• Things Beyond: December 2025

    (Cover by Frank Kelly Freas. Satellite, December 1956.)

    Merry Christmas, happy birthday to me, and all that.

    People who keep up with my posts may have noticed that I missed a couple things last month, including what was to be the start of the second serialized novel, Kuttner and Moore’s Fury. Let’s say I’ve been slow about it. Generally I’ve been slower about keeping up with this blog than I was a year ago, and there could be a few reasons for this, but the point is that I’ve come to understand I’m not as on top of my own blog as I once was. I’ve slowed down with the “required” reading, and I’ve been slower about writing, although (not to toot my own horn) I still write here more than some other fan writers I know. Maybe nowadays the load I give myself is just a bit too much, especially since I’ve also been wanting to get into writing professionally, for that bit of extra money, only I’ve not been able to find the time and/or motivation for it. So, I’ll lighten the load a bit. From now on I’ll only be covering one serial a month, regardless of length. Of course, if the serial is four parts or longer this won’t make a difference, but a lot of serials are three-parters, which should give me an extra day to myself. Other than that, it’s gonna be business as usual.

    What do we have on our table? All science fiction, which isn’t very diverse, but when these stories were published is certainly more diverse. One story from the 1940s, one from the ’50s, one from the ’60s, one from the ’70s, one from the 2000s, and one from the 2020s.

    For the serial:

    1. Fury by Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore. Serialized in Astounding Science Fiction, May to July 1947. Kuttner and Moore wrote so much, both together and each solo, that they resorted to a few pseudonyms, one of them being Lawrence O’Donnell. Fury takes place in the same universe as the earlier Kuttner-Moore story “Clash by Night.” Despite Fury historically being credited to Kuttner alone, Moore claimed years later to having been a minor collaborator.

    For the novellas:

    1. “Welcome to Olympus, Mr. Hearst” by Kage Baker. From the October-November 2003 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction. Baker had spent much of her adult life working in insurance and with theatre as her primary hobby, before pivoting to writing SF in her forties. No doubt she would still be writing SF today, had she not died all too soon in 2010. Still, for about a dozen years she wrote furiously, with her big series following a team of time-traveling secret agents.
    2. “The Dragon Masters” by Jack Vance. From the August 1962 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. Winner of the Hugo for Best Short Fiction. This is a reread, although I only have a vague memory of having read it in the first place, and that was without Jack Gaughan’s accompanying artwork. Despite what the title might make you think, “The Dragon Masters” is pure planetary SF, albeit with fantasy-esque coloring that Vance had become known for at this point.

    For the short stories:

    1. “An Important Failure” by Rebecca Campbell. From the August 2020 issue of Clarkesworld. Winner of the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. Born and raised in Canada but now living in the UK, Campbell has written only one novel so far, which in fact was her first SF writing of any sort. Good news is she’s been somewhat prolific in writing short stories and novellas over the past decade.
    2. “The Earth Dwellers” by Nancy Kress. From the December 1976 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. This is the third time now that I’ve come to Kress, and why not? Her career now spands nearly half a century, and her stories, if not always entertaining, often provide some food for thought. I know nothing about “The Earth Dwellers,” except it marked Kress’s very first appearance in the field.

    For the complete novel:

    1. A Glass of Darkness by Philip K. Dick. From the December 1956 issue of Satellite Science Fiction. This book sounds unfamiliar, even for seasoned Dick fans, although it may ring a bell under its book title: The Cosmic Puppets. Dick had burst onto the scene in the early ’50s as one of the most promising short-story writers at the time, in a generation that included such bright newcomers as Robert Sheckley, Algis Budrys, and Katherine MacLean. It only stood to reason, then, that while writing short stories nonstop was all well and good, writing a novel was the logical next step. A Glass of Darkness wasn’t the first novel Dick wrote, but it was the first to be published.

    Hopefully you’ll be reading along with me.

  • Short Story Review: “I Live with You” by Carol Emshwiller

    (Cover by David A. Hardy. F&SF, March 2005.)

    Who Goes There?

    Carol Emshwiller was one of the most acclaimed short-story writers of her generation, made more impressive because she kept doing good work for about half a century, longer than most authors’ careers. She started in the ’50s, at the tail end of the magazine boom, and kept writing, albeit mostly in the realm of short fiction and never too prolifically, until her death in 2019. She likely would’ve still become a favorite of readers from across a few generations even had she not been married to Ed Emshwiller, but that certainly helped, with Ed even illustrating some of her stories. It was one of those rare marriages where you had two very talented artists, and whose works even sometimes fed into each other. Emshwiller (Carol, that is) was also not an SF doctrinaire, but someone who was open to experimenting with genre boundaries from pretty early in her career, so it makes sense that she was one of the few women to appear in Dangerous Visions. Today’s story is itself very much outside the boundaries of SF, although I hesitate to call it horror as well, even though that’s what it is marketed as. “I Live with You” is a short and simple story that doesn’t easily fall into any genre; if it’s horror then it’s by virtue of the uncanny nature of the relationship between the two women at its center. This is a story that’s meant to be taken allegorically, rather than literally.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the March 2005 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. It’s been reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 17 (ed. Stephen Jones) and the Emshwiller collections I Live with You and The Collected Stories of Carol Emshwiller Vol. 2.

    Enhancing Image

    The narrator is a ghost, maybe, or perhaps just unhoused lady who has somehow been living off of table scraps, in a book store for a while and in a department store before that. She’s been hiding for who knows how long, but nobody has caught her yet, and as she says, “I never steal.” At least this was the case before she started hiding in Nora’s house. The narrator looks enough like Nora to be her doppelganger, but the two don’t seem to be related. The only other company at this house is the cat, which Nora doesn’t get along with very well, although the little beast takes much more of a liking to the doppelganger. She spends her time in the attic, when Nora is home, but otherwise she has the whole house to herself. It takes weeks for Nora to figure that someone might be intruding, and even then she doesn’t call the cops, but instead has a deadbolt installed for her bedroom door. Nora is so out of it, so passive in her day-to-day life, that she doesn’t even notice when her doppelganger is just one room over from her. The narrator, partly out of pity for Nora and partly as a means of entertainment for herself, figures it’s time for Nora to get herself a man—or rather for the narrator to get one for her. The more pitiable the better. In stories in which a “normal” person meets their doppelganger, the latter is typically more adventurous or mischievous, if not outright evil, and the same holds true here. The disparity is such, in fact, that Nora comes off as the uncanny one in the pair, rather than the narrator, on account of how empty she is as a person. The narrator schemes to bring a man to Nora’s home because she’s frustrated with how dull Nora is. As the narrator says:

    At the book store and grocery store at least things happened all day long. You keep watching the same TV programs. You go off to work. You make enough money (I see the bank statements), but what do you do with it? I want to change your life into something worth watching.

    There’s the question, firstly, of why the narrator continues to live with Nora if she finds her so boring, and it’s a question she doesn’t answer in any straightforward fashion. There’s also the question (also never quite answered) of what the narrator is supposed to be and why she’s a dead ringer for Nora. There’s something supernatural going on, maybe, but Emshwiller doesn’t care to give us answers to these questions, if for no other reason than that an explanation might distract from the unusual dynamic between the women. As a rule of thumb, good horror (and “I Live with You” is ostensibly horror) should abstain from explaining or rationalizing the horrors of its world. Certainly from Nora’s perspective this ordeal would count as horror, as it uneases her enough to get deadbolts for her bedroom door—for the inside and then, rather irrationally, for the outside. The real question is, who is really the woman living in the attic? Literally it’s the narrator, but she’s so comfortable living in Nora’s house that it’s Nora who comes off as the one living here as an outsider. The narrator comes and goes as she pleases, taking bits and pieces of Nora’s stuff, although it’s always stuff Nora was unlikely to appreciate in the first place.

    Things get more interesting once the two women finally meet face to face, and of course it’s by accident. This is in the midst of the narrator’s scheming to have a guy with a gimp leg, named Willard. It’s possibly the most memorable passage in the whole story, if only because of how neatly it illustrates the contrast between the women. As the narrator says, “I’m wearing your green sweater and your black slacks. We look at each other, my brown eyes to your brown eyes. Only difference is, your hair is pushed back and mine hangs down over my forehead.” Worth mentioning that while “I Live with You” is technically a first-person narrative, the doppelganger refers to “you” as if you were Nora, or rather as if she were talking directly to Nora. The reader is meant to be in the place in this plain, unassuming, seemingly empty-headed woman. In a way it makes sense, because who else could she be talking to? If it has to be told in the first person, then making it border on second-person like this makes sense enough. It also adds a touch of creepiness, since the doppelganger, this unnatural person, is talking directly to us, although she means no harm.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    The threeway(?) doesn’t exactly go well. Willard comes over under the impression that the woman who wrote him the letter was Nora and not the narrator, a confusion compounded because of the ladies’ identical looks. Nora seems to be taken in, though, after some initial fumbling (quite literally at one point, as the narrator trips her on purpose), and it seems like the two might at least be hitting off for a one-night stand. It’s implied that the narrator is here to watch, except that when things do get steamy she’s disappointed by the lack of spectacle. (Given that Emshwiller would’ve just turned eighty, I’m a bit surprised that sex plays as big a factor in this story as it does.) Nora fumbles for the last time, though, and Willard leaves. The narrator also decides to leave at this time, having left Nora traumatized but also a more mature woman than before. I’m actually not sure how old the two women are supposed to be, certainly old enough that Nora has a house and a job; but despite her assumed age, Nora’s implied to possess a certain innocence which by the end of the story has been taken and replaced with something. Maybe something better, who’s to say? Even for full-grown adults there are events in our lives in which we feel like we’ve been compelled, or maybe pushed or shoved violently, into being one step closer to enlightenment. As with the stories of Theodore Sturgeon and Robert Aickman, whom Emshwiller may have been thinking of, the crossing of the shadow-line is framed as traumatic.

