Thursday, 5 September 2019

BOOK REPORT: THE STARS MY DESTINATION BY ALFRED BESTER





“This was a Golden Age, a time of high adventure, rich living, and hard dying…but nobody thought so. This was a future of fortune and theft, pillage and rapine, culture and vice…but nobody admitted it. This was an age of extremes, a fascinating century of freaks…but nobody loved it.
     All the habitable worlds of the solar system were occupied. Three planets and eight satellites and eleven million million people swarmed in one of the most exciting ages ever known, yet minds still yearned for other times, as always.” (7-8)

SO BEGINS ALFRED BESTER'S REMARKABLE 1957 SAGA OF GULLY FOYLE and his search for revenge and redemption in a journey that takes him across the solar system and beyond. Bester creates a future twenty-fifth century that is as dystopian as any in the genre—corporations hold sway and worlds are ruled by business dynasties and powerful aristocracies. It is a hard scrabble, dog-eat-dog universe and, as Neil Gaiman states in his preface to the novel, the main character, Gully Foyle, is a “predator…he is everyman, a nonentity; then Bester lights the touch paper, and we stand back and watch him flare and burn and illuminate.” Gully is, “single-minded, amoral…utterly, blindly selfish…he is a murderer—perhaps a multiple murderer—a rapist, a monster. A tiger.” (The novel’s original title was Tiger, Tiger, taken from William Blake’s great poem.) He is a terrifying and wonderful literary creation.
From the original Galaxy magazine

Bester deftly weaves descriptions of the future world—its politics, economy, class structure and so on, with the personal quest for revenge of “mechanic third-class” Gully Foyle. Society, we learn through the narrator was transformed by “jaunting”— human-directed teleportation; something that people can train themselves to do with their minds. It was developed over the course of decades until most people could ‘will’ themselves from place to place across the earth, travelling a thousand miles in an instant. Bester describes how this new, organic technology created great disruptions in the economies of the various habitable worlds, leading to conflict between the inner and outer planets (much like the conflict we see today between the developed and developing world, and as the technology acts to disrupt and transform—for good or ill—25th Century society.)
Much of the novel reads as if it could have been written yesterday, not sixty years ago. Bester writes about the Pandora’s box of new technologies, about political intrigue, 'interplanetary' war, class divides, greed, avarice, human sexuality and personal violence as relentlessly as his main character pursues his revenge on those who left him to die in the cold reaches of space after his spaceship was destroyed by an attacking OP (Outer Planets) vessel.
There are many exciting moments in the novel. One of my favorite is when Gully and Jisbella, a fellow inmate, flee from the “jaunte” escape-proof prison, deep within the Spanish mountains at Gouffre Martel. They have to grope down pitch-black corridors to the lowest level of the prison, break through barriers to gain the mountain’s natural cavern system, swim a glacial-cold river, and then dive through an underwater tunnel before they emerge from their prison. It’s quite a ride, and much more exciting than the water ride at Canada's Wonderland!
At the novel's beginning, Bester’s description of Foyle is engrossing as he struggles to escape from the coffin-like life-pod he is forced to inhabit for months in the wreckage of his spaceship. The person who eventually emerges is someone who reminds Gaiman of one of “the great grotesques of other literary traditions, of dark figures from Poe or Gogol or Dickens.”
And Gully is as dark as his times, with its vast social inequalities and violence, its religious intolerance (organized religion is banned) and things like female purdah, torture, corruption and sexual deviance. His darkness is one of personal violence, murder, rape and a single-minded determination to kill the crew of the spaceship Vorga, letting nothing stand in his way.
But the novel is also an exploration of the need to find a common humanity beyond the hyper-individualism and anomie dominant in this brave new world. And as the story develops, Gully notes, with much chagrin, that he is developing a “conscience.” Eventually he learns, unlike Moby Dick's Ahab, that his quest for revenge has been a cracked cup, something that can never be filled and will always remain empty.   
Where Gully’s growing sense of empathy, compassion, and all those other outmoded virtues take him is another wild ride to the conclusion.

