Book Review: The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester

The other night I made the mistake of watching 2012. It was a dreadful movie*, of course, and although it's hard to pick the one thing that made it most unbearable, I think it was this: if I squinted hard enough at the screen, I could actually see the gears that made the plot go 'round.

When the answer to the question "Why did X just happen?" is "because the plot told it to," then you know you have a bad story on your hands. And for 2012, "because the plot said so" was the answer to every question. Every action of every character, every lurch of the plot, required a suspension of disbelief.

Generally speaking, you should not ask your viewers (or readers, since I'm trying to segue into a book review), to suspend their disbelief more than once or twice. In poetry they call it a conceit, but you get one, and you make it count by exploring it to its fullest. (Examples of conceits: poems written from the point of view of inanimate objects or animals. Or complex extended metaphors like John Donne's compass.)

In fantasy, this conceit is probably magic of some kind. In science fiction, the conceit is usually something like faster-than-light space travel or artificial intelligence or gobs of sentient species that we can actually communicate (and procreate) with (I'm looking at you, James Tiberius Kirk). And really, these three things are so commonplace in science fiction that unless you're writing the very hardest stuff, the kind that astrophysicists can read without screaming, then you can sometimes do all three without losing your reader. But if you're writing that kind of book (and there's nothing wrong with that kind of book, I love that kind of book) then you're probably not thinking too hard about the effect that all these conceits have on the world you're creating, other than to radically expand the dating pool. You just don't have the space.

But ideally--and I think this is observably true in most really good science fiction--you pick one crazy idea and you run with it. You chase it down every dark alley, you watch it play out over decades, you dissect it and put it under the microscope. If you can do this well--if you can really extrapolate the effects of, say, faster-than-light travel on society, in a way that feels honest and logical, then even the most scientifically-minded reader will probably forgive your liberties with physics. To my non-scientific mind, accurately recording the effects is far more important than manufacturing some pseudo-scientific explanation of the cause. Whatever it is, think it through.

And that is a long explanation of the best thing about Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination. (In fact I think that was the only reason I kept reading this book, because the characters were uniformly unpleasant.) Alfred Bester thinks it through.

The conceit is teleportation, which in the world of his book is called jaunting. The "science" is foggy, but he makes up for that by being rigorous in the way he carries it out. There are rules: it is not possible to jaunte more than 5000 miles in one go (or is it...?). You cannot jaunte someplace you have never seen before (seen in person: a glimpse through a window might do, but a photograph will not). Nearly everyone can jaunte, although it must be taught, and it requires some concentration.

Simple enough, but what's fascinating is the way he follows it to all its logical conclusions. What would happen to the poor slobs who just can't jaunte? What would teleportation do to the economy? How would it affect class, race, and gender relations? The crime rate would skyrocket, obviously--how would society deal with that? How do you imprison people who can teleport? He comes up with some really interesting answers to these questions. (The description of the jaunte-proof prison is particularly chilling.) The story is not about teleportation, but it takes place in a world where teleportation is possible, so its existence underwrites virtually every action--exactly the way cars and airplanes underwrite most facets of our lives. From the perspective of a writing geek, it's fascinating.

Which is good, because as I mentioned above, the characters aren't that gripping. It's a revenge story, centered around an anti-hero--murderer, thief, rapist, the works. He eventually grows a conscience, a development that I didn't find convincing or redeeming. Also, the story's multiple threads get tied up in a "one big explanation" chapter, wherein everyone conveniently finds themselves in the same room and All Is Revealed. I hate that. Oh yeah, and the chapter in which the hero undergoes a "mind expansion" of sorts involved some seriously trippy typesetting that got old fast.

So: read it for the beautiful title. Read it as a great example of thinking things through. Probably don't read it for the characters.

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*Actually, I'm surprised that it scored as high as it did on Rotten Tomatoes.

It's a little ironic that I can't think of a title for this one

There are many reasons I love science fiction, some of which I may blog about some time, but here's one of the big ones:

Science fiction, as a genre, is filled with fantastic titles. And I'm not just talking about cheesy gems like "Earth vs. the Flying Saucers," which, yes, is an actual movie, and yes, is a great way to pass a Saturday night. (Of particular note are the special effects, especially the scene in which the flying saucers destroy DC.)

No, I'm talking about the truly classic titles, the ones that roll off the tongue with the rhythm of a sonnet. I have read decided to read plenty of books on the basis of their beautiful titles alone--and most of them, for whatever reason, have been science fiction.

