The Stars My Destination

The Count of Monte Cristo - in space! Source: Here

“Gully Foyle is my name
And Terra is my nation.
Deep space is my dwelling place,
The stars my destination.” 

What I like the most about this book was just how quick a read it was. The day I bought this, I sat down with it and by the time the afternoon was nearing dark I was finished. It is a testament to the writing of this book that I didn't notice the time fly by...

Written by Alfred Bester in 1956 (though originally serialised in four parts and condensed into this one novel), The Stars My Destination (TSMD) is a classic of the 1950s. Set in the 25th century, this future revolves around the idea of "jaunting", whereby individuals can teleport vast distances in the blink of an eye. Such an advance has completely upended the societal and economic order, seen with the Inner Planets and Outer Satellites at war with one another; and while all this is happening, protagonist Gully Foyle is adrift in space upon the wreck of the spaceship Nomad, biding his time until rescue arrives - and subsequently passes him by. This slight sees him consumed by the hunger for revenge, and the rest of the book follows his transformation into the noble Geoffrey Fourmyle, blending into the upper echelons of society while still searching for the person who left him for dead.

Such a narrative inevitably draws comparisons to The Count of Monte Cristo - a protagonist thought dead by wider society, returns a number of years after completely reinvented but kept true by the thought of vengeance, and on the surface they appear to share that central narrative (though TSMD is substantially shorter). I would argue that TSMD stands alone as its own thrilling yarn; describing a future where people can travel at the speed of thought and where revenge can be carried out instantly, it only makes sense Gully Foyle arrives at his destination faster than Edmond Dantes.

• The Presteign: the head of the wealthy Presteign clan and leader of a multinational megacorporation.
• Olivia Presteign: albino daughter of Presteign who sees the world along the infra-red and electromagnetic spectrums.
• Saul Dagenham: head of a private agency and nuclear scientist who was rendered radioactive in an accident - cannot remain in the same room as anyone else for an hour without killing them.
• Jisbella McQueen: criminal miscreant who guides Gully Foyle on his journey of vengeance.

Such an astounding imagination with more than enough ideas to match our colourful settings and characters: cybernetic implants, the aforementioned "jaunting" and its effects on future society, corporations as powerful as governments, shades of cyberpunk can be seen long before Gibson and Sterling and their contemporaries!

Gully Foyle is not a sympathetic character, nor is he intended to be. What I found especially masterful was how Bester turned this psychopathic, almost remorseless individual with nothing but revenge on his mind and turned him into mankind's saviour:

“You pigs, you. You rut like pigs, is all. You got the most in you, and you use the least. You hear me, you? Got a million in you and spend pennies. Got a genius in you and think crazies. Got a heart in you and feel empties. All a you. Every you...'

[...]

Take a war to make you spend. Take a jam to make you think. Take a challenge to make you great. Rest of the time you sit around lazy, you. Pigs, you! All right, God damn you! I challenge you, me. Die or live and be great. Blow yourselves to Christ gone or come and find me, Gully Foyle, and I make you men. I make you great. I give you the stars.”

I absolutely could not put down this book, and when I did I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret when leaving this universe, this vivid kaleidoscope of fresh ideas and characters ripped straight from a comic book (fitting, given Bester's background writing in comics). I cannot recommend this book enough.

The Left Hand of Darkness

A true classic of science fiction. Source: Here

“Light is the left hand of darkness
and darkness the right hand of light.
Two are one, life and death, lying
together like lovers in kemmer,
like hands joined together,
like the end and the way.”

Finally, a female author to break up the monotony! And who better to start with than Ursula Le Guin and her most famous work?

The Left Hand of Darkness is a science-fiction novel published in 1969 by Ursula K. Le Guin and is part of her Hainish Cycle series. In this universe humanity originated not on Earth but on the planet Hain, expanding outward and colonizing neighbouring planetary systems. For unknown reasons, these planets lost contact and in the present the Hainish are once again attempting to form a galactic civilisation.

Our story plays out on the planet Winter (known as "Gethen" in the native people's tongue, and referred to as such because it is always cold) where galactic envoy Genly Ai has been sent to persuade Gethen to join the Ekumen - this is complicated by the fact that Gethen is divided into two nations, Karhide and Orgoreyn,who do NOT get on very amicably. The people of Gethen are an androgynous, only adopting male or female sexual attributes once a month during a period referred to as kemmer,  and with no inclination toward either sex.

