To Marry Medusa | |||||
Theodore Sturgeon | |||||
Vintage Books, 154 pages | |||||
A review by Duane Swierczynski
Dan Gurlick is a bitter and hopelessly alcoholic bum. After getting his grisly ass
booted out of a bar, he wanders down the street cursing all of the "lousy bastits" who
have given him grief over the years. Hungry, he swipes a half-eaten cheeseburger out of a
trash can and settles down for a late-night snack. Big mistake.
For in that forgotten Big Mac is an alien spore that has travelled many light years
in search of a host. This isn't your ordinary alien spore, waiting to pull some
chest-bursting, acid-dripping shenanigans. Actually, the spore is an emissary from a hive mind
called "Medusa," which wants nothing less than to absorb and assimilate humanity into its
hive collective. It's done it before to countless species and worlds, and it's determined to
do it again. (And you thought the Borg Queen cooked up this nutty plan all by herself.)
Gurlick takes a greasy bite, swallows the spore, and inside all hell breaks loose. For
him -- and the human race. If you've always wanted to know what it would be like to be
part of a "hive collective" -- and haven't we all? -- this is the book for you. Sturgeon takes
you there.
What makes To Marry Medusa really interesting, however, is its structure. The
core story first appeared as a short in Galaxy in 1958, and was later expanded into novel
form and published as The Cosmic Rape. (Later editions, confusingly enough, stick with
the short-story title, even though it is the full novel version.) And it shows. But that's not
a bad thing -- on the contrary, it gives the novel an oddly modern, quick-cut feel. Woven
throughout grumpy Gurlick's tangles with Medusa are snapshots of seemingly ordinary
people in very bad situations: a creep about to date-rape a co-worker, a homicidal
prankster named Guido who can't stand music, a little boy who is tormented by his
father.
At first, it's not clear what the hell is going on. Eventually, though, everything
falls into place, and you realize Sturgeon has pulled off the incredible trick of making
humanity an actual character in the novel. I can't say more without ruining it for you, but
trust me -- it's dazzling. I doubt many other writers could do it. And it's certainly more
harrowing than wondering whether Worf and Geordi are going to be Borg-ized.
Though I'm fairly new to Sturgeon, I've been consistently impressed with how
unpredictable his fiction can be. I'm not just talking about plot -- I mean the prose itself.
Sturgeon swerves around cliché and dull language like a maniac. At times, it seems like
he's working in his own personal version of the English language. It's like taking a road
trip with an incredibly eccentric dude: You may know the most logical or efficient route,
but the offbeat guy will know the way past the most stunning vistas. Read a little of
Medusa, and you'll see what I mean. The moment you think you know where he's
heading in a paragraph, zip! Sturgeon takes another crazy hairpin -- and yet, perfect -- turn.
Vintage Books deserves high praise for continuing to reissue out-of-print SF
classics. First Philip Dick's major works, then Alfred Bester's, all in quality trade
paperbacks with eye-popping covers. (Yeah, some people bitch about these oversized,
overpriced "yuppiebacks," and in most cases I agree. Except in cases like these, where
procuring a simple reading copy of most Sturgeon titles will set you back at least a
ten-spot.) I can't wait to see what they resurrect next.
Duane Swierczynski recently escaped New York and is now a pen-for-hire living in the small town of Forty Fort, Pennsylvania. His long-awaited novel, SECRET DEAD MEN, might actually appear early in the next century... depending on how this whole Y2K thing shakes out. In the meanwhile, you can find his work in such varied publications as Details, Men's Health, and Sparks! The Trade Magazine of the National Static Cling Research Foundation. He used to be married to Medusa, but later got a Mexican divorce. She got custody of the snakes. |
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