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A collaborative blog by Locus editors, contributors, and other invited guests. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the authors, and do not reflect the editorial position of Locus Magazine or Locus Online.




Alvaro Zinos-Amaro


Alan Beatts
Terry Bisson
Marie Brennan
Karen Burnham
Siobhan Carroll
John Clute
F. Brett Cox
Ellen Datlow
Paul Di Filippo
Michael Dirda
Gardner Dozois
Andy Duncan
Stefan Dziemianowicz
Brian Evenson
Jeffrey Ford
Karen Joy Fowler
Kathleen Ann Goonan
Theodora Goss
Elizabeth Hand
Cecelia Holland
Rich Horton
Guy Gavriel Kay
James Patrick Kelly
Mark R. Kelly
Ellen Klages
Russell Letson
Karen Lord
Brit Mandelo
Adrienne Martini
Tim Pratt
Cat Rambo
Paul Graham Raven
Graham Sleight
Maureen Kincaid Speller
Peter Straub
Rachel Swirsky
Paul Witcover
Gary K. Wolfe
E. Lily Yu

Roundtable on Samuel R. Delany, Grand Master

In December 2013, Samuel R. Delany was named Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master by SFWA. Delany has influenced science-fiction and fantasy, and literature in general, in different ways—as fiction writer, critic, theorist, memoirist, editor, teacher. How has Delany influenced your own work or views on writing and literature? For readers who haven’t read much by Delany, is there such a thing as a Delany “gateway” story, novel or essay?

Rachel Swirsky

As someone who got to support Steven Gould in his choice of Delany, I’d like to start off by saying, “Yay!”

Marie Brennan

I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t read much of his fiction—some of the Neveryon stuff, and a few short stories, but little else so far. I did, however, use About Writing and The Jewel-Hinged Jaw as textbooks for a course I taught this past summer, on speculative fiction creative writing. My students were all twelve, which most people would say is too young for Delany… but it was part of Duke’s TIP program for gifted students, and we were told to design our syllabi like entry-level college courses, crammed into three weeks. So I thought, if I’m going to melt my students’ brains into goo, I might as well melt them with the best!

Fabio Fernandes

Delany has been a great influencer of my worldview and of my work since I started, writing in Portuguese in the late eighties, and now more than ever (I had the supreme honor and pleasure of having him as my instructor last July at Clarion West in Seattle, for crying out loud–it doesn’t get much better than this). He inspired me to write in a non-linear way (but never forgetting to tell a story, or stories) and to write in different POVs, genderwise. My gateway drug to Delany was Aye, and Gomorrah in my late twenties, and then Babel-17. Speaking of non-fiction, I’d strongly recommend About Writing, but recently I read Conversations with Samuel R. Delany, edited by Carl Freedman, and it was the most delightful reading I had in a while.

Cat Rambo

Delany’s The Fall of the Towers was the first adult SF I ever read. My father brought it back from an airport PB rack and I must have read it five or six times in my teens.

His book About Writing has been tremendously useful to me and when stuck I sometimes do what he calls “writing to discover,” focusing on transcribing the moment in the story and letting the act of transcribing tell me what comes next.

As far as gateway—I love Nova, Babel-17, and The Fall of the Towers. I consider his Neveryon books important to fantasy–perhaps even paving the way for the “grittier” generations to come, but they’re something to be sampled separately from the SF.

Delany is amazing. Moments in his writing blow me away, make me stop and marvel how he’s constructed them. He awes me with his virtuosity and courage in writing.

As a sidenote, I got to read with him in New York a few years back. That was one of the top ten occasions of my life. Thrilling!

Fabio Fernandes

Chip is an amazing person. He reads beautifully, and he’s charming and funny. I should add that he can also deconstruct most completely your story while being warm, witty, and encouraging. With that formidable white beard of his, he should also be named Zeus of the Grand Masters’ Pantheon!

Paul Witcover

Nowadays I frequently teach “Aye, and Gomorrah…”, and use Dhalgren as well for teaching purposes. There is no novel more central to my experience of science fiction or of writing. I can’t really put it any better than I did back in 1999 (!), reviewing a reissue of The Einstein Intersection for The New York Review of Science Fiction:

“When I was a teenager growing up in the geographic and temporal suburb of the 70s, a voracious reader of all things science fictional, with aspirations of breaking into the field myself one day, no writer loomed larger in my private pantheon of SF gods than Samuel R. Delany. I knew next to nothing about him. It was enough that he—and his books—existed. My friends and I invoked his surname with the kind of reverential awe kids our age normally reserved for rock stars. And in fact Delany was a rock star to us, right up there with other one-named wonders like Hendrix and Bowie. Not just because he was young and hip and wrote about sex and drugs in ways guaranteed to piss off our parents. There was a supremely musical quality to his prose such as I had never before encountered or even imagined possible. His style was incisive, poetic, complex, allusive and elusive, alive with swirling, clashing melodies woven layer upon layer. It was beautiful, disturbing, hallucinatory. It was also, and somehow most of all, a miracle of translucence able to communicate, as if effortlessly, truths beyond the everyday capacity of language to convey or of reason to comprehend. At least my language, my reason. It rocked.”

Ellen Datlow

I love Delany’s short stories, especially “Aye, and Gomorrah…”, which as story and as part of Dangerous Visions has had an enormous influence on me becoming an editor. It showed me that sexuality and gender could be fruitfully explored in a field that at the time was not doing so.

I also love Dhalgren, which entranced me when I read it in my early 20s.

Jack Skillingstead

My intro to Delany was The Einstein Intersection. It wasn’t so much what he was writing about as how he was writing about it. What he could do with words was like some kind of magic. At the time I was reading a lot of Nabokov, which had been perfect preparation for my early Delany encounters. Right away I picked up the Signet short story collection, Driftglass. Just stunningly good. Then it was on to Nova and others. Delany became a major influence on my own writing method. His essay on process, which first appeared in Those Who Can (writers who were also teachers) provided validation for what I considered my own angsty, self-doubting approach. Delany was all for doubt. It made you better. And the way he talked about finding the exactly right arrangement of words and how that sharpened the writer’s interior vision—this was great stuff.

Andy Duncan

I keep returning to where I started with Delany, the stories in his collection Driftglass. I was only 7 years old when that volume came out in 1971, so I read it much later, in my 20s. I remember scanning the table of contents, slowing down quickly as I began to read the titles aloud: “Aye, and Gomorrah…”, “Time Considered as a Helix of Semiprecious Stones”, “We, in Some Strange Power’s Employ, Move on a Rigorous Line”.

Then I turned to the story openings, my favorite of which is still the unforgettable “High Weir” (“Boiled potatoes! My God, boiled potatoes!”), with “Time Considered as a Helix” right behind. It begins: “Lay ordinate and abscissa on the century. Now cut me a quadrant. Third quadrant if you please. I was born in ’fifty. Here it is ’seventy-five.”

That collection still reads like the state of the art, and its range, wit, priorities, and cadences still inspire me.

Just behind that collection, in terms of its personal impact, is Delany’s memoir The Motion of Light in Water, as beautiful and brave as the fiction. I want to put in a plug, too, for the Quark anthologies co-edited by Delany and Marilyn Hacker, which never have gotten their due. His non-fiction collection Silent Interviews is a trove of inspiration. Well, I could name all the books, of course. They’re all troves of inspiration.

When I was in graduate school at North Carolina State, Delany came to campus to do a reading, and John Kessel loomed over my cubicle wall that morning and said, “You want to go to lunch with me and Chip Delany?” Guess what my answer was. Just guess. I joined them, but I don’t remember saying anything, or eating anything. I just gaped at Delany, amazed that anyone could be so off-the-cuff brilliant and simultaneously relaxed, conversational, and charming. I still gape at him. Delany is an excellent illustration of Joe and Gay Haldeman’s rule of convention panels: Decide what to attend based not on the topic, but on the panelists. If “Uncle Chip,” as I think of him, is on the panel, then I go. He seems not only to have read everything, but to have thought about all of it, and to have seen how it’s all connected.

Delany’s novel Empire Star ends this way: “In this vast multiplex universe there are almost as many worlds called Rhys as there are places called Brooklyn Bridge. It’s a beginning. It’s an end. I leave to you the problem of ordering your perceptions and making the journey from one to the other.” To me, that passage encapsulates part of Delany’s necessity. He’s a happy, multiplex citizen of our multiplex universe, and he leaves us such glorious problems to work on!

Karen Joy Fowler

I also started with Driftglass. I loved those stories; they were some of the first science fiction I ever read and I thought that I hadn’t understood before how close to poetry science fiction was in its precision and its sweep. I never worked with Delany, but I took a class from Stan Robinson who had him as a Clarion instructor so I got a lot of great Chip advice channeled through the inestimable Robinson. I remember reading an interview with him in Science Fiction Eye after I’d begun to publish and finding the parts I understood to be awesome and the parts I didn’t understand to be awesome too in ways I didn’t understand. When I finally met him, he turned out not to be scary at all! He talked to me about some of the contemporary writers he particularly admired (hello, Nancy Kress) and it was wonderful to see how attentive and generous he was to other writers. Smart, well we all knew that, but also lively and funny and one hell of a mafia player.

