Rhapsody: Notes on Strange Fictions (14 page)

There is a shared methodology in much strange fiction, whatever rackspace label it goes by, an approach shaped by a shared aesthetic, neither Romanticism nor Rationalism but rather more akin to the modernism of Caravaggio, reacting to the modern world, portraying humanity’s relationship with “God” and “Nature” in a way that, when it works, plays the sublime grandeur of one aesthetic off against the logical restraint of the other, and in doing so results in something neither could achieve alone.

Neither science fiction nor fantasy—no matter what those old maids would have you believe—has ever been so pure in its devotion to those antithetical aesthetics that they could be defined thus. The Rationalism of Wells is cou
nterpointed by the Romanticism of Verne. In the Gernsback-Campbell era when
Science Fiction
was born, those two aesthetics were always-already as much in collaboration as in conflict, in bold Romantic adventures wrought with Rationalist science, futurology as the source of fantasia. The dynamic power of the fiction resides in the interaction.

The distinction that drives the Great Debate is an illusion, an artificial d
ichotomy based more on claims of allegiance than on actual practice. Two subsets of the field live by their grandes dames’ rhetoric, creating works that do exemplify the warring aesthetics. But if you look around the drunken wedding party, ignore the two old farts sulking in their corners, that dusty old duality looks largely irrelevant. Perhaps it is only in that shattering crack of lightning which splits the genre that the true nature of the hideous creation is revealed. And it is not
Science Fiction
.
Science Fiction
is dead. This is the Frankenstein’s monster of
Science Fiction
/
Fantasy
, a patchwork of dead genres, cannibalised from the cadavers of
Romanticism
and
Rationalism
, torn apart and stitched back together, a marvellous, monstrous marriage of meat machines. It’s a riven thing—we could hardly expect two or three hundred years of strife between
Romanticism
and
Rationalism
to be healed in a few short decades—but it is a thing. A definition for it, if we must:

Emerging within a short-lived
Genre
of the early to mid twentieth century
Modern Pulp
boom utilising Romantic character types, plot structures and settings but sourcing its fantasia in Rationalist futurology,
Science Fiction
/
Fantasy
became a marketing category for strange fictions simply rationalising the sublime and/or romanticising the logical, forcing a fusion of the two aesthetics in the face of its own angst that resolution was inherently unattainable.

That thing is, in its essence, modernism. We might brand it
Pulp Modernism
—cheap, populist, balls-to-the-wall trash modernism, out to entertain more than an elite of aesthetes and intellectuals, but still modernism. It uses mimesis on the one hand, semiosis on the other, recasting magic as logical process and science as sublime gift, combining the strange and the mundane, ever testing the limits of its key literary elements. The integrity we project on it, the unity we impose upon it with our so-well-formed closed definitions, is only that of a family which, in truth, extends as far as we decide it does.

There is no
Genre
of
Fantasy
, only the fantasy of
Genre
. This isn’t the fiction of science; it’s the science of fiction. What we have is one confused clusterfuck of conventional templates ripped apart and rebuilt as an aesthetic idiom, a mode of fiction in which we rupture the narrative with quirks of the impossible, things which cannot be—not yet / not ever—taking these not as passing metaphors but as figurative conceits, so we can put them to the test with literature as the laboratory, by literalising them and working through the ramifications.

When the results are good, right enough, we do have a tendency to go into mass pr
oduction mode, churning out low-quality copies from the cheapest of materials, for a market of consumers who’ll love our new toys for a day or two before abandoning them in favour of the next shiny gadget. There’s an upside to that: that Big Corporate Structure keeps the R & D department going, so to speak, the vast market for commercial product supporting the smaller market for high-end fiction in this pulp modernist mode. But there’s a downside: the commercialisation results in one key drawback, in the depth to which such works become bound to, sold as, and ultimately misunderstood as
Genre
, as this schismed, schizoid
Science Fiction
/
Fantasy
, at odds with itself. And arguing in the ghetto creole of Genre, where aesthetic idiom is ever conflated with conventional template and marketing category, we buy into that, swallow it hook, line and sinker.

And the Great Debate rages on, an unending feud among the wedding guests, the food fights becoming flame wars, immolating meaning in a hol
ocaust of definitions.

Science fiction makes the implausible possible, while science fantasy makes the impossible plausible.

Rod Serling

In the dawning space age of nuclear power and automated household appl
iances, the sublime seemed logical, the logical sublime, and this served to hold the Romantics and Rationalists of
Science Fiction
/
Fantasy
together through the Golden Age, the period of Gernsback and Campbell, the Futurians and so on. Bradbury sat comfortably in the SF Café alongside Asimov, Heinlein and Clarke. If maybe Leiber, Howard and Lovecraft had their own hangouts, there was nevertheless a blatant overlap between the regulars of the SF Café and the crowd frequenting the Fantasy Boutique or the Little Shop of Horror.