    A Step Farther Out

    “I Live with You” won the Nebula for Best Short Story that year, which is curious, for one because it’s pretty unassuming, but also this was in the sixth decade of Emshwiller’s career. The fact that she had won her first Nebula just a few years earlier is in itself unusual; authors typically don’t write work this solid this deep into their careers. I unfortunately can’t say I agree with the Nebula win for “I Live with You,” but it is a tightly knit and moody story with a feminist bent. It’s hard to write about something that’s both this self-contained and which more or less already speaks for itself, so the only thing I can really do is recommend you read some Emshwiller, especially since her career coincides with much of genre SF’s history, from the pre-New Wave years into the 21st century.

    See you next time.

  • Serial Review: Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (Part 3/3)

    (Cover by Richard and Wendy Peni. Galaxy, October 1975.)

    The Story So Far

    Allen Carpentier has died, which turns out to be only the beginning of his suffering. He’s in Hell now, or Infernoland as he calls it, at first stuck in a little bottle like he were a genie before being released by a fat balding guy named Benito. Benito what? You’ll see. Now, Benito has been in Hell for a long time, and seems to know a way to get out. To where? Who’s to say. He’s to act as the Virgil to Allen’s Dante, and after all, Infernoland does seem to be modeled after Dante Alighieri’s vision of Hell. Funnily enough, the only way to get out of Hell and possibly into Heaven (or at least purgatory) is to go down, through each circle, each being stranger and more torturous than the last. For a while Allen has a hard time believe he’s in the real Hell and not some simulacrum; after all, he’s an SF writer and a rational man, not one given to superstition. But if Infernoland is a prank, or some sado-masochistic theme park, it’s extremely elaborate. “The Builders” have put a lot of work into it. Of course, it’d probably be easier just to take the whole setting as supernatural than to try some mental gymnastics, but that’s where some of the humor comes in—this being kind of a dark comedy. People have gone to Hell for all kind of reasons, not all of them seemingly reasonable. Niven and Pournelle get a lot of mileage out of depicting kinds of people they don’t like (mostly, but not always, people with left-wing bents) suffering in Hell, although the suffering itself is not always so bad either. There are a few times where they get more specific about whom they’ve thrown into Hell, although not too specific if the person was still alive in 1975. There’s a pretty memorable scene where Kurt Vonnegut (not named, but it’s very clearly meant to be him) is locked up in a big tomb, much to Allen’s annoyance.

    Of course, it isn’t just Allen and Benito stuck together on this voyage, since their party does grow some, if also only temporarily. In an episode where the gang builds a glider, they get the help of Corbett, who was a pilot in life, and later they also recruit Billy the Kid—or at least a guy who claims to be Billy the Kid. Eventually they lose Corbett when he loses his nerve and decides to trudge his way back up to one of the higher circles. The thing is that nobody can die in Hell, on account of already being dead, and even though you may suffer incredibly gruesome torment that would have killed a normal person, you’ll not only live but heal in record time. So, this must be the real deal, then. Not helping is that aside from people populating Hell there are also black-skinned demons, a beast with an impossibly long tail named Midos, and a fishman named Geryon. Allen can barely bring himself to trust Benito as well, since the man knows a bit too much and acts more than a little off, like Allen is supposed to know who he is—or, more specificially, like Benito is some infamous figure from history.

    Enhancing Image

    We’re in the last stretch of Inferno, and it’s actually the shortest, which makes me think there’s more in the book version than what made it into the serial. I’m starting to think that yeah, there had to be some stuff cut out, because this feels stripped down within an inch of its life. Overall it feels more like the skeleton of a novel than the full picture, but I do have to say I like the bones on this thing enough. Then again, I’m not sure how much you can add to it and I’m even less sure why Niven and Pournelle felt compelled to return to it a few decades later. Something genre writers, both old and young, should learn is that more often than not, you should leave a good story well enough alone. Quit while you’re ahead.

    It doesn’t take much time at all for Billy the Kid to quite literally get carried out of the novel, which in a world where nobody can die if I guess one way to do it. Just yoink a character out and put them in a location that’s virtually unreachable, it’s kinda like killing them off but not exactly. The party disintegrates rather quickly thereafter, since some World War II guys are all too happy (by that I mean outraged) to tell Allen he’s been traveling with Benito Mussolini this whole time. Yes, that Benito Mussolini. It really isn’t a shocker at all if you’ve been reading along and have not been living under a rock since the time of the pharaohs. I do genuinely have to wonder if the authors intended this to be a big reveal or if it’s meant to be like a joke, because I found it straining on my suspension of disbelief that Allen never figured it out for himself when it should’ve taken him maybe a few minutes. Also it sure is convenient that every historical figure we’d met up to this point where not know who Mussolini is, although that doesn’t go to explain why nobody who lived in a post-WWII world pointed out (or at least more strongly than merely hinted) that Benito looks and sounds familiar. It’s a contrived twist while also being laid on pretty thick, although maybe it was not so thick for readers in 1975. The reveal now feels demeaningly obvious, but given what Americans were allowed to learn in high schools in the days before the internet it’s possible that Mussolini was a semi-obscure figure for those not much interested in politics.

    Well, anyway, Allen does what any reasonable person who’s confronted with the so-called father fascism: he chucks him into a goddamn fiery pit. Benito doesn’t even resist Allen turning on him, as if he expected and maybe even wanted this to happen. Of course, nobody can die here, which includes Benito, and you bet we’ll be seeing him again before the end. I do think the decision to make Benito Mussolini a pretty flawed but ultimately heroic character is certainly a choice. The former dictator, who was an avowed atheist in life, seems to have caught a second wind of Catholicism in Hell, and it seems to be an earnest religious awakening. The idea is that if Hell is meant to be punishment, then someone can choose to either better themself admist the horror or wallow in their sins until the end of time, and Benito has chosen the former. Niven and Pournelle are clearly trying to make an example of Benito, as to the potential of Hell’s cleansing flames, although they don’t go so far as to, say, rehabilitate Hitler or Stalin, who are mentioned but (for better or worse) never seen in-story. If Inferno were published as a new novel today it would probably cause a minor stir on social media and in SF fandom, what with how it handles real-life people; but in 1975, if it stirred any controversy then I’ve yet to find evidence of such a thing happening. I have to admit I like the audaciousness of such a move, even if it’s wrongheaded (and it probably is).

    Eventually Allen and Benito do reunite, and despite having a good reason to wanna have a go at Allen’s neck, Benito’s pretty understanding about the whole thing. If for much of the novel we were stuck with Benito in the throws of religious mania, then this last stretch sees him having sunk into a depression. Speaking of religious mania, I mentioned that Kurt Vonnegut is one of the few then-living people featured in Hell. For those who think what the authors did with Vonnegut was really petty, just be aware that L. Ron Hubbard gets treated so much worse that it’s almost incomparable. As we reach the final circle of Hell and are about to meet Lucifer himself, Hubbard (again, not named, but context clues make it obvious) makes a cameo as a strange and disfigured monster which shambles around. For some reason Niven and Pournelle have a real bone to pick with people who create “false” religions, or who found religions chiefly for the purpose of making money off of gullible would-be followers.

    The ending of Inferno is a bit of an anticlimax, although this seems to be by design, after the increasingly horrific bodily harm Allen has gone through. The iced-over lake, the final area, is relatively easy to traverse, and Lucifer, in the brief time he appears, seems like a chill guy. He only has a couple lines, but he does hit Allen with an epiphany about the purpose of Hell. There’s been a running debate among Christians for centuries as to the purpose of Hell, whether punishment in Hell is eternal or temporary, and so on. The authors here reach a compromise of sorts: Hell is eternal if you choose to stay there. Most of the people stuck in Hell are there either because they refuse to admit to their sins or because they see their punishment as appropriate. There have been at least a handful of people who’ve been escorted out of Hell thanks to Benito, so God knows how many others must have voyaged out over the eons. Benito has chosen to stay in Hell up to now because, well, he’s Benito Mussolini. (I think it needs be mentioned that Niven and Pournelle, while arguing that of course fascism is bad, also downplay just how instrumental a role Mussolini played in the world political climate unto the present day.) Allen convinces Benito that his time in Hell is finally up and that he can go on without him, for ironically, given that his goal this whole time has been to escape Hell, Allen chooses ultimately to stay. The ending is really abrupt, to the point where I’m convinced there’s more to it in the book version, but there’s a passing of the torch between Allen and Benito, the former taking the latter’s place.

    A Step Farther Out

    I remember years ago trying to read The Mote in God’s Eye, which is supposed to be the best of the Niven-Pournelle collaborations, and even after a couple false starts I couldn’t through it much. Mind you this was years ago, I’ve changed quite a bit as a reader, but I remember it being a rather stuffy and conservative (in a bad way) novel. I did not have such an issue with Inferno, although even in its book form it’s still less than half the length of The Mote in God’s Eye. Cut out the language and the most violent of the gore and you have something that could’ve appeared in Unknown a few decades earlier, since Inferno is essentially a fantasy novel, but with an evident SFnal bent to it that gives one the impression that its authors (or at least one of them, since Niven has occasionally written fantasy) are more accustomed to writing science fiction. It’s a detour for both its authors that more or less works, assuming you’re not too bothered by the humor and the fact that Inferno almost reads like fanfiction.