Russell Letson

I remember reading Delany pretty much in order as the Ace novels appeared. I was a college undergrad and understood that he was only a couple years older than I was, but that didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. A half-century later (and with several decades spent looking over my wife’s shoulder at undergraduate creative-writing work), I’m amazed. Musicians and mathematicians peak early, but I’ve come to expect very young writers to produce work lacking in both substance and chops. Delany came on like a Charlie Parker or Charlie Christian, with no (visible) fumbling apprenticeship period. He did wonderful, surprising things with familiar tropes. I followed the fiction right up to Dahlgren, which stopped me cold, twice. I did enjoy Triton, but the fiction that followed just didn’t do anything for me. I’m not sure what I would discover about either the books I enjoyed or the ones I bounced off were I to revisit them now. Various insights and observations from the essays have long since been field-stripped, sorted, and stowed in the toolbox with the serial numbers filed off. Seems very appropriate that his Grand Master title includes the name of another always-surprising and critically-inventive writer (whose analytical gadgets are also in that toolbox jumble).

Gardner Dozois

I picked up all of Delany’s Ace Books one by one as they appeared, most from a newsstand in a subway station in what used to be Scolley Square in Boston, from The Jewels of Aptor on, and became more impressed with every one. There was nothing else like them being done in the science fiction of the day. I remember staying up all night to finish The Fall of the Towers trilogy, and still think it’s a great work, and too-little read today, even by Delany fans. “Driftglass” remains one of my favorite SF stories ever. By the time Nova came out, I was in complete agreement with A.J. Budrys that Delany was the best science fiction writer in the world.

Michael Dirda

Given that Delany was so wonderful when a young writer, what happened? Why have his later books proven to be so problematic? Have we, as readers, simply not been able to keep up with him? Or did his prodigious intellectuality gradually inhibit anything resembling conventional storytelling? His career—prodigy, master, academic, grand old man—isn’t all that unusual, except that he and most of science fiction diverged and have never, it would seem, really come back together again. Chip is admired, envied and loved, but his later books don’t seem to be much read. Perhaps they’re simply too difficult or tendentious. I don’t really know. But it must be hard when people only to want to talk about the stuff you wrote when you were in your twenties and thirties.

Elizabeth Hand

Delany was the reason I decided to write SF. I read Dhalgren when it first came out in 1974 and realized that science fiction could be so much more than I’d imagined—I was a fan of SF movies and Judith Merrill’s anthologies, but hadn’t grown up on Heinlein juveniles or the like. Dhalgren blew my mind, as we said back in the day. I then went and read everything I could find by Delany, and kept up with each new novel as it was published, as well as with The Jewel-Hinged Jaw, one of the best non-fiction works ever written on the genre. As far as a gateway work, I’d go with the stories in Driftglass, though any ambitious reader can’t go wrong with Dhalgren or Trouble on Triton.

What Paul Witcover said. I’ll add to that the fact that I first met Paul in 1980, when we bonded over our shared love of Delany’s work. No better way to meet and begin a 34-year-long collaborative friendship.

Gardner Dozois

I think Dhalgren is the turning point. Those who were into his work before Dhalgren tended to react less well to it afterward; those who started with Dhalgren perhaps had less difficulty with and more appreciation for his later work. Like Russell, Dhalgren stopped me cold two or three times, and I never did finish it. There were things I liked about his later SF novels, like Triton, but I can’t honestly say I appreciated them as much as I appreciated some of his earlier stuff, and if I’d hit Dhalgren or even Triton first, without having read the early stuff, I don’t know how much of a Delany fan I would have become. (I never got into the Neveryon books either.)

I think a clue to what changed can be seen in Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand. The first half of that book is paced like a runaway freight-train, as headlong and exciting as anything Delany ever wrote, and I remember thinking “Wow, the old Delany is back!” The second half of the book slows way, way down, and tends to get bogged down in minutia. A lot of what a lot of us liked about early Delany is that he mated headlong adventure pacing and storytelling with more complex and sophisticated content. Later on, he pretty much gave up on that.

Brian Evenson

I’m probably the odd exception in this list in that I’m equally a fan of both ends of Chip’s SF work (both early and late—middle too if there is a middle) as well as his post-SF work, and feel that, despite the obvious and profound differences between the two, there are some real points of continuity as well (philosophically, in terms of interest in language, in terms of the approach to gender and sexuality, etc.). I tend to feel that each side of his work informs the other in a way that gives it more intensity and depth, and that the more widely you read in Delany’s body of work, the harder it is not to admire him.

The book I came to first was Babel-17, and I still remain fond of it, though I don’t think it’s the best of those early books. I do think that Gardner’s right and that Dhalgren is a turning point, and one’s response to it is probably a pretty good indicator of what one is likely to think of the work that follows. At the same time I’d like to think that there are more people like me out there, people who think of Delany’s work as representing a worthwhile continuity from beginning to end—even if moments of that continuity are challenging reads indeed.

I think the short stories now gathered in Aye, and Gomorrah are terrific, and I find myself going back to my favorites among them often (including, like Ellen, that title story). I’m teaching his “Some Notes for the Intermediate and Advanced Creative Writing Student” in my Form and Theory of Narrative class this semester, and teach it or other parts of About Writing often. I re-read and reviewed Hogg when it was reprinted a few years ago and still found it an incredibly tough book, but also think it’s the kind of book that is much harder on you if you get halfway through it and don’t finish it than if you work your way through to the end. It’s the kind of book that I admire despite still feeling its claw marks on me. I also am glad that Chip wrote it so that I didn’t feel that I had to do it myself. Very fond in a strange, prickly way of Phallos and The Mad Man as well, and see a kind of bridge between Dhalgren and The Mad Man in terms of connecting the SF and the non-SF work. But I’m just as happy reading The Ballad of Beta-2 or Empire Star or Nova. And like Andy, The Motion of Light in Water had a big impact on me. I was surprised by Dark Reflections, which strikes me as quite different from Delany’s other work, wonderfully ruminative. And I was very privileged both to be one of the dedicatees for Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders and to introduce Chip when he read from it at Saint Marks Bookstore.

For me personally, it’s been the range of the work that’s been important, and the idea that you don’t have to just keep writing in the way you begin. Delany’s had many shifts as a writer, gaining and losing portions of his audience along the way, but as I say, I think that if you spend enough time with the work it feels less and less like it should be corralled into different camps or periods and more like a continuity. He started as an SF writer and then took his concerns into other arenas; I saw that as encouragement to let me know I could do the reverse.

I’d go on to talk about how Chip is one of the kindest people I’ve met (which is in fact true), but then it starts to sound too much like a eulogy. I’m going to insist on a few more books from him before I get out the shovel. :)

Rachel Swirsky

I agree that “Aye, and Gomorrah…” is a great place to start.

I really have a lot of affection for Trouble on Triton which I think is very accessible, but I would warn readers who are considering picking it up for the first time to be prepared for poor treatment of trans issues; it plays off of the discredited idea of autogynephilia.

John Clute

It was an accident but culpable for anyone seriously interested in SF, but I am still waiting to read Chip properly, to go back to the beginning decade and immerse, and then climb onwards. Dhalgren blindsided me with information overload, perhaps through its agglutinations, and I was maybe too old for that city. The kid left behind in Hamelin by the Piper, my loss. Chip himself I’ve known for more than 40 years, in various turns of the kaleidoscope of his life, and cherish each of those times, and will see him again this side of.

Elizabeth Hand

Gardner’s is an interesting point. I started with Dhalgren and loved Triton, but when I worked backwards and read the early novels, I thought they were thin and found them far less appealing. I’m not sure I would have started with them and kept reading. I first read Dhalgren when I was seventeen and still in high school, so it was definitely aspirational reading (with a LOT of graphic sex). But there was genuine mystery there, too, and I loved trying to tease meaning from the story. Most of all, Delany’s fictional Bellona remains an urban landscape nearly as vivid to me as anything I’ve encountered in the real world. It’s an amazing achievement.

I loved Stars in My Pocket and was always sorry he never completed the sequence—although the hardcover copy I read was missing a signature (a bound-in section of pages, for those of you too young to remember carbon-based books), and it took me a while to figure out a whole chunk of the novel was missing. I thought the fractured storyline was a narrative experiment!

I could never get into the Neveryon books. I diligently read them, but found them deadly boring.

Paul Graham Raven

Apart from the canonical few anthologised shorts, I found Delany very late. In truth, my first extended encounter with him was About Writing, which Farah had put on the preliminary reading list of my Masters course; when it turned up, I originally planned to just dip into it, but ended up pretty much reading it end to end over the course of a week. All of the individual pieces are fine things in and of themselves, but collected together they form something that feels like a form of autobiography, and I think it was the sense of an incredibly fascinating, gentle and profound person slowly revealing themselves while seemingly talking about something else entirely that pulled me through the whole thing.

(I couldn’t write a word for weeks afterwards, ironically enough. No sugar coating on those pills.)

Since then I’ve read Triton, and made two assaults on Mount Dhalgren, neither to completion; it’s an odd book, you’ve got to be in the right sort of headspace to even be able to navigate the text (a headspace much like Bellona itself, in fact), and I have yet to return with sufficient time (and bottled oxygen) for the final ascent. But this thread’s a handy reminder that there’s a rich trove of Delany books that I have yet to read and will likely enjoy, whenever I next get a period in my life when I can read whatever the hell I want for its own sake….

