her mourning for her late partner. Over the course of the novel, magic sometimes works, but not always. It can have unanticipated consequences (as all forms of desire can have). And it sometimes blows back on the practitioner. Also, since one’s wishes generally involve relationships with other people, there are problems with what those other people — lovers, family members, friends, enemies, innocent bystanders — might themselves want and need.

Though personally, I do not believe that magic, as defined in the novel, actually works in the real world, it makes powerful sense in the novel as an intensified form of all the delights and dangers that come up when we negotiate our desires with other people (whom we may desire, love, or hate, and who in their own turn have their own equally complex desires). The workings of magic are also depicted as liminal (in between nature and culture, in between what we feel consciously and unconsciously, and so on), which makes it impossible to draw clean lines between realms as we all too often want to do. And the practice of magic also occurs within a world that, like the world we actually live in, involves both individual and collective dimensions, both the personal and the political, if only because bigotry is real, and homophobes interfere with the lives of people who just want to continue doing what they do.

The hardest thing for me to describe about this novel is its mood or tone, which is delicate and hopeful, but also all too aware about the obstacles other people and the very structure of the world place in our way, as well as the ways we harm ourselves and others, make mistakes, treat other people (even our loved ones) unfairly, and generally have difficulty separating joy from pain, generosity from selfishness, or satisfaction from regret. In a way, this is therefore a mundane novel, or a ‘realist’ one; except for how the existence of magic in the narrative, and in the lives of its characters, serves as a form of self-therapy, and a way to connect with others. This other-directed dimension is what distinguishes it from the more common first-person realist narrative, and what allows it, ever so lightly, to access, and use to its advantage, the subjunctive dimension (as Samuel R. Delany might call it) of non-naturalistic fiction.

SHROUD is a look at alien sentience, by the (alarmingly prolific) science fiction writer Adrian Tchaikovsky. Two engineers are stuck in their spacecraft (which is actually more like a bathysphere) on the surface of an alien planet they call Shroud. Shroud is actually a moon of a gas giant in some solar system far from ours; but it is larger and denser (and hence with greater gravity) than Earth. It is enclosed in a thick hydrogen/methane/ammonia atmosphere, so thick that atmospheric pressure at the surface is twenty times that of Earth at sea level, and also so thick that no light can get through. Even the searchlights of the spacecraft can only cut through the murk for small distances. The astronauts are stranded; they have to travel halfway across the planet to reach the space elevator cable, dropped by the spaceship they originally came in, which is the only point from which they can be rescued (and indeed the only point from which any message they send can reach space beyond Shroud’s atmosphere at all). It turns out that Shroud is filled with rich and abundant life, which gets its energy from “planetary radiation, vulcanism, and a tiny greenhouse effect” (in this respect, Shroud is similar to some of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn). As the protagonists struggle to move across the surface of Shroud, they interact in multiple indirect ways with the native life, which is blind (since there is no light on Shroud) but which senses its surroundings by emitting radio waves (radar sensing, communication, and thought, all in the same medium). The human protagonists’ survival involves interacting with these native life forms in all sorts of ways. The novel is both an adventure story, and a sort of philosophical meditation on the possibilities of sentience.

I just finished reading C J Cherryh’s novella WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE (one of the three texts in the collection ALTERNATE REALITIES, available on the Kindle for 9ドル.99). WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE is a brilliant work of science fiction. It takes place on a planet where powerful men (more often men than women) believe that they create their own reality and impose it on anybody “weaker” than themselves. They simply deny the existence of what is not within their will, learning to not even notice the existence of others who are excluded from their social arrangements (such others include both human beings who have been shamed and demoted or expelled from society, and to non-human intelligent beings). (This reminds me a bit of the way in which, in China Mieville’s THE CITY AND THE CITY, the people of the two cities have learned to ignore their mutual co-existence, each person unseeing the people of the other city).