    See you next time.

  • Novella Review: “The Region Between” by Harlan Ellison

    (Cover by Jack Gaughan. Galaxy, March 1970.)

    Who Goes There?

    Harlan Ellison has a complicated legacy, and we can say “legacy” confidently now, given that he died in 2018. Ellison is one of the most (in)famous American genre writers of the 20th century, for his writing but especially for his personality, which was a double-edged sword in that being the kind of person he was got him TV interviews and even his own segment on the Syfy Channel back in the day, but also got him into hot water repeatedly. He also garnered a lot of criticism and jokes with his mishandling of The Last Dangerous Visions, which only saw publication in kind of a neutered Swiss-cheesed state years after his death. This doesn’t matter too much, because for all the criticism, he’s still one of the most important short-story writers of the past fifty or sixty years. The run he had from 1965 to 1975 alone would probably have permanently secured his status, but he also continued to write some great short fiction even well into the ’90s. He rejected the term “science fiction” and didn’t consider himself to be a “sci-fi” writer, which in a way is fair since much of his work falls into fantasy and/or horror rather than SF. If anything “The Region Between” is an outlier, for being (almost) pure SF and also for being pretty long by Ellison’s standards. Still, despite clocking in at about eighty magazine pages, that page count is deceptive, since its publication in Galaxy is littered with illustrations and “calligraphy,” which is to say typographical experiments.

    Let’s talk about the gimmick behind “The Region Between,” or rather the gimmick behind what made Ellison write it in the first place. There was an anthology book called Five Fates, in which five authors are given the same page-and-a-half prologue (probably written by Keith Laumer), about a schmuck in the future named William Bailey who at the beginning is at the Euthanasia Center, having opted for assisted suicide. Why he does this and what happens after he supposedly dies is left up the imaginations of Laumer, Ellison, Frank Herbert, Poul Anderson, and Gordon R. Dickson. Most of these stories were published in different magazines as standalone works in advance of the book’s publication. As such, you can read “The Region Between” on its own just fine.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the March 1970 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. Aside from Five Fates it’s also been reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction (ed. Mike Ashley) and the Ellison collections Angry Candy and The Top of the Volcano: The Award-Winning Stories of Harlan Ellison. Despite placing first in the Locus poll that year, as well as getting Hugo and Nebula nominations, it hasn’t been reprinted much, although the magazine version is arguably the best way to read it.

    Enhancing Image

    Bailey is dead, to begin with—only not quite. While William Bailey’s body may have perished in the Euthanasia Center, his soul went to a totally different place, or rather was snatched out of his body at the decisive moment, by an alien being called “the Succubus.” This is a bit of an odd choice for a name, since the Succubus is supposed to be male, but the idea is that this alien is a “soul-recruiter,” someone who takes the souls of beings deemed to have certain abilities that would be useful to the highest bidder. We’ve read about bodies getting snatched before, but now there’s soul-snatching, which as the Succubus points out is its own kind of graverobbing. Of course, Bailey was about to die anyway, so his consciousness getting spared and sent into someone else’s body shouldn’t make him too unhappy—or at least that’s the idea. Over the past sixty years the Succubus has cultivated unique ways of farming souls from several intelligent races, under the guise of having blessed these races with “gifts.” One alien race has started what amounts to a death cult while another had been given proof of the afterlife. As for humans, they got Euthanasia Centers, a neat and painless method for ending one’s life. These are intelligent beings who willingly risk or give up their own lives, and in doing so unwittingly provide “prime” souls for the Succubus’s trade. This is the shortened version, as the worldbuilding here is pretty densely packed. We’re introduced to a universe with an SFnal rationale for the existence of the soul, which is typically reserved for the realm of religion, if not fantasy. Ellison, who was a vocal atheist, didn’t actually believe in some spiritual afterlife, so this metaphysics is him showing off more than anything.

    The plot of “The Region Between” is rather simple, although you wouldn’t think it from the combination of shifting perspectives and how Ellison plays with the text itself, to a degree that must’ve been mind-blowing for Galaxy readers in 1970. It also must’ve been a nightmare to print. To accommodate the strange typography, the text here is single- rather than double-column, which means there are fewer words per page right from the get-go, but this also makes it easier for full-page illustrations courtesy of Jack Gaughan. As for Bailey, “He was fired by hatred for the Succubus, inveigled by thoughts of destroying him and his feeder-lines, wonderstruck with being the only one—the only one!—who had ever thought of revenge.” Upon becoming pure soul, Bailey becomes pretty much omniscient, being quickly gifted (or maybe cursed) of knowledge of the past from all corners of the universe. In the decades that the Succubus has been essentially conning all these races for their souls, nobody has resisted him. It’s a bit contrived, because I do find that hard to believe, but it works fine. Of course the theme of rebelling against authority is a bit of a recurring one for Ellison, most famously in “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman.” This anti-authoritarian streak isn’t so much a political move (although Ellison was left-leaning), but rather it more comes from Ellison’s temperament. He was someone who really didn’t like to take orders, and so it shouldn’t be surprising that he supported the New Wave, as a way to revitalized what had risked becoming a stale and safe field. Bailey, a sad fuck with a failed marriage and some war-induced PTSD behind him, is about as thorny as your typical Ellison protagonist, but then the role he plays here is less conventional.

    “The Region Between” might be Ellison’s most New Wave-y story on a formal level, in that he plays with everything from how chapters are numbered to how Bailey communicates with the aliens whose bodies he inhabits and even how flashbacks are communicated to the reader. There is a good deal of what you might call fuckery on the page, which I imagine would be fun to play with if you had a physical copy of the magazine in your hands, turning it sideways and upside down to read some of these passages. This is showmanship of a sort one sees very rarely, even in modern short SF writing, not that it’s the kind of thing you wanna see done too often. (One reason I distrust audiobooks, aside from their passive nature, is that they don’t give you the idea of how text might look on the page. There are cases, albeit not too often, where the formation of the words themselves can only be understood if one were to read them.) The plot, with Bailey jumping across a couple bodies on different planets, most memorably Pinkh, a soldier taking part in a manufactured war between religious factions, is more classic sci-fi compared to how the plot is conveyed. This is by no means Ellison’s darkest or most graphic story, even up to this point, although there’s some profanity and mentioning of sex. There’s also a cosmic scale and an allegorical element to it that makes me think it might’ve been a precursor to Ellison’s more famous “The Deathbird,” which is one of my favorites of his. Bailey on his own is not too interesting a character, but then he’s not the focus for much of it, and ultimately the story is about something almost unimaginably larger than him. This is a novella (it’s only about 20,000 words, if I had to guess) about the universe as we know it.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    At one point Bailey gets put in the body of what seems to be a microscopic organism, this being the last major episode before the Succubus puts him in storage—for the time being. The good news, for Succubus, is that he’s able to figure out that something is off with Bailey, who’s been manipulating his hosts, but unfortunately for the Succubus, and indeed the universe as we know it, reawakening Bailey “one hundred thousand eternities later” is a mistake. He has let the evil genie out of the bottle, so the speak. By the end of this story, after having inhabited many bodies and “lived” apparently for millennia, Bailey has ascended to godhood, or more accurately to the position of a demiurge—a makeshift, destructive god. This is explained in the story’s last and more mind-bending typographical experiment, which I’ll just show here. You have to see it for yourself:

    Yeah, imagine seeing this at the time. This is like something you’d see in House of Leaves thirty years later. It’s showy, but the circular shape of the passage quite literally illustrates (according to Ellison) the circular nature of the universe. The universe had started, at some point, with a cause or perhaps even a maker. Out for revenge while also wanting to put himself out of his misery at last, Bailey uses the means at his disposal and ends the universe, killing himself (his soul) in the process. Typically bleak for Ellison, but again I find it curious as a maybe unintended precursor to “The Deathbird,” which also involves death on a cosmic scale. Ellison didn’t believe in the God of Abraham, though he was raised Jewish, but he at least found the idea of such a God dying or going insane to be one worth exploring. Some atheists will say, maybe well-intentioned or maybe not, that it’d be nice if there was such a God as in the Bible, but Ellison supposes we’re lucky to live in a universe where God has seemingly gone silent.

    A Step Farther Out

    Sorry for the delay. I had read “The Region Between” several days ago, but unfortunately I had also been sick for about four days there, despite which I still had to go to work. I could hardly do a damn thing, except ironically go to work, on account of the person who would normally cover for me also being sick. Be sure to wash your hands and get your necessary shots as flu season is upon us, is maybe the lesson here. But also, Ellison’s story is a hard one to write about; indeed it’s one of those stories where the best way to go about it is simply to read it for yourself, especially if you’re already familiar with his work. I also recommend tracking down the magazine version since it comes with Jack Gaughan’s illustrations.

    See you next time.

  • Serial Review: Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (Part 2/3)

    (Cover by Stephen Fabian. Galaxy, September 1975.)

