The New York Review of Science Fiction Issue 310, June, 2014 Read online

  The New York Review of Science Fiction

  Contents

  Arthur D. Hlavaty: Heinlein: The Grand Prototype

  Michael Swanwick: Six Untitled Tales Written in Mark Twain’s Library

  Richard L. Kellogg: Philip Wylie and the Enola Gay

  Ana Kai Tangata: Tales of the Outer the Other the Damned and the Doomed by Scott Nicolay, reviewed by Peter Rawlik

  Brian Stableford: The Perils of Prophecy: A Cautionary Tale

  The Black Prism (Lightbringer Book 1) by Brent Weeks, reviewed by Aidan-Paul Canavan

  See This: recently seen and recommended by Jen Gunnels

  Disorders of Magnitude: A Survey of Dark Fantasy by Jason V. Brock, reviewed by Don Webb

  Michael Andre-Driussi: Wes Anderson as a Great-Grandson of Edgar Rice Burroughs

  Mike Barrett: Margery Lawrence: Narratives from the Round Table

  Jane the Plain, written by August Schulenburg, directed by Kelly O’Donnell, reviewed by Jen Gunnels

  Donald M. Hassler: The “Tangled Bank” of Science Fiction and War in the Long Twentieth Century

  Photos from California, May 2014

  Editorial: The Hidden Text

  Samuel R. Delany, Contributing Editor; Kris Dikeman and Avram Grumer, Managing Editors.

  Alex Donald, Webmaster; Jen Gunnels, Theatre Editor; David G. Hartwell, Reviews and Features Editor.

  Kevin J. Maroney, Publisher.

  Staff: Ann Crimmins, Heather Masri, Sophie Logan, Lisa Padol, M’jit Raindancer-Stahl, Jason Strawsburg, Eugene Reynolds, and Anne Zanoni.

  Special thanks to Arthur D. Hlavaty and Eugene Surowitz.

  Published monthly by Burrowing Wombat Press, 206 Valentine Street, Yonkers NY 10704-1814

  Send all editorial inquiries and submissions to and . Individual issues and subscriptions are available worldwide in various electronic forms at Weightless Books and other fine establishments.Paper copies of all issues are available individually or in bulk. Details are available at our web site. New York Review of Science Fiction Home Page: www.nyrsf.com. Also at: facebook.com/NYRSF; @nyrsf on Twitter.

  Copyright © 2014 Burrowing Wombat Press.

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  Arthur D. Hlavaty

  Heinlein: The Grand Prototype

  Being a review of two recent volumes about Robert A. Heinlein: Robert A. Heinlein: In Dialogue with His Century, Volume 2: The Man Who Learned Better, 1948–1988, by William H. Patterson, Jr. (New York: Tor Books, 2014; $34.99 hc; 671 pages) and The Heritage of Heinlein: A Critical Reading of the Fiction, by Thomas D. Clareson and Joe Sanders (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland Books, 2014; $45.00 tpb; 220 pages).

  One of the ways human beings organize the world is by prototypes. We define a set as a typical example and a bunch of other things that are like it. For instance, when I was growing up, the prototype Writer was Shakespeare, the Artist was Rembrandt, and the Composer was Beethoven.

  In that way, Robert A. Heinlein has been often been taken as the prototype Science Fiction Writer, and as changes and new paradigms shake the field, he still sometimes represents the science fiction of the past. We can speak of the Good Old Days when everyone aspired to write like him or the Bad Old Days when no one wrote any better, or at least the Simpler Time (as Peter Straub’s Shadowland says, “when all of us lived in the forest and no one lived anywhere else”) when everyone knew who he was and had an opinion on him.

  If we are going to pick a prototype, he is an obvious choice. He was the first writer to be declared a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America, and in a sense we could say he was several grand masters:

  He was the Grand Speculator, imagining breakthroughs in science and technology and considering their possible results and implications and pondering the deep questions of ethics, epistemology, and metaphysics.