The protagonist of WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE, Herrin, is a sculptor who is fatuously confident of his own superiority and genius; the only person he recognizes as perhaps an equal is his frenemy, Waden Jenks, the dictator ruling human society on the planet. Herrin makes a huge statue of and monument to Jenks; this project is a clash of the two men’s will-to-power, since Herrin is both glorifying Jenks and solidifying his tyrannical rule; and yet at the same time Herrin is asserting his own superiority over Jenks, since the implication of the piece is that Jenks needs Herrin’s artistic genius in order to claim supreme status. It is a prototypical example of how society is grounded in the Hegelian master-slave dialectic, or perhaps of Nietzsche’s vulgarization of this dialectic in his vision of hierarchies generated by conflicts of clashing wills-to-power.

Once the statue and monument are finished, Jenks understands that he has been both elevated and consigned to his place. In order to reinforce his dominance, he has his goons beat up Herrin and especially break all the bones in Herrin’s hands, so that the artist will never be able to sculpt again. There is a lot in the novella about how Herrin’s mastery is concentrated, not just in his ability to see and imagine, but above all in his manual dexterity in shaping clay and stone to his will. (This reminds me of the scene in Tarkovsky’s movie Andrei Roublev, where an aristocrat has artisans blinded so that they will never be able to construct a house more beautiful for the one that they made for him).

I won’t discuss the later twists of the narrative, except to say that Cherryh plays out the consequences of the collapse of Herrin’s worldview, and his being forced to understand that others exist — both human beings and aliens. Reality is capacious and contradictory; it contains many forces, and nobody can think to dominate and control them all. The way I have expressed it, this seems like an obvious point to make; but in asserting it, Cherryh undermines and deconstructs the pernicious myths that are central to our cultural imaginary, and that have been asserted not only by the most obvious creators and mythmakers (like Ayn Rand and Leni Riefenstahl), but much more widely in the literary and cinematic fictions that we consume and swear by.

The Book of Elsewhere is the first new work of fiction by China Miéville since 2016. (In the interim, he published nonfiction books on the Communist Manifesto and on the Russian Revolution). The book is a coilaboration between Miéville and the actor Keanu Reeves. The main character, known as Unute or B, and the basic contours of his world, were originally developed by Reeves for a comic book, or graphic novel, called BRZRKR; its various installments have been co-written by Reeves and a number of comic book authors. The novel massively expands the franchise; and a feature film and an anime series are in development.

Unute is a warrior, born 80,000 years ago, and apparently immortal. He has superhuman strength, and the power to go into a berserker fugue state where he pretty much kills everyone around him. His body recovers quickly from injuries that would be mortal to anyone else; and when he is injured badly enough to actually die, he soon regenerates, breaking out of an egg in full adult form. He is also blessed, or cursed, with the complete memory of all his experiences over thousands of years; though he is not conscious during, and therefore does not later remember, the short periods during which he regenerates in the egg.

All this is recounted, in outline, in the original graphic novel. (There are three volumes of BRZRKR written by Reeves in collaboration with Matt Kindt, which together form one continuous narrative; two additional stories, written by Reeves with Steve Skroce and Mattson Tomlin respectively, provide additional incidents in Unute’s career. In all these cases, I am only listing the writers; a number of visual artists collaborate as well).

The Book of Elsewhere, with its considerable length, allows for a great expansion of things that were only sketched briefly in the graphic novels. We mostly see Unute in the present moment. He is working, uneasily, as part of a special unit of the American (apparently) secret intelligence forces. They send him (together with a crack team of soldiers) to various hot spots around the world, in order to commit assassinations or wipe out groups of (supposed) “terrorists.” Unute doesn’t seem to have any particular committment to American hegemony, and the military and intelligence authorities cannot really order him to do anything that he doesn’t want to do. But he goes along with their requests in return for having them study him so he can learn more about himself. In particular, Unute is tired of being immortal; he doesn’t want to die, but he wants to be able to die.

The writing is vivid and intense, as we would expect from Miéville. There is a lot of action, both in the present and in a number of flashbacks to Unute’s past, and to stories of individuals whom he encountered briefly over the course of the ages he has been around. There is no scientific agreement about just when Homo sapiens developed a full language, and all of the capabilities we have today; but 80,000 years ago is a reasonable figure. Anatomically modern Homo sapiens has existed for something like 150,000 years, but evidence of cultural achievement is more recent. On the other hand, our ancestors interbred with closely related species (the Neanderthals and the Denisovians) between 50,000 and 20,000 years ago. So we can assume that Unute’s lifespan pretty much coincides with the history of human “species being” (to use Marx’s term).

