2015 is done and I have read what I read. It was a year fraught with turmoil in science fiction, a year prompting reassessments, a year when required reading competed with reading for pleasure, and the time constraints of working on a new novel (two, in fact) impeded chipping away at my to-be-read pile, which mounds higher.
As in the past, I count only books I have read cover to cover here. If I added in total pages of unfinished reading, I’m probably up with my usual volume (somewhere around 90 books), but that would be a cheat. That said, I read 50 books in 2015.
One thing I concluded, both from what I read and the upheaval in the background about what is or is not worthy science fiction, is that the decades long pseudowar between mainstream and genre is over. Skirmishes will continue to be fought here and there, certain elements will refuse to yield or concede, but by and large the evidence suggests that, on the part of the literary writers at least SF has made its point. A couple of examples:
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel is science fiction. In fact, after talking it over for nearly a year since I read it, it seems to me to be Heinleinesque. Better written, the characters less exemplars than real people, but in basic conceit and plot, this is a Heinlein novel. It has all the elements—survivors, a plucky heroine, a global catastrophe forcing those who remain to learn quickly a whole suite of new skills, and an ongoing discussion throughout about what is of value and ought to be preserved. It is a superbly written work and that alone made the identification difficult. Heinlein, at his best, could be as good as anyone in any genre, but to see the form raised to this level shows both his virtues and his weaknesses. The population of the Earth is reduced buy a superflu. The novel flashes back and forth around the life of a kind of patriarch whose biological and artistic progeny struggle in a post-technological world to both survive and preserve the best of that former world. The novel prompts questions, challenges preconceptions, and draws us in. It was not marketed as science fiction and it has continued to sell very well. It is science fiction and no one has batted an eye.
The Water Knife by Paolo Bacigalupi. An ecological thriller, an examination of a different kind of breakdown, a different kind of survival, peopled by characters as real as can be. In a decade this will be historical fiction, probably, but it is SF and also mainstream and also uncategorizable. Exceptional.
Straddling the boundary is Jeff Vandermeer’s Annihilation, which is a curiosity. It proceeds like a straightforward “survey mission” novel—specialists set down upon an alien world and struggling to unravel its mysteries before said world kills them. Only in this case the “alien” world in a patch of reclaimed wilderness somewhere along the eastern seaboard, probably north Florida, that is undergoing some strange transformations due to an experiment gone wrong. There are touches of zombie fiction, government conspiracy, and even Lovecraftian uber-malignancy evoked, but the story, as told by The Biologist, feels more meta than any of those suggest. the landscape works to inform the soul-wrenching recognitions and evolutions within the Biologist as she works to understand what is going on in the aptly named Area X. Vandermeer has created a work bordering on genius here by virtue of externalizing and foregrounding mystical revelation as ecological transmutation, but as you read you can’t tease the meta passages from the plot in any clear way, so the experience, when you give yourself over to it, is wholly immersive.
So what I’m seeing—in many more titles still on my TBR pile—is the embrace of science fiction by what was formerly an ambivalent cadre of artists who are using it to ends traditionally ignored by main-body SF.
In the other direction, the infusion of literary concerns, which necessarily drag real-world issues in with them, into genre writing has prompted a squeal of protest from those who wish to keep their starships pure, their aliens obvious, and their weapons decisive. “Good writing” is still a poorly understood quality by too many in the genres (by no means a problem exclusive to SF, but because of the nature of SF a problem which yields far more obvious failures) and the clinging to an aesthetic attributed to the so-called Golden Age and exemplified by writers probably more often revered than actually read (and therefore misperceived in intent) has exacerbated the old antagonisms and a final flaring up of fires dying to ash. The clunky sentence is a hallmark of much of this, more likely as consequence rather than intent, and the cliched scenario becomes more obviously so as the whole point of what we mean by “literary” in its most useful mode is overlooked or, perhaps, willfully ignored in a fit of defensive refusal to pay attention to what matters, namely the truth of human experience and the profitable examination of, for want of a better word, the Soul.
Where the cross-fertilization of mainstream and genre has been successfully accomplished, we’ve been seeing novels and stories of marvelous effect. We have been seeing them all along and in the past such examples were readily offered as proof that SF wass “just as good” as anything published as mainstream. I’ve always felt that being “just ad good” was selling our potential short, but the work has to rise to the challenge, and there always have been such works.
Among such that I read this past year were a few from that rich past, mainly for the reading group I host at work. The Two of Them by Joanna Russ; Extra(Ordinary) People, also by Russ; The Doomsday Book by Connie Willis; Mythago Wood by Robert Holdstock; The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell; and Engine Summer by John Crowley. In retrospect, there have always been writers writing in the full embrace of science fiction but without any of the stylistic constraints of its pulp origins, and such works remain trenchant and readable and offer surprising commentary still on current questions.
The Sparrow was a highlight. I have known since its publicatin that it was sort of a riff on James Blish’s classic, A Case Of Conscience, but it so much more. Russell’s elegant reversal of the moral question elevates this novel to the top tiers of useful literary works. I have not yet read its sequel, but I am looking forward to it after this treat.
I also reread Harlan Ellison’s Shatterday for the reading group. It’s been a good long while since I did so and I was not disappopinted, although I read many of the stories through a more cynical eye. The opening tale, Jeffty Is Five, remains, for me, one of the most gutwrenching short stories of all time.
