Tag Archives: Adam Roberts

Stories are allergic to indifference

I’m not making the facile if true observation that the contents of stories are lies, of one kind or another (that there is no such person as Oliver Twist, say; or that neither Hogwart’s School nor the subjects it teaches are real—you know: the obvious stuff). Nor am I presenting the equally facile observation that the morals or implications of stories are often mendacious (reality licenses us to disbelieve, to pick a few examples: that the course of true love never runs smooth; that guns are exciting and empowering or that the universe cares what choices we make) although as a matter of fact they generally are. My point is that the form of ‘the story’ as such is ontologically deceitful. The underlying logic of stories is conflict (no conflict, no drama; no drama, nothing interesting to storify) and this, by and large, is not the underlying logic of the universe. If I had to pick one word to describe the underlying logic of the universe it would be: indifference. Stories, though, are allergic to indifference.

[…]

Of course, the fact that human beings make stories can give stories utility—for humans. We may take inspiration from Frodo’s perseverance or Mr Polly’s courage, from Odysseus’s wiliness or Hermione’s cleverness when we face challenges of our own. We can console ourselves that our broken hearts can mend, that everything happens for a reason, because our stories tell us that these things come to pass. It’s probably not true, but it may be useful. Still: how much story to mix-in to our everyday common-sense engagement with the barely-tractable matter of existence is a ticklish question. Too little and we will grow disaffected with the indifference of the universe; too much and we lose touch with reality.

Adam Roberts muses upon the role of Story in human affairs, in the context of Christopher Priest’s new joint An American Story, which sounds like it needs adding to the ever-more-Jenga-like babel of my TBR pile.

Represent the world without reproducing it

science fiction is fundamentally a metaphorical literature, because it seeks to represent the world without reproducing it. Now the structure of metaphor as such is the knight’s move, my favourite manoeuvre in chess: leading you in a certain metonymic direction, the logically correct A to B to C, and indeed sometimes it leads you quite a long way down that consecutive path, but only in order to leap suddenly, not arbitrarily, but poetically, expressively, marvellously, in an unexpected direction.

It’s the way the carefully world-built society of Asimov’s ‘Nightfall’ falls apart under stellar Sublimity, or the way the intricate anthropological detail of Le Guin’s Left Hand of Darkness is leavened by actual supernatural foretelling—a.k.a. magic—as a correlative to love, which is that novel’s wondrous theme, wondrously handled. It’s the way the scrupulously rational computational logic of Clarke’s ‘Nine Billion Names of God’ steps, in its last sentence, into amazing impossibilities. It can be the beautifully unexpected outgoing, as when Ellie Arroway enters the alien world-construct at the end of Contact, or it can be the beautifully unexpected homecoming, as at the end of Kij Johnson’s superb ’26 Monkeys, also the Abyss’. It is the famous jump-cut in 2001: A Space Odyssey, when the hurled bone that turns, unexpectedly, impossibly, yet somehow rightly, into a spaceship.

The thing is: this structure I’m describing here as formally constitutive of science fiction is also formally constitutive of the joke. The structure of a joke is a knight’s move: it leads you along a particular narrative trajectory only to finish with a conjurer’s flourish of the unexpected. The joke can’t be capped with a merely random or left-field unexpectedness, or it won’t be funny: but the flourish at the end must work. This is not to say that SF needs to be full of jokes to work. I am not talking content, I am talking form; and the point of this form is that the unexpected twist releases a quantum of joy. That’s why jokes are great, and that, although its content is very different, is why SF is great.

Adam Roberts on sf as a metaphorical literature. Mostly parking this for further thinking later on, when life is marginally less hectic; that form/content distinction he’s making seems like it could unpack in lots of interesting (and critically useful) ways.

I’m thinking in particular of an echo I’m getting from a riff of Clute’s in which he argues that capital-S Story “is inherently non-mimetic”; that Fantastika is coextensive with Story, and has “an inherent non-allegorical bent”, being a genre wherein the work “is a kind of representation of itself”; that Fantastika is “pure Story: not a lesson, but the thing told”. As I recall, Clute denies sf as being inherently metaphorical, but I think perhaps he and Roberts understand that term slightly differently; the form of the joke, after all, is also “not a lesson, but the thing told” (or so it seems to me).

The Roberts riff on the magician’s flourish above also opens up the possibility of rereading Priest’s The Prestige as a work of metagenre… though I suspect that doing so would only incur the writer’s wrath.

Reviews of books that don’t exist

It mat not have been appreciated as such by the readership, but one of the great personal coups of my editorship of Futurismic was persuading the redoubtable Adam Roberts to provide a series of his reviews of imaginary books* for the site (which is, a little surprisingly, still online, despite its original founder reclaiming the domain name from me a little while ago.). The review-of-an-imagined-text is a genre of writing that lets Roberts do Roberts in a very concise format, and one is never quite sure whether he’s simply burning off fiction ideas that weren’t worthy of being developed at greater length, cocking a snook at the conventions and peccadilloes of genre fiction in general, or lampooning reviewing as both a genre of writing and a literary enterprise; it may well be all three at once, or perhaps none of them. You can decide for yourself, as today’s installment of the protracted Pornokitsch swansong** is a batch of said reviews, which I commend unto you.

(They’ve billed them as “imaginary reviews”, which slightly irks my taxonomic instincts: the reviews are not imaginary at all because, well, there they are; it’s the books they describe which are imagined! But that’s the sort of dancing-angel-counting that makes me an instinctive fan of Roberts’ writing, I suppose… and why I ended up writing an essay — for this book — that took the form of a review of an imaginary remix of one of Adam’s books, which ended up being nominated for an award for non-fiction writing, despite being on at least one level, if not more than one, completely fictional. Which is itself a rather Robertsean sort of irony.)

* – Not always books, actually; the final installment of The Adam Roberts Project was a rather excoriating review of an actually-existing album, namely Tarkus by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. It was one of the most-commented-upon pieces the site ever ran, due to its being discovered by a succession of ageing prog-rock fans whose humourlessness and petulance served only to validate every cliche about humourless and petulant prog rock fans.

** – I’m not entirely sure why the Pornokitsch crew have decided to wind their site down, beyond the post that explains they’d always stop when it stopped being fun, and that it had stopped being sufficiently fun. I suspect that things would be clearer were I still on social media, but I further suspect that their reasons for winding down are in some part similar to my reasons for quitting social media, and that Pornokitsch is yet another redoubt surrendered to the seemingly interminable genre fiction blog-wars. Sad to see them go, but I can’t say I blame them; as the old aphorism goes, there’s little point in wrestling with a pig, because you end up covered in filth and the pig enjoys it. Re-reading the comment thread beneath Adam’s review of Tarkus (linked above), I realise that I took a while to realise that myself.