There are a lot of (pleasurable) digressions and side developments, but the novel is fundamentally concerned with the (philosophical) meaning and nature of Unute, or of the very fact that he exists. He is continually looking for any others who are like him, or who are similarly immortal because they exist in some sort of binary/dialectical opposition to him, but this quest is frequently disappointed. In particular, his murderous abilities do not exist in the abstract, apart from any historical contexts and situations; though they are continually being enacted within such contexts and situations, of which working for American power is only the most recent. Whatever Unute may be, he is emphatically not an ahistorical principle of evil or tyranny or fascism.

Unute does, however, turn out to have doubles and/or enemies in certain metaphysical contexts. His nemesis for much of the novel is a large pig, specifically a Babirusa, which seems to have the same powers as he does: it cannot die, or at least it regenerates whenever it is killed. This Babirusa has hunted, and sought to kill, Unute for most of his 80,000 years of existence. In addition, if Unute is a force of Death, as he often considers himself to be, then he is unavoidably in opposition to a force of Life, which itself may be eternally present, or at least eternally reincarnated, in the same way that he is. Unute does have an enemy of this sort. But the enmity of this opponent, and the enmity of the pig as well, change over the course of the novel; and seem in the last analysis only to constitute false oppositions. In a more fully dialectical sense, both Unute and his uncanny doubles seem to be agents of Change, and in this respect they are more similar than they are different, and they are alike opposed to the entropic decline of a universe fated to end in a heat death (as the Victorians mostly believed, and as some physicists today still maintain). I fear I am saying too much, and perhaps giving away spoilers, even to go this far. The theme is worked out in much more careful detail over the course of the novel, and especially in its final sections. I will just say, first, that in the course of his career, although Keanu Reeves has occasionally played bad guys, he doesn’t usually do this; he seems to prefer that, if he is not in a heroic role, then he is at least in an ambiguous one that they audience can identify with in spite of various unpleasant aspects (e.g. John Wick). And in the second place, I will note that China Miéville has played with similar ideas in earlier novels, going all the way back to Isaac’s crisis engine in Perdido Street Station, which is able to mobilize the potentiality for change in any given situation.

I will stop here. In any case, The Book of Elsewhere is a rich book, worthy of both its creators.

Adrian Tchaikovsky is one of the most accomplished science fiction writers of the past two decades. He is also remarkably prolific, having published well over thirty hefty novels, together with many shorter works, in the years since 2008. Tchaikovsky also has a great range. He seems reluctant to repeat himself, and has instead explored a wide variety of subgenres in science fiction and fantasy: everything from novels of uplifted animal intelligence (the Children trilogy), to the dying-Earth subgenre (Cage of Souls), to metaphysical space opera (the Final Architecture trilogy), to alternative visions of evolution (The Doors of Eden), to science fantasy with a dollop of horror (Walking to Aldebaran).

Tchaikovsky’s latest novel, Service Model, might be characterized as robot cyberfiction. It recounts the story of a robot’s picaresque adventures in a ruined, posthuman world. “Charles”, as the robot is initially called, initially serves as a valet to a rich man, and is programmed to anticipate his every wish, and to pamper him to a degree far exceeding what even the richest actual human beings today are able to get their servants to do. Charles is content in his position, even though his idle, wealthy employer is clearly a degenerate scumbag (I am using this phrase, which does not appear in the actual text of the novel, in the precise sense in which it is defined by the Urban DIctionary: “a person whose behaviour and attitude holds back the progress of the human race while eroding social solidarity”).

Only one day, without realizing it, Charles slashes his master’s throat while in process of shaving him. With no master left to serve, Clarles has to leave. In addition, since the name “Charles” was only imposed as a feature of his initial position, once that position is gone, so is the name. For the rest of the novel, and following a suggestion from somebody else, the robot calls himself Uncharles instead. (I am only using he/him pronouns here because of the initial name “Charles”; the robot shows no particularly gendered characteristics one way or the other).