These are some of my favorites:

• Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein. (Weird book. Probably not the best intro to Heinlein.)
• The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester. This one has also been published as "Tiger! Tiger!", a reference to the William Blake poem. That title is probably more appropriate to the book, but I like the Stars better anyway. I just finished this book, actually, mostly because of the title, and when I can summon up the mental energy, I'll post a review.
• The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin
• The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Heinlein again--he really does get good ones.
• The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury. Or The Martian Chronicles. I like them both equally.
  
• The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams, while not as poetic as some of these others, is still pretty fantastic.
• A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
• I, Robot by Isaac Asimov. Brief, but like, totally deep, man. Ponder it.
  
• Stars In My Pocket Like Grains of Sand by Samuel R. Delany
• The Years of Rice & Salt by Kim Stanley Robinson
• The Nine Billion Names of God by Arthur C. Clarke

And, possibly the best of the bunch:

• Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. This is the story upon which Blade Runner was based. I guess the original title was too long to fit on the movie posters, but damn, Hollywood. Way to drop the ball.

Obviously, I get weak in the knees for overlong and overwrought titles.

Now I know the genre has a lot of utilitarian titles, and no doubt some truly unfortunate ones as well, but I've never met a mystery or romance or fantasy title that can compete with the above. (Granted, I'm not as well-read in those genres.) Also, I feel I should clarify: I have not read most of the books on this list, so my affection for the titles does not necessarily stem from an affection for the work itself. (Or in the case of Stranger in a Strange Land, I like the title in spite of the book.)

So: what are your favorite titles (science fiction or otherwise)?

Meanwhile, in an alternate life...

Singing along to: U2, No Line On the Horizon

At this moment, in this universe, I am not employed. Well, okay, technically I am not unemployed, but rather woefully underemployed. Still, I am unemployed in my chosen field. My chosen field, for the record, is: museums! Specifically (and this is a long-term career goal, here), I want to be the collections manager for an art museum. That is why I am currently a professional volunteer.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is: unemployment. At least in this universe, because we all know that there are billions of other, simultaneous alternate universes out there, universes in which reality is totally different from what we think of as real. Universes in which I have a job.

Now, I hope I'm a collections manager in one of those other universes, but just in case I'm not, here are some other jobs I would settle for:

Astronaut: I know, is this a cliche or what? I think this one is an inevitable byproduct of too much Ray Bradbury, a writer more in touch with his inner wide-eyed eight-year-old than any other. Still: he convinced me. I want to see the earth from above, I want to touch the surface of the moon, orbit Jupiter, walk in zero gravity. I also want to live in a universe in which the slightest stray lurch does not make me motion sick. I suppose it should also be a universe in which I'm good at math and science. Although I know, objectively, that working at NASA, even being an astronaut, is not much like the Golden Age of Science Fiction made it out to be, I still get a little sentimental every time I pass the exit for NASA/Goddard on my way down I-295.

Horse Breeder/Trainer/Olympic Three-Day Eventing Gold Medalist: This one's for my inner eight-year-old, because this is pretty much what I wanted to be from the age of four till about twelve. (Heck, I still get excited every time I drive past the pasture with horses on my way to church.) I read every word that Marguerite Henry ever wrote. I wrote detailed life histories--veritable equine soap operas--for all my model horses. I can still remember the way the stable smelled. I miss all those daydreams sometimes.

Professional Driver on Closed Course: This is the one out of left field, but I have always thought it would be so cool to be one of those people who drives the cars in car commercials. Think about it: you get to drive the most souped-up version of any given car, really fast on awesome mountain tracks (a backroads roller coaster, if you will), without having to worry about someone else coming the opposite direction around that hairpin turn. (I am such a rule-follower that part of the appeal for me is being able to drive fast without having to worry about tickets.) All your friends would be so jealous whenever the car commercial came on, and you said real casually, "Oh yeah... I remember we filmed that one in Switzerland. Yeah, that's my head you see silhouetted in the window." Aww yeah...

Copy Editor: I know. How can this possibly be a dream job? But here's how I see it: I already do this job anyway. I can't read anything without scanning for typos and inconsistencies, and most of the time, I find them. If I'm going to do it anyway, I might as well get paid for it, right? There is a certain appeal in a job, however unromantic it might be, that I would be really good at. I mean, it plays right into my general forest-for-the-trees approach. (Forest for the trees? Heck, sometimes I can't see the forest for the leaves.)

So... what are you doing in the alternate universe?