*eyes PhD schedule* *whimpers slightly*

Guy Gavriel Kay

Dhalgren may be one of a very small category of books where you must read them young (I did) but you can’t read them young. The impact received by a teen is not the impact delivered, and later, too many other things intervene. I remember being blown away, but am not sure now how that took place and it didn’t leave footprints, only a lingering aura.

Paul Graham Raven

Yeah, I can see that; sorta like how each generation has its important albums, and you can appreciate the earlier ones when you discover them later (I didn’t really discover Pink Floyd until the late nineties, f’rex; my parents’ idea of music was Crystal Gayle and John Denver), but the ones of your own era are gonna be more in tune with your own generational sense of zeitgeist and angst.

While they’re very different in terms of style (not to mention size!), I can see Jeff Noon’s Vurt being something of a Dhalgren for us GenX/Y types; both of them crystallised something about being a reckless and confused adolescent in chaotic yet thrilling times, perhaps.

Kathleen Ann Goonan

My intro to Delany was not until 1988, when I attended Clarion West. Someone recommended Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand. Stunning title! Stunning book. I loved it, and moved on to Dhalgren. I think I’ve read all of it, though not in a linear way. I’d read long stretches for the prose and the delicious sense of not knowing what in the world was going on and not really caring. I thought that eventually it would all resolve, but I don’t think it did, so it is glimpses of a world that has weight and sense but that I still do not completely understand—just like life.

I enjoyed all of his literary theory books, and About Writing is the one book I have my writing students buy. It is not full of rules, but has information that a writer can relate to, in different ways, no matter what her progress along the path may be.

As to his humor, I told him a few years ago at Readercon that I found it very useful in my classes. He said, “I do too,” and grinned.

Andy Duncan

Michael Dirda is brave to point out the elephant in the room. Here’s one way to look at it.

Within the rank-and-file sf community, sex is still a touchy subject, far more touchy than, say, violence or politics—though, if you involve sex in either of those topics, so that you’re focusing on sexual violence or sexual politics, the community becomes hyper-prickly; for a single recent example among dozens, witness the opposition, in some circles, to instituting even the most common-sense harassment policies at conventions.

So in writing about sex from virtually the beginning of his career, and being increasingly open about his own sex life in all its complexity, Delany has put himself on an increasingly confrontational position with the SF community he clearly loves—and that clearly loves him.

Granted, one needn’t be a prude to recoil at the pedophilia or coprophagy or rape that Delany writes about, but I’m thinking, instead, of his wonderful memoir, The Motion of Light in Water. While the subtitle, accurately, is “Sex and Science Fiction Writing in the East Village”, the sexual content of that book, as I recall it from having last read it years ago, involves homosexuality, bisexuality, what used to be called “open relationships,” and casual sex with strangers in public places. While these are certainly minority pursuits, they shouldn’t shock us, either, and they shouldn’t be unpleasant simply to read about—certainly not by 1988, when the book was published.

I have praised that book for years, on panels and in private conversations, with scores of people in the sf community—and on multiple occasions, people have responded with discomfort, regret (“That was Too Much Information for me”), or outright disgust (“Ewwwww!”). Not everyone, mind you, and not most people, but enough.

Delany has lived with these responses for a long time, is fully aware of them, and has thought a lot about them. Of course they aren’t limited to the SF community, though they were commonplace enough within that community even in the 1960s for Frederik Pohl to unforgettably skewer them in his 1966 story “Day Million”: “Who the hell wants to read about a couple of queers?” (That may be a misquote, as my cat Hillary is asleep in my lap, and I don’t want to disturb her just to walk to my Pohl shelf, but I bet I’ve got it right; it’s that sort of sentence.) And so Delany keeps right on pushing those buttons, and adding new buttons and pushing them, harder and harder.

He’s telling us, insistently, something about ourselves, and—unsurprisingly—that doesn’t always go over very well. Much easier just to talk about the early work, that was published when Chip, and we, were young.

Ellen Datlow

But his early work was quite open and transgressive about sex (“Aye, and Gomorrah…” and Dhalgren).

Gardner Dozois

I think for the purposes of this conversation, “early work” is shaking down to “pre-Dhalgren.” Certainly Dhalgren contained much more explicit
sex than anything that Delany had written up to that point.

Ellen Datlow

I only came to Delany with Dhalgren and “Aye, and Gomorrah…” so, to me they’re his “earlier” work.

Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

If I may be so bold as to jump in for a second, I’m struck by how Jo Walton’s review of Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders on <> in 2012 lines up with what Andy is saying about button-pushing:

Valley of the Nest of Spiders is a very good book. I cried at the end, not just standing water in my eyes but real choking sobs. And it’s great science fictional speculation. But my goodness it’s a difficult book to read. It’s as if Delany tried as hard as he possibly could to make it hard for me to enjoy.”

Early work contains explicit and transgressive sex, but I think not the extensive engagement with coprophagia and snot-eating reported in Spiders. Though we focus on these elements perhaps at our peril.

Gardner Dozois

I knew a woman who doggedly made her way through Dhalgren over a period of several years, and she reported that “after page 300, it gets really interesting.”

Brian Evenson

Yes, I agree with Andy, and agree as well with Jo Walton’s review: much of Chip’s more recent work is marvelous, but also very difficult to read.  I think if you don’t read through to the end, you just end up with the difficulty, rather than feeling like you’ve “undergone” something and come out of it to something quite rewarding. But of course that asks for a lot for readers, and asks too for us to share interests and obsessions that we might not share in our day to day lives. But I don’t mind sharing them for the length of a book, even a very long book….

Paul Di Filippo

Ah, Gardner, you forget Tides of Lust (1973), which prompts my own Delany story.

I had been reading Chip’s SF religiously and with great excitement up to 1973. My reactions to those early books pretty much mirror everything already said here.

Then I walked into a somewhat sleazy convenience store one day and on the spinner rack of mass-markets saw a mauve/lavender Lancer paperback, its otherwise unadorned cover bearing the title Tides of Lust and the Delany byline. How could I resist?

Talk about mind-blowing new directions for an author we all thought we knew! Here was the first hint of Chip’s capacious and roving mind-body quest. That book is a perfect little gem of its kind. If Dhalgren equals Little, BigTides of Lust equals Engine Summer. I imprinted on that book so hard, that decades later I had to write my response, A Mouthful of Tongues. Then, guess what? Having become friends with Chip, I dared to ask him for a blurb, which he kindly supplied.

Circle closed.

And oh yeah: someday ask Chip about the two times he and I read aloud simultaneously from his Atlantis, the segment where the page has dual columns. Now, that was a HAPPENING!

Michael Dirda

Do you think that Chip lost interest in commercial publishing after he entered academia? I wonder if his passion for ideas—for thinking brilliantly about literature and culture—led him ever deeper to into the seductive glades of theory, to the detriment of storyteling, in part because he was living in an environment that valued and rewarded such writing. Who, after all, is his audience these days? Many of his later books remind me of the philosophical pornography one associates with such French intellectuals as Georges Bataille, Maurice Blanchot, Pierre Klossowski and others.

Brian Evenson

I think it happened before that, Michael, that Chip was already well on the way to moving in his own direction by the time he took an academic job. It might have been just a way to support continuing to do what he wanted to do….

Russell Letson

SF has (as just about every history of the field written since, oh, 1970 acknowledges) had speculative or transgressive or mildly uncomfortable/unconventional dealings with sexuality (and even the Acts Themselves) at least since Farmer’s The Lovers and various bits of Sturgeon (and perhaps, outside the pulp borderlands, since Stapledon). Paul Di Filippo’s post indicates that Delany’s interest in sexual matters was always there, and I suspect that his increasingly open and/or challenging treatment of them is at least partly a result of a post-Sixties public environment that allowed such expressions without fear of engaging the Porn Police. I also suspect that this is distinct from the other part of his trajectory, into increasingly “difficult” or esoteric literary modes. (Not unlike Joyce’s trajectory from Dubliners to the Wake. Does that make Dhalgren Ulysses?)

The thing about transgressive art is that it is meant to be transgressive—not just teasing or faux-shocking (Ooh! He said “pee-pee”!) for an easily épaté’d bourgeoisie, but actually discomforting (or frightening or disorienting or disgusting). When I read that a book could not have been published ten or twenty years earlier because it’s transgressive, I am unlikely to be attracted to it. At my age, with my reading and life experience, with my imagination (educated by contemplation of the lovely 20th century), I don’t know that I need all that much transgressing-at, and I certainly don’t look to second-hand transgression as a leisure activity. If I find a work neither dulce nor utile, I’ll pass. I have become squeamish in my old age. I will never re-read Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon or Phil Farmer’s Image of the Beast. (I stopped reading horror decades ago.) As for the appeal of the difficult or avante-garde or merely knotty, that’s a matter of taste, for which famously there’s no accounting.

Ellen Datlow

Certainly, but those examples are exceptions.

Gardner Dozois

It may be that Delany’s interest in expressing sexual matters in his work was always there, but that he couldn’t get away with publishing it, in an A-list trade book, much before Dhalgren, just as Heinlein’s interest in sex was clearly always there, but he couldn’t get away with putting much of it into his books before the publishing environment had changed (and perhaps until he’d become enough of a bestselling author that he could refuse to cut it from the text and get away with it). People don’t remember how prudish a field SF was, for the most part (with an occasional exception, like Farmer’s famously controversial “The Lovers”) until well into the late ’60s/early ’70s, when even mentioning that characters had had sex was frowned upon, and DESCRIBING it in any sort of detail was completely beyond the pale (as was using “dirty words”), but I started publishing in the mid-’60s, and had been submitting manuscripts for some years before that, and I remember it. Fred Pohl went through my first published story and careful changed every “damn” to “darn,” for instance. The “dirtiest” SF book I’d ever read up to about 1965 or so, the one with the most explicit sexual content, was Edgar Pangborn’s Davy—which carried an enthusiastic blurb from Heinlein.