“It was an age of freaks, monsters, and grotesques. All the world was misshapen in marvelous and malevolent ways. The Classicists and Romantics who hated it were unaware of the potential greatness of the twenty-fifth century. They were blind to a cold fact of evolution…that progress stems from the clashing merger of antagonistic extremes, out of the marriage of pinnacle freaks. Classicists and Romantics alike were unaware that the Solar System was trembling on the verge of human explosion that would transform man and make him the master of the universe.
     It is against this seething background of the twenty-fifty century that the vengeful history of Gulliver Foyle begins.” (14)

And while I quibble with the anthropomorphism in this passage from the Introduction, and am not completely satisfied with the conclusion, reading about the life and times of Gully Foyle was a total blast!

Cheers 




 

© 1956 Alfred Bester. Millenium, Orion Books Ltd., 1999. London

Sunday, 1 September 2019

POEM: NEWS OF THE WORLD #21



MORE GLACIAL THEFTS LEAVE PARK RANGERS BEREFT.
“It’s like they just melted before our eyes!”
“They’re gone. Whisked away!” “I’ve just this to say:
It’s the Ice Man that’s struck again.”

"What’s with pining?  It’s mountaintop mine-ing—
Paradise doesn’t live here anymore."
"We’ve dug up our bed. Now listen up, Fred:
You'll always get wet in the rain."

Will there be war, now I’ve opened the door?
Have I drawn a line in that sign through peace?
“Oooo! Shiny ‘copters! Man! They just got her!
Your place has a view for to die!”



That "Demon Core"?  Now, I don’t mean to bore
You, friend, repeating my tiresome scree,
But see, I do see, and it’s time we flee,
Because big fish and small will fry.

Was Soloman right, that we shouldn’t fight
Over something we can just split in two?
Then two becomes four, with room for still more!
(My math is much gooder than yours.)


Atomic missiles: mushroom epistles.
Our best preaching is done to the choirs.
Alamogordo? No, no. No. No. No.
Don’t answer that knock at the door.

“We don’t need peace talk when we can squawk balk.“
“Siri, will we die if they bomb our patch?”
“Sir, "we" is a word, a biddy-sniffed turd,
Whose meaning is less fair than foul.”


We new in the streets don’t dress so neat;
We line alleyways when we go clubbing.
Oh, will you make some change? It helps me range
Through these wilds where the beast-men howl.
When children are led through halls of the dead,
Where bones rattle with the lightest of steps,
By then we all know. But how can we show
That lightning strikes them all the more?

So, should I stand and teach? Give a speech?
Though, if it’s mind over matter we’re doomed!
Some here will listen. To what omission?
(The one where we’ll leave by the door.)

ANTARCTIC MELTDOWN:
A BOSS-MATCH SMACKDOWN!
But with a winner that’s mostly baked-in.
And of that footage—it’s for our dotage,
When Big Chef steps up to the stage.


NO MORE PLASTIC?  “That's so atavistic!”
“Please tell us how will we wrap up our shit?”
But that’s the point! It’s a smelly old joint.
(Just what will they make of this age?)

The course is still green, but with snow-caps seen
Melting, like ice cubes in my frying pan.
Will we make the last putt? Bogey like Tut?
Wear hats that are made out of foil?

When watching the news, it’s easy to muse.
(Yes, pontificating is my best style.)
But back to the moon!?! Sky-duels at high noon?
Just pray they don’t find any oil.

 By crowns we did pound, till all came around.
Concertina-wire sang her steel song.
But now we just wait—even hesitate.
“There is love in the stag’s last dance.”

 “Hey, waddup, Yemen?” NEWS AT ELEVEN!
(Like a salad, you’d go better with oil.)
“They need a good dressing!” “No more messing;
You know every boil needs it’s lance.”


A-hunting we will go! Knee deep in snow.
And we’ll make snowmen see things with their eyes.
Wet marbles, some blue, some are brown, like you.
For statues that melt in the rain.

AND DOES IT RAIN IN SPAIN? It’s far from plain;
We’ll take vacation, next year, in the isles.
Hola, Español! Stop digging that hole! 
What’s baking your land bakes your brain.

Sorry, little feller! Good old Yeller.
What say you, boy, shall we foam at the mouth?
CHINA—STILL RISING. That’s not surprising,
When this half has run out of gas.


ALIENS HAVE LANDED!  Are they stranded?
Did they crash-land between the T’s and I’s?
"We went for the moon, yet we get High Noon."
“That’s check out time,” says the wee lass.