The significance of this book cannot be understated. Science-fiction for a large part of the 20th century has predominantly been a boys' club, with female and minority authors overlooked or lucky enough to get anything published to anywhere near the same degree as their male or white counterparts. When The Left Hand of Darkness was published in 1969, it arrived in the midst of two significant movements:

• In the wider world second-wave feminism was in full swing, and contrary to its predecessors this focused on gaining equality with men in social and political spheres and gaining greater legal rights for women.
• The New Wave was still in force in science fiction, marking a shift toward more experimental forms of writing and moving away from science fiction focusing on the hard sciences and toward the social sciences.

While Le Guin certainly wasn't the first female writer working in science-fiction, The Left Hand of Darkness certainly helped break down the barriers preventing women from writing more and went on to meet significant critical acclaim, winning both the Hugo and Nebula awards - the big two awards a sci-fi book can hope to attain.

What I really enjoyed about this book was almost the anthropological approach that Le Guin took in writing this story. Her own father, Alfred Louis Kroeber, was an anthropologist, and you can see how this influence permeates the book - what with the main protagonist's central struggle focusing on successful integration and coming to grips with an alien society. We have chapters fleshing out the Gethenian race which focus on their origins, religion, and even local myths, just little features I thought helped flesh out these strange beings more than we're used to in science fiction.

Another aspect I enjoyed was seeing how Genly grappled with the concept of "the Other" all throughout. Having come from Earth, with its own gender roles and delineations, to then be thrust into Gethenian society without the same notions of gender throws him for a spin. This difference makes relating to the Gethen a great difficulty for Genly, and even his assignation of value to their perceived gendered traits (e.g. equating femininity to weakness) doesn't help matters. His alien nature prevents him from fully understanding how Gethenians and their society work.

Easily my favorite part is the character of Estraven. Not just as the mentor guiding Genly - and by extension the reader - through this frosty alien world but as a person trying to do the right thing. Even when exiled and disgraced, he still risks his life for Genly, to the extent of helping take him across a glacier in order to return to civilisation. Indeed, both Estraven and Genly appear symbolic of the book's thematic core; learning from and aiding one another regardless of it the gap between us is unbridgeable.

The gender aspect of the book I thought could have been executed better. Le Guin writes the Gethenians almost solely using male pronouns ("fathers, sons, brothers") when we have a multitude of gender neutral pronouns ("parents/guardians, children, siblings") that could have been more than acceptable. For the time it was published, the fact that there was an effort to make such different notions of gender a central part of your narrative in my eyes should be commended.

All in all, I really enjoyed this thought-provoking book. It left me with so much to mull over and I'm certain I'll come to revisit it soon enough. I think this end quote really sums up the essence of what Le Guin was aiming for here; that even when there gaps between you and "the Other" that cannot be overcome, that shouldn't stop us from attempting to try:

“And I saw then again, and for good, what I had always been afraid to see, and had pretended not to see in him: that he was a woman as well as a man. Any need to explain the sources of that fear vanished with that fear; what I was left with was, at last, acceptance of him as he was. Until then I had rejected him, refused him his own reality.”

A Canticle for Leibowitz

A post-apocalyptic book for the ages. Source: Here

“Listen, are we helpless? Are we doomed to do it again and again and again? Have we no choice but to play the Phoenix in an unending sequence of rise and fall? Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Greece, Carthage, Rome, the Empires of Charlemagne and the Turk: Ground to dust and plowed with salt. Spain, France, Britain, America—burned into the oblivion of the centuries. And again and again and again. Are we doomed to it, Lord, chained to the pendulum of our own mad clockwork, helpless to halt its swing? This time, it will swing us clean to oblivion.” 

This is easily the bleakest book I have read. After finishing it I just put it down and let what I'd read wash over me like a tidal wave - not something to pick up if you've had a bad day, but still a very rewarding experience.

Written by Walter M. Miller Jr., A Canticle for Leibowitz was first published in 1960 and won the 1961 Hugo Award for best science fiction novel. The book's narrative revolves around the Roman Catholic monastery of the Albertian Order of Leibowitz, a monastic order founded by a Jewish engineer after a nuclear apocalypse (referred to as the Flame Deluge) destroyed 20th century civilisation. As if this wasn't enough, mass book-burning soon followed in an event known as the Simplification, a reactionary response against the intellectuals thought responsible for the apocalypse. The Order found itself with a pressing objective: to preserve whatever scraps of knowledge remain of the time before the bombs fell and safeguard them for future generations.