Most of the book narrates Uncharles’ search for another source of employment; and secondarily in order to find out why he murdered his employer, since he cannot discover any reasons to have done so. He sees himself as a mechanism, having tasks to perform, but without anything of the order of needs, desires, and emotions, such as human beings might feel. Uncharles seeks a new job, not for monetary reasons — he has no physical needs as long as he can be recharged from sunlight — but because he still feels a strong impulse to do the sort of work for which he was initially programmed: to be the enthusiastic helper of a living human being. The problem is that the world has been largely destroyed. Pretty much everything has been reduced to debris. The wasteland is heavily populated with robots set adrift, much as Uncharles himself is. Human beings have almost gone extinct; for the most part, the only surviving ones are relegated to hellish situations of continual pain and punishment.

For most of the volume, Uncharles passes through a series of situations that are unattractive for him, and evidently satirical from the point of view of the author and of us as readers. Thinking the murder of his employer results from some sort of mechanical defect, Uncharles goes to a robot repair center that is entirely dysfunctional (which is evidently for the best since its only form of “repair” for broken robots is to terminate them and scavenge their physical remains for spare parts). Uncharles then goes to a sort of farm or factory where the few surviving human beings are compelled endlessly to re-enact their supposed pre-robotic folkways (consisting in straightened living situations, hellish commutes, and meaningless and unending factory labor, though they do not actually produce anything). Then there is a library where all human knowledge is transcribed into 1s and 0s and then erased, with the original sources (books, movies, etc.) also being physically destroyed. After that, there’s an enormous junkyard where robot armies continually battle one another for no discernible reason. And so on. These scenarios are referenced to famous modernist authors, such as Kafka (the bureaucracy of the repair facilities), Orwell (the ceaseless surveillance of the people forced to reenact the most oppressive circumstances of their past lives), and Borges (the library) — though this is a joke only for the readers, as it is something the robots themselves remain unaware of.

Uncharles is accompanied on his voyages by another figure known as The Wonk (who turns out to be a human woman in robot disguise — I don’t feel like I am giving away a spoiler here, because the reader realizes that this in the case, long before Uncharles is officially informed of it). She plays Sancho Panza to Uncharles’ Don Quixote, with her comments continually undermining his delusions about his tasks and about the structure of society. She also keeps noting to Uncharles that, in contrast to his original programming, he has developed something like free will. This is an observation that he continually denies, but that readers in the long run judge to be true.

The question of human freedom or flexibility versus robot programming and external determination is also continually raised in the novel’s own language. A close third-person narration is continually describing Uncharles’ reactions to various things by comparing them to human emotional responses, while at the same time disavowing these comparisons by saying things like: Uncharles was acting very much like a person getting angry, though of course as a robot he didn’t feel anger or any other emotions. The novel gets a considerable degree of this power from this sly use of rhetoric, as well as from the evidently satirical and exaggerated characterizations of all the predicaments within which Uncharles finds himself.

In short, Service Model is a brilliant novel, equal in power to many of Tchaikovsky’s other works, but unique among those works in its particular strategies and angles of approach. Its ultimate impact is to blur the distinction between internally-generated and externally-imposed actions and responses, as between what philosophers call dispositions and what common sense refers to as feelings. And therefore it also erodes (even as it overtly affirms) differences between natural and artificial intelligence. This is both the source of the considerable pleasure I took in reading the novel, and the sign of its being a deep philosophical thought-experiment and argument in its own right.

Michael Bérubé is one of our best social and cultural critics. He has written important books on cultural studies, disability studies, and the politics of the “culture wars” in academia and beyond. Bérubé’s new book, The Ex-Human, is about science fiction. Bérubé offers thoughtful close readings of a number of classic science fiction texts: Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, Cixin Liu’s The Three-Body Problem, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep? (with some reference to its film adaptation as Blade Runner), Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001 (with some reference to its better-known film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick), and Octavia Butler’s Parable series and Lilith’s Brood series.