Water seeks its level; so do devils.
We’ve learned to sup with those long-handled spoons.
We will run from each shake; we'll turn to bake.
But, where are the rest of our rules?

When rich rakes parade—we'll spray them with Raid.
"It’s just that cartoons kill better than bugs."
So, let’s make a new list, add a new twist,
One that keeps the family jewels.
………………..

We’re in this big rush to keep it all hush,
About the prize that’s inside every box.
We should ask, these days, about our new craze—
The one where we roll all ‘dem bones.

Now, I’ll end on this note and with a quote:
“We close one door and take the one come near.”
So at the end of day, what’s left to say
Can be said without all ‘dem groans.

I REALLY HATED WRITING THIS ONE, trying to get the right words in the right darn order. It took forever! And I still hate it! Or more temperately-minded perhaps, I find it a bit too doomy and gloomy.  The rhyme scheme is abcd, with the first and third lines having double internal rhymes; 4-line stanzas with a “tens” length, with the last lines of each paired stanza rhyming (hopefully).  At times, writing this was like passing kidney stones. And it seems vague to me—like a greasy windshield, smeared and hard to see through.  Where the heck am I going?
But there were some boffo! news items that influenced me: melting icebergs, wildfires in Spain, plastic pollution (I’m reading a book about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch), nuclear weapons, a ‘Star Wars’ reboot, various conflicts and hot spots in the world (Yemen/Syria/Iran/Sudan/Libya/Russia/China/India/Kashmir/Burma, etc. etc; take your pick! There’s always something going on, somewhere. There were news stories about wars, civil unrest, personal violence, generational betrayal, poverty, globalization, immigration, UFOS, Jeffry Epstein. (Yep! He’s from another planet!)
Though there were a few newsworthy items, they don’t seem as ‘crisp’ to me, reading them over. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the planet. Was I kidnapped by aliens? Transported to another dimension? I don’t know.  I just didn’t enjoy poking the bear with a stick as much, this time. Maybe it was because the bear just sat there looking at me like I was some kind of dum-fuk who didn’t realize the cage door was open, and that he could come out any time he wanted and rip my stupid head off. (So why don’t you go away, little man. Yawn, Ursus, at your peril! Take that!)
So, I’d pick up NoW #21 and work on it for a while, then put it down and ignore it, pick it up again later on and scribble a line or two. Scribblescribblescribble. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I was depressed! Then, I realized—of course! I’m suffering from Generalized Anxiety Order (GAO). No wonder!
And I know I don’t have GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) that was so prevalent in the past, where there were things in our world that were crazy out of whack!—kooky stuff like a guy with a funny mustache wanting to take over everything, or earlier, when fellows from our village used long pointy sticks to fight those other fellows out behind the cornfield, or when that girl named One Time nicked Old Mam’s favourite cup, or when ghosts came by and took so many of our children last winter, or when the young couple one street over got into a royal screaming match that time and something bad happened, or when the trees didn’t fruit six years ago, or way, way back when that guy killed his brother—crazy, how-did-all-that-shit-happen! sort of stuff. In other words, the disorders found among we humans. 

Now, all the violence, sorrows, pains--all those things that, yes, are there, but don’t have to be, or they don’t have to always be there, or else they may stay for a time, and then go away for very long time, perhaps for a lifetime--all those things in today's daily news are no longer so strange or aberrant anymore (not even Trump!) They may actually belong here. And that’s kind of a sad way of looking at things. I’m not bummed out because of the disorders in our world, but that fact that such disorders seem to be the order of the day--GAO! Thank god I found a diagnosis! Now all I need is a cure!
.....
We humans are kind of like dung beetles. We roll up our sticky shit into great balls of poo, picking up bits of this and that along the way, the debris and detritus from our modern times, and then we lay our eggs inside the mess, and wait around for whatever hatches to come out. On the upside, the newborns may sprout wings and fly away from all our crap. Just sayin’.

Cheers, Jake.




"I don't like that! I just don't!"




QUOTES: CORNEL WEST AND JOHN RALSTON SAUL



“I cannot be an optimist but I am a prisoner of hope.”
Cornel West








“When I dig around in the roots of how we imagine ourselves, how we govern, how we live together in communities - how we treat one another when we are not being stupid - what I find is deeply Aboriginal.”