The book itself is structured into three parts: Fiat Homo (Let There Be Man), Fiat Lux (Let There Be Light) and Fiat Voluntas Tua (Let Thy Will Be Done), each separated by periods of roughly six centuries each. Starting in the 26th century, the first section drops us in an irradiated American Southwest, with the Albertian Order sending out "book-leggers" to collect whatever knowledge (referred to as "memorabilia") all while avoiding being killed by the roving bands of marauders that patrol the desert.

We are then taken 600 years forward into the 32nd century, where humanity has risen somewhat from its post-apocalyptic slump and has developed crude nation-states, and is once again gearing to go to war. Here, the Church faces rising tensions with resurgent secular institutions over not only who should safeguard knowledge but also who gets to control and use it. The final section skips forward again 600 years, to a time when humanity has exceeded the technological peaks of centuries past and has entered a Golden Age - save for the looming threat of a second nuclear war.

Using this structure Miller emphasises the theme of cyclical history throughout the three sections, suggesting that time follows the same cycles of rise and fall no matter how many years pass, the implication being that humanity will stumble at the same pitfalls their Pre-Deluge ancestors fell to. You can see this reflected in in each section:

• Fiat Homo is a new Dark Age, a period overseeing massive regression from an earlier era of modernity and civility and instead breeding barbarism and anti-intellectualism. Characterised by a scarcity of knowledge and mass ignorance, only a select few hold access to the past's secrets, and fewer still can decipher them.
• Fiat Lux reflects the Renaissance that followed, with humanity beginning to innovate and grow increasingly complex societal structures. Knowledge is not only preserved but actively researched as people seek to understand how the world works. This in turn leads to tension between the new researchers and the static institutions of an earlier time.
• Fiat Voluntas Tua sees humanity enter modernity once again, technology having massively improved people's standards of living to a level never seen before. However, science has not only uplifted humanity but also given it the power to destroy itself.

History repeats itself once more even if the individual circumstances differ. Miller also stresses the intertwined themes of science and religion throughout and how they can combat humanity's baser instincts, but suggests that neither on its own is enough to oppose those violent aspects. Science without a conscience leads to its fruits being used to destroy while the institutions of religion, while enduring, remain too static to adapt to the changing times and so find themselves outmanoeuvred by ever-shifting forces seeking to use knowledge for their own ends. In that respect, A Canticle for Leibowitz stands in contrast to mainstream science fiction where technology is depicted as an inherently good tool that will change humanity for the better or save it from calamity - what if it doesn't solve our problems? What if it only becomes another tool to destroy ourselves with?

What I also really enjoyed about the novel was Miller's reticence in giving easy answers. His characters aren't painted in shades of black and white and their arguments are given equal time as Miller challenges us to see these issues from different angles. There's a wonderful section in Fiat Voluntas Tua concerning an abbot and a doctor fiercely debating the ethics of euthanasia in the case of a mother and her child suffering from severe radiation burns; the doctor suggesting that assisted suicide is the most humane option and the abbot retorting that this equates to "state-sponsored suicide" (two key facts come to mind: suicide is considered a sin in Catholic scriptures and doctors take oaths to "do no harm". Interpret those how you will). There are no easy answers here, and while it's tempting to say that it was easier to leave them answered I do believe that Miller wanted his audience to truly grapple with these and have them seek the answers themselves.

It's not hard to see how the author's own influences have shaped this novel. Miller was one of the American airmen who took part in the controversial bombing of the abbey at Monte Cassino during World War 2, a monastery that at one time held 40,000 manuscripts, some from famous writers of antiquity such as Tacitus, Cicero and Ovid. Published within living memory of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings, A Canticle for Leibowitz is a shining example of the post-nuclear holocaust genre, a marked contrast to the view that atomic power would bring light and a new age for all.

You'd expect a work so unrelentingly bleak and fatalistic about human nature to be written in an incredibly pessimistic manner, yet it is to Miller's credit that this is not the case. The prose, in contrast to the material it covers, is light and easy to follow and carries an undertone of hope, particularly in the final few scenes of the book. Humanity may bring about its own doom time and time again, but there remains the faint hope that someone else will continue the endless quest of preserving and restoring the past.

It is a sobering read, but also one that is very rewarding. For a book written in 1960 it still holds up remarkably well, and its questions on science and technology remain pertinent today. A Canticle For Leibowitz is not a work that leaves your mind quickly, and it is a good thing it doesn't.

Cat's Cradle

A pertinent book for a dangerous time. Source: Here

“Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.” 

