A pet bird died today, in my hands. I think I felt somewhat like a robot who hadn't been programmed to deal with something like Death. I think, at that instant, I had an expression on my face very similar to that of the robot's, in the second panel. 

The Troika

The Troika by Stepan Chapman will throw most science fiction fans for a loop. Its a prime example of that kind of science fiction, when you inherently know it to be so, without being able to pinpoint exactly why. For this novel is a virtual treasury of sf and fantasy conventions, flitting from one to the other seamlessly and frighteningly, without notice. Just when you think you've started figuring it all out, Chapman pulls the rug from beneath your feet and forces you to reconsider everything all over again. The fact that you can still label it SF draws attention to the fact that science fiction is less a genre than an attitude.

The author clearly does not want you to rest easy and enjoy the ride without requiring something of you first. That something is a kind of surrender that only the most fervent SF reader might be willing to undergo. Its difficult to appreciate this book otherwise, or even, for that matter, begin critiquing it. Its not the kind of blind faith that goes unrewarded, however: there is a major payoff in the end, but to what extent it is successful shall largely depend upon the reader's attitude towards not just the novel, but also the novel format.

Each chapter of The Troika begins with a quote from either Carroll's Alice in the Wonderland, or Edward Lear, or some other writer of surreal or nonsensical prose and poetry. And, indeed, Carroll is quite evidently a very large influence on Chapman. Carroll's skills lay in his being able to talk about a reality that, however chaotic and irrational, had a larger underlying truth which went beyond physics, or even semantic consistency. It is one of Language's eternal strengths and weaknesses that it can so accurately delineate an abstraction, while entirely missing the mark from a logical standpoint. This has been a topic of endless fascination for writers, and SF in particular has found ample opportunity to fictionally experiment with the impact language has, or can potentially have, on our lives, in books such as Babel-17 by Delany and, more recently, Embassytown by China Mieville. The Troika does not deal directly with the nature of language, for that is not one of its themes, but it exhibits a kind of exuberant recklessness, disregard and faith in Language's capabilities that lifts it much higher than an experimental novel done for experimentation's sake. The several intertwining stories in the novel (narrated by a jeep-that-was-once-a-man called Alex, an old mexican woman-who-was-once-fish-priestess called Eva, and the girl-who-is-also-an-apatosaur named Naomi) all contradict each other, and themselves. Contradiction is usually one of the first sure-shot signs of experimental fiction: just when the reader is getting comfortable, a plot point that has no bearing or relevance with what has gone on before throws him off balance, and reminds him blatantly that this is cutting-edge-edge -of-the-seat stuff. But these can get terribly self indulgent. Chapman, initially fits this category quite nicely. He is nothing if not self indulgent. He dips into familiar terrain for his imagery: dinosaurs, cybernetic prosthetics, genetically modified beastmen, and even Japanese horror. He is also quite fond of his Kafka and Beckett (but then again which writer worth his salt isn't?). But it is to Chapman's credit that in spite of not being able to introduce any startlingly new conceit to science fiction, his treatment of the imagery feels jarringly original. This is completely because of his fearlessness in jumping from one style of narrative to another, and his mastery of the three voices which feature so prominently in this tale. He proves, as has been proven time and time again by great SF authors, that characterization is still worth a lot in SF.

But character development, on the other hand, isn't his strong point. There is very little in the way of that here. That, one could argue, is kind of missing the point, but it'd have been nice to have seen some kind of progression, in spite of all the frenetic jumping about from one body to another, and the role reversals. Also underwhelming were the sections dealing with Mazer and his fellow Angels, humans (apparently) with supernatural abilities in charge of running the world our three protagonists find themselves stranded in without any warning. They seem strictly by the numbers and feel like an afterthought, added to serve as an armature for the story.

However, things do make sense in the end. Not completely, but enough to make you want to sit back and wonder if you'll ever want to reread this one again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-SiiwEciFs

The Image

An image is a beautiful thing. Spare, solid, independent. The need to interpret gives way to the simple joy to be had in the primacy of the image itself.

This is why I like it when authors are spare with their prose. If the author writes science fiction, or fiction of the fantastic, then its absolutely incredible when he manages to pull the story off in spare, direct, imagistic prose.

I'm reading The Troika by Stepan Chapman. Not very long ago, I finished Nova Swing by M John Harrison. Both of these authors value the worth and the power of the image. They'll let the scenes linger on in your head, unimpeded by the narration. The previous book is about a brontosaurus, a jeep and a mexican woman crossing a desert. The latter, a homage to SF and noir thrillers in the form of a mystery with no solution.

These are not perfect books, by any means. Its very difficult to sustain the surreal. Which is probably why authors of the fantastic feel so much at home with the short story.

But some manage to almost pull it off, and then you forgive them the sections which don't seem to go anywhere.

Boredom is often a necessity when it comes to good literature.

Sketches old and...well, mostly old

If we only spoke when we had something to say, we could hear the glaciers melt.