    The Story So Far

    Allen Carpentier was once a bestselling if not very respected science fiction writer, but in the world of the living he recently became a mesh of blood and bones on pavement. At a sci-fi convention he decided to impress some fans by doing a drinking challenging on a window sill, only for Isaac Asimov to come in at the last second and steal his thunder. Even if Asimov had not done what he did best, Allen still would’ve fallen to his death, in what is perhaps one of the more embarrassing ways a person can go. Almost without skipping a beat, Allen regains consciousness, soon finding himself in the Vestibule of what he comes to call Infernoland. The good news (or maybe not so good) is that he has company in this strange room, in the form of Benito, a fat balding man with a weird accent and an even weirder sense of zealotry that the agnostic Allen finds suspicious. Still, Benito has been here for a hot minute, and he’s come up with a plan for how the two of them might get out of Hell—for of course it is Hell as Benito understands it. This place is modeled after Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, and with Benito as the Virgil to Allen’s Dante, the two of them set out to escape Hell by going straight through it, ever downward, circle after circle. One of the problems here is that Allen, being a committed rationalist, isn’t even convinced that he is in Hell, but rather thinks this is all an extremely elaborate (and far-fetched) science-fictional scenario.

    Benito theorizes that Hell is one giant funnel, with the end of it being at the bottom. This sound simple, except that Allen and Benito have go through the circles of Hell, each one more painful (and weirder) than the last. So we have a start point and an end point, with a simple goal, the result being that this is a quest narrative. Allen, who doesn’t done anything particularly bad in his life, must find a way out of Hell while also figuring out why Hell (or Infernoland) is the way that it is. He meets one or two friends along the way, as in people who had died and been sent to Hell for seemingly minor infractions. We also meet a variety of cartoon characters, from food diet freaks to anti-nuclear activisits—so, in other words, the kinds of people a couple of right-wing authors wouldn’t like. It’s more complicated than that, not least because while these people the authors don’t like are being tortured, the torturing itself seems wildly disproportionate with what wrongs these people committed, and Allen himself points this out. As he says, in what has to be the most memorable line in the whole novel (if only because it gets repeated more than once, like a mantra): “We’re in the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism.” Not that there aren’t sympathetic characters in Hell, and Allen is not left alone with Benito all the time, namely that the two acquire the help of Corbett in building a glider. Unfortunately the glider doesn’t work out, so walking it is, then.

    Enhancing Image

    We’ve come to the scene in Inferno that’s probably the most (in)famous, in that it comes up as a first example of Niven and Pournelle’s biases, but it’s also an encapsulation of the novel’s leaning on bitchy SF fandom hijinks. At some point Kurt Vonnegut died in-story and got sent to Hell, although unlike every other character we’ve met so far he specifically gets special treatment, being locked up in a big monument, like he was one of the pharaohs. A sentence, one of Vonnegut’s most famous lines, is quoted ad nauseum, “SO IT GOES.” It nearly drives Allen crazy, both from the realization that he himself really is dead and in Hell, and also that Vonnegut, a fellow SF writer whom he didn’t like, has this big tomb dedicated to him in Hell. Vonnegut is not named, but it’s very clearly meant to be him. Real-life figures who appear in Inferno are generally people who’d been dead in Niven and Pournelle’s world for a good minute, whereas Vonnegut was very much alive still; but at some point after Allen went over to the other side, so did he. On the one hand, they clearly have a bone to pick with the man (as Allen says, ““If you must know, I was writing better than Vonnegut ever did before I left high school!”), but as Benito and Corbett point out, there’s also some palpable jealousy, which may or may not be reflective of the authors. Vonnegut had become a highly respected literary figure by the ’70s, and while Niven and Pournelle would write a few bestselling novels, they never even came close to that level of acclaim and acceptance.

    Now, one can go on a whole tangent about Kurt Vonnegut, his troubled relationship with SF, and also his outspoken atheism and leftist viewpoint, with how Niven and Pournelle would find all of those objectionable. But I’m not going to. Okay, maybe a little bit. I kinda have to, since I did read a lot of Vonnegut in high school and college, and he’s one of those authors who played a big role in my formative years as an avid reader, even if I don’t read him much nowadays. Keep in mind that a few of Vonnegut’s early stories appeared in the very magazine Inferno was serialized in, and also that while he tried distancing himself from SF as a literary ghetto, this didn’t stop him from appearing in Again, Dangerous Visions. To a seasoned reader who hopefully has read their fair share of “classic” literature, not just classic SF but the likes of Faulkner and George Eliot, Vonnegut can now come off as maybe too simplistic and cloying, both in his style and how he tries to boil complex morality down to simple statements. Along with John Steinbeck he’s probably the first openly leftist fiction author a young American reader would encounter. Of course, in Inferno it’s less about Vonnegut’s politics and more his mocking of religion.

    Anyway, we do meet a couple other historical figures in this installment, including a guy who claims to be Billy the Kid. The big revelation Allen has, aside from already being dead, is that nobody in Hell can die again. For better or worse. You can be put through all kinds of hideous and bloody torture, even having your skin and meat literally melted off your bones, and you will still come out of it alive; not only that, but you’ll heal so rapidly that you won’t even get to taste the sweet release of death temporarily. Allen’s party does grow over the course of this installment, although Corbett leaves and starts crawling his way back to a higher circle in Hell. You can’t really blame him, since going through this shit means, among other things, wading through a swamp of burning hot blood and being stalked by Geryon, a mythological fishman with webbed hands and feet. There are some humanoid creatures in Hell that are decidedly not human, including literal demons (black-skinned as opposed to red-skinned, though), which are scary, sure, but which also poke holes in Allen’s theorizing about “the Builders” and Hell being one giant theme park. I wanna mention that while being rather tame at first, Inferno by this point has gotten more graphic and unforgiving in its depiction of Hell. There’s gore that’s described in stomach-churning detail, and there’s even (unusually for magazine SF at the time) some pretty salty language, including a “fuck” or two. I thought at first that maybe the magazine version of Inferno is censored compared to the book version, but this doesn’t seem to be the case.

    A Step Farther Out

    You could definitely pick apart this novel, especially from a modern left-leaning perspective, but I think it’s fun! I’m willing to forgive right-wing tendencies in art if a) it achieves its goals as art, and b) there was clear thought put into it. It would be hypocritical for me to say I still love reading Yukio Mishima and Rudyard Kipling while also trashing Niven and Pournelle’s grudge against people who are really into health foods. If the novel were not entertaining and occasionally thought-provoking, things would be different. There is good right-wing art and there is bad right-wing art, although we’ve gotten so much of the latter, corresponding with the former shrinking, in recent years, that it’s easy to say all right-wing art is bad. This is understandable, especially since it seems like with a few hand-picked exceptions we simply don’t have any good right-wing artists anymore. Inferno really does feel like a novel from a different era, in that it is dated, but also it’s unserious in a way that most science-fantasy novels dare not be nowadays, or so it seems to me. I could be biased.

    See you next time.

  • Short Story Review: “The Old Nurse’s Story” by Elizabeth Gaskell

    (Cover by C. C. Senf. Weird Tales, October 1927.)

    Who Goes There?

    Here we have one of the most respected Victorian writers, if also perhaps underread to this day, with Mrs. Gaskell. A lot of her work was, even after her dead, accompanied with the byline of “Mrs. Gaskell,” but Elizabeth Gaskell was very much her own woman. She was born in 1810 and was close contemporaries with the likes of George Eliot and the Brontë sisters, to the point of being close friends with Charlotte Brontë and writing the first major biography of her. Gaskell was also an accomplished novelist, in part helped by her friendship with Charles Dickens at a time when Dickens was the most popular author in England. “The Old Nurse’s Story” was itself first published in the Christmas 1852 issue of Household Words, a magazine Dickens was editing at the time. While she’s not as popular now as Eliot or the Brontë sisters nowadays, her novels, especially Cranford, North and South, and the sadly unfinished (on account of Gaskell dying suddenly just before she could write the ending) Wives and Daughters, are very well-liked. Her biography of Charlotte Brontë, whilst now being acknowledged as a biased account, also guarantees her a spot in Victorian literature that will probably always be considered worth remembering.

    Gaskell, aside from writing novels about social justice (namely the downtrodden lives of those living in the newly industrial parts of England) and more personal topics, partook in what was becoming a fine tradition among British (and to a lesser extent American) writers: the ghost story. In the years long before Fortnite and even the internet, long before even the horror story got walled off and put in its own genre ghetto, it was quite common for “literary” authors in the Anglosphere to write spooky tales of the supernatural, especially with the intention of them being read aloud at Christmastime. Ya know, for the fun of it. “The Old Nurse’s Story” is a very good example of such a tale, as well as being a Gothic narrative in the most classic sense. While the Gothic novel had waned in both popularity and works being written by the 1820s, the Gothic short story picked up the pieces a couple decades down the road.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in 1852 and reprinted in the October 1927 issue of Weird Tales. It’s also been reprinted in The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories (ed. Robert Aickman), The Gentlewomen of Evil: An Anthology of Rare Supernatural Stories from the Pens of Victorian Ladies (ed. Peter Haining), Minor Hauntings: Chilling Tales of Spectral Youth (ed. Jen Baker), The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories (ed. Tera Moore), The Penguin Book of Ghost Stories: From Elizabeth Gaskell to Ambrose Bierce (ed. Michael Newton), and the Gaskell collection Curious, If True. Because it’s very old and very public domain, you can find it online easily.