  He was the Grand Technician. He was the master of what Jo Walton calls incluing, unobtrusively hinting at the ways the world we are reading about differs from the world we are living in (“The door dilated”), and if he didn’t invent the Future History—the chart of a consistent imagined future into which many tales may be plugged—he codified and defined it far better than it had been done before.

  He was the Grand Recruiter; his “juveniles” gave the kids free samples of the Sense of Wonder that many would be hooked on for life.

  And he was the Grand Amphibium. To him, the supposed walls between “Science Fiction” and “Mainstream” were merely lines drawn by others, to be used, avoided, or manipulated as he saw fit. In the ’40s, he expanded from the pulps to the slicks. In the ’60s, he was a crossover artist, joining Kurt Vonnegut and J. R. R. Tolkien in the move to pop/counterculture/”cult” fiction.

  He has always been controversial. The criticisms of Stranger in a Strange Land almost make up an inadvertent Pooh Perplex. He wanted to create his own religion as L. Ron Hubbard did (even though he turned down all offers to do so). He was avidly read by Charles Manson (who couldn’t actually read a STOP sign without his lips getting tired). He put in the sex just to get us to read about the ideas. He put in the ideas just to get us to read about the sex. He was offering a secret initiation in the work of Aleister Crowley and/or G. I. Gurdjieff. Und so weiter.

  Attacks on him offer an object lesson in the many sloppy ways the word fascist can be used, and H. Bruce Franklin devoted an entire book to Heinlein, the exemplar of all that is worst in Pig Capitalism. On the other side, Spider Robinson loves not wisely but too well, and Leon Stover wrote what is probably the only Twayne United States Authors study to repeatedly refer to its subject by a flattering nickname (“the Admiral”).

  It’s getting better. The two-volume authorized biography is now complete. (Alas, William H. Patterson, Jr. did not live to see its publication.) It is joined by a substantial critical study, begun by the late Thomas D. Clareson and concluded by Joe Sanders. Both are cause for rejoicing.

  The Man Who Learned Better

  The Patterson bio is not as relatively long as its titles, but it is thorough and detailed, with a remarkable amount of information about an essentially private and even secretive subject. It leaves us far more able to understand the complex man who wrote the books. One caveat, though: Patterson obviously not only admires his subject (somewhat this side of idolatry; there are references to how difficult he could be) but also agrees with him on many controversial issues and is eager to expand upon those. We could do with substantially less discussion of how right Heinlein was about such topics as the degeneration of modern art and the collectivization of America.

  Heinlein’s was a difficult life. We already knew about the major health problems: the tuberculosis that forced his retirement from the Navy in the ’30s, the 1970 attack of peritonitis that almost killed him, and the stroke-like ischemic episode a few years later that forced him to undergo a carotid bypass to be able to get a reasonable amount of blood to his brain. We learn that he was never really healthy after the tuberculosis; he suffered, among other
ailments, skin cancers, urethral and rectal infections, hernia, gallstones, polycythemia, life-threatening nosebleeds, and finally the emphysema that killed him.

  Patterson has further noted that Heinlein’s father was diagnosed with “involutional melancholia” (no longer a DSM-cromulent term), a form of depression characterized by, among other things, “delusions of ill health, poverty, sin, and sometimes even of the nonexistence of the world (all themes that were to show up later in Robert’s writing).” We learn in this volume that Heinlein himself feared that he was suffering from the condition and took the approved treatment, synthetic testosterone, a factlet that could launch a thousand bad jokes and metaphors.

  One could pathologize his fictionalized doubt of external reality on the basis of this new information, but I would prefer to see it as transforming pain into art. Heinlein said that the reason he wrote about solipsism was that he could make good stories about it. One could find more stigmatizing interpretations, but he was right about that part; he explored some of the same territory as Philip K. Dick. The ultimately paranoid/solipsistic “Them,” like Fredric Brown’s “Answer,” has found its way into folklore, told by people who have no idea that it was a work of fiction written by an actual, identifiable person. As for the other parts, clearly Heinlein’s ill health was not delusional, and if he had fears of sin, he obviously didn’t let on.