The second of Vonnegut's books I've read, Cat's Cradle is the more concise, streamlined read to Slaughterhouse Five's non-linear narrative. It's a book that's definitely left me stunned at the accomplishment - tying together a razor-sharp, biting satire on the nuclear arms race and the role of religion with an eccentric family and the world's strangest banana republic in under 200 pages, with plenty of food for thought.

Written in 1963 by Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle concerns our narrator retelling his attempt to gather information for a book he was writing about the day the Americans dropped the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. His journey takes him from the late Dr. Felix Hoenikker, co-creator of the atom bomb and his three peculiar children to the strange banana republic of San Lorenzo in the Caribbean - and then it really begins to hit the fan. Hoenikker is revealed to have created the peculiar substance ice-nine, which turns water into ice at room temperature when both come into contact. I shouldn't need to explain what would happen if a single crystal were to find itself in the Pacific...

The context of this book's creation is especially key to understanding its intent. Published one year before Dr. Strangelove (one of my favorite films), both were responses and biting criticisms to and of the nuclear arms race. World superpowers possessed (and still possess) the capability to bring about mutually assured destruction several times over with the press of a button and rather than bring progress, science instead brought about the means to destroy ourselves, a sharp break from the optimistic, gilded futures of the 1950s that science promised us. Just the year before, the Cuban Missile Crisis was perhaps the closest humanity had come to the brink of annihilation. 

Vonnegut himself worked for multinational conglomerate General Electric following World War 2, his role being to interview scientists who worked for the company and highlight the good that came from their research. During his time here, Vonnegut found that a select few paid no heed to how their discoveries might be used, seemingly seeking truth for truth's sake without noting what someone else might do with that. A particularly damning scene in the book exemplifies this; when the atom bomb detonates, Felix Hoenniker non-chalantly plays a game of cat's cradle.

Twinned with the threat of nuclear war, the theme of science and its role for humans comes up time and time again and you can see Vonnegut's own experiences filter into the text. Characters like Felix Hoenniker are depicted not as thoughtless, but as completely ignorant of the consequences of the technology they develop - Hoenikker develops ice-nine on a whim without any thought as to how that might be used by others. Why was ice-nine created? Because Hoenikker could. The notion of science as separate from the way the world chooses to use its fruits is put on trial to devastating effect. Vonnegut asks the reader: what is the logical consequence of a discipline with adherents so far removed from the ethics and consequences of their actions?

An equally significant component of the book is its treatment of religion. The fictional faith of Bokononism that the protagonist encounters in San Lorenzo is a belief system seemingly at odds with itself. Outlawed in the republic but practiced by everyone, with a founder that freely admits his religion is a pack of lies, Bokononism is the riposte to anti-theism, admitting that everything it teaches is false, but it still helps the natives of San Lorenzo through their meager existence. Does that not make it a good thing? Even if it isn't objectively true, the foma (the Bokononist version of lies) that dictate our lives - whether it be that we are special or somehow distinguished from other people by virtue of something innate within us - but they aren't bad by virtue of being lies. Indeed, they can drive us to do good, "to be brave and kind and healthy and happy", ever so subtly implying that the truth might not set us free, and instead make us cold and bitter and miserable if that if what we solely pursue.

Vonnegut's writing style here also makes for an incredibly accessible read. He had a message for the world, and wanted to make sure it was easy to pick up. On the whole, Cat's Cradle makes for a though-provoking yarn sure to invite further conversation. Absolutely a must-read, losing none of its shine and none of its relevance.

Lord of Light

Say what you want about the 60s but their covers were something else... Source: Here

"His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He preferred to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam. He never claimed to be a god, but then he never claimed not to be a god."

Lord of Light was one of the first pieces of New Wave* science fiction I read. Immediately from the first page, I had a sneaking suspicion this wasn't going to be your typical sci-fi romp in outer space - and thank the stars it wasn't!

Written in 1967 by Roger Zelazny, Lord of Light is a science-fantasy novel set in the distant future, on an alien planet colonised by settlers from a bygone Earth (referred to as "vanished Urath"). In order to survive in this strange world, the crew used bioengineering and advanced technology to grant themselves great psionic and physical power which essentially raised them to the level of gods. However, the crew would go on to take the names and powers of various Hindu deities and set themselves up as a divine ruling class over the many generations of colonists and their descendants, maintaining a stranglehold on any technological advancement so as to avoid their power being weakened. The clincher is that these gods hold control of a technology that allows for mind transfer into a new body - essentially holding a monopoly on who is allowed to reincarnate, and into what form. Shades of Clarke's Third Law come to mind...