F. Brett Cox

An interesting discussion; sorry I’m coming late to it. A few observations, mostly echoing what others have already said.

My initiation into SF was, like many, via Heinlein/Asimov/Clarke/Bradbury, but that all blew wide open when I read Dangerous Visions at an impressionable age. That book contained “Aye, and Gomorrah…”, which was my first encounter with Delany. After that, I devoured his work, along with that of the other “New Wave” writers, especially Delany’s own glimmer twin Roger Zelazny. I confess I’m not as well-read in his later work as I should be.

Those early, richly literate works pointed me in a direction I wanted to golike Karen, I was astonished that SF could Do That. Much, much later, encountering Delany’s criticism was an equally liberating experience. And ditto to Andy’s praise of The Motion of Light in Water, one of the best literary memoirs I’ve ever read.

As for sex, and pre/post-Dhalgren, and all that: I’ve taught “Aye, and Gomorrah…” more than once, and I continue to be astonished at its power to unsettle my students. Lord knows how they’d react to the later, more explicit work. But it seems to me that early vs. later Delany isn’t so much a matter of shorter vs. longer or less explicit vs. more explicit. It’s a matter of an artist at different stages of his career. The differences among, say, The Einstein Intersection and Stars in My Pockets Like Grains of Sand and Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders isn’t that the second is a more fully developed work than the first or that the third may (I confess I haven’t read it yet) contain passages God would not touch wearing latex gloves. The difference is that the first was written by someone in his twenties, the second by someone in his forties, and the third by someone in his sixties. I would hope that three such different periods of life would produce three very different books.

Ditto also to those who have spoken of Delany’s staggering erudition, warmth, and good humor, which I’ve experienced on convention panels (as both audience and participant) and, happily, less formal conversation. How has Delany influenced us? Ask the well-established-in-his-own-right writer who, upon meeting Chip for the first time, automatically addressed him as “Mr. Delany” and shyly asked if he could take a selfie of the two of them. Ask my academic colleagues who respond with vague politeness when I mention my writing of, and about, SF, but zero in when I cite Samuel R. Delany. Get in a time machine and go back to the kid buying the Quark anthologies off a spinner rack in a small-town drugstore (oh, if They only knew…) and tell him that one day in the far future he’ll be asked to write about Chip Delany on a world-wide communications web, and check out the expression on his face.

Rich Horton

>Dhalgren may be one of a very small category of books where you must read them young (I did) but you can’t read them young. The impact received by a teen is not the impact delivered, and later, too many other things intervene. I remember being blown away, but am not sure now how that took place and it didn’t leave footprints, only a lingering aura.

I think I may agree…. I read Dhalgren at perhaps the right age…. I was 15 or 16 when it appeared and I read it right away, and I thought it very cool but I knew I didn’t really get it. And it’s never really grown in my memory.

I did read Triton with enjoyment, and I liked parts of the Neveryon books quite a lot. I confess I didn’t have the stomach to try some of the erotica… very likely my loss.

But the earlier work… it is simply beyond wonderful. For me perhaps the short stories in Driftglass… perhaps especially the somewhat neglected “The Star Pit”… are the peak. (Not to denigrate famouser stuff like “Aye, and Gomorrah…” and “Time Considered…”.)

And Nova is one of my favorite SF novels ever, a delight from beginning to not quite end.

I’ve never met Delany (having only come to conventions somewhat late, and even now only to Midwest conventions), but just reading him he seems like about the nicest person in the world.

I vow to read some of the later booksThe Motion of Light in Water sounds like something I really must read. If I do wish he would want
to write something more in the vein of Nova these days I also recognize that that’s unfairhe needs to write what he is ready to write, not what we want.

And, too, totally on a tangent, I’d have never read Marilyn Hacker’s poetry had I not recognized her name as Delany’s ex-wife… and that in itself was very rewarding.

Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

Self-centeredly, I’d like to ask if anyone in the group has words on Delany’s Heavenly Breakfast. It happens to have been my first Delany; I discovered it by accident when I was fifteen or so. In retrospect, I’m glad things worked out that way, since the writing was accessible and it introduced me to Delany’s life and thought in a pretty straightforward, compact way. That helped inspire in me the sort of reading confidence that would come in handy when tackling some of the longer, tougher works.

Karen Joy Fowler

I have to confess I have never read it, Alvaro.

Stefan Dziemianowicz

I’ve not been contributing to this discussion, as I have not read Delany iner, uh40+ years. But I was compelled by all of the scintillating insights to dig out my (mass-market–remember them?) paperback of Driftglass, which now goes to the top of my “to be (re)read” pile. May those knights (and knightesses) outside of this Roundtable do the same. Time travel paradox notwithstanding, I cannot wait to see what my 56-year-old self makes of the stories that my 14-year-old self (14 to 17 seems to be the Golden Age for reading Delany in this group) thought were the next best thing to sliced-white Ellison.

First printing: November 1971. My paperback is the 4th printing. Clearly, Chip was reaching a bigger audience than just SF readers back then. Or else Signet was clueless about how to market genre writers, but was hopeful. (Very probable.)

Coverline on front panel: “A dazzling journey to the world BEYOND 2001.” Evidence that 40-something years ago, they had no idea how to market Chip except in terms of what was break-out popular at the time.

Brian Evenson

I think Heavenly Breakfast is a great place to start, Alvaro. It’s frank about Delany’s sexual life and his participation in alternative communities without being explicit. It gives you ways of understanding productively those communities when they appear in Dhalgren. It’s clear and very focused, and concise, and does a remarkable job introducing even the initiated to commune life in New York City over the course of a year. It’s a good stepping stone, too, to the excellent autobiography that Andy mentioned, The Motion of Light in Water. And you can read some of what’s said about community and music back into the earlier SF books. Plus, it gives you, too, an understanding of how Delany seems sexually open communities that redirects your sense of what’s going on in Hogg and other of the difficult literary books slightly. It’s definitely a great thing to start with.

Roundtable on “Planetary Writing” and SF in 2014

In The Economist‘s recent “The World in 2014″ issue, Jonathan Ledgard writes:

“Dystopian literature will lose out to more optimistic fare in 2014. In part this shift is attributable to readers’ fatigue with mutant, vampire and (particularly) zombie stories. Mostly, though, it reflects a move in the popular consciousness from civilisational angst to the question of preserving biodiversity.”

Later, Ledgard concludes, “2014 will mark the rise of planetary writing: high literature which will seek a truer perspective of man’s place in time and space.”

Is Mr. Ledgard right? Why? Will we really see a decline in the types of stories he identifies? What does “planetary writing” make you think of, anyway?

Cecelia Holland

Stan Robinson does planetary writing, and one of his finest qualities is his profound optimism.

Michael Dirda

“Civilisational angst,” “biodiversity,” “planetary writing”–oh, come on, it’s hard to sound more pretentious. And when hasn’t “high literature” sought a truer perspective on “man’s place in time and space”?

Siobhan Carroll

I think I recognize the terms the article is using. “Planetary” is a popular term in discussions of global circulations. Whereas “globalization” emphasizes human control, the word “planetary” acknowledges human smallness in the face of vast natural forces. (Think a more environmentally-minded critique of globalization and neo-imperialism.) So, if I had to guess what “planetary writing” was, I’d look at texts like Paolo Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl. And I’d be looking for two things:

1) Characters whose identity is created outside “traditional” categories like the nation, and emerges from new technologies and mobilities (in The Windup Girl, the windup girl, the refugees, and the ex-pats).

2) A natural setting that menaces or otherwise overwhelms the human forces in the foreground (the environmental deterioration in The Windup Girl and Ship Breaker).

Such visions are different from the Orwellian dystopia. Both 1984 and The Hunger Games imagine the dark future of old identity categories (Cold War superpowers, the USA) and their image of nature is of a pure, almost friendly force that offers the protagonist a refuge from the Nasty Human Society.

But I disagree with Ledgard that there’s necessarily a difference between dystopian and planetary writing: all the examples I can think of, like The Windup Girl, would also qualify as dystopian fiction. Maybe there’s some I’m not considering? Read more »

Interview with Nancy Kress and Jack Skillingstead

Here’s one final interview from ICON 38, with two guests of honor, Nancy Kress and Jack Skillingstead.

[Alvaro Zinos-Amaro] What’s been the high point of ICON 38 for you?

[Jack Skillingstead] I liked DreamCon, the workshop for high school and college students. It was fun sitting there talking to the students. I also liked getting to know Ellen Datlow better. I’vet met her a few times, but hadn’t spent a lot of time talking to her.

[Nancy Kress] The high point of this convention was pretty much what it always is, which is hanging around talking to people: friends in the bar, in restaurants, and on panels. And I also enjoyed my kaffeklatsche. I had a really responsive group of people. It wasn’t just me talking. There was a real give-and-take. I enjoyed talking to Jim Hines, whom I’d never met before. I think it’s been a successful convention!