Another highpoint this past year was James Morrow’s new novel, Galapagos Regained, a neatly unclassifiable work of speculative history. I gave it a lengthy review here and recommend a look. This is a superbly done work that deserves more attention than it has received.
I also read Morrow’s amusing novella, The Madonna and the Starship, which runs a delightful gamne via Fifties television and alien visitors who come to bestow an award and offer assistance in exterminating the irrational on Earth. Morrow is acerbic even as he is funny.
Among the most interesting new works of science fiction I red this year is The Three-Body Problem by Cixin Liu, translation by Ken Liu. This is the first part of a trilogy about alien invasion and resistance as written from a Chinese perspective. It is an exceptional translation. It won the Hugo Award, the first, I believe, translation to do so, and certainly the first Asian novel to win. There is high-end physics, nasty politics, murder, and the conundrums of committed action. The cultural quirks made it even more interesting.
Like almost everyone, it seems, I read The Martian by Andrew Weir. This was great fun and well executed. My quibble, along with many others, was with the opening gambit to explain the marooning of the astronaut, but I’m content to see it as a mere dramatic choice. It didn’t preent me from enjoying the rest of the book, which, in the words of the screen adaptation, “scienced the shit out all this” and did so in an accessible and entertaining manner which I applaud. I couldn’t help seeing it as a newer version of an older film, Robinson Crusoe On Mars, and naturally this one works a bit better. Hell, we know more, there’s no excuse for bad science, and Mr. Weir that. He wrote a realistic piece of speculation and followed through admirably.
Another novel that gave a far more “realistic” view of an old, favorite SF trope, is Kim Stanley Robinson’s Aurora. There is much to love about this book, but it is not lovable. It’s a clear-eyed look at what an interstellar generation ship would actually be like. And it is bleak, in terms of the traditions of SF. Suffice it to say without giving away too much that Robinson fully incorporates entropy into his formula with predictably gloomy results, but for all that it is a thoroughly engaging work.
At the other end of the “hard” SF spectrum is Charles Gannon’s Fire With Fire. Future interstellar expansion brings humanity into contact with our neighbors. The resulting tensions drive the novel. I reviewed it here.
Science fiction is a broad, broad field and has room for a magnificently wide range even on the same subjects. It even has room, as I noted above, for exceptional style. One of the most enjoyable reads for me, on that note, was Ian McDonald’s new novel, Luna. There will be comparisons made to Heinlein’s The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress. Look for an upcoming review where I will argue that the comparison, while in some ways valid, is superficial. Anyone who has not read McDonald, treat yourself. This would be a good one with which to begin.
In a completely different area of the playground, there is Daryl Gregory’s AfterParty, which I found excellent. It’s about drug abuse and the workings of delusion and murder. Anything I might say here would spoil it. Go. Find it. Imbibe.
The bulk of my reading, after that and a few other titles, has been scattered. I found a brand new history of the Group f64, which was the first dedicated group of photographers to push the pure art of the straight photograph. Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, Imogen Cunningham, several others, in the 20s and 30s established the ground upon which all photography came to be viewed for the rest of the 20th century and even, arguably, into today. Mary Street Alinder, who has previously written a biography of Ansel Adams, did a superb job chronicling this group of prickly independent artist.
I read a history of a superhero, Wonder Woman, and discovered that the story of her creation was even stranger than the character herself.
A new work by journalist Johann Hari, Chasing The Scream, opened my eyes to the thorny issue of the Drug War.
In the wake of seeing the film Interstellar and beginning work on my own novel about (partly) interstellar travel, I dove into Kip Thorne’s Black Holes & Time Warps and had my mind bent in some ways I didn’t think it could be bent. This has prompted a reengagement with science on this level which is proving difficult, tedious, and yet rewarding. My mind no longer has the plasticity it once enjoyed. On the other hand, experience has proven a benefit in that I seem to be absorbing and comprehending at a much deeper level. We shall see.
Quite a bit of history, much of it unfinished. In a separate reading group, I’m going through Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, and reading in the history of the French Revolution, the Republic, its fall, all partly to complete the third novel of my trilogy, but also because the literature available is so rich and surprising that it has become its own pleasure. It would seem now I’m about to embark on early American history again, anchored by Ron Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton.
There was a new Mary Russell novel this past year, Dreaming Spies, by Laurie R. King. I discovered a Dan Simmons novel about Holmes which I’d overlooked when it came out, The Fifth Heart, in which he is paired with Henry James, one more in a long line of novels and stories concerning Holmes’ unlikely interaction with historical figures. Simmons is a terrific writer, but even he tended toward the tedious in this one. He needs to learn to leave his research in his files. But it was a unique take on Holmes and he even managed to elicit my sympathy toward James, a writer I find problematic at best, insufferable at worst, and annoying the rest of the time.
So much for the highlights. Let me end by noting that the Best American series has finally realized that science fiction and fantasy are a real thing and launched one of their annual collections to cover it. This after both Best Of infographics and comics. Better late than never, I suppose. The series editor is John Joseph Adams—difficult to imagine better hands—and this first volume was edited by Joe Hill, which I found interesting to say the least. Mr. Hill is a horror writer. Certainly many of the stories have a strong horror element, but over all this is a collection full of marvels, from the writing to the ideas. I’ll try to keep track of this one in future.
So while not numerically great, 2015 was filled with many very excellent books. I’m looking forward to 2016. My stack awaits.
Happy New Year.