    Enhancing Image

    Hester, the titular nurse, relates to us (in the position of Rosamond’s children) the story of a particularly strange and traumatic series of events in both their lives. Rosamond, now a grown woman and a mother, was once a child in Hester’s care, at first part of the time and then full-time, following the deaths of both of Rosamond’s parents. Her father died of fever while her mother died shortly after childbirth, to a stillborn baby which would’ve been Rosamond’s younger sibling. (Sounds dramatic, I know, but it would not have been so unusual back in those days.) On her deathbed the mother makes Hester promise to look after the little Rosamond, although really she didn’t have to say anything about that, for “if she had never spoken a word, I would have gone with the little child to the end of the world.” Hester, herself barely an adult at this time, is made to be both Rosamond’s nurse and surrogate mother whilst the two are taken in by the Furnivalls, that is Rosamond’s mother’s relatives. After that slightly convoluted prelude, we find ourselves at Furnivall Manor, the big spooky mansion where the rest of the action is to take place. Given that the framing device sees Hester and Rosamond alive and in good health, we can safely assume that they will come out of these spooky happenings more or less fine, but then we’re not reading this story for the question of if Our Heroines™ will persevere, but rather how. That Hester is also telling us this story in first-person, in a conversational tone, gives the impression that this is a story one should read aloud to an audience, perhaps on the night before Christmas.

    (Of course, I say “conservational,” but this is by the standards of mid-Victorian speech, which is more verbose and long-winded than what we’re used to nowadays. Let’s say that Gaskell, in a way not untypical for her time, likes to abuse the semi-colon.)

    Furnivall Manor is home to four old farts, namely Grace Furnivall, her maid “and companion” Mrs. Stark, and James and his wife Dorothy. The only exception is Agnes, the one servant in the house who does not have a close relationship with anyone else. As for the current Lord Furnivall, he’s always away from the manor, and I don’t think we ever see him. The west drawing-room is open, but the east drawing-room is locked shut and nobody ever goes in there, for reasons Ms. Furnivall refrains from giving. It doesn’t take long at all for us to find that this mansion has a dark family secret, and we can infer this straight from the fact that Ms. Furnivall had an older sister who died many years ago, from decidedly unnatural circumstances. There’s also eerie organ music that plays in the halls at night, despite there being no one playing the instrument and everyone having gone to bed. Oh yeah, “The Old Nurse’s Story” wastes no time in getting to the good stuff. In fact, despite its length, this is by no means slowly paced, but rather is as long as it is because of Gaskell’s style that she uses here, where there’s no stone left unturned and paragraphs tend to go on for nearly a page at a time. There’s a whole family history delved into here, in a story that’s only about 25 pages, much like in Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher.” But whereas “Usher” has to do with a rich family dooming itself via an incestuous streak, the Furnivalls are cursed from a combination of pride and jealousy. Just how exactly these sins play into the ghostly proceedings, we will soon see, for as I said, it’s a question of how the manor is haunted.

    For one, we know (or rather are told) that Old Lord Furnivall loved music, both to hear and to play it, and also that he was quite the bastard when he was alive. He apparently mistreated his two daughters, Maude and Grace, although just to what extent we can’t say for sure. We know that the Furnivalls are dominated by pride in their wealth, or at least the appearance of wealth, even in the living relatives, to where James can’t help but look down on his wife Dorothy a bit for having been a farmer’s daughter. Rosamond’s own mother, despite being from a high-born family, had chosen to marry a man of the cloth (I believe it was Anglican, not Catholic, kinda goes without saying), who while virtuous also didn’t make much money. Class figures greatly into “The Old Nurse’s Story,” both thematically and even how it plays a major role in the underlying conflict. This is unsprising, given that Gaskell, like Dickens, was politically progressive, despite being actively religious (specifically she was a Unitarian Christian). The idea that one can be both a practicing Christian and decidedly on the political left may sound far-fetched now, but believe it or not, such strange creatures can occasionally be found in the wild to this day. As for the characters in the story, religion doesn’t play much of a role; but still there’s a palpable class tension between the modest Hester and Rosamond and the rather haughty upper-class Ms. Furnivall and Mrs. Stark. And then there are the ghosts, who are a different matter entirely. There’s Old Lord Furnivall at his organ in the dead of night, and more distressingly there’s a child, slightly younger than Rosamond, who prowls the frosty manor grounds…

    (It’s worth mentioning that Hester says winter has hit the manor when it’s only October, which sounds weird, but it’s also worth mentioning that in the northernmost part of England the murderous chill of winter would have set in quite early in the year.)

    The first big scare, and the most effective (mostly because it’s something that can happen in real life), is when Rosamond goes missing one day, and it’s both frightfully cold and snowing outside the manor. Hester nearly scares herself to death with fright in trying to find Rosamond, who herself is only rescued thanks to a farmer who lives not too far from the manor, the child nearly frozen to death. Yet strangely Rosamond is not scared of what she found in the snowy outdoors, namely a child who beckons Rosamond to come play with her. The child is obviously a ghost, and is implied not to be leading Rosamond to her death out of malice, but rather out of loneliness, not being fully aware of what she’s doing. It’s unclear if the ghost child is even aware that she’s a ghost. But between the ghost child and the ghost of Old Lord Furnivall, there are a few spirits lurking at the manor that have not yet been laid to rest. Ms. Furnivall has been keeping a secret all these years, and despite being somewhere in her seventies and being deaf enough that she has to use a horn, she’s not too feeble to confess a wrongdoing of the past. Again it’s worth observing that Rosamond is saved by a man of low stature, and that Hester, being merely a nurse-maid, is unequivocally the most heroic figure in the story—which is not to say that all the low-born characters in the are story are virtuous. Gaskell generally sides with the working class, but her view of individual virtue and how it relates to class conflict is more nuanced, as we are about to discover.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    Back when they were young, Maude and Grace Furnivall were the starlets of the manor and two fine ladies from that part of the country. Old Lord Furnivall wanted nothing less than the best for his daughters, although when I say “the best” I specifically mean the best in terms of status. Only a man with high enough status is deserving of either of these sisters, which doesn’t stop the ladies from having ambitions of their own. There was a time when a “dark foreigner” would visit the manor from abroad once a year, being a talented musician but naturally also one who was not rich. Old Lord Furnivall admired the man’s talent, and also loved to have the foreigner listen to his own playing, but he probably would not have approved of the musician marrying one of his daughters. This didn’t stop the musician from “walking abroad in the woods” (going on walks between man and woman was like going on a date) with each of the sisters at different points. The musician and Maude got married in secret and the musician knocked her up. Maude managed to hide her pregnancy and even to raise her daughter, under the guise that the child was a charity case from some working-class home. But the musician had skipped town, never to return, and Grace was the only other person who knew the secret; so, in a moment of fiery jealousy, she ratted out her sister to their father, who was not pleased. Maude and her child were evicted from the manor, with her later being found under a tree, crazed and nearly frozen to death, her child dead in her arms. Maude died not long after that, and the guilt never left Grace.

    Hester coming to the manor with Rosamond reopened a wound that seemed to have nearly healed, or at least would have probably died along with Ms. Furnivall. The climax is theatrical, and if I had a gripe with this story I think the final confrontation is a bit overblown, compared to what came previously, although the very end is haunting. Having confessed to what she had done to Maude, Ms. Furnivall has lifted the curse from the manor and placed all on her own shoulders. There’s peace for everyone else, but not for her. She dies in her bed shortly after, in agony, with the words: “Alas! alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in age! What is done in youth can never be undone in age!” It’s a pretty bleak ending, the only thing preventing it from being a total downer being that Hester and Rosamond come out of the ordeal in one piece. If we can infer from the framing device, Rosamond (although we hear not a word from her adult self) has not repeated the mistakes of her relatives.

    A Step Farther Out

    I had read this one only yesterday, and part of me wishes I got to sat it on longer. This is a story that requires some retracing of steps and understanding the whole of it in order to better appreciate. The syntax Gaskell uses here also takes some time getting accommodated with, but this is coming from the perspective of someone who hasn’t read that much Victorian literature. While the walls of text and the convoluted family dynamics can be a bit intimidating, I do very much recommend seeking out “The Old Nurse’s Story,” especially if you’re into ghost stories by the likes of Robert Aickman and M. R. James.

    See you next time.

  • Serial Review: Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle (Part 1/3)

    (Cover by Ames. Galaxy, August 1975.)

    Who Goes There?

    Niven and Pournelle had similar temperaments and politics, but their career trajectories were a fair bit different. Larry Niven emerged as arguably the best new hard SF writer of the ’60s, after being discovered by Frederik Pohl, winning a Hugo for his story “Neutron Star” and appearing in Dangerous Visions. Despite being just the kind of writer John W. Campbell would want, at least on paper, Niven stuck to Pohl’s magazines, and even appeared several times in F&SF. Niven’s biggest contribution to SF is undoubtedly his Known Space universe, in which mankind inhabits the galaxy alongside several intelligent alien races, most famously the Kzinti, a warmongering catlike race that are technically also canonical to the Star Trek universe. Niven’s most famous novel, Ringworld, also won a Hugo (and a Nebula), and served as an influence on the Halo franchise. (The titular halos are basically like Niven’s ringworld, but smaller and serving a different function.) Jerry Pournelle took a bit longer to go pro than Niven, despite being a few years older. He had been active as a fan since at least the early ’60s, but didn’t appear professionally in the field until 1971, just in time to have his first stuff bought by Campbell’s before the latter’s passing. Pournelle has his own ambitious universe, called the CoDominium universe, involving a future history that very much takes after those by Robert Heinlein and Poul Anderson. Eventually Pournelle stuck more to writing nonfiction rather than fiction, although he still collaborated with Niven sometimes, with their novels often being bestsellers.