[AZA] Both of you had readings at this convention. How do you select what you’re going to read? Is it always just the latest story or novel? Does it depend on the audience?

[NK] I try to read something that hasn’t come out yet, if I have it, in the theory that I’m trying it out, and that people might then be interested in looking for it. So I read something that was coming out the day after the reading, the opening to my novella “Annabel Lee,” from my Stellar Guild team-up with Therese Pieczynski, New Under the Sun.

[JS] I usually try to read something that’s current. All summer I’ve been reading bits from Life on the Preservation, the novel version, because that’s the one that’s out, and that’s the one I’d like to encourage people to buy.

[AZA] But in your reading you went with the short story “Everyone Bleeds Through.”

[JS] Right. I was sort of tired of reading the same opening chapter from the novel. I wanted to read something that was complete, which would mean a short story. And I knew I had a few in my collection that I could read in a single sitting. I picked one that Nancy happens to like.

[NK] It’s one of my favorites of his stories.

[JS] I like some of my other stories a little bit more, but they’re longer.

[AZA] So for you, Nancy, that it’s a standalone piece isn’t a requirement? You just find a natural breaking point?

[NK] When I read for a whole hour, I try to pick something I can read all of. But I don’t write things short enough to read in half an hour. Read more »

Interview with Joe Haldeman

Last month I had the pleasure of attending ICON 38, Iowa’s long-running science fiction convention. After closing ceremonies, I sat down with SFWA Grand Master and ICON co-founder Joe Haldeman, and his wife Gay, and asked him some questions.

[Alvaro Zinos-Amaro] How has ICON changed over the last 38 years? Has it changed?

[Joe Haldeman] It has. Oddly enough, not the people. The people are the same. But it’s much bigger. And fandom has changed around it. To my mind, there’s less conventional fandom and more new kinds of stuff which holds less interest for me. And I guess our basic thing is, we come here to see all of our old buddies, which is true of most regional conventions, I think, for us. It’s always wonderful to get back to Iowa because the years we spent here were among our best.

[AZA] From when to when were you in Iowa?

[JH] It was ’73 to ’77. Basically, that covered the period when The Forever War came out, and I went from being an unknown writer to a well-known writer. Iowa City is such a literary town. The University of Iowa, the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, traditionally does not like science fiction. In fact, for most of the time it has existed, it has hated science fiction. Right now, it’s not so bad. But when I was here it was a great embarrassment to the workshop that I was a famous science fiction writer. It was ironic. The head of the department at the time wondered how I was earning larger advances than he was. I mean, he was literary, and I was just a guy who wrote that rocket ship stuff.

[AZA] What would you say is the best memory you have from this or any con?

[JH] You know, most of the best memories I have are writer memories rather than convention memories. We went to cons from 1963 on, but that’s only a couple of years before I became a writer. I have interesting memories from our immature period as mere fans. Like one time, after just returning from Vietnam, I was sitting in a room party, and someone bumped against a table and a full bottle of liquor almost fell on Robert Silverberg’s head. But I snatched it out of the air, because I had my combat reflexes. I saved Bob Silverberg from a nasty cut, and I don’t think he ever knew that.

[AZA] Well, he will now. Do you remember where that was?

[JH] Washington D.C., Disclave ’74.

[AZA] Is there anyone in science fiction you wished you would have met but never got around to meeting? And if so, why that person?

[JH] I met Edmond Hamilton once or twice, and he was a giant. I wished I would have known him better. Of the old guard, the one who affected me most as a writer was Olaf Stapledon. The first science fiction book I read after I knew I was going to be a writer that really blew me away was Last and First Men. I thought, “What a huge, monumental book.” A great book, and a long one. So I guess Olaf Stapledon would be one of the people I wished I’d met. Another would be Philip Wylie. But I think more than that, there were people who I did meet who I’d like to have spent more time with. I’d love to have been a friend of Heinlein back in the 60s. I could have met him then. I was around. I didn’t meet him until 1975. By that time he was getting pretty old.

[AZA] Moving now from the past to the future, how do you think your life will change when you retire?

[JH] I like to see it in terms of freedom. I enjoyed teaching. I enjoyed it enough to do it for thirty years. But it’s always hanging over you, like a lightweight, not-too-severely-sharpened pocket-knife of Damocles. It’s always there, you know. You can’t make long-range plans without thinking, “Oh, but in the fall my time is not my own.” The idea that I will be able to go a full year, and then another year, and then another year after that without any classrooms, without any grade sheets, is amazing. You have to be seventy years old to find your freedom—in a very subdued and ironic way that’s true. But it’s not as if teaching was a total destruction of my time. I should compute this, but I believe that in the 30 years that I’ve been teaching, I’ve written 20 books. So you can’t say I’ve had my hands tied. I’m not retiring from writing. The main reason for retiring from teaching is so I have more time to write.  When you’re seventy you have to admit to yourself you’re an old man, and you have to ask yourself, “How do I wish to spend my remaining time?” In my case, I want to write. Others can teach.

[AZA] Speaking of writing, how did your forthcoming novel Work Done for Hire come about? Read more »

Roundtable of Farewell

Karen Burnham

I wanted to let you all know that I’m going to be stepping down from managing the Locus Roundtable blog. I’ve got a second little person on the way, and too many commitments and not enough time. Luckily, Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, whom many of you know, will be stepping in to take over. I look forward to seeing what he does with the site!

I want to thank Locus and especially Liza for giving me this forum to play with for the last three years (an eternity in internet time!) I’m very proud of some of the pieces we’ve run and the conversations we’ve had. And many thanks to all of you! The Roundtables could sometimes be a pain to put together for the website, but they were also the most fun and rewarding parts of the job. Thanks very much!

As a final Roundtable, I’d like to indulge my shameless preference for promotion and ask you all: taking the long view, what is making you feel optimistic about the future of science fiction these days? What have you read/watched/listened to recently that is awesome, what new writers should be all be watching?

{Let’s take it as read that I received many messages wishing me well, thanking me for three years of service, and expressing “children, especially children who are taught to love reading, are the future” sentiments. Following are some of the less me-centric responses!}

Russell Letson

To answer the question about reasons to be cheerful about the state of SF: After (pauses to count on fingers and toes) 53 years of reading and 30-some of reviewing the genre, it still provides amusement and provokes thought and expands and shapes my picture of our place among the infinities. The longitudinal conversation remains interesting and reasonably coherent–the matter of Wells and Stapledon is still part of it, even among writers who don’t realize who started the discussion. I’m not the one to ask about hot new writers, though–I’m the guy who came to Alastair Reynolds three books along and to Iain M. Banks’ Culture novels 21 years after the first one. But, hey, somebody has to be derrière-garde.

Siobhan Carroll

Personally I’m most excited about the recent infusion of postcolonial storytelling into speculative fiction. Works like Nnedi Okorafor’s Who Fears Death de-center not only traditional SF settings but also the genre’s boundaries. And thanks to Kickstarter anthologies like We See a Different Frontier and Mothership, we’re hearing more from voices that, a few decades ago, would have had a hard time gaining international visibility. I think this diversifying of SF can only improve the genre.

More immediately, in my SF reading this year I’d say I continue to be very impressed with the work that SF workshop graduates put out. Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice is amazing! If you’d told me at the beginning of the year that I’d get hooked on the troubled life of a crippled, vengeance-seeking AI , I wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. But now I do! And I’m better for it.

Cassandra Rose Clarke’s melancholy The Mad Scientist’s Daughter also caught my interest this year. I wouldn’t say that the entire novel worked for me, but it’s lovely and striking. It also manages to merge the tropes of robot fiction and the coming-of-age story in a way I hadn’t seen before, proving that there’s life in those old Asimovian bones yet.

I’ll also do a shout-out to authors like Ben Winters, who are blurring the boundaries between genres. Winters’ The Last Policeman series, about a rookie detective trying to solve crimes in the days leading up to an asteroid collision, manages to transcend the boundaries of both science fiction and mystery. It’s a great read, and book one in particular is a powerful novel for any genre, I think.

Short version: there’s lots of great stuff out there. And not nearly enough time to read it!

Michael Dirda

People need stories. Science fiction writers tell many of the best stories. Therefore, people will continue to want science fiction stories. So, nothing to worry about.

In a related vein: Science fiction is becoming more and more a part of the curriculum in high school and college. So the greatest works in the field are entering the canon. When kids read a “school classic” such as “The Martian Chronicles” some of them will be enthralled enough to search out other books about Mars and will go on to Burroughs and Bisson and Robinson.

Of course, those books may be e-texts or pixels on a screen–not my idea of reading, but that’s only because of my fetishizing of the book as an artifact or even an objet d’art. But, as I began, people will always need stories . . .

Read more »

Roundtable on the Zen of Organizing Books

One last spin-off from yesterday’s discussion on organizing books

Jonathan Strahan

It probably says something deeply disturbing about me, but there is something incredibly satisfying, almost on at a DNA level, about putting books in their place. When I finally amalgamated a lot of shelves and for the first time all thirteen volumes of The Collected Stories of Theodore Sturgeon sat together I felt a zen-like calm descend on me, settling something that I hadn’t even known had been bothering me since 1997.

Gary K. Wolfe

Um, bookcases as Zen gardens? Do you rake them into pleasing patterns from time to time?