One of their number, Mahasamatman (or just Sam), chooses to rebel against the gods and instead attempts to make this technology available to all - as a result he spends countless years revolting against the gods, amassing allies, striking when he can across multiple lives, until his capture and and his soul's banishment to the firmament above. 

The book itself jumps from present to past and back again, detailing Sam's rise and rebellion, the allies and enemies he meets, to his exile and subsequent return. What initially caught my attention about this book was the deliberate use of an Eastern setting and mythologies not only in the worldbuilding but also in the story itself - certainly that choice initially made Lord of Light stand out from the very Eurocentric science fiction and fantasy landscape. Zelazny's inclusion of Hinduism and Buddhism never smacks of Orientalism** and if anything, just adds to the unique character of the book.

It is ponderous and wry all at the same time with its own unique mix of science, political intrigue, mysticism, religion and mythology. Sam could very easily retire away from the world by the second chapter once he gains the means to keep himself and his friends going for perpetuity and yet instead he persists in overthrowing the gods on behalf of the mortals they subjugate. One of my favorite moments in the book comes when Sam is possessed by one of the demonic inhabitants of this planet and forced to watch as his body carries out atrocity after atrocity - and he is courageous enough to sad that yes, a sliver of him enjoyed what was happening. That in my eyes immediately marks Sam differently from the myriad of Chosen One protagonists all too common in the genre.

One could argue the "rising up against an oppressive upper class" storyline has been played out so many times so as to lose all intrigue - in this instance I feel the unique settling and mythologies drawn from to create this world offset that. Even with his use of Eastern faiths, I feel Zelazny's point was to show how religion can be used as a mechanism to restrain a populace rather than any specific criticism on the faiths themselves.

Lord of Light is a spellbinding book well worth an afternoon's read. Equal parts thoughtful and amusing, it is a book bound to keep you entertained.

*New Wave - a literary movement in sci-fi lasting from the 60s to late 70s, characterised by a focus on the "softer" sciences as opposed to "hard" science, a high degree of experimental content/prose and a more literary approach to writing; in essence a break from the prior traditions of pulp sf and their emphasis on scientific accuracy/prediction.

**Orientalism - a general patronising attitude toward Middle Eastern, Asian and North African societies, carrying the implication that Western society is inherently more rational and therefore superior.

Roadside Picnic

What happens when the aliens visit - and don't make first contact? Source: Here

“A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. Cars drive off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around... Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind... And of course, the usual mess—apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow.” 

After watching Stalker with a friend this past weekend it felt only fitting to revisit the source material, in spite of the differences between both creations. As the second book of Arkady and Boris Strugatsky that I read, Roadside Picnic very quickly and effectively established its impression as a Very Good Book.

Written in 1971, Roadside Picnic begins in the aftermath of aliens coming to Earth (an event dubbed "The Visitation") and visiting half a dozen separate locations across the world. After two days, they leave with as much explanation as their arrival; that is to say, not much at all. These six Visitation zones soon begin to develop unexplained phenomena beyond scientific understanding and the laws of physics seem to falter. These Zones also contain strange alien paraphernalia, the properties of which are unknown (and perhaps unknowable) and in spite of UN and military cordoning of the different Zones to prevent their removal, there arises a class of stalkers - individuals who go into the Zones and scavenge these alien artefacts for profit. The artefacts range from beneficial to highly hazardous, yet all to varying degrees are beyond human comprehension.

The title itself was the first hook that got me intrigued and very neatly sums up the twist on the classic science-fiction trope of aliens visiting Earth. Rather than coming to uplift (e.g. Childhood's End) or destroy humanity (e.g. the War of the Worlds), these aliens have merely stopped by briefly - in a similar manner to a family stopping for a roadside picnic - and moved on to their destination, leaving their rubbish behind. What if when aliens finally did arrive, they took no notice of us? That possibility intrigued me immensely; perhaps we aren't so special to visitors as we thought! To see a work go against the popular sci-fi trope of first contact and alien-human communication, to reduce it to an insignificant visit, now that takes some skill to pull off.

