The Best From Fantasy and Science Fiction: The Fiftieth Anniversary Anthology | |||||
edited by Edward L. Ferman and Gordon Van Gelder | |||||
Tor Books, 384 pages | |||||
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction: October/November 1999 | |||||
A review by David Soyka
The other thing that might put some readers off stems from the reason why "Fantasy" is listed before "Science Fiction"
(indeed, "Science Fiction" was added to the magazine's title with the second issue). Although a first glance at the book jacket
cover of a 40s-inspired depiction of a rocket ship (an icon repeated on the title page of each story) might lead you to expect
otherwise, there are only two stories that are remotely related to space settings. John Crowley's "Gone" is a funny inversion of the
invaders from outer space theme in which the primary threat from aliens is that they are a pain-in-the-ass. In "Solitude,"
anthropologists studying another world serve primarily to make points about gender roles, a not unexpected topic from
Ursula K. Le Guin. And while there are stories here that have science fictional elements -- e.g., Bruce Sterling's
"Maneki Neko" provides a chillingly accurate depiction of dehumanization in the age of technological convenience, while in
"Sins of the Mother" S.N. Dyer examines the darker implications of artificial insemination and human irresponsibility -- the
tone of all these stories is rooted more in the fantastical.
Indeed, Van Gelder notes that the only thing linking these stories is that "they all have some element of the unreal and
they're very good reading." Which is why I heartily recommend this collection even if your taste is more towards the hard
end of the SF spectrum, because this is very good reading indeed, and who cares if it's from the last five years or fifty years.
Actually, the retro "space-ship" graphic motif that could make you expect a survey of Golden Age SF isn't all that
misleading -- it epitomizes the then-fantastical speculation about the idea of space travel, as opposed to the actual science
of it, back in the era of F&SF's founding. The squat, finned spacecraft that took off in writers' imaginations had little to
do with the "make-do" engineering that eventually came to characterize the first "Spam in a Can" Mercury flights, not to mention
the clumsy looking lunar landing module. Which is why it struck me how often this anthology's various authors, writing at a
time when space flight is part of a forgotten history rather than an exciting prospect, echo the pioneering work of long-time
F&SF contributor and master fabulist whose work is often called, somewhat inaccurately I think, science fiction. I am, of
course, referring to Ray Bradbury.
Consider how the aforementioned Sterling's depiction of people whose lives are literally directed by their "pokecons" -- a
device that the Palm Pilot is not that far away from becoming -- reminds you of the folks in Fahrenheit 451 enraptured
by their electronic seashells. The haunting "Quinn's Way" by Dale Baily evokes Something Wicked This Way Comes with
its enigmatic ringmaster of a mysterious travelling circus. Here's a story about child abuse that could work purged of its
fantastical element, but would not be quite as powerful. And Robert Reed's marvelous "First Tuesday" is less about projecting
the political power of technology than it is about the unanticipated wonders of the world. In true Bradburian fashion, Reed's
protagonist is a boy on the eve of discovering not just the wonders of technology, but the wonders of future existence.
Similarly, although different stylistically, Elizabeth Hand proves herself a daughter of Bradbury in her coming of age tale,
"Last Summer at Mars Hill." The ground covered here will be familiar to her fans: adolescents on the verge of adulthood dealing
with the shortcomings of bohemian parents who just happen to have certain mystical connections. This time Hand is
concerned with how two children handle dying parents, with interesting twists on the decisions of how to confront mortality
by all involved. This story was both a World Fantasy and Nebula Award-winner, and sets the high standard met by the
succeeding selections. Other award-gathering stories collected here include Maureen McHugh's Hugo-winning "The Lincoln Train,"
an alternate Civil War history in which a new freedom train, albeit one less sympathetic for its victims, is conducted for
defeated white Southern slave-owners oppressed by a victorious North. Crowley's "Gone" was a Locus Award-winner, with
Nebula winners represented by: the Le Guin selection; "Lifeboat on a Burning Sea" by Bruce Holland Rogers, which is a grim
look at scientific efforts to defeat the grim reaper; and Esther M. Friesner's "A Birthday."
The latter is yet another example of how the genre F&SF champions is shortchanged by the "serious mainstream." This fable
about the oppression of women hinges on a technological solution that serves as a compromise to "solve" the abortion
debate. Such a story is fantasy rather than science fiction because even if it were technologically achievable, the
premise is politically implausible. It is highly unlikely, as well as insulting to suggest otherwise, that the majority
of women with all the gains made by the feminist movement in this country would lie down for such a plan. Yet because
Friesner is writing fantasy, the likelihood of the premise is irrelevant. What matters is the poignant allegory of the
social pressures that exacerbate the psychic pain of women who've undergone abortions, and the oftentimes dire
consequences. In contrast, Margaret Atwood's equally implausible The Handmaid's Tale is widely acclaimed and read, despite a
flawed premise that seems to suggest that American women were ever actually in any danger of widespread subjugation by
religious wackos. (That Clinton survived potential impeachment with relatively little moral outrage demonstrates how little a
threat the Religious Right represents, at least on a national level.)