But the increasing sense of a gulf between these modes soon led to the use of the term
Science Fantasy
as an attempt to map the borderland between them. Though the label was coined originally to refer to works which applied a rationalising rigourous approach characteristic of
Science Fiction
to the subject matter of what could only be classed as fantasy (Heinlein’s
Magic, Inc.
, for example), over time the meaning shifted such that it now primarily refers to those works which
fail
to apply that rationalising rigour to the subject matter of
Science Fiction
, such that alien planets and technology function in the same way as the secondary worlds and magic of
Fantasy
. We can see
Dune
as a benchmark in this transition of meaning, the point where the focus on fantasia over futurology becomes sufficient for many to identify it as
no longer really science fiction at all
.

This shift in meaning is revealing. It is not simply that
Fantasy
here signifies magic, metaphysical causation. This could be systematised by the application of critical intellect, an approach entirely in line with scientific methodology which theorises from observation, and in which anomalous observations are to be accepted as falsifying that theory—i.e. we might simply see the impossible events of magic as demanding a reconstruction of our nomology, an update of the laws of nature. That was precisely the project of
Science Fantasy
in its original sense. Rather
Fantasy
here signifies the
suspension
of critical intellect in Romantic rapture, a sensationalist surrender to the sublime. Where the label originally pointed to the tropes of magic, it now applies to an approach to those tropes, the tropes themselves taken as
indexes
of that approach.

One might speculate as to the (im)possibility of faster-than-light travel, time travel or alternate realities; no one to my knowledge has ever spec
ulated on the possibility of finding elves, orcs or magic swords any time soon.

Gary Gibson

In the blog entry from which the above quote is taken, fellow GSFWC member Gary Gibson singles out the point of contention here in the distinction he makes between sc
ience fiction and fantasy, arguing the former is not, as some would maintain, a branch of the latter. Where the former, he argues,
does
similarly deal with the impossible, it is distinct from fantasy in that it does so on the basis of a history of scientific discoveries and radical paradigm shifts, a recognition of the limitations of our present knowledge. In science fiction, the conceit (the impossibility accepted as possible for the sake of the story) is not simply a spurious fabrication but is rather a rational speculation (which may allow for the possibility of being wrong about what’s impossible).

On the surface this seems a fair distinction between the Rationalism and Romanticism of
Science Fiction
/
Fantasy
. The point of contention, and the reason for the evolution of the term
Science Fantasy
, lies in the degree to which a recognition of the limitations of our present knowledge, the idea of a potential
paradigm shift
, becomes a universal caveat exempting the science fiction writer from any real rigour whatsoever. It’s all very well to accept that what’s presented as a novum is in fact a chimera, and argue that with the shifting goal posts of science it
is
still possible that it will
become
possible by the laws of nature; but this is essentially just to conjure what
can never
be—not ever—not in the system of physical rules by which this worldscape of reality works, and then apply a
never say never
get-out clause which applies equally to
any
chimera.

I have no problem speculating that maybe sometime in the future we’ll di
scover the laws of nature to actually allow for not just alternate realities but wholly
alterior
ones, and portals to these Faerie realms. Or at least, I have no more problem taking the elves of some secondary world fantasia as arguable thus, as in the latest
Thor
movie, than I do with the chimera of FTL.

To see FTL, time travel or alternative realities as possibilities rather than impossibil
ities we need to imagine a wholesale revision to the laws of nature, a paradigm shift in physics. The same is true of, for example, ESP, jaunting and intersecting realities in canonical works such as Bester’s
The Demolished Man
and
The Stars My Destination
or Zelazny’s
Roadmarks
. Magics of metaphysical causality, the core ideas of these works require
substantial
paradigm shifts to put the mask of a novum on the chimera and sell it as grounded futurology rather than pure fantasia.

Of course, the evidence is, few readers have any great problem with making that leap; traditionally, we do slap onto these books the label of
science fiction
. For many, however, judging by their own stated criteria, the transparent fancy of the conceit really ought to render these works unquestionably fantasy.

On what basis, after all, do we distinguish those paradigm shifts—which are radical enough, make no mistake, to breach the most fundamental principles of current sc
ience—from potential paradigm shifts which could redefine even the most spurious fantasia as futurology? As science fiction writers and readers, we are ready, it seems, to abandon the limitation of light speed that comes with Einsteinian Relativity so we can play with FTL, or to ignore the physical foundations of mind in the neurochemistry of the brain so that we can use ESP. We are willing to ditch the Conservation of Energy that is a basic aspect of Newtonian thermodynamics in order to portray teleportation as an act of mere will, jaunting as an ability to transport oneself instantaneously through space-time. We are able to throw away the very coherence of the space-time continuum so we can imagine a road that links all possible times and all possible histories. We simply apply that Paradigm Shift Caveat.

If we’re ready, willing and able to play this fast and loose with science why should we draw the line at equivalent paradigm shifts that, for us, render a work fantasy rather than science fiction? Aren’t the secondary worlds simply alternative realities where the archa
eological distinction of gracile and robust hominids translates to elves and dwarves as distinct races? Aren’t the magics just the semiotic skill of metaphysical causation but with the arguable left unargued? Aren’t these fabrications of the most generic
Fantasy
in fact recastable as speculations if only we accept paradigm shifts no more radical in truth than those required with the works of Bester and Zelazny still considered seminal science fiction?