  One issue that many of us wanted to see a biography shed more light on was Heinlein’s politics. I can remember when it was a commonplace of sf criticism that Stranger in a Strange Land and Starship Troopers, by being so utterly different yet written by the same person, proved conclusively that the reader can tell nothing whatsoever about the writer from the writer’s fiction. Then we encountered Expanded Universe, with large nonfiction sections by Heinlein himself, speaking first-person nonfictional and, except for a few specifics, saying that he believed all the things we always knew he believed. He said that those two books and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress together summarized his entire political philosophy and anyone who liked only one didn’t understand it. Clearly, such an approach is not a simple one, but Patterson helps us see where one person could believe all of it, and when there are conflicts of principle, they are likely to be the sort that fiction thrives on.

  We knew before the bio (typically not from Heinlein himself) that, in the ’30s, he supported Upton Sinclair’s End Poverty In California, an approach so frighteningly leftist that the Hollywood moguls hired actors to put on Russian accents and say it was just like what they do in the old country. We know that he wound up supporting bomb shelters and the Strategic Defense Initiative. Patterson shows us the journey.

  After a flirtation with Social Credit and some other nonstandard economic approaches, Heinlein settled down to a particularly rugged-individualist form of libertarianism, but it always had to be at least balanced by the need for defense with the restrictions on individual behavior that that implies. Presumably, he came by his excessive fears honestly. A graduate of a military academy has gone through four years of hearing that defense is extremely important, and it is not surprising when such a graduate finds it easy to see enemies that our nation needs to be protected from. Having the misfortune to be visiting Russia at the time of the U2 mess didn’t help.

  The one politician Heinlein most resembled and admired in the period of the second volume was Barry Goldwater: the emphasis on defense, the belief that racism was awful but federal action was not the answer (to that question or just about anything else), and the importance of personal liberty and responsibility. The similarity seems less surprising now that we know that the supposedly conservative Goldwater was a supporter of Planned Parenthood, was way ahead of the curve on allowing gays to serve openly in the military, and thought that Jerry Falwell needed a good kick in the ass.

  Patterson also gives us insights into Heinlein’s personal and professional relationships. Shortly after his death, Virginia Heinlein released Grumbles from the Grave, a selection from his letters. Frederik Pohl, in his Foreword to the Clareson-Sanders book, describes the book as “Milquetoast for five-year-olds.” But Pohl had known Heinlein in person. Perhaps as a result of not having had that pleasure, I found the book unpleasant enough, particularly in its dealings with Heinlein’s two major editors: the presentation of his letters in the book made him seem dominant in his dealing with John W. Campbell, who needed his work, and submissive to Scribner’s editor, Alice Dalgliesh, who didn’t. (And after he left Scribner’s, he took Novelist’s Revenge, creating a character named Agnes Douglas who was a shrew and a goad and, accidentally or otherwise, referring to her once as “Alice.”)

  Patterson fills out the picture of these two relationships. We see Campbell giving as good as he got in their disputes, and there was a long-lasting, though difficult, friendship. We get a fuller sense of the problems with Dalgliesh, who, from her own inclinations or the pressures of the Children’s Fiction business, felt compelled to protect the tender minds of the young not only from actual sex but from anything that could arouse the prurient interests of a Freudian.

  In one way, Patterson’s book ends like a Philip K. Dick novel, with an unforeshadowed and unresolved new plot twist. We have had the story of Heinlein’s marriages as fictionalized in Farnham’s Freehold: Leslyn, the old wife sunk in paranoia and alcoholism, and Ginny, the young and vibrant Other Woman, with the choice all but forced on the protagonist. In the second and final appendix, however, we have a letter from Grace Dugan Sang, a friend from those days mentioned in the first volume, which usefully complicates the story, showing Leslyn’s flaws but also Ginny moving in and shoving Leslyn out of the way.