Ellen Datlow

I worked part time as a librarian at SUNY at Albany as an undergrad. I loved putting books into their proper places. I still do it when I see them in stores misfiled. It drives me crazy to see books out of order (except in my own apt).

Cat Rambo

Having worked in many a bookstore, I find myself frequently rearranging or tidying up shelves when shopping in one.

Russell Letson

Don’t know about Zen gardens, but there is something very satisfying about expressing order through storage/display schemes. When I was quite young, most of my hoard of books could fit into a single foot-long desktop shelf my father built for me. I had bought my first paperback in sixth grade, a Cardinal edition of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and I gradually added other, mostly fantastic or mystery paperbacks, found through the TAB Book Club pages of My Weekly Reader. I would fiddle around with various ways of arranging them. At that time, different publishers’s lines had different-colored edges–yellow, red, blue–in addition to the two sizes (Pockets were short, Signets were tall, Bantams could be either, depending on how old they were), and I remember lining them up according to size or edge color. (One categorical matter not expressed directly in shelving was price–$.25 vs $.35 books. Only when I started mowing lawns to supplement my allowance did that distinction begin to matter less. Sometimes I even alphabetized them, but that lacked decorative élan.

Karen Burnham

On the Zen Garden front: several years ago I was on a business trip to Lincoln Labs in Massachusetts. It was my first time presenting to a room full of not-my-co-worker engineers, and I sort of muffed it. (Froze for a minute at the beginning of the talk. It was probably only 20 seconds of dead air, but it felt like 20 minutes. Only time I’ve ever frozen up like that.) After the meeting, I went up to visit my brother and his wife in Maine. He’d just finished building shelves into a spare room to make a library room. As they were turning in, and I was still rattled so I asked “Do you mind if I organize your library?” My brother looked at me like I was insane, and his wife looked thrilled, so I spent three very happy hours alphabetizing his collection. He had some good stuff, including some early 50s editions of Bester. It was all very therapeutic.

Roundtable on the Theory of Organizing Books

Following on from yesterday’s discussion on organizing books

John Clute

There was a Readercon panel this year — inspired by a very good panel at WFC in Toronto — about building a collection in a way both organizes its contents and makes those contents accessible as a presentation, as a kind of body English, of the meaning of those contents.

Any non-alphabetic organization of authors — ie sorting books by size (a la Harlan Ellison), publisher, date, place of publication, whether or not the book has been read yet, etc — needs, ideally, a book list/catalogue taggable with the location of each book.

And on and on it can go.

Paul Graham Raven

In an ideal world (one in which I’d had a little more free time of late), my fiction collection would be organised by format, then author or editor, then chronologically by title. My non-fiction collection, currently still in boxes in my mother’s spare room, used to be organised by a rough equivalent to the Dewey system, because working in libraries encouraged my inner taxonomist a little too much.

John Clute

I tried Dewey once, but as it is only of any earthly use above 100,000 or so volumes, gave up real fast. In any case it has a Utopian arbitrariness that is neither intuitive nor flexible. The worst thing one can say about a system of ordering books (or anything) is that you’ve got to memorize it before you can use it. Proper ordering systems must allow new users some chance of guessing right…

Mark Kelly

As I recall, the master library at Locus HQ in Oakland, which I visited (and slept in) several times before Charles Brown died, was arranged by author and then alphabetically, not chronologically. I follow a similar pattern as Locus HQ in integrating annual updates into the main collection.

Alas, my main library in the former dining room is filled to capacity, and in order to integrate the past couple years’ books, I have had to cull books that I’ve supposed I am never likely to read and that I’ve doubted will ever be collectable, and have consigned them to shelves in the laundry room or boxes in the garage. I haven’t found a useful/remunerative method of disposing of these yet. (Fran suggested eBay.)

I have many other books I suppose I will never get around to reading, but might be collectable, and these remain in the main collection. When anyone — including my partner — asks, I assure them that their value in the long run, should I get hit by the proverbial bus, will be worth having kept them around. The first editions of GRRM’s Song of Ice and Fire novels, for instance.

John Clute

Mark: The problem with Charles Brown’s alphabetical-within-author sort (it is a problem shared by lots of professional libraries, like the Merril Collection in Toronto) is its failure to deal with series, which is to say its failure to deal with maybe most of the books published in the past decade or so. The alphabetical order of stacking, which is to say spread over a total array of titles comprising maybe 40 volumes, for Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun is 4, 2,1,3. (My own chronological-within-author is more complicated than that might seem, but intuitive to (my) eye: series instalments follow directly upon the first volume, which itself fits chronologically into the whole. Doesn’t always work, natch, but is a move towards a shelf being a body English of the corpus.)

Noting something pretty obvious here: that the more transparent (ie arguable in principle) a sorting is, the more hidden the owner: except for the kind of default fact that the owner is a geek. And the more NARRATOLOGICAL the sort, the more the owner is exposed to MERCILESS SCRUTINY.

Mark Kelly

John: Yes, the issue of sorting or listing series titles on shelves or in bibliographies is a vexing one; I’ve never cared for the bibliographic rules (those that SFE and ISFDB follow) that put ‘series’ titles in a separate section from ‘novels’, as if the components of series aren’t novels (or collections, sometimes; whatever). Thus a bibliographic view I’m beginning to roll out on, not actually yet formally announced or linked, that puts awards and other data in the context of a basic bibliography, where that bibliography aligns series to novels in a two-dimensional grid – the one example posted so far is Tim Powers. A draft page. I developed this format because I want to see a chronological list of an author’s novels, all the novels, first, with alignment to series secondary. Note the show/hide JavaScript link.

John Clute

Mark: Yeah, sorting by series in the SFE is not a free lunch, clarity-wise, and maybe one day, when a higher proportion of the bulk of the main job is wholly wholly wholly in hand, will provide a pure chronological sort. No space problem here, it could be a CHRONOLOGY LINK; but by no means a cut and paste.

In fact, for the first six months or so, did list chronologically. Reasons for breaking into series were partly to follow authors’ (and publishers’) intentions, and partly because of the hellish jumble created in the Comment Field when I (as I needed to) indicated series connections.

Will look at your model with interest and (because of the work involved if it turns out irresistible) deep apprehension.

Roundtable on Organizing Books

How do you organize your bookshelves? To Be Read piles? Are they alphabetized? If you’re like me and can only dream of having organized bookshelves at the moment, how would you organize them if you had the time? How about magazines?

Stacie Hanes

They’re grouped by subject. I wish I had the time and space for full LOC organization. I don’t have the space to hang on to magazines.

Elizabeth Hand

The bookshelves in our house are arranged immaculately, because they’re arranged by John [Clute] — all fiction, alphabetical according to author, then chronologically for each author. An encyclopedist’s dream!

However, all the reference books are where I work at Tooley Cottage. That library is much more organic (read: chaotic) and arranged (sort of) by subject matter. So Ancient Greece is on one shelf, Ancient British Isles on another; books about punk and rock & roll, ancient ritual, folklore, theater, poisonous plants, photography, etc. I have a stack of classic ghost story anthologies by the bed. A few much-loved novels are stuck alongside myriad books on natural history. Books related to whatever project I’m currently working on tend to be in stacks around the cottage. Biographies are on shelves above my desk — there are too many books piled there, and I’m afraid that one day they’ll fall on top of me. This happened once some years ago, and gave me a mild concussion. File under Occupational Hazards, Writers.

Ellen Datlow

The fiction has been separated into genre and non-genre and is alphabetical (when overlap, wherever I first shelved the author), anthologies in a separate area, non-fiction (not much of it) separately and not alphabetized, Art books in another area (not in any order). But alas, most of my books are in non-organized piles on the floor in my back room (aka library) and living room. Those will at some point go into storage lockers where total chaos reigns. And I wish I had a system by which I knew what I have and where they are but I don’t. No time, no space.

Jeffrey Ford

I don’t have a system for my books and there are a lot of them, thousands for sure. In the room I write in, most of them are on the shelves but there are also a couple of stacks on the floor. In addition to these, there are little caches around the house, pretty much in every room. Their arrangment is willy nilly — whatever gets put on the shelf at whatever point for whatever reason, usually proximity as dictated by laziness. I like hunting books down, searching for them, relying on my memory, which used to be better. In searching for a book, I make all kinds of discoveries, sometimes books I’d all but forgotten. It’s good to see them again, and I think about them in a new light.

On the shelf next to me, for instance, the first five books in a row are The Gourmet Club by Tanizaki, Things Will Never Be the Same by Howard Waldrop, The Complete Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen, a biography of Jean Luc Goddard, and Viriconium by M. John Harrison. When I look at them, I think, what a great guest list of characters and authors for a dinner party. I think about aspects of the ones I’ve read and the ideas mix together. I wonder about the ones I’ve not yet gotten to. In another place the bio of Thelonius Monk sits next to the Encyclopedia of Imaginary Places, and I have a vision of Monk playing his piano in The Vampire City.