Singing along to: Wilco, On and On and On

I can exhale now. I got a rejection letter for that job yesterday--yes, an actual letter, delivered by the post man. I hadn't even thought to keep an eye on my mailbox. Maybe I'm revealing my age here, but it seems so old-fashioned to send a rejection letter. I suppose it's more professional, but they already wasted their time on me. Why also waste forty-four cents and a piece of letterhead?

I guess that sounds more bitter than I mean it to. The letter really did surprise me though: not its contents as much as its non-digital nature. I still can't decide if I was expecting its contents or not.

So, there's that.

Why I haven't fully relaxed in three weeks

Singing along to: The Zombies, This Will Be Our Year

I have finally figured out why I have not had much luck in my job search so far: it's because I have been with the same guy for five and a half years.

You see, the job search world is exactly like the dating world. And most of what I know about the dating world is conjecture and second-hand evidence.

The way I see it, going on a job interview is like meeting an attractive guy (or girl, pick your favorite) somewhere, and chatting for twenty or thirty minutes, and deciding that you can totally see the two of you getting along great for the next couple years at least, and you're pretty sure they can see it too, I mean, you're totally their type. And hey, you never know where things could end up! You could part on good terms after a couple years, both of you grateful for the experience, or you could stay together for the rest of your lives and live happily ever after.

And then you and the attractive person exchange numbers and he promises he'll call soon, and then you go home and find yourself unable to exhale fully and you have a small aneurysm every time the phone rings or you see you have a missed call because oh crap, oh crap, what if it's him? And you go back and forth on whether to pick up the phone when he finally does call because what if he doesn't like you, can you choke back your disappointment long enough to get through that phone call with dignity? You're not sure. Maybe you should let it go to voice mail for everyone's sake.

At some point it also occurs to you that he might email you instead, so you go from checking your email ten times a day (which is totally normal and not at all obsessive, even if you don't get that much email) to checking your email whenever you're in the vicinity of wireless internet or you get a free second at work or it's been more that five minutes since you last checked.

But! He doesn't call (or email). It occurs to you that maybe this is a test. Maybe you need to call, and you ask everyone's advice on this, because you want to show you're interested, but you don't want to look desperate (even though you are desperate, you haven't gone on a proper date in, well, ever), he's probably just busy and will totally call tomorrow, whatever. Back and forth you go, and your friends' heads are swiveling back and forth like they're spectators at the Emotional Tennis World Championships.

Finally, you email. He admits he's been busy but will totally call soon. Lather, rinse, repeat from paragraph three.

You start to wonder why this whole process can't be less "He's Just Not That Into You" and more "elementary school." You know, back in the days when all you had to do was tell your best friend about your crush, swear her to secrecy with the full knowledge (and hope) that she'd tell, and wait for your crush's reply to work its way back through the grapevine, a process which took about as long as recess. No muss, no fuss.

And that is basically where I am right now, if you substitute "potential employer" for "attractive person." I cannot handle the stress of suspense and rejection and hope and despair in the early stages of dating. Or job searching. I just want to commit and settle down, like a grown up!

Housekeeping

Singing along to:

So maybe you're thinking that things look a little different around here. You're right! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have finally embraced the new Blogger layout system. I may even stick with it this time, as opposed to the other few times I've tried it, cursed a lot, and switched back within 24 hours. Long story short, Haloscan, my previous commenting system, decided they were going to start charging real cash money for a previously free internet service. That's lovely for them, but I don't pay real cash money for previously free internet services, so here I am, using Blogger's commenting system* and shiny new layouts, admiring how much better Twitter looks in my sidebar.

(While we're on the subject of boring blog housekeeping, I'm also in the process of switching my now-mostly-defunct art blog back from Wordpress to Blogger, a process I expect to be a huge pain in the buttocks. I'm probably one of the few people on the Internet who hates Wordpress, and frankly it's not worth paying for the hosting. I also have a theory that if I actually like the blog platform it uses, I'll pay more attention to it. At the very least, I won't be paying real cash money for the privilege of having it there to ignore.)

*Unfortunately, although Haloscan allowed me to export all my old comments, I couldn't find a way to import them into Blogger, so y'all's sparkling wit has been lost in the vortex. Sorry!

And people say I'm not romantic*

Singing along to:

There are all kinds of love songs. There are sweet and simple love songs (The Beatles: "I Want to Hold Your Hand"). There are kind of weird and idiosyncratic love songs (The Pogues: "Fairytale of New York"). There are love songs about people you've only just met (The Doors: "Hello, I Love You"). There are love songs about your pants, and the singer's desire to be inside them (okay, actually, that's basically every love song ever).

