Wednesday, January 17, 2018

An Interview with Henry Wessells - Part 1


In our previous post we discussed A Conversation Larger Than the Universe - Readings in Science Fiction and the Fantastic by Wormwood contributor Henry Wessells. Henry kindly agreed to answer a few questions about the book.

Your book takes us back to imaginary voyages, often written with polemical or satirical intent (More’s Utopia, Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels etc), and to the Gothic novel. Do you think this sort of continuity is important to how science fiction sees itself? Couldn’t it rather be seen as a bold example of “make it new”, as a disruption?


To think about how science fiction is at its core about disruption or innovation is really useful.

To step back a bit before following that line: I subscribe to a very broad description of science fiction as encompassing fantasy and horror. I use science fiction in preference to John Clute’s useful notion of “fantastika” but that is a personal habit of speech. I do see the awareness of history, of the past as material for fiction, as a key component of the Gothic, which can be discerned from 1762, when Longsword appeared. The tale creaks, but everything is there: evil monks, menaced maidens, imprisonment in castles and monasteries, infant kidnappings, “secret malignity,” poisons, indirection and difficultly, and wild coincidences.

Labelling is inherently retrospective. There are any number of works that have been identified as “where science fiction begins” (the earliest being Lucian of Samosata, which I have not read). To make such an assertion — for Utopia, the Chemical Wedding, Kepler’s Somnium, or Hugo Gernsback — is a political statement, as Chip Delany reminds us.

For me, Frankenstein (1818) is where science fiction emerges from the Gothic. The innovation is in the extrapolation from science, and the boldness to create life from dead parts. The creature is not an automaton or doll but a sentient individual capable of self-education and the acquisition of language (and a vegetarian, too!).

Mary Shelley grew up in a literary household, her father William Godwin wrote Things as They Are, the bleakest late Gothic novel of persecution. When Mary wrote a novel, how natural to adapt the epistolary form and other trappings of the Gothic mode. And yet the subject matter and intellectual concerns of Frankenstein mark the novel as something new, a gate once opened and not to be closed again.

The late Brian Aldiss was a bold advocate for Mary Shelley as the origin of science fiction, but he was certainly not the first to articulate the importance of Frankenstein in science fiction. For example, Frankenstein is one of the earliest novels recorded in the 1953 bibliography “333”.

I suppose that as a reader I am interested in two aspects of a book: innovation, what is new, and “filiation,” how it relates to earlier works. I use Philip Gove’s very useful term, from The Imaginary Voyage in Prose Fiction (1941).


And yet it could be argued that pretty much up to cyber punk, science fiction used fairly conventional storytelling forms to explore its unconventional themes. Why wasn’t there a Modernist science fiction – or was there? What experiments in form or style do you see?


One of the joys of science fiction is the ability to move unflinchingly through time and space: and the knowledge that the reader will follow. And so this will be a slightly roundabout way of getting to the question of modernity and the fantastic.

Science fiction is a living literary mode that is perpetually open to change (sometimes to the dismay of readers who can no longer keep pace with all the books). In the flood of new work, sometimes older works are overlooked. As a reader, I am often drawn to such “forgotten” books. Some are very much worthy of rediscovery.

Take Richard Jefferies' After London (1885). Jefferies removed London from the face of the earth and wrote a two-part tale of what one might call the Day after the End of the World. The first part is nature writing of a formally innovative kind: not explaining the cataclysm but observing the consequences. Nothing else like it. And if the second part takes the shape of a boys’ adventure tale, it is still recounting events hundreds of years after the defining event (and that part of After London is the archetype for all the neo-feudal futures to come). Science fiction does sometimes evolve new forms in the struggle of the story to be told.

A year or so ago, while I was writing the chapter on Jefferies and others, Peak Victorian (published in Wormwood 29), when I would ask people if they had read Jefferies, even well-read people often looked at me with puzzlement. Even when I met people who knew Jefferies’ nature writings, they had never heard of After London. Yet in the same week that Wormwood 29 appeared this fall, the TLS reviewed a new scholarly edition of After London edited by Mark Frost for Edinburgh University Press. Steam-engine time for Richard Jefferies.