Bérubé’s discussions of all these texts are subtle and insightful. But close reading in its own right is not the point of the book. Bérubé includes autobiographical personal reflections, and discusses writing the book in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, which deeply changed the dynamics of his own personal and family life, together with everyone else’s. Above all, though, the book is concerned with how science fiction allows us to entertain non-human perspectives upon human life and existence, and specifically to imagine the end of humanity — or rather (and better) its transformation in radical ways that exceed our capacity for imaginative projection and continued empathy.

I am inclined to share Bérubé’s pessimism about human futures. Immanuel Kant said that, regardless of its mistakes, excesses, and bad human rights record, the French Revolution was inspiring and positive because it demonstrated the sheer fact that human beings were capable of rebelling against injustice and envisioning something better. But today we find ourselves facing a sort of inverse of this situation. Regardless of whether Donald Trump gets elected to a second term or not, his widespread support by millions of American voters is frightening and horrific because it demonstrates the sheer fact that human beings are so enthusiastically vicious, bigoted, and sadistic that they are more than willing to embrace a worsening of their own lives, as long as this guarantees that other people will be treated even worse than they are, and that they will retain the privilege of enjoying the spectacle of other people’s suffering, like Christians in Heaven who gain surplus gratification from observing the torments of sinners in Hell. Though Bérubé doesn’t express himself precisely in these terms, he is definitely saying something similar. He cites, for instance, Octavia Butler’s insight that human beings are both highly intelligent and inveterately hierarchical, an extremely deadly combination.

Bérubé chooses the works he discusses precisely because they all share something of this ferociously negative vision, even though many readers/viewers seem to have gone out of their way to avoid acknowledging this. He defines his perspective by identifying it with that of Ye Weinjie, the character in The Three-Body Problem who deliberately contacts the Trisolarians (the aliens who inhabit the Alpha Centauri three-star system), thus encouraging them to invade Earth. Having suffered through the Chinese Cultural Revolution, and subsequent tyrannical and environmentally destructive actions of the Chinese government, Ye Weinjie concludes — mistakenly but not unjustifiably — that an alien invasion might well be the one thing that “can somehow save us from ourselves.” Bérubé is careful to distinguish this position from the more overtly radical one (also dramatized in the novel, and expressed in theoretical terms by such anti-natalists as David Benatar) that straightforwardly seeks the self-annihilation of Homo sapiens altogether.

For Bérubé, then, the greatest virtue of science fiction is its ability to articulate perspectives “in which we have become able to see ourselves and our sorry fate from the vantage point of something other than the human.” Rather than using such common terms as posthuman or transhuman, Bérubé describes his perspective as ex-human. To me, this suggests the scenario of tending one’s resignation from, and retiring from, the human race, although Bérubé does not quite describe it in these terms. In any case, the term ex-human avoids the self-congratulatory visions of exceeding and transcending the human that we find in Nietzsche, say, or more to the point in recent Silicon Valley TESCREALists (TESCREAL = “transhumanism, extropianism, singularitarianism, cosmism, rationalism, effective altruism, and longtermism”). [You can find out more about TESCREALism here]. For Bérubé, the ex-human “is distinctive in that it is framed by the possibility of human extinction and driven by a desire to imagine that, somehow, another species is possible.” Becoming otherwise is desirable, and may well be a better alternative than remaining conventionally “human”; but it should not be seen as a conquest, a triumph, or a heroic accomplishment.

The novels and films discussed by Bérubé all express this desire in various ways, albeit often tentatively. The bioengineering of a less malevolent successor species to Homo sapiens is most explicitly envisioned in Oryx and Crake. Much more mildly, Ursula Le Guin’s vision of a society that is not governed by gender in The Left Hand of Darkness proposes a modification of “human nature” that is not flawless, but evidently more desirable than not. Though Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep? is explicitly premised upon the supposition that human beings are able to feel empathy, whereas androids are not, it is not only set in the aftermath of a human-made catastrophe (nuclear war), and questions its human-supremacist premise in many other ways as well. 2001 also contrasts banalized human characters with the supercomputer HAL, who is arguably the most empathetic character in both the novel and the movie. 2001, like Androids and Blade Runner, suggest that transcending, or at least reforming, what we understand as “the human” is urgently necessary, and indeed perhaps inevitable.