There are times when a book I’m looking for eludes me for months, and it seems that when I’m not watching, volumes migrate around the shelves. They travel at night or when I’m out taking a walk. There’s this one mass market paperback I bought years ago, The Wandering Unicorn by Manuel Lainez that does a lot of wandering from one shelf to another. I’ve run into it on just about every book case only within the last year and spotted it once in the downstairs bathroom. It’s not a book I like or even finished. Even with an intro by Borges, it’s the most boring adventure story ever. At one point I thought I might have two copies of it but I’ve never been able to corroborate that, and I hate to think I’d bought it twice. If everything was catlaogued and I knew exactly where to find it, it would make finding them a lot easier, but it wouldn’t be half as much fun.
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Five Golden Things — Eileen Gunn

Five SF stories about Linotype machines

We don’t see much science-fiction about Linotype machines any more, and it’s easy to forget how radically those big, noisy heffalumps changed the world. Their invention in 1886 spawned publishing’s industrial revolution, and the machines remained pretty much the same over the entire 20th century, even as they were being superseded, first by phototypesetting and then by digital type.

The Linotype and its operators (a rowdy, hard-drinking bunch, at least in legend) had a mystique, and the individual machines had personalities. They had good days and bad days. On a bad day, the operator had to dodge streams of hot lead that could shoot out of a temperamental machine with little warning. On a good day, the operator and the machine got into a rhythm: they became a sort of cyborg. It was kind of a marriage, for certain values of marriage, and the romance was not lost on early SF writers, some of whom had indeed been Linotype operators.

  • “Etaoin Shrdlu” by Fredric Brown (Unknown Worlds, 1942) Major Linotype neepery here, including slugs, minion molds, hoppers full of dead metal, and air-express packages from Mergenthaler, plus a sentient, politically aware typesetting machine, a couple of besozzled typesetters, and a load of patented Fredric-Brown wick-wackery. What can I say? The man loved Linotype machines.
  • “The Angelic Angleworm” by Fredric Brown (Unknown Worlds, 1943) Brown stretches a paper-thin idea to an extraordinary shaggy-dog length, but the protagonist’s appearance before the Head Compositor in Heaven is worth the wait.
  • “The Devil, You Say?” by Charles Beaumont (Amazing Stories, 1951) A suicidal newspaper editor, a mysterious stranger, a number of fortuitous disasters, and a preternatural Linotype machine! Too obvious? Aw, cut the guy some slack — it was the talented Beaumont’s first short story, and he turned it into a popular Twilight Zone episode.
  • “Behind the News,” by Jack Finney (Good Housekeeping, 1952) A classic Finney story, in which an ur-slacker who edits a small town weekly feeds meteor metal into his Linotype and inadvertently turns fiction into fact. Wonderful for said editor’s parody of ’40s newspaper prose as he tortures small-town politicos and learns to temper satire with believability.
  • “Son of ETAOIN SHRDLU: More Adventures in Type and Space,” by Sharon N. Farber, Susanna Jacobson, James Killus and Dave Stout. (Asimov’s SF Magazine, 1981) A short sequel to the Fredric Brown story, of which John Clute writes, in the SF Encyclopedia, that this was Killus’s first published genre story, and his subsequent stories were “more ambitious than this initial vignette.”

The flow of Linotype stories has slowed, but has not dried up completely. Inspired in the course of putting together this list, I fired up the old composing machine and produced “Face Value,” a brief homage to the immortal Fredric Brown, which appeared in the Readercon 24 souvenir book in July. And Linotype Gmbh, a few generations downstream from hot metal and now a marketer of digital typefaces, has returned the compliment to science fiction, with a special offer of five digital fonts.

Eileen Gunn is a writer and editor. Her short stories have been published in magazines and anthologies — Eclipse One, Wired, Hayakawa’s Sf Magazine, Nature, Asimov’s Magazine, and others around the world. Her fiction has received the Nebula award in the United States and the Sense of Gender award in Japan, and has been nominated for the Hugo, Philip K. Dick, and World Fantasy awards, and shortlisted for the James Tiptree. Jr. award.

Italcon 39: Before, During, and After: A Personal Perspective by Michael Bishop

An unexpected invitation

On February 12 of this year, Armando Corridore, owner and publisher of the firm Elara Libri in Bologna, Italy, e-mailed me an invitation to attend Italcon 39 – “the annual Italian congress of fantastic literature” – as its sole American literary guest.

Armando explained that the convention would be held in Bellaria, “a quiet seaside town on the Adriatic coast,” from May 23 – May 26. It would run simultaneously with the 27th Italian Star Trek convention and the annual meetings of Italy’s Star Wars and Doctor Who clubs.

Armando declared that most aficionados of “fantastic storytelling in literature and other media” regard this joint convention as their major event of the year. He said that my friends and colleagues Paul Di Filippo and David Gerrold had served as special guests at Italcon 38 and that these joint conventions would foot all travel, lodging, and meal costs for me and my wife, Jeri.

Talk about an offer a guy can’t refuse.

Still, I hesitated. We had a trip to Puerto Rico planned for early June, mere days after our scheduled return from this Italian jaunt… if we accepted it. Also, as a less than prolific (of late, at least) science-fiction writer with no Italian and no easily available new book to shill for, what sort of guest would I make?

Bedeviled by such thoughts, I asked Jeri if she wanted to go. “Of course,” she said from her laptop across the hall. “Why wouldn’t I?” Thus chided, I e-mailed Armando back expressing amazement, gratitude, and excitement. I also asked if he could consent to our flying in a few days ahead of the convention.

I stressed that until the SF-related festivities actually began, we would pay for our own bed and board. We had never visited Italy before and wanted to take this chance to see a little of his lovely country – beyond, that is, the poster-hung walls of the convention center in Bellaria.

Armando said that this was no problem. He would obtain a quality room for us in Bologna – our pre-convention base of operations – at a discounted price and see to it that we flew to Catania, Sicily’s second largest city (behind Palermo, its capital), for two days after the event, just as our friends Paul Di Filippo and Deb Newton had done in 2012. He further told us that we could reach Venice, Florence, Verona, and Rome by train within forty minutes to a two and a half hours, depending on our selected destination, and return the same evening to Bologna to sleep.

Bologna and Florence

And so, as anyone but an irredeemable idiot would have, we accepted Armando’s invitation and eventually wound up – after flights from Atlanta to Amsterdam and from Amsterdam to Bologna – in northern Italy, in a bustling, history-laden city with the oldest university in Europe.

Indeed, we spent six nights there. Bologna has many fine ristoranti, trattorie, or osterie, and even more historical places to visit, nearly all accessible by foot from our hotel near the train station, if one doesn’t mind walking.

Jeri and I like to walk. We climbed over four hundred stairs in a bell tower called the Torre degli Asinelli, visited several good museums, including the Museo di Palazzo Poggi devoted to art, natural history, and medicine, and the Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna featuring work from the tenth century onward. Many of its paintings are huge in size, detailed, and breathtakingly executed.

On Sunday evening, May 19, Armando and his wife Rosa invited us to a concert at the Church of Santa Maria della Vita. Armando, who also composes music, had friends participating in this event, which featured a men’s chorale, the Schola Gregoriana, and a small orchestra, the Blumine Ensemble. The bold interspersing of Gregorian chants with striking modern compositions made for an unforgettable evening and a conspicuous high point of our time in the city.

The next day, we made a round-trip, high-speed rail journey to Florence, ruing the fact that the Uffizi Galleries and the venue showing Michelangelo’s original David were closed that day. (Unwisely, we had bought our tickets before learning that both places are ordinarily closed on Mondays.)

We also dealt with patchy showers, but still had a fine time, largely because, by prior arrangement, we rendezvoused with SF writer Luca Ortino and four of his friends for a classic Tuscan lunch: Walter Catalano and Gian Filippo Pizzo, writers and editors, and two brothers, Lucio and Vladimiro Noce. Two or three of these men at the Trattoria La Gratella on the Via Guelfa had read at least one Bishop novel in Italian translation – a happy but humbling discovery – and we wined and dined and chatted hilariously in their passing-good English and our pidgin-poor Italian.

Afterward, having already seen the Duomo and the Straw Market, we visited the Ponte Vecchio, the Palazzo Vecchio, and the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, a sculpture museum displaying early work of Michelangelo’s along with pieces by Giambologna (L ’Architettura), Giovanni Bandini (Bacchus with Barrel), Pietro Francavilla (Jason, or, in Italian, Giasone), and many others. In fact, our sightseeing exhausted us.

Bellaria and Italcon 39

As it turned out, our jaunt to Florence proved our only pre-convention venture away from Bologna. We used Tuesday to recover, and on Wednesday Armando’s friend Fabio Quarato drove Jeri and me to the Eden Hotel in Bellaria, where we had a first-floor room facing the Adriatic. (In Europe, “first floor” generally means the first storey above ground level.) Armando described Fabio’s contributions as “invaluable.”

We spent five and a half days in Bellaria, which is a delight to walk around in. Although we stayed in the Eden, a yellow building on the corner of a beachfront avenue and a street leading inland to the convention center (a walk of less than ten minutes), we took breakfast each morning in one of two hotels to the Eden’s right, the Hotel Piccadilly or the Hotel Foschi. All three have the same owners and shared employees.

Many convention attendees were Trekkies or Star Wars aficionados, and in the dealers’ room, Armando had an Elara Libri table beside that of Jeremy Bulloch, a British actor from the Star Wars franchise. Bulloch was selling photos of himself as Boba Fett in The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and other Star Wars memorabilia. He and wife Maureen proved altogether companionable people.

So did David Prowse, who had the table to Bulloch’s right. Famous as the actor who plays Darth Vader in the first Star Wars film, Prowse, now 78, walks with crutches but still exudes bulk, power, and facetious menace. He told us that he had just released a commercial edition of his autobiography, From the Force’s Mouth, replete with pictures, although not so many as in its self-published predecessor.