    At the time that Inferno was published, it came between two of Niven and Pournelle’s biggest successes, those being The Mote in God’s Eye (set in the CoDominium universe) and the massive standalone Lucifer’s Hammer. Despite being much shorter than these novels, Inferno is considerably more obscure, maybe because it’s harder to get a read on in terms of its genre. It’s been labeled at different times as SF and/or fantasy, being serialized in Galaxy (granted that Galaxy occasionally published fantasy) and with Jim Baen himself calling it SF, but with other sources calling it a fantasy novel. So, let’s call it science-fantasy. Obviously this is a riff on Dante’s The Divine Comedy (says someone who has not read The Divine Comedy yet), but also with a heavy metatextual element. Contemporary reviewers in the genre magazines also ignored Inferno, inexplicably, which didn’t stop it from getting Hugo and Nebula nominations.

    Placing Coordinates

    Inferno was serialized in Galaxy, August to October 1975. It was published in book form the following year, supposedly expanded although I can’t imagine by much. It seems to still be in print.

    Enhancing Image

    Allen Carpentier is dead, to begin with. Allen (I’m gonna be calling him by his first rather than last name) has died, in what has to be one of the more embarrassing ways someone can die. In life he was a bestselling (although not that respected) science fiction author, and the first scene he recounts is that at some unspecified science fiction convention. By the way, his real last name is Carpenter, but he added the i so as to appear more distinctive on book covers, although even in his internal monologue he refers to himself as Carpentier. Well, he was an author, and historically there’ve been a lot of hijinks at conventions like these, some more innocuous than others. Allen takes part in a bet, or you could say it’s a drinking game. He’s to finish a fifth of rum while sitting on an opened window sill, some eight stories above ground level. Not only does he fail the bet, falling to his death, but nobody even sees him do so, since the crowd got distracted by Isaac Asimov (I’m not kidding) entering the scene and naturally hogging all the attention. That Asimov is depicted as an egomaniac is accurate enough, although his penchant for sexual harassment (something which at this point was kind of an open secret) goes unmentioned.

    For a while Allen finds himself miraculously conscious but without any of his senses. He is somehow nowhere at no particular point in time, but soon he really wakes up to find himself in the Vestibule, in Hell. Well, it’s supposed to be like Hell, although Allen is not convinced that it’s the real deal. He would be totally lost if not for the help of a fat, balding, middle-aged, and “Mediterranean” man who simply calls himself Benito. Both Allen and Benito are very much aware of Dante’s epic poem, although Allen is irreligious while Benito seems to be some flavor of zealous Christian, and as such they have very different interpretations of the situation. Benito thinks that they’re really in Hell, of course, as modeled after Dante’s version of it, whereas Allen thinks they’re in a man-made reproduction of said version, which he decides to call Infernoland. Allen takes on the position of Dante (the self-insert character, not the author) while Benito takes on the role of Virgil. This implies a couple things: that Allen is himself a self-insert for the authors, and that Benito, like Virgil, is a real historical figure. I’m gonna hold off on saying it outright, but who Benito is supposed to be has to be this novel’s most poorly kept secret. It’s apparently supposed to be a twist, but I’ve seen at least one reviewer casually give that away. It’s not hard to figure out, though, and knowing the answer makes Benito’s interactions with other characters, along with the authors’ implicit view of him, a lot more… let’s say awkward. I have some thoughts.

    Similarly to Allen thinking of Infernoland as like a theme park, the novel itself feels like a darkly funny theme park ride, rather than a serious novel. Actually, from what I can tell, it seems like people who’ve read Inferno have a bad habit of taking it a little too seriously. More understandably your enjoyment of this novel will depend on a) your sense of humor, and b) how much you can tolerate Niven and Pournelle’s “I just wanna grill, for God’s sake!” conservatism. Just like how the real Dante used his epic poem to rag on people and historical figures he didn’t like, Niven and Pournelle use the setting of their novel as a pretext for taking potshots at certain types of people, and even occasionally named individuals. Granted that I’m only a third in so far, I was expecting worse. Some of the authors’ targets are what you’d expect from a couple of right-wingers (there’s a scene where they poke fun at treehuggers), but their targets aren’t always people on the so-called left (scene with said treehugger also depicts a real estate yuppie type just as unflatteringly). The people that Allen and Benito find in Infernoland are not necessarily “bad” people either, but often people who simply indulged in one of the deadly sins too much. While in the circle for gluttons they meet Jan Petri, whom Allen was friends with in life, Petri having died suddenly some years before. Petri is a decent guy, except he’s also one of those people who’s neurotic about dieting, which, as Benito (if I remember right) points out, is its own kind of gluttony. There’s also the first circle of Infernoland the two men go through, which the inhabitants see as purgatory, and indeed it’s not half bad an existence. The first circle includes people who died without having heard of The Word™, as well as unbaptized children. Allen is understandably disturbed by all this, but he’s also of the mind that really these people are robotic doubles of real people.

    At this point, Inferno could be considered fantasy but as envisioned by writers who normally write science fiction. Allen writes (or wrote) SF, and being a rationalist he tries to find a non-supernatural explanation for Infernoland—even if the explanations he comes up with may as well be magical. He thinks of Infernoland as an incredibly ambitious theme park, one not made for entertainment but for the sadistic pleasure of “the Builders.” Allen doesn’t seem to believe in the God of Abraham, but rather he finds it easier to believe that Infernoland was made by a kind of demiurge, or a team of human-hating demigods. The absurdity of Allen trying to find a “natural” explanation for Infernoland when a supernatural explanation would do just as well says something about the religious stances of the authors, although it’s a bit complicated. Pournelle was a practicing Catholic while Niven is an atheist, but both men took a materialist stance on things, with Pournelle (as far as I can tell) keeping his religious beliefs walled off from his nonfiction writing. It’s worth mentioning that Pournelle, along with being friends with Niven, was also good friends with H. Beam Piper, who was also an outspoken atheist. Of course, science fiction has a long history of authors who are, if not agnostic or atheistic outright, prone to keeping their religious leanings on the sidelines when it comes to their work. Obviously there are some notable exceptions, but the idea that one need not be a Catholic or even a Christian to “get” Inferno.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    The back end of this installment is basically a quest, in which Allen and Benito try to build a glider from scraps that they might fly a high rim wall, by which they might be able to escape Hell. Assuming there’s anything “outside” the wall. How this will turn out, we don’t know—or at least Allen doesn’t know. We can safely guess the glider will not work, because we still have two installments to go. This is like when a movie tries tricking you into thinking it’s about to end, but you’re watching it on streaming or home video so you can look at the time stamp and know it’s LYING. At least the making of the glider, including Benito conning a not very smart desk worker (there is, of course, bureaucracy in Hell), is fun.

    A Step Farther Out

    I’ve seen some pretty mixed opinions on Inferno, but I’m enjoying it so far. Not sure why Niven and Pournelle felt it necessary to write a sequel thirty-odd years later, given that this feels like very much a standalone. While the setting is big, there’s also only so much you can do with it, at least with these two particular characters. You can only do the “sci-fi author doesn’t believe he’s in a fantasy world” routine for so long. For a comedy, which Inferno more or less is, you don’t wanna overdo a joke. I can see why the book version’s only about 240 pages, compared to the behemoths that came before and after it, since it’s meant to be more lightweight.

    See you next time.

  • The Observatory: Carnival of Souls, Purgatory, and Mental Illness

    (The title card for Carnival of Souls, 1962.)

    (This post will be discussing spoilers for Carnival of Souls, including the twist ending, so if you haven’t seen the movie already I suggest you do just that before reading any further.)

    I was supposed to write a review two goddamn days ago, except I realized that I had made a mistake and somehow gotten my own schedule wrong. I had read the first installment of Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle’s Inferno, except I was actually supposed to read Arthur C. Clarke’s “Against the Fall of Night.” So, no review happened for the 3rd or the 4th. With any luck I’ll get around to Clarke’s novella sometime this month, and of course you can expect my review of Inferno (the first stretch) very soon, as in tomorrow or the day after. For now, let’s content ourselves with an editorial I had in mind for last month but couldn’t find the time or proper motivation for at the time, a not-review of a certain cult classic. Carnival of Souls is one of the best horror movies of the ’60s, almost in spite of itself, being made on a very low budget by a crew comprised of people who had not worked on a feature film before, and whose cast was similarly comprised of non-actors and people (including its lead actress) who would not have a future in movies. There’s a lot to say about it, but one can only say so much without giving away the whole plot, so it’s best to start at the ending and then slingshot back to the beginning. It’s that kind of movie.

    Mary Henry is dead, to begin with. We start with a logo for Harcourt Productions, which I have to think was made specifically for this movie, since this is the only movie ever to be produced by this company. Before said logo can even fade to black we’re met with a jarring (maybe deliberate, maybe not) shift in the form of the opening scene: an impromptu drag race between two cars, one filled with dudes, the other filled with Mary and her gal pals. A few things are going on in this first scene, which seems to me an effort in disorienting the viewer. At the very beginning here, Mary doesn’t say anything, and she has kind of this quizzical expression on her face, as if she’s unsure about the race but is too shy to discourage her friends from taking part. Her skepticism is more than justified, since it takes all of about one minute for the race to go wrong, as the cars go across a rickety bridge and the girls’ car tips over into the river below. You would think the girls, if not killed from the impact, would at least drown, and you’d be right. A rescue team comes in, more to salvage the car than anything, and if you pay attention to the dialogue you can hear that they’ve been looking for three hours. Obviously nobody can be alive still.

    Except for Mary—or so it seems.

    (The film’s director as a ghostly visitor.)