The richest discussion in The Ex-Human is that in the final chapter, devoted to Octavia Butler. Here Bérubé discusses both the Parable diptych, and the Lilith’s Brood trilogy. The Parable books presciently envision a Trumpian America, and set against it a small-scale utopian community project. In the course of the novels, the protagonist Lauren Oya Olamina does succeed in setting up a worthwhile intentional community, but only after the most horrific and painful tribulations. And in any case, such a result is not scalable to humanity as a whole. This leads Butler to posit space travel and migration to other worlds as a more permanent solution to self-inflicted human suffering; but it is all too symptomatic that Butler was never able to write a third novel in the series that would convincingly envision such a movement. Here Bérubé cites Gerry Canavan’s exploration of Butler’s many abandoned manuscripts. (In fact, this impasse was already encountered in Butler’s early novel Survivor, which she ultimately disowned as a result).

Bérubé then turns to Butler’s earlier Lilith’s Brood series, consisting of Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago. In these novels, Butler envisions an Earth devastated by nuclear war, survived only by a small number of humans who are rescued by an alien species with superior technologies, the Oankali. These aliens define themselves as gene traders; they seek to produce a genetic hybrid between themselves and humans. I won’t go into Bérubé’s reading of this trilogy in detail. I will only note that the biggest interpretive disagreement about the trilogy is over whether we should regard the Oankali as benevolent saviors, or whether we should regard them as manipulative and oppressive colonialists. There is good evidence for both approaches in the books. The Oankali insist, quite plausibly, that human beings are bound to destroy themselves (again; since the premise of the novels is that we have already done so once), unless they accept the deep species modifications that are being offered them. However, the Oankali clearly maintain a position of superiority vis-a-vis the surviving humans, lying to them, forcing them into actions against their will (up to and including what can only be understood as rape), and continually overriding human demands and desires, supposedly for the humans’ own good. Bérubé offers a remarkable synthesis of these two opposed readings; he agrees that the Oankali’s treatment of human beings is entirely, unacceptably nasty; but at the same time he suggests that (from Butler’s own perspective, which Bérubé endorses) such a forcible remaking of humanity into something *other* is preferable to human beings remaining as they are. The human condition as it actually is can only lead to horrors of nuclear holocaust, devastating epidemics, or the re-election of Donald Trump. I have to say — much as I do not want to — that Bérubé has a point.

Andrea Hairston, ARCHANGELS OF FUNK

I received an advance copy of Andrea Hairston’s Archangels of Funk, in return for giving an honest review. Here it is. The book will be published in two weeks or so.

Archangels of Funk

Andrea Hairston’s new novel, Archangels of Funk (2024), is a science-fictional sequel to her two previous magical realism / alternative history novels, Redwood and Wildfire (2011) and Will Do Magic for Small Change (2016). The new novel’s heroine, Cinnamon Jones, is now a sixty-year-old woman; those previous novels were about, respectively, Cinnamon’s grandparents (a Black grandmother and a Seminole/Irish grandfather) who leave the deep South and come north to Chicago during the Great Migration of Black people in the first half of the twentieth century, and Cinnamon herself as a teenager in Pittsburgh in the 1980s.

This places Archangels of Funk as occurring in 2030 or so. This is only a few years beyond the actual present in which the book was published, and in which I am writing this note. But things have changed radically during those several years. We have gone through the Water Wars, which are not described in detail in the novel, but which evidently shook things up quite a bit. Large corporations and rich white people still own the world; but not everything is under their control. Cinnamon Jones is part of a thriving multiracial alternative community, including farming cooperatives and centered on the Ghost Mall, a former shopping center now refurbished as a collective gathering place and free kitchen, with lots of space for experimental collaborative projects. This community is hooked in to the global Internet, but it is largely a loose, local aggregation, autonomous from major centers of power and production, more or less self-sufficient in terms of food, and largely reliant on bicycles for transportation, instead of cars. This community is also relaxed and dispersed, resistant to the sort of centralization and totalization that one often finds in both utopian and dystopian visions.