Now to think a bit more directly about literary modernism and the fantastic. Heart of Darkness is an early Club Story, and the apotheosis of the form. Just look at John Clute’s A Darkening Garden (2007) to see how his thinking about Conrad developed in the decade after the Encyclopedia of Fantasy.

Hope Mirrlees was a contemporary (and friend) of T. S. Eliot. Virginia and Leonard Woolf published her Paris a Poem (1919), now seen as one of the antecedents of The Waste Land (1922). As Michael Swanwick observes, Lud-in-the-Mist “is a dissident work, written in full awareness of what the proper literary writers were up to, and in its refusal to go along with them daringly defiant.”

Lord Dunsany, whose early work had close ties to W. B. Yeats and Lady Gregory, wrote novels of fantasy in sonorous prose in the 1920s. The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924) describes the forging of a magic sword from thunderbolts with a monstrous, unequivocally post-war simile: “like the evil pool that glares when thermite has burst.” His 1933 novel The Curse of the Wise Woman is tale of rural Ireland and the magic of the red bog set mostly in the 1880s. Except that it is a retrospective tale narrated by an Irish consul in an unnamed Balkan country, and within the first three chapters, Dunsany specifically uses the words “silence,” “exile,” and “cunning”: he was not unaware of modernism.

Certainly there are strains of fantasy that are conservative and even hostile to literary change. For all his cosmic philosophical viewpoint, H. P. Lovecraft rejected Eliot’s modernism and aspired to eighteenth-century English literary ideals; and the American pulps did not reward literary experimentation. In many ways the pulps operated in defiance of modernism. Science fiction was never at a distance from literary activity. Look at Shelley or Wells. Literature never excluded science fiction until it excluded itself.

Things began to change in the late 1940s. Anthony Boucher encouraged literary quality in the works selected for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and he was the first translator of fiction by Jorge Luis Borges into English. James Blish and Damon Knight raised the standards of literary criticism in American science fiction. But it is really with the New Wave of the early 1960s that the learned or self-imposed isolation of science fiction collapsed.

Writers such as J. G. Ballard and Tom Disch and Joanna Russ asserted literary excellence as inseparable from the aims of science fiction. And for formal innovation, Pamela Zoline’s “The Heat Death of the Universe” (1967) is still pretty dazzling. William Burroughs was familiar enough with the tool-kit of science fiction to add it to his cut-up machine in the early 1960s: think of Nova Express and The Soft Machine. Science fiction writers of the 1980s such as William Gibson and Rudy Rucker were conscious of these writers when they burst on the scene.

Friday, January 12, 2018

A Conversation Larger Than the Universe - Henry Wessells


A Conversation Larger Than the Universe - Readings in Science Fiction and the Fantastic by Henry Wessells is to be published by The Grolier Club in January, with an introduction by John Crowley. Henry is a Wormwood contributor, antiquarian bookseller and founder of The Avram Davidson Society, who writes thoughtfully and lucidly about the history of these two linked literatures, from Frankenstein through to cyberpunk and beyond.

The major figures are discussed with particular clarity and a thoroughly informed understanding of the significance of their work. However, this study also looks at some less well-known books and authors in the field, and considers SF and Fantasy not just as enclosed genres, but in the wider context of contemporary culture. Engrossing and informative as history, the book is also a pleasure to read because of Henry's personal style and perspectives.

The publication will be accompanied by an exhibition open to the public at New York's The Grolier Club from 25 January to 10 March 2018, which will include rare books, magazines, manuscripts and ephemera.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

A Postcard from the Tower of Moab


In a previous post we discussed the likelihood that L A Lewis’ story ‘The Tower of Moab’ was based upon Jezreel’s Tower, Gillingham, Kent, and in another post reported on a local history group’s account of the demolition of the tower. Before it was destroyed, however, the tower was very much a local landmark, and it was depicted on several designs of postcard.

Quite a few of these survive. The example illustrated here, printed by Thornton Bros of New Brompton, Kent, is postmarked August 16 1905, and has a message from the anonymous sender with a couple of interesting allusions.