This is the challenge taken up by the original
Science Fantasy
—replacing the fantasias born of futurology with those born of the more radical paradigm shifts of
cosmology
. In these fictions the current laws of nature are understood as a revisable human construct, just as in
Science Fiction
the current limitations of technology are. They may be tweaked, even radically reformed. Recognising the revisions that have taken place historically, that
Science Fantasy
plays the game of adopting obsolete models, trying to apply them as systems in their own right, perhaps even integrate them with ours. From the perspective of a universe next door, an alterior reality reachable, perhaps, by a road that links all possible worlds (which is surely no more plausible than a wardrobe), our cosmology can be seen as only one of the superset of possible permutations.

There is a point where maths and physics meet in the metaphysics of the multiverse, and if we accept this point as being in the domain of science then this
is
science fiction; it is simply not
Science Fiction
. Unfortunately that distinction doesn’t really work in a spoken discussion in the SF Café.

So, for my own part, I leave the term
science fiction
to whoever the fuck wants it, talk instead of
SF
and
strange fictions
in the hope of thrashing out a common language, or at least evading the tedious turf wars of the taxonomists. This is the taxonomy I’m more interested in:

A Taxonomy of Narratives

One could propose the third axis of SF as a story wherein (a part of) base reality changes (to a greater or lesser extent)… [SF] still relates to base reality by way of the physical laws, that is, reality has changed, but a
ccording to the rules of the possible… [For] fantasy (part of) base reality changes, as well, but in ways that ignore the rules of the possible.

Jetse de Vries

So let’s say we have these two axes of fictional thought—story elements and craft tec
hniques, the former consisting of character, setting and plot (broken down into problem, try/fail cycle, resolution and validation), the latter consisting of things like voice, style, PoV, structure, person/tense, punctuation and paragraphing. Is there a third axis of
genre devices
, not in the sense of listable concrete MacGuffins (time-travel, spaceships, etc.) which are all ultimately negotiable conventions, but as something more abstract, not tropes but elements or techniques more analogous to the other axes. Jetse de Vries offers an interesting suggestion that the third axis is to do with “deviation from base reality.” Lake meanwhile suggests a rough taxonomy, breaking down types of fiction into four modes of narrative with a fifth, the fantastic narrative, as a fusion of these forms. In this model:

• Private narrative
deals with “things which might have happened or could have happened, but leave the world as it is. Most mainstream novels fall here. Holden Caulfield could have lived or not, the world wouldn’t be noticeably different.”

• Alternative narrative
deals with “things which might have happened or could have happened, but would change the world in noticeable ways. If Jett Rink were real, we would be aware of him as an industrialist and something of a tragic figure, in the manner of Howard Hughes.”

• Mythic narrative
deals with “things which never actually happened, or could have happened in a literal reading, but encapsulate important truths for the tellers of the tale. Gilgamesh was (probably) a real king in Uruk, but the story which was told around him describes the cosmology, aspirations and experience of his people.”

• Future narrative deals
with “things which have not yet happened but might. This ranges from prophetic writings in virtually any literate cultural tradition to cautionary tales such as
Nineteen Eighty-Four
.”

Here, we’re entering the same territory as Delany’s essay “About Five Thousand Seven Hundred and Fifty Words,” with Lake’s language of modal
ities—could have, might have, could not have, have not yet—mapping almost perfectly to Delany’s theory of subjunctivity level as the defining feature of each genre. While there’s a grace to this theory, though, Lake’s reference to events which
might have
/
never actually
/
have not yet happened
requires a step beyond simple subjunctivity.

The Crescent Sun

[W]hat distinguishes science fiction from other kinds of fiction is a pecul
iar compromise between scientific truth and untruth. Samuel Delany has analyzed this compromise in terms of the SF text’s subjunctivity (“About 5,750 Words”). What he means by this term is the degree to which every statement in the fiction describes a hypothetical condition: something that is not happening, has not happened, could not have happened in the past (unlike realistic fiction), but might happen, given the proper changes in society and scientific knowledge. Another word for subjunctivity might be ‘ifness,’ the condition of being contingent.

What SF is contingent upon is change that does not violate the reader’s unde
rstanding of scientifically defined reality, which is not to say that we necessarily accept any statement in the text as scientifically valid. Rather, we accept reference within SF as allusions to science, broadly conceived of as a field of endeavor, a way of mapping the universe, and a way of speaking about the universe and the attempt to comprehend it.

Brian Attebery

All fiction requires the suspension-of-disbelief, requires us to read the text as having a subjunctivity level of “this could have happened.” The act of rea
ding a book or watching a movie involves a willingness on the reader’s part to make-believe that these words on the page actually map to events, and so all fiction takes this as its baseline. We’re not generally troubled by the fact that these are lies, fabrications, falsehoods, that the cat did not actually sit on the mat, that there was never a cat to sit, and never a mat for it to sit on. Unless the writer starts dropping hints that the narrator is unreliable, we take the text on face value, pretending to ourselves that the narrator is not in fact breaching Grice’s Maxim of Quality (“Do not say that which you believe to be false or that for which you lack evidence”).