Archangels of Funk is narrated in close third person through the varying perspectives of Cinnamon herself, her close friend Indigo, her dogs Bruja and Spook (both of whom seem to be able to grasp spoken human desires and suggestions, and the latter of whom is cyber-enhanced), and even her three “circus-bots”. These sentient machines are camouflaged, when they are quiescent, as piles of junk; but when they awaken they take on robotic animal forms, and project vivid multimedia spectacles. They are also imprinted with the personalities of Cinnamon’s grandparents and great-aunt. The circus-bots preserve and transmit the wisdom of the ancestors, but they also plunge forward in time in order to generate exuberant new configurations of spectacle.

Hairston is less concerned with narrative than with exploring the textures of everyday life in the changed circumstances of the world that the book presents. The novel is set in just one locality, western Massachusetts, where Hairston herself actually lives; and it takes place over the span of just a few days. Cinnamon is mostly concerned with staging her yearly extravaganza, the Next World Festival. This is a “community carnival-jam”: a gigantic theatrical spectacle, highly participatory, played in an outdoor ampitheater, and filled with song and dance, as well as with seeemigly magical masks and costumes, together with splendiferous props and sets. Everything in the Festival both calls back to African American history and leap forward to envision social and personal transformations. A Mothership lands, recalling George Clinton and Parliament/Funkadelic. Careful planning serves for the proliferation of play, rather than for any more instrumental purpose.

Cinnamon is by no means anti-technology. But she is careful with her gadgets and inventions, because she is all too aware of how computational devices in the 21st century serve purposes of dissuasion and surveillance. Her house is configured as a Faraday cage, and she never carries or uses a cellphone. Her bots are always gather data, and anxious to give advice; but they are also booby-trapped to prevent corporate spies from seizing and reverse-engineering them. There is also considerable attention paid to physical safety. The surrounding woods are rife with robbers looking for a quick score, as well as with “nostalgia mlitias,” dudes roaming about in combat gear trying to bring back the old days of MAGA values. But their efforts are somewhat hampered, fortunately; though they seem to have lots of guns, they are mostly empty because bullets, bombs, and other munitions seem to be quite scarce.

Cinnamon and her friends are not just happy-go-lucky creators, however. They suffer from depression, relationship problems, bouts of fake nostalgia, and other all too real psychological symptoms. The ill effects of global warming are everpresent: “deny climate change all you want, but when that brushfire rolls up on your ass, you run or burn“. There are also kids whose parents are missing, visitors with murky and perhaps dangerous agendas, and so on. The novel is, at least in part, about how to negotiate such difficulties. It is psychologically incisive, even as it values lateral connections with others over the narcissism of deep interiority. Cinnamon is adamant that she is “too busy” to be “waiting for love,” but she remains open to chance encounters and unexpected opportunities. People always seem to be engaging in

Archangels of Funk has no deep, mythical narrative, no grand, overarching Story: this is precisely because everything in the book is composed of little stories, told and experienced, involving exchanges and transformations on multiple levels. There is no firm line between actuality and dream, or between technology and magic. Hairston’s prose style strikes me as unique, and it is ultimately what draws everything together. The writing is liquid and mercurial, stopping to capture unexpected details, passing between interior monologue and physical description, then turning and flowing away from what you thought was important, and drawing your attention somewhere else. When I finished reading Archangels of Funk the other night, I felt a bit confused because I was hoping for more. The final dialogue, between Cinammon, her bots, and some long-ago friends who have shown up long after she expected never to see them again, suggests a never-ending adventure. You may become tired of adventure and seek to rest for a while, but the energy will return, at least until you have passed (as all people and all things ultimately must). “You’re a dream the ancestors had” — which is true enough, except vice versa is true as well. “We’re in a sacred loop”; there is no goal except continuing to play and to circulate. “Nobody makes up their own mind,” because our minds like are bodies are continually in motion, continually intertwined with others. (Earlier, we had been told that “mind was always a community affair”). And: “here we are at the end of the world,” Cinnamon finally says, “thinking up what the next world will be.” And: “I am who we are together.”