Working at the Elara Libri table were Armando’s wife, Rosa (who makes a to-die-for tiramisu), and two young women, Sabina and Francesca, each of whom occasionally acted for us as translators. One item on sale was an Italian edition of my Nebula Award-winning novelette “The Quickening,” a pamphlet titled Dislocazione (“Dislocation”). Its inside back cover depicts the first cover of the new Italian edition of Fantasy & Science Fiction, which Armando Corridore is editing for Elara Libri.

I signed 150 of these and hand-corrected a mistake on the copyright page stating that the story’s original English title was “The Changeling.” I crossed out “Changeling” and inked in “Quickening.” Earlier, Armando had threatened to destroy the entire edition and reprint it with a corrected copyright page. My penned changes, which he approved, kept him from having to act on that threat.

My two program sessions went fairly well, insofar as I could judge. In the first, on Friday afternoon, I had an hour in the main auditorium. Armando asked his questions in Italian, and Paolo Attivissimo, a journalist and translator, deftly turned the questions into English and translated my answers for our Italian audience. Laughter and nodding heads I interpreted as approval. Frowners I earnestly courted with moronic grins.

In the interview, I spoke of fiction writing as an amusing way of creating empathy in readers, I recounted a story about a ten-year-old boy who had told me he liked to read novels because they were the only place he could learn exactly what another person was thinking, and I took mild issue with a questioner’s assertion that New Wave writers of the 1960s were “angry” with their more popular predecessors.

On Sunday evening, I had a smaller session in a downstairs venue, and Armando asked his questions in English and then translated them and my answers into Italian. He did this adeptly, minus the show-biz flair of Paolo, who was busy translating upstairs for such Star Wars or Star Trek stalwarts as Jeremy Bulloch, Dave (“Darth Vader”) Prowse, Robert Picardo, and Robert Duncan McNeil.

In this intimate (i.e., ill-attended) session, I compared my novel Ancient of Days, which has no Italian edition, with a later book, Brittle Innings, which does. Both books, I explained, deal with outsiders – a whip-smart specimen of Homo habilis and an immortal quasi-human, respectively – struggling some 40 years apart to assert their humanity in two different manifestations of American society, neither of which wants to concede that ostensible honor.

Italcon 39’s artist guest was Maurizio Manzieri, and its featured Italian writers included Donato Altomare, Luigi Cozzi, Giuseppe Lippi, Gianfranco De Turris, Gianni Montanari, author of the new novel Ismaele (whose two parts are printed back to back and upside down as in the Ace Doubles of yore, but much more handsomely), and Ugo Malaguti, an editor at Elara as well as a writer.

In the same downstairs venue where I held forth on Ancient of Days and Brittle Innings, my friends Luca Ortino, Claudio Chillemi, Gian Filippo Pizzo, Walter Catalano, and Francesco Troccoli, among others, discussed recent Italian SF anthologies that they had edited or in which they had published stories, if not both. To show our support, Jeri and I sat in on these panels, but grokked little of what was said. Even so, the participants’ enthusiasm for these projects made itself abundantly clear.

The convention wound down on Sunday evening with a banquet in the top-floor restaurant of Bellaria’s convention center, an expansive circular room with a panoramic view of the town and the surrounding countryside. It concluded with a ceremony in the center’s main auditorium.

At the banquet, white-shirted waiters served us, as they had at every midday and evening meal since Thursday, and the centerpiece of the evening was a huge rectangular cake decorated with the faces of the special guests for 2013, those of the Star Trek and Star Wars actors across the top and those of featured artists and writers in a smaller tier below. My face shone in icing there along with Manzieri’s, Malaguti’s, and Montanari’s, etc. It was my first time being frosted without feeling anger or outrage. Folks crowded in to take pictures, and when the cake was cut, I admired Gianni Montanari for finagling the only slice that let him devour his own visage.

At the closing ceremony, the screen above the auditorium’s stage showed a series of funny video blackouts and then a tribute to Alberto Lisiero, who died on Jan. 2, 2013, at age 48. The founder of STIC (Star Trek Italian Club) twenty-seven years ago, Lisiero also organized many earlier editions of STICCON, which Claudio Chillemi defines as a “large multi-convention, with room for Italcon, this year number 39.” I never met Alberto Lisiero, but his video tribute revealed a bearlike, big-hearted, good-humored man with an enormous appetite for life and endless affection for the Star Trek worlds created so many decades ago by Gene Roddenberry.

When the video ended, everyone in the hall stood and applauded. The lights came up, disclosing his long-term partner Gabriella Cordone in the projection booth at the rear of the auditorium. Alberto and Gabriella had married about a year past, but had not been fortunate enough to live together long as husband and wife.

Applause built and built, all of it directed toward Alberto’s widow. It would not stop. Gabriella sought to dampen it with wistful “down, down” gestures, but it continued, and despite our never having known this couple, Jeri and I were moved by the remaining fans’ heartfelt – indeed, insistent – love for STIC’s late founder and for his gamely coping life-mate.

The applause finally ceased, as it had to, and the convention ended with people expressing their bittersweet joy dancing on stage to up-tempo music from the hall’s PA system. Jeri and I, worn out, said our fond goodbyes to everyone we could and walked back to the Hotel Eden holding hands.

The aftermath

Our stay in Italy concluded with two bonus days in and around Catania. With writer Claudio Chillemi and his wife Rosaria, both natives of Sicily, Jeri and I, along with Armando Corridore, took in many of the city’s main sites (Castello Normanno, Castello Ursino, the Teatro Greco-Romano, the fish market, etc.) and ate shameful quantities of tasty local food, including even the arancino (which Rosi called “Sicilian fast food,” although done nowhere else as well as in Catania).

On our final day, May 30, Claudio drove us up Mount Etna (Aetna, in English), where the view was even more eye-exploding than it had been from the battlements of the Castello Normanno on the Mediterranean coast in the village of Aci Catello. Along the way, in the town of Pedara, he showed us the Basilica di S. Caterina d’Alessandria, a building with ornamental facings made of black volcanic stone. He also bought us some cookies from a nearby shop in Pedara.

Near the summit, where the temperature was at least 25 degrees F. cooler than it had been at sea level, we joined a host of open-mouthed tourists in walking down into a crater that has been dormant for a couple of thousand years. I even got up the gumption to “ski” down the granulated black-lava slope in my hiking shoes and to climb back out by slogging up that same previously unmarked route.

On our way back down, we stopped at the Trattoria della Nonna (Grandma’s Café), a place we had virtually to ourselves. Here we ate a variety of vegetables and pasta and then some meat dishes that Jeri and I had to forego. At the end of the meal, Claudio, using his smart phone, put through a skype call to Paul Di Filippo in Providence, Rhode Island, and shared with us the almost surreal technological experience of allowing Paul to talk to us from the screen of his palm-held phone. Although by far the smallest human being in the room, Paul still stole the show.

Back in Catania, we visited the Castello Ursino, now a museum featuring statuary and paintings, and at length returned to the Hotel Bellini for some rest before meeting at 8:00 p.m. for a last supper together. This group included, in addition to Jeri and me, the Chillemis, Armando, Antonino Di Mari, Enrico Di Stefano and his daughter and a friend of his daughter’s, Francesco Spadaro and his wife Paola Porto, Fabio Viglianisi and his wife, and Salvo Toscano and his adult son, Luigi.

After striking out at our first restaurant (because it was holding a karaoke evening and we wanted to hear our conversations with one another), we wound up at the Taverna dei Conti (the Count’s Tavern), where fresh seafood was our company’s preferred fare and where Jeri and I, still replete from Grandma’s Café, picked like preschoolers at the exotic chitinous entrees set before us.

Talk ricocheted among us. Some of it centered on a literary contingent in Milan that objected to Italcon’s affiliation with the media phenomena powering its attendance figures. They also objected to news that Italcon 40 would return to Bellaria in 2014 with its links to its current movie and TV partners intact. Other talk centered on books, food, travel, and people, either present with us or absent or deceased.

Frankly, I could not stop thinking that we had a 7:00 A.M. flight to Rome to catch and that to make sure we arrived in time to obtain our boarding passes and clear security, Jeri and I must get up at 3:45. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. Something midnight-ish this way came, and came inexorably.

Weary and anxious, I excused myself, wove my way among the clearing tables, and stepped outside. The heat of the trattoria gave way to a soft sea breeze. During most of the day, Catania’s one-way streets display their character in the vehicles parked hood to trunk along both curbs, often with their same-side tires on the sidewalks. Traffic must negotiate these narrow defiles with agility and caution, although some drivers inevitably dare collision to get through. But that night, that late, the facing sidewalks and the street between them had just about cleared. I could walk the wheel-smoothed cobbles with no fear of a crazy motorist cutting me off at the knees.

Like the traffic, my head began to clear. I exulted in the vibrancy of this living Italian city and in this chance to reignite my burned-out nerve ends. Then I heard music, wheels rolling, and a pod of mostly youthful Catanians came sailing up the street toward me. They came on rollerblades, in three or four intermingled flights, maybe thirty skaters in all. Even the clumsiest had grace, even the clumsiest floated, and so did I, for this was Sicily, and at that instant I, too, was Sicilian….

 – Michael Bishop

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