I've only been able to skim the top of the cream here. And as if that weren't rich enough for you, if you're going to help
F&SF celebrate its half-century, you should also check out the special October/November double issue anniversary edition
of brand new stories. Like the book, there's not a bad story here (although I confess to being puzzled by Carol Emshwiller's
off-the-wall "Acceptance Speech"; I'm not sure if she's being weird for the sake of being weird or if I've missed some larger meaning).
For whatever reason, some authors appear in both volumes. Kate Wilhelm's "The Happiest Day of Her Life" is actually a
follow-up to a story in the anthology called "Forget Luck." I preferred the sequel to the original, when in other situations
usually I've found the opposite to be true, although that may have as much to do with my reading it first. Paul DiFilippo's
offbeat Plummage from Pegasus column of "in-jokes" about the genre also makes dual appearances. And Le Guin offers a sweet story
about making the right decisions for yourself, "Darkrose and Diamond," which I gather is set in her Earthsea universe.
I'd be surprised if Terry Bisson's "MACS" doesn't wind up on some award short list -- this examination of revenge for the
families of the Oklahoma City bombing is powerful stuff, much more so than Partial People, the vignette in the "Best From" that
pales in comparison. Speaking of award candidates, Lucius Shepard's contribution to the magazine, "Crocodile Rock," is
certainly deserving of some year-end recognition (and maybe the next "Best From" anthology), despite its unfortunate
connotation of a particularly insipid Elton John song of the same name. Shepard considers the fine line, without exactly
defining it, of where our personal demons might merge into otherwordly demons, and what control, if any, we have over either.
The magazine pays tribute to its past by publishing letters between the legendary anthologizer Judith Merril and the
equally legendary Theodore Sturgeon. There's also the delightful "How Heather Moon Kept My Life From Getting Fouled Up Again"
by long-time contributor, but perhaps not as well-known, Ron Goulart, who offers the sort of whimsical tale that makes
fantasy so attractive. And even the casual fan will recognize such "names" as Poul Anderson, Robert Silverberg, and Jonathan
Carroll, among others.
Speaking of legendary, there's also Harlan Ellison, whose towering reputation in the field is akin to that of Bradbury's,
though of course we're talking two different styles. While Bradbury's reference points are the hopes of Depression-era
boys and the dangers lurking beneath the prosperity of post-WWII Eisenhower America, Ellison's are the 60s non-conformity
flipping the bird to whatever authority figure happens to fall in the line of fire. I have to say that Ellison and
Bradbury were both more impressive to me as a younger reader just discovering this stuff than they are now to my
middle-aged sensibilities. Both Ellison's "Objects of Desire Are Closer Than They Appear" that appears in the magazine
as well as his "Sensible City" in the anthology have a Twilight-Zone feel that writing guidelines in the
genre typically disdain. That said, the reason Ellison gets away with this is his singular "bad ass" attitude -- no
one else writes like Ellison, which makes a thin plotline or a vignette masquerading as a short story besides the
point. He's still fun as all hell to read.
Which brings us full circle to the notion that got me started here. It all comes back to Bradbury, whose unique worldview,
like Ellison's, usually overcomes a story's mechanical deficiencies (something that crops up frequently in Bradbury's later
work). Take the "Best From" selection of Bradbury's about the ghosts of Laurel and
Hardy returning to a famous scene in which they repeatedly fail to transport
a piano up a steep set of stairs. It's
fluff, but it's enchanting fluff, imbued with the author's boyish "geewhizness" he's managed to maintain through his long
career. What's perhaps a bit sad is that while a reader under a certain age will "get" what's going on in the works by
Bradbury's various "children," unfamiliarity with comedians whose heyday was in the 30s -- way before DVD and home
theatres, let alone television -- may put them at something of a loss to determine why the author of such a tale typically
evokes such reverence.
For the magazine itself, Bradbury contributes a "non-fiction" (though with
Ray it's always hard to tell where his imagination and experience actually
dovetail) piece called "I Was There the Day the World Ended, I Was There the World
Began." Few writers today have the perspective of this wide-eyed Illinois boy who lived when a moving picture transmitted
through the air first heralded the wonders -- and dangers -- of the modern age, who survives today in the Internet Age still
marvelling at the times he lives in. Fittingly, the many varied and excellent stories to be
found in both the Best From F&SF and the 50th Anniversary issue pay
appropriate homage to his substantial legacy.
David Soyka is a former journalist and college teacher who writes the occasional short story and freelance article. He makes a living writing corporate marketing communications, which is a kind of fiction without the art. |
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