    Wet from the river and caked with mud, Mary walks dizzily out of the water, as if some kind of ghoul emerging from a swamp, quite miraculously to everyone around her. It’s telling that when asked about what happened Mary can only say, “I don’t remember.” It’s her first line of dialogue, and in a striking formal decision it’s spoken offscreen. From this scene to the next there’s an unexplainable gap in time, and it’s only then that we see Mary talk for the first time. Having apparently recovered from the accident, Mary takes up a job as an organist for a church in Utah, despite being irreligious herself. The man at the organ factory doesn’t mind Mary’s disposition much, but the minister at the church where she’ll be working is more concerned. (We know that this must take place in fantasy land because somehow Mary is able to afford rent with a non-job like “church organist.”) Interestingly, the only woman of note that Mary interacts with throughout the rest of the movie is Mrs. Thomas, her landlady; otherwise she’s beholden to a handful of male figures. These men fall on a spectrum that ranges from uselessly benevolent to openly hostile, but the point is that they either try and fail to help her or are looking to make her day worse. The worst of these might be John, the neighbor in the apartment building, who unsubtly creeps on Mary and tries to get her in his bed at all costs. If this movie took place in modern times, John would be an incel and/or one of those guys who follows macho influencers for “dating advice.”

    (Mary and a typically pushy John.)

    Let’s take a step back to talk about the acting and directing, since this is a movie that does a lot with only a few resources, and also where a lot happens despite clocking in at just under 80 minutes. The director, Herk Harvey, had experience as a filmmaker from making PSA-type shorts about urban and industrial areas, with Carnival of Souls being his first and only narrative feature. He directed, produced, worked on the script with John Clifford, and even plays a major role as an actor here, as a pale-skinned ghostly man who stalks Mary throughout the film. Like I said earlier, the people acting in Carnival of Souls have never been in a movie before, with maybe an exception or two in there. This is quite a surprise with Candace Hilligoss as Mary, since she gives unquestionably one of the defining lead performances of ’60s horror, and her presence gives one the impression that she could’ve been in a hundred movies. The way she often stares off into the distance, dissociating, or sometimes how she cranes her neck like a flightless bird, gives one the impression of Mary being like a confused animal. The closest reference point I can think of with Hilligoss’s performance is Elsa Lanchester’s performance as the bride in Bride of Frankenstein, where similarly Lanchester plays a worried and at times frightened animal in human skin. Lanchester as the bride only shows up for a few minutes in her movie, nevertheless leaving a mark on people’s imaginations; but luckily for us we have a whole movie to spend with Hilligoss as Mary.

    Harvey and his crew shot on location in Utah, on a budget of just over $30,000 in 1962 money, and since they obviously couldn’t afford sets they shot the scenes of the titular carnival at the Saltair Pavilion (specifically Saltair II), a resort that hit hard times during the Great Depression and which wss finally abandoned a few years before Carnival of Souls was shot. Securing a permit for shooting at Saltair II was cheap and easy. There are a few scenes set in urban locations, namely Salt Lake City, but the most memorable stuff in this movie has to do with the shabby apartment building Mary lives in and the industrial shithole just out her window, namely the abandoned carnival that haunts her dreams. The lack of sets, combined with harsh lighting and industrial locales, gives one the feeling that maybe David Lynch had taken notes from this movie during the long process of making Eraserhead. Mary, being a ghost unbeknownst to herself, lives in a world that itself comes off as ghostly. Of course, it is not the abandoned carnival which turns out to be haunted, but rather Mary. I have a soft spot for ghost stories in which a person instead of a place is haunted, either because the person is a member of the undead or attracts the undead like a magnet. Harvey and Clifford took inspiration from the Ambrose Bierce story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” which (spoilers for a short story that’s over a century old) is similarly about someone who seemingly survives being killed, only to find out afterward that they are a ghost. So we have a ghost who unwittingly haunts people, and who herself is haunted by a dead (abandoned) place. I know it can be a little hard to believe, given its cheap and grimy aesthetics, but this is an intelligently crafted film.

    (An exterior shot of Saltair II.)

    If taken literally, Carnival of Souls is a spooky story about a woman who thinks she has cheated death, but if you try even slightly you’ll find that this is a resonant and prescient study of a woman suffering from some undiagnosed mental illness, trying to live in a world dominated by “normal” people. It is at the very least explicitly about a woman who, following her accident, lives in a permanent state of disconnect from the rest of humanity, a kind of switch being flipped in her brain which she may or may not be able to flip back the other way. It’s ambiguous if Mary’s unusual mental state is something she had before the accident or if it’s brought on from trauma, but regardless she acts as if being around people for longer than short controlled bursts is a burden on her—to other people’s dismay. As the minister says during their first meeting, “But my dear, you cannot live in isolation from the human race, you know.” At first Mary is content to live on her own, with her crummy job and not having any friends, but eventually the loneliness does get to her; but at the same time she has some unwanted company, with John from the side of the living and the pale man from that of the dead. She quite literally phases in and out of reality at a few points in the movie, where people can’t see or hear her and she fully becomes a ghost. She’s stuck in a liminal position, between wanting but being unable to socialize with the living while also being scared of the ghosts she sees dancing at the carnival at night. During the daytime the carnival just a normal industrial area, totally empty of human life; but while there’s no ghost who can torment her here during the day, it’s eerily missing that human touch. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the sequence at the halfway point of the movie, where Mary explores Saltair II, might be my favorite.

    (Mary in a huge pipe, in one of the more memorable shots.)

    The most helpful character is Dr. Samuels, a psychologist who just so happens to run into Mary during one of her daytime scares. (How is she paying for this? Is she paying for it? Does Samuels put their first session on the house? We don’t ask these questions when watching a movie.) The best thing he does is allow Mary to articulate her state of mind, especially her strange (to other characters) indifference to intimacy with those of the opposite sex. The language wasn’t around at the time, but the idea is that Mary is queer, by virtue of being asexual and possibly also aromantic. This quirk with her sexuality is treated as unusual, but not harmful, which for a movie of this vintage is pretty forward-thinking. Indeed what modern viewers might appreciate most about Carnival of Souls, more than what it’s able to accomplish on a tight budget and its capacity for genuine chills, is its sympathetic depiction of someone who is both mentally ill and outside the realm of cisgender-heterosexual normality. We have a complex figure with Mary, helped by Hilligoss’s nuanced performance, a woman who is tormented by men who either shun her or try to coerce her into unwanted sex—and that’s not even going into the literal ghouls following her. The ending of the movie is obviously meant to be taken as eerie, but Mary’s ultimate fate, as a ghost who gets dragged screaming into the afterlife, also has a tragic aspect. The “dead all along” twist has arguably been done with more elegance in one or two other movies, but the inevitability of it in Carnival of Souls is crushing.

    Carnival of Souls is not a perfect movie by any means; on the contrary it’s pretty rough around the edges. Actually the whole movie is rough. The lighting is amateurish at times, the acting is a mixed bag (understandably), there are a few shots I can think of that could’ve used another take, and of course someone watching this today would find the twist to be pretty obvious—although this was not so much the case back then. As typically goes with B-movies, it languished in obscurity for a couple decades, until it was revived thanks to late-night TV airings and being discovered by the international arthouse crowd. Roger Ebert wrote a positive review of it in 1989. It’s now in the Criterion Collection. I’ve seen three or four times myself over the years, and each time I’ve found more small and subtle things about it to like. This is a pulpy exploration of mental illness via supernatural horror, which nowadays feels almost overdone as one of the genre’s many modes. But trust me, it’s a good one.

  • Things Beyond: November 2025

    (Cover by Jack Gaughan. Galaxy, March 1970.)

    A short and sweet review forecast for this month, partly because I’m running behind on my writing a bit and so am pressed for time, but also because I don’t have a particular theme in mind here. Of course, if you thought I was gonna take a break from reviewing spooky fiction altogether after last month, you’d be mistaken, as both of the short stories due for November are horror pieces. We’re still deep in autumn, after all, and honestly my thirst for spooky shit has not been quenched.

    Another thing I just randomly decided to throw in there is that both of the serials are novels written in collaboration, by authors who gained a good deal of acclaim and presumably money from working together. In one case there’s decades-long besties Larry Niven and the late Jerry Pournelle, who shared similar politics and also writing philosophies. There’s also the husband-wife duo of Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore, perennial favorites on this site, who wrote most of their novels together, although for decades Fury has been erroneously credited to just Kuttner.

    We’ve got one story from the 1850s (the oldest I will have reviewed thus far), two from the 1940s, two from the 1970s, and one from the 2000s.

    For the serials:

    1. Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. Serialized in Galaxy Science Fiction, August to October 1975. Niven had quickly established himself as one of the major hard SF writers by the end of the ’60s, but Pournelle had a longer road to success, first being active as a fan and then not writing his first stories and articles professionally till he was deep in his thirties. In the ’70s and ’80s Niven and Pournelle wrote several successful novels in collaboration.
    2. Fury by Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore. Serialized in Astounding Science Fiction, May to July 1947. Kuttner and Moore wrote so much, both together and each solo, that they resorted to a few pseudonyms, one of them being Lawrence O’Donnell. Fury takes place in the same universe as the earlier Kuttner-Moore story “Clash by Night.” Despite Fury historically being credited to Kuttner alone, Moore claimed years later to having been a minor collaborator.

    For the novellas:

    1. “Against the Fall of Night” by Arthur C. Clarke. From the November 1948 issue of Startling Stories. Clarke is one of the most famous SF writers ever, to the point that by the ’60s he had become, along with Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein, a media personality. He collaborated with Stanley Kubrick on the script for 2001: A Space Odyssey whilst writing the novel version parallel to it.
    2. “The Region Between” by Harlan Ellison. From the March 1970 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. Ellison is similarly a pretty famous (if more controversial) figure, being just as notorious for his real-life antics and combative nature as for his writing. This novella, one of Ellison’s longest stories, works as a standalone but was commissioned as part of a series which features the same main character.

