Scientists, public intellectuals, and journalists bemoan denialism, but have no solutions to offer apart from urging us to fight harder not to get sucked into an ocean of misinformation. This is because they refuse to engage with the roots of the problem, which cannot be addressed by doubling down on the denial that there are any legitimate sources of understanding apart from science. After scientism has hollowed out public discourse of any way to present and disagree about values and ways of living, where else is discontent with policies that claim to only ‘follow the science’ to be directed except at the science itself?
By fostering a political culture, in which placing responsibility for a political decision on ‘the science’ is a viable way of defending it, scientism has made challenging science the only way to challenge political decisions. But, in both cases, a debate that should be about politics is misdirected. Political decisions cannot merely follow science, because political decisions, as any decisions for that matter, are motivated by specific interpretations and values. They are not merely dictated by the facts. As Jana Bacevic recently wrote in an Op-Ed in The Guardian: “What policymakers choose to prioritise at these moments is a matter of political judgment. Is it the lives of the elderly and the ill? Is it the economy? Or is it political approval ratings?” If our ability to discuss and argue over values had not been degraded, we could demand that policy-makers defend their choice to prioritise certain values over others, rather than taking refuge in the claim that scientific facts determine what choices they make, as though they were hardly choices at all.
Duolingo with the apposite life tips, once again.
Sorry, Duo; one is what one is.
I am beginning to perceive a pattern here, though. There is a loose group – a new New Wave, if you like – of British writers whose work might best be described as the natural successor to the ‘mundane SF’ of the early 2000s. These writers are less interested in the widescreen formats of space opera, MilSF and interstellar travel, focusing instead on stories set mainly on Earth in a recognisable near-future, with an emphasis on contemporary politics and class inequalities, the impact of new technologies on ordinary lives. I would include within this group Maughan himself, from way back, but also Simon Ings, Matt Hill, Matthew de Abaitua, Carl Neville and James Smythe (whose 2014-Clarke-shortlisted The Machine stands as a key example of this kind of writing). I have been asking myself for a while now why it is that these writers are so much less visible than they ought to be, given the contemporary relevance and literary excellence of their output. Their work is (surely) right at the cutting edge of science fiction. It is using science fiction to engage directly with social and political questions, demonstrating SF as the radical mode of literature it has always been.
For genre publishing imprints not to acquire and promote this kind of science fiction seems short-sighted and again, counter-intuitive. These writers are important and talented and they deserve recognition. You could argue that it is in this brand of politically engaged, intellectually curious stripe of SF that the future of the genre lies. Especially in our current moment, audiences who look to science fiction for inspiration, information or even a warning about where future developments could take us are hungry for novels and stories that tread that uneven, liminal path between the present as it is experienced and the future as it might be.
I agree with Nina Allan that there’s a real invisibility for some of the UK’s most enviable young* sf stylists, but I also think that the reasons she lists as an argument for their importance are also exactly the reasons for their invisibility. Put simply, sf has always been a deeply nostalgic genre, and the UK is deep in a period of nostalgic escapism more broadly—one that affects its soi-disant liberal left just as much as its Brexit-exceptionalist right, if not perhaps more so in some respects. Maughan and Hill refuse both British exceptionalist nostalgia and the comforts of technological utopianism; there is a market for that refusal, but it is probably too small for the already-struggling publishing houses of the UK market to gamble upon, when they can make more reliable returns with more traditional material. Ditto Ings, who is of course something of an old hand, and also—like de Abaitua—something of an experimental writer. (I am not familiar with Smythe’s work, and literally acquired my first book by Neville yesterday, so I can’t comment on either of them.)
It is meant as no insult to the book-buying public to observe that it seeks the comfortable escapism of familiar generic forms and nostalgic narratives of progress—indeed, this has probably always been the case, though the industry once had enough slack (and, perhaps, enough of a sense of mission in terms of artistic form and expression) that it could more readily support an avant-garde with the profits from the mid-list and the big hitters. But in terms of the genre in particular, I wonder whether the transition to what Clute has called “the new sf” (which rejects the technological utopian modality, and sometimes auto-critiques it in the process of that rejection) may never actually be a transition so much as a budding-off. If sf is what we point at when we say sf, then for the majority of sf readers these writers will never write “proper” sf; they are, if anything, actively opposed to doing so, which is what makes their work interesting (at least to Allan and myself).
Perhaps the slow self-retconning of the literary establishment into believing that it was actually always OK with speculative literatures all along will provide a space for this new form to grow… though that may of course be a vain hope, principally informed by the desire that the stuff I write might someday find someone willing to publish it.
[ * Young in writerly terms, rather than in strictly demographic ones. ]
It’s so good to live in a city with a store that carries books like this without your having to order them in special.
(Hell knows you pay for that privilege, though… but on the other hand, I’m glad to pay enough for books that the people selling them to me can be properly taken care of as employees. All the literature, none of the guilt. Fuck Amazon.)
For better or worse, [the city] invites you to remake it, to consolidate it into a shape you can live in. You, too. Decide who you are, and the city will again assume a fixed form round you. Decide what it is, and your own identity will be revealed, like a position on a map fixed by triangulation. Cities, unlike villages and small towns, are plastic by nature. We mould them in our images: they, in turn, shape us by the resistance they offer when we try to impose our own personal form on them. In this sense, it seems to me that living in cities is an art, and we need the vocabulary of art, of style, to describe the peculiar relationship between man and material that exists in the continual creative play of urban living. The city as we imagine it, the soft city of illusion, myth, aspiration, nightmare, is as real, maybe more real, than the hard city one can locate on maps, in statistics, in monographs on urban sociology and demography and architecture.
- Raban, J. ( 2017). Soft City. Pan Macmillan.
Shades of Viriconium, wot? Pointed at the Raban above by a passing reference in the intro for Lieven Ameel’s forthcoming The Narrative Turn in Urban Planning, the publication of which I’m very much looking forward to.