It reads: “This is the Tower that was supposed to hold 144,000 persons at the End of the world it is just up close to us and is being pulled down to be turned into a factory this card will be a novelty of the future.”

The author’s last comment was prescient. But it is also interesting to see a first hand report of the lore associated with the Tower, and also to learn that it was thought locally to be about to be demolished as early as 1905. In fact, demolition did not begin for another 55 years and it was not finally destroyed until 1961.

The recipient of the postcard lived in Cookham, Berkshire which, curiously enough was the birthplace and home village of Stanley Spencer, the artist most known for his visions of the resurrection of the dead at the end of time.

Mark Valentine


Saturday, December 30, 2017

The Last Steamer & Other Strange Tales - Bob Mann


The Last Steamer and Other Strange Tales by Bob Mann has recently been published by Longmarsh Press of Totnes. The author is a well-known figure in Arthur Machen circles and a writer on South Devon history, folklore and mysteries, and this new book collects some of his fine supernatural stories, originally shared with family and friends at Christmas.

Bob Mann understands that some of the best ghost stories are rooted in a strong sense of place, and his succinct but vivid tales set in the mysterious byways of a certain corner of Devon gain from his deep knowledge of local history and legend.

He also knows that the strangest experiences can be those that don’t quite cohere: they result from hazy glimpses, passing encounters, things we are not quite sure we saw, and he is adept at suggesting just enough, and no more.

So here are compelling accounts of an “ancient and terrible” steam boat that simply shouldn’t be there, a horned ceremony in a churchyard at night, the alluring modern manifestations of femmes fatales at a haunted castle, a citadel that hasn’t existed for centuries, the figure of a redoubtable teacher in an organ loft, and even – what a wonderful idea! - a phantom brass band.

Arthur Machen enthusiasts will also delight in finding sly allusions to the Gwent master and his work.

With each of these highly relishable yarns we feel a strong sense of the past still resonating in our time, while also enjoying the author’s wry sense of humour and light touch.

Mark Valentine

Friday, December 29, 2017

The Uncertainty of All Earthly Things


The Uncertainty of All Earthly Things: Stories is available for pre-order from Zagava. Twelve previously uncollected stories, and an unpublished journal.

Contents

To the Eternal One
The Key to Jerusalem
Listening to Stonehenge
Goat Songs
Zabulo
In Cypress Shades
The Mask of the Dead Mammilius
Yes, I Knew the Venusian Commodore
The Scarlet Door
Vain Shadows Flee
The Uncertainty of All Earthly Things
as blank as the days yet to be
Notes on the Border

Mark Valentine

Sunday, December 24, 2017

Season's Greetings to all our readers


Look into my eyes, look into my eyes.
You are feeling sleepy. Very sleeeepy.
You need Wormwood.
Yes, Wormwood . . .

Friday, December 22, 2017

A Harp in Llanidloes, and A Twist in the Stair


It was a grey, wet day at the end of September in the remote little town of Llanidloes, Montgomeryshire, which lies among the Cambrian Mountains in the middle of Wales. But our spirits were lightened as we entered the Great Oak second-hand bookshop by the echoing notes of a harp. In the mezzanine room at the back of the shop, a friend of the owner was rehearsing delicate old melodies. Along with the lute, the sound of the harp always conveys to me a sense of the ancient past, the days of court bards and wandering minstrels.

A favourite album of my youth was Alan Stivell’s Renaissance of the Celtic Harp (1971), which was doubly magical because its pieces drew upon Breton folklore, such as the stories of the sunken kingdom of Ys, and indeed one piece was accompanied by the slow wistful sound of waves upon the shore. Whether it was the influence of the spell of the harp, or whether it was because Llanidloes itself is a place of witchery, I certainly found some curious books there.

We had selected just a handful of titles of interest in the front of the shop, and in the two-storey outhouse reached through the back door, and were just about to take those to the counter when I noticed to one side a wicket gate at the top of some stone steps. These proved to descend into a cellar. There was a turn in the stair, and as I came to the last step, I saw ahead of me a few small bookcases with children’s books, but not much else, and I was about to return. But then I looked to my right and lo! – there were rows and rows of old hardback fiction, which is what I always want to find and, these days, often don’t.