    For the short stories:

    1. “The Old Nurse’s Story” by Elizabeth Gaskell. From the October 1927 issue of Weird Tales. First published in 1852. Now here’s a name you probably didn’t see coming. For someone who gained notoriety as one of the finest novelists of the mid-Victorian period, as well as being Charlotte Brontë’s first major biographer, Gaskell also wrote a fair amount of supernatural fiction.
    2. “I Live with You” by Carol Emshwiller. From the March 2005 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. By this point Carol had outlived her late husband, Ed Emshwiller, by over a decade, but she had long since made a name for herself. The last Emshwiller story I wrote about was from the late ’50s, but nearly half a century later we still find her seemingly in her prime.

    Time to get some reading done.

  • Short Story Review: “The Pear-Shaped Man” by George R. R. Martin

    (Cover by Stanislaw Fernandes. Omni, October 1987.)

    Who Goes There?

    Happy Halloween, ghouls and gals!

    George R. R. Martin is now one of the most famous American authors alive, but this was not always the case. When he made his professional debut in the early ’70s he was just another post-New Wave writer who wanted desperately to be published in Analog, as he idolized (and still idolizes, really) John W. Campbell. In a bit of a cruel twist of fate, Martin didn’t make his first sale to Analog until right after Campbell’s death, but that didn’t stop him from appearing in that magazine regularly throughout the ’70s and ’80s. Martin started his A Song of Ice and Fire fantasy series in 1996, but prior to that his career was a lot more winding—one might say directionless, but I prefer to think of the first couple decades of his career as showing Martin at his most versatile. He wrote science fiction, fantasy, and horror in more or less equal measure, although he’s admitted to being perhaps a horror writer by instinct. This is easy enough to believe, even for someone who only knows Martin for his big series, considering the monsters, zombies, ghouls, and remorseless killers which populate A Song of Ice and Fire. For better or worse (he has his reactionary/boomer moments), Martin is our biggest connection to an era of genre writing that is long past us, to the point where a lot of current readers have no personal memory of it and no passion to dig up its bones. He’s the one living author I know who has enough clout to make young readers check out the works of Jack Vance.

    My experiences with Martin have been a bit mixed over the years, since I have to admit I’m not keen on his big fantasy series from what little I’ve read of it; but at the same time I do like his early SF and horror a lot more. This month has been kind of a wash for me, as far as getting my spooky shit on goes, with movies and also reads, even what I’ve been reviewing here as of late. The good news is that we’re going out on a high note, because “The Pear-Shaped Man” is a darn good tale of paranoia and suspense, being quite effective while also seeing Martin on his best behavior. Understandably it won the Stoker for Best Long Fiction that year, although at maybe 13,000 words it’s not that long.

    Placing Coordinates

    First published in the October 1987 issue of Omni. It’s been reprinted in The Year’s Best Fantasy: First Annual Collection (ed. Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling), Omni Best Science Fiction Two (ed. Ellen Datlow), The Horror Hall of Fame: The Stoker Winners (ed. Joe R. Landsdale), and the Martin collection Dreamsongs: Volume I.

    Enhancing Image

    Jessie is freelance book illustrator (the narrator jokes that this is not a “real” job) who’s moved into an apartment recently, and so far everything has been going about as expected. She has a few friends and she gets enough work that she won’t be homeless in a week. There is one problem, though, which has to do with the man who lives in the apartment building’s basement. The man, as far as anyone can tell, does not have a name, for even the tenants who have lived here for years don’t know what it is, despite all of them having interacted with him at some point or other. “All of them, every one, called him the Pear-shaped Man. That was who he was.” He’s a man of unusual proportions, being certainly chubby, but with his torso being (predictabtly) pear-shaped: narrow at the shoulders, yet with a real dump-truck of an ass. His head is described as like a small pear on top of the big pear that is his body. Nobody in the building really likes him, but he’s someone who generally keeps to himself, even with his strange habit of seeming to only eat cheese curls of a specific brand and drink Coke. This would be considered par for the course with YouTubers and Twitch streamers in the current year, but it would’ve been strange back in the days when people cared about balancing one’s diet. The Pear-shaped Man lives right below Jessie and her roommate Angela, but while the latter is chill about the man’s eccentricity, Jessie quickly finds a bone to pick.

    “The Pear-Shaped Man” is example of what we would call apartment horror, which sounds specific but actually has some room for a variety of fun (or maybe not-so-fun) times. It could have to do with getting a roommate who turns out to be a psychopath, neighbors who are secretly murderous cultists, neglectful management (as if there’s any other kind), or some combination. Maybe there’s a Lovecraftian monstrosity lurking in the water pipes, or maybe (to take from a certain Lovecraft story) the air conditioning stops working on the worst of days. It’s a kind of horror that could’ve only sprouted in a post-industrial urban society, and the more people are packed together like sardines the better. Apartment horror stands on the diametrically opposite end of the spectrum from rural horror, since whereas rural horror often goes into a sense of isolation and what little human company there is being off, apartment horror tackles terrors that are unique to the urban experience. It’s also an example of another kind of horror story, albeit more a twist on it than a straight example: the tormented-woman story. I wish there was a better name for it, but it’s a very old and proud tradition in the genre, in which you have a woman (it’s usually a woman) of questionable mental stability who finds herself suffering at the hands of an antagonist, sometimes unseen but other times hiding in plain sight. Here, the supposed antagonist tormenting Jessie is a man whom everyone in the building already knows about, and who to all appearances hasn’t done anything except act in a way that doesn’t abide social norms; the worst thing he’s done is be kind of a weirdo.

    Now, I say this is a twist on the tradition, because Jessie really ends up being her own worst enemy, to the point of being a Karen. She is clearly in the midst of a psychotic break, but she also acts entitled—not that the people around her are exactly innocent. She repeatedly has dreams about having a weirdly sexual encounter with the Pear-shaped Man, and her obsession gets to the point where she unconsciously paints his features in an illustration, which her boss doesn’t take too kindly. This is the kind of thing one would seek professional help for, but not only does Jessie fail to consider this, but her friends and acquaintances actively choose to make the situation worse once or twice. Martin walks a bit of a tightrope here, because on the one hand Jessie is not the most likable of protagonists, being bitchy, whiny, and something of a Greenwich Village-type hipster, but also she seems to be suffering from some undiagnosed mental illness. She talks with Selby, the apartment manager, in trying to persuade him to dig up the Pear-shaped Man’s lease so that he can be identified, which as Selby’s justified to point out is a big invasion of the man’s privacy; and yet the fact that he doesn’t seem to even have a lease should in itself be concerning, never mind that he only ever pays rent with cash, and single-dollar bills at that. (This feels like a plot point that could’ve only been plausible at least thirty years ago, since nowadays rent is fucking astronomical unless you live in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.) It doesn’t help that even though he hasn’t done anything, the Pear-shaped Man stood outside watching Jessie’s place for an uncomfortable amount of time on one occasion, and during the few times they interact he wants her to come see his “things.” Nowadays this would be considered stalking and/or harassment.

    There’s a sexism angle to “The Pear-Shaped Man” that goes unsaid, which is probably for the best since my experience with Martin has taught me that he can be unreliable on feminist issues. So much the better that Jessie’s plight being elevated by men who by and large don’t take her seriously is kept as subtext, then. Really, what’s impressive about this story, considering Martin’s habits as a writer the pop up now and again, is that’s both subtle in a psychological sense while also building tension at just the right pace. This is a novelette, like I said about 13,000 words, but it feels a bit shorter than that. Early in his career Martin was prone to writing mood pieces, stories in which not much actually happens and there’s a focus on character and vibes, but with “The Pear-Shaped Man” he found a right balance of character and action. Previously I’d only written about Martin early in his career, whereas this story shows someone who is both a seasoned professional and in his element. He can be as gory and erotic as he wants later, with A Song of Ice and Fire, but with his earlier fiction, mostly printed in magazines, he feels the need to restrain himself at least a little bit. The descriptions of the Pear-shaped Man as this grotesque figure, his skin unnaturally pale and his fingers like worms or maggots, spark one’s imagination and may even gross you out a bit, but Martin doesn’t overdo it.

    There Be Spoilers Here

    Not a negative criticism, but the ending is a very strange one. I was unnerved a bit, but also confused. I don’t even wanna give it away here, both because I’m not entirely sure what happened (it’s clearly meant to be taken as metaphorical rahter than literal, but that doesn’t help much), and because I do recommend this story quite a bit and I think a first-time reader should go into it blind up to a point.

    A Step Farther Out

    Recently I had read Martin’s Fevre Dream, which is one of his few standalone novels and certainly the most well-known novel of his that isn’t part of that series; and while I enjoyed it, I also kept wishing it was about a hundred pages shorter, with the third act being tightened up massively. Martin, like any writrr with two brain cells to rub together, writes for money, and the horror market in the ’80s called for novels that were unnecessarily large and horizontally challenged. With short fiction, though, one still had the restraints one needed to write something that could be frightening and chilling, sure, but also calculated. I very much recommend “The Pear-shaped Man” as an introduction to George R. R. Martin the horror writer, as opposed to George R. R. Martin the fantasist, assuming you haven’t already read “Sandkings,” which sees Martin in both horror and SF mode. I do love “Sandkings,” by the way.

    See you next time.