  The Heritage of Heinlein

  Clareson and Sanders’s book is a prime example of how a single-author study should be done. It covers the entire oeuvre, it is balanced in its judgments, and it offers just enough biographical, philosophical, and political background to help the reader understand and appreciate the work being discussed.

  Clareson and Sanders begin with a chapter devoted to Heinlein’s first effort, For Us, the Living, which he quite reasonably disavowed and attempted to suppress. Frederik Pohl’s preface thanks them for making it unnecessary to read the book, but it was too late for me, and I have to say that the work offered a few amusing signs that the author would become Robert A. Heinlein.

  Then we get the Future History and other early efforts, followed by a chapter on the stage where he was moving over to the Saturday Evening Post. The juveniles are thoroughly discussed, and then the “classic” period (the books that most people like, such as Double Star and The Door into Summer). Stranger in a Strange Land gets its own chapter, as it should.

  A single chapter covers everything after Stranger, offering insights into many of the vexed questions those later works present, with sympathetic and often positive views of what many readers consider mere symptoms of artistic self-indulgence and decay. There is a brave effort to make sense of the disastrous I Will Fear No Evil, making us wish even more that Heinlein had been healthy enough to apply to it the kind of self-editing that did so much for Stranger. There is an excellent look at The Cat Who Walks through Walls, the obliquely hinted machinations behind its scenes, and the complexities of its deliberately unresolved conclusion. (I think it and The Crying of Lot 49 are the two novels that best get away with not ending.)

  The authors do not answer what I consider the greatest question raised by the late works, and perhaps no one can. In a speech reported in the Patterson bio, Heinlein, after explaining why he was unable to repair I Will Fear No Evil, said that it outsold Stranger. The later ones also sell well, and if the hostile term solipsist applies, it would mean that millions of people want to read about being figments of Heinlein’s imagination. Why are the books so popular? The books remain in print today, in new formats and also among the few survivors in the moribund mass market paperback format.

  Clareson and Sanders offer many useful insights throughout; for instance, they note that even in his awful fi
rst literary effort, Heinlein set out to use Socratic dialogue rather than lecture to make his points. Still, the failure mode of Socratic dialogue is lecture. (Socrates himself fell into it in The Republic.) There was more and more of that as Heinlein aged, but at least he never wrote the sort of book in which the last few hundred pages are devoted to the hero telling us wherein he is right and everyone else is wrong.

  There are minor blemishes in the text. One that seems particularly relevant here is the reference to NYRSF publisher Kevin “Mahoney”; also, the term Menippean satire, applied by another critic to Stranger, comes out as “minopian.”

  So is he a prototype?

  One recent invocation of Heinlein as prototype is the argument that if he were a new writer, he could not get published. In a trivial sense, that is true. SF writers set out to make their work obsolete; it means they’re doing their job. For instance, in one futuristic Heinlein projection, a character, out in the wilderness, takes from his pocket a small device attached to nothing and uses it to make contact with the rest of the world. By now, that’s boring old consensus reality. Likewise the daring suggestion of people all getting to use the same water fountains despite the continent their ancestors are supposed to have come from. A new Heinlein would have to provide new novelties.

  Race is one of the areas where Heinlein can represent good but no longer good enough. From the very beginning, he had no patience with considering blacks even half savage; he presented characters who turned out to be nonwhite and so what?, and he noted that humanity needs to transcend petty distinctions of pigmentation to have any hope of dealing with really alien aliens. That, however, is no longer the cutting edge.

  Farnham’s Freehold was sf’s first great Racefail. If the word agenda were plural in English as it is in Latin, we could say that Heinlein always had several. Here, while putting in a plug for bomb shelters and romanticizing Free Men, he set out to give racism a good kick in the metaphorical gonads by the method of satirical reversal. What he ended up with, instead, is a book that is remembered as the one with the black cannibals. Indeed one academic critic, apparently relying on secondary rather than primary sources, said that Hugh Farnham was the leader of the black cannibals.