And then there's my very favorite sub-genre, love songs about death. This might just be an indie-ish pop thing, I don't know (my taste in music is not terribly wide-ranging), but it does seem to be a trend. (Five songs is a trend, right?)

Besides, nothing is more romantic than death, right? Of course right!

Iron & Wine, "Naked as We Came"
Of course Iron & Wine is at the top of the list. Iron & Wine is at the top of every list I make, even the lists that aren't about music. I just plain love Iron & Wine, despite Sam Beam's awful mountain man beard. I'll admit this isn't my favorite of their songs, but I guess it's all relative, because iTunes tells me I have listened to it 181 times. "I lay smiling like our sleeping children. / One of us will die inside these arms, / eyes wide open, naked as we came."

Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
This is one of my favorite Death Cab songs. Despite having one of the most ridiculous names in my iTunes library, they write lovely songs with fantastic lyrics. And I say this despite the sad and unnecessary bit of anti-Catholicism in verse two. (I have never heard a nun--or anyone else--assert that "fear is the heart of love.") Still: "If Heaven and Hell decide / that they both are satisfied, / illuminate the 'NOs' on their vacancy signs / if there's no one beside you / when your soul embarks / I'll follow you into the dark."

Wilco, "On and On and On"
This is actually the only Wilco song I know, which is probably heresy in some circles, oh well. So how coincidental that it also happens to be a morbid love song? Clearly it was meant to be. "One day we'll disappear together in a dream / however short or long our lives are going to be. / I will live in you or you will live in me / until we disappear together in a dream."

The Frames, "Lay Me Down"
The story that Glen Hansard sometimes tells in concert to go along with this song is a hilarious and self-deprecating tale of wildly over-the-top teenage love. The video (linked above) is also a bit odd (okay, very odd). Nevertheless, the song itself is gorgeous. "And lay me down / in the hollowed ground. / Down by your side I will stay / so lay me down."

Dolorean, "Dying in Time"
I could not find a video for this on YouTube, BUT you can listen to it on their mySpace page. It will probably be the only time you go on mySpace all year. "I pray it not come too soon, / I pray it comes without pain. / May it not be by avalanche, / may it not be by hurricane, / may it come to us both just as day turns into night."

I'm sure there are some I've missed--if you think of any, let me know in the comments!

**

*I do try to encourage that thought, not sure why, but let me tell you this: it is a lie. It a huge fat whopper of a lie. Here is the truth: weddings make me cry, even weddings in movies or on TV. I sobbed my way through 65% of Up, particularly that heartbreaker of an opening montage. I re-read Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" all the time and two of my favorite books are love stories. And in case you're wondering, I do have a favorite Shakespearean sonnet: number 130: "My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun."

Why they did not admit me to the Jedi Academy

Singing along to: Iron & Wine, Waiting for Superman

Would you like to hear something sad and pathetic, something that proves I have watched Star Wars several dozen times too many?

Of course you would! That's what the Internet is for!

Well, here it is:

I wish I could use the Force.

And duh, who doesn't, but let me offer an example: Right now I'm sitting on my bed with my laptop, all comfy-like, with the dog using my foot as a pillow, all comfy-like. Getting up would be a great disturbance to us both. Still, I need my planner, which is sitting on the floor four feet away, and this is my first thought when I realize I can't reach it from where I'm sitting: "If I had the Force, I wouldn't have this problem."

And I have that identical thought all the time. "If I were a Jedi knight, I wouldn't have to get out of bed, I could just beam my socks out of the drawer and onto my cold feet." Or, "I bet parallel parking would be a whole lot easier if the Force were on my side." Or, "Do you mean I have to walk all the way across the room to put my clothes in the hamper? Can't I just use my Jedi mind powers to guide them in?"

Basically, I imagine having the Force as being something like that scene from Mary Poppins where she makes their room magically clean itself, combined with a dash of the Summoning Spell from the Harry Potter books, mixed in with a liberal dose of lazy. It's a wonder more Jedi knights don't look like Jabba the Hutt, because if I were a Jedi knight, I would do nothing but sit on the couch, slice bread with my light saber, and use the Force to put in a new DVD and summon more cups of coffee.

I would be the most awesome Jedi knight EVER, and you can be damn sure I'd be the one all the apprentice Jedis (Padawans?) would want as their wise mentor. Possibly I would be like the Dude of Jedi knights.

What would YOU do with the Force?