Our protagonist, Redrick "Red" Schuhart, is a stalker working within a specific Zone in the fictional town of Harmont in Canada, who regularly enters at night in order to scavenge artefacts for profit. Split into four sections, the main through-line concerns Red's acquisition of alien items and his trips into the Zone, playing out as a rather straightforward adventure in the alien Zone. As the story continues, you eke out more detail and more depth from Red's interactions, from the various other stalkers who perished in attempting to scavenge artefacts to his wife and child, the latter irrevocably changed by the Zone. Red isn't a hero with some special destiny or a man burdened with noble purpose; he's just a guy trying to get by on the day-to-day, a story that we can empathise with to varying degrees. 

The Strugatskys excel in their descriptions of this new and alien environment, adding just the right amount of detail to create an impression and a mood and leaving the rest appropriately blank and inscrutable (I have no idea what kind of phenomenon the "meatgrinder" is but you can tell you won't have a good time with it). The Zone itself could count as its own character, always present and lingering the further you read on, equal parts unknown and dreadful. Indeed, one of the core aspects repeatedly emphasised in the book is the insignificance of men and summarily of Red as well. The aliens gave them no notice, the Zone remains unexplained in spite of the many lives lost attempting to do so and the artefacts brought back, if made to work, we can't say if that holds any relation to its original purpose.

Indeed, it can be said that the Zone can be interpreted as a symbol of hopes and aspirations. Red could take a steady job to support his family but instead keeps returning to stalk the Zone again and again, because who wouldn't want to live in a world of hopes and dreams? Even in the final section, where Red acquires the Golden Sphere (a rumoured artefact capable of granting the wishes of anyone who finds it) he finds himself frozen. Having lived his whole life letting that struggle for a better tomorrow define him, to suddenly commit to a possibility erases all that, and then what is left? The ending is open to interpretation but the message is clear as day: while hope can keep someone alive, it can just as easily destroy them when it comes to shape and define their lives.

At under 200 pages, this is a tight book. No word, no sentence, no metaphor is wasted here - the Zone will remain with you long after you put down this book. A haunting, vivid ride through a strange, strange world.

Dying Inside

Telepathy isn't as fun as expected. Source: Here

“It was like that all the time, in those years: an endless trip, a gaudy voyage. But powers decay. Time leaches the colors from the best of visions. The world becomes grayer. Entropy beats us down. Everything fades. Everything goes. Everything dies.”

With a title like "Dying Inside" you'd be forgiven for not wanting something quite so morose to read in your spare time. It's also a book that only just scrapes a sci-fi categorization - set in then-contemporary 1970s America, virtually the only science-fiction aspect is the telepathy of the main character. As a note of warning to anyone thinking of picking this book: perhaps not the best read if you happen to be suffering a crisis of faith, because this book does not let up.

Dying Inside is a science-fiction novel written by Robert Silverberg and published in 1972. At the time, science fiction was very heavily influenced by the New Wave movement, which eschewed the traditions of previous pulp science fiction, choosing to focus on "soft" as opposed to hard SF and set apart from its predecessors by a greater degree of experimentation and introduction of a more literary sensibility to sci-fi narratives. 

The main thrust of the plot follows our protagonist David Selig, an ordinary man distinguished from others by virtue of his telepathic abilities, finding himself slowly losing that special power. A fairly small self-contained story about an extraordinary man coming to grips with the loss of his telepathy, who certainly isn't a sympathetic figure - having squandered his ability for his own personal gain and a miserable, self-pitying, self-loathing presence. 

You'd think that combination would sour you on Selig almost immediately; but it is a testament to Silverberg's skill as a writer for me to be proven so utterly wrong. The novel itself is episodic, beginning with the present-day narrative where Selig is making ends meet ghostwriting essays for college students, reading their minds so he's able to better plagiarize on their behalf. Moving from past to present we get to learn more about our protagonist and the people he interacts, from his mistrusting sister to child psychologist to his various girlfriends and even a fellow telepath.

Silverberg's prose is utterly enchanting here - this was one of those books that once started, I simply could not put down, how vivid and mesmerizing it was and how easily it jumps from mood to mood without the slightest hint of whiplash or disorientation. It speaks volumes how a tale about a disaffected depressive who misuses his telepathy can be made so compelling.

The fundamental themes of this book, communication, the fear of human connection and the isolation that results from it, issues of aging and the decline that follows aren't themes that usually appear in sci-fi, and certainly ring more than true for many people. Seeing these handled deftly, sensitively and in a way that allows the reader to judge David Selig's story for themselves is remarkable, particularly in a genre still associated today with its pulpy roots in the early 20th Century.

 Dying Inside is one of those rare works that transcends genre and has rightly earned its reputation as a sci-fi classic and a shining gem of the New Wave. I can't recommend it enough.