The first book I encountered, right in front of my nose, when I began my eager browsing among these shelves was a mottled copy of Fanfaronade (1934) by Ivo Pakenham, which I have written about here before, a timeslip fantasy in which a scholar of medieval history finds himself transposed to a duchy perhaps not unlike Burgundy. And the curious thing is, and this only occurred to me a little later, that he reaches this realm by taking some stone steps downward from a secret door in the chamber of a French chateau, and following a turn in the stair. . .

Now clearly a turn in the stair of a French chateau and a turn in the stair in a Welsh bookshop are not the same thing. But even so, it still seemed slightly peculiar to find a book in the same way as the book itself begins.

Nor was Fanfaronade the only good find down in the cellar. Here were also three books by Claude Houghton, including a 1938 edition of his first novel, Neighbours (1926). There was also Arminel of the West (1909), a Devon romance, in pictorial boards, by the often distinctly odd John Trevena. Then there was a Yorkshire rural saga, The Cliff End (1908) by Edward Booth, in the Holderness edition of his novels, named after the coastal eastern corner of the county where his books were usually set.

This author was praised, and I had noted his name for this reason, by the American Machen enthusiast Paul Jordan-Smith in one of his volumes of bookish essays, probably For the Love of Books: The Adventures of An Impecunious Collector (1934). (That collector, incidentally, would have been much cheered by the prices of the books in the cellar, which were moderate indeed.) The dustwrapper flap of Booth’s book tells us it is “an unashamedly sentimental, old-fashioned, novel,” while J.B. Priestley (also a Yorkshireman) is quoted as saying it is “not unlike an interior by an old Dutch master doubly based on close observation and deep feeling.”

And my fingers also found their way to a desert adventure yarn tinged with occult elements, The White Knights (El Firsan El Bied) (1912) by T.G. Wakeling. Now, Wakeling was the author of a book I acquired a while ago because of its irresistible title, Forged Egyptian Antiquities (1912). Largely anecdotal, it gave interesting sidelights on the differences between forgeries and the genuinely ancient, and made the point that some of the fake artefacts were worth having simply as well-made art objects, even without their alleged antiquity.

But perhaps the most singular find, as is often the way, was a book I knew nothing about by an author I had never heard of. This was Pandora’s Shocks, A Humorous Adventure (Hurst & Blackett, no date, but 1927) by Laura Wildig. Its stark, dark art deco lettering was set in boards slightly faded to a pleasing rose-pink. A glance at the opening page reveals the heroine, Euralie Budd, “sitting cross-legged on a black divan, smoking a pipe,” surely enough to make any discerning reader wish to make her acquaintance further.

When we next learn that she is in conversation with Professor Boniface, who is searching for the secret of “creative energy”, “this innermost secret of the earth” which has “baffled the ancient alchemists”, our interest will naturally be quickened. And indeed the book proves to be a very high-spirited and inventive bohemian fantasy.

I have found out very little about the author, other than that she contributed short stories to Hutchinson’s Magazine in 1923-4, wrote a romantic West End play, Priscilla and the Profligate, and co-wrote with Brian Hill a children’s play, Ever So Long Ago. An engineering directory mentions that a Laura Wildig married in 1900 the splendidly-named Loughnan St. L. Pendered, M.I. Mech.E, (born 1870), of 33 Norfolk Street, The Strand, the editor of The Engineer from 1905 and the Hon. Editor of the Ministry of Munitions Journal during the First World War. We must regret that Laura Wildig apparently published no other novels.

As we made to leave Llanidloes, we noticed a most unusual architectural feature which at once took our fancy. An old red-brick shop had drainpipes in a pleasing shade of powder blue – but not only that, these were barley-twist drainpipes, a shape in rainwater columns neither of us had ever seen before, which gave them a distinctly eccentric, Gothicky look. Thoughts of a monograph on “Curious Drainpipes of Mid-Wales” at once began to take form.


Mark Valentine
Photographs: Jo Valentine