177 lines
9.6 KiB
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177 lines
9.6 KiB
Plaintext
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0$0$0$0$0$0$0$ CHEAP TRUTH 10 $0$$0$0$0$0$0$
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** HOW THE OTHER HALF READS **
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THE DAY LASTS MORE THAN A HUNDRED YEARS by Chingis Aitmatov,
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translator John French, Indiana University Press, 1983.
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People in the Soviet Union still have a nineteenth-century allegiance
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to the printed word. Authors are major public figures. Poets recite to
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packed soccer stadiums. Classic works of Russian literature are available,
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and their lack of Marxist ballast makes them seem vividly energetic and
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relevant. In the Soviet Union you can be a 'literary intellectual,' and no
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one will grin and ask what you REALLY do. You can get a license for it, and
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join the Writer's Union, and the State will pay you a salary.
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Chingis Aitmatov, a Kirghiz national born in 1928, is a highly
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prominent, established Soviet literateur. He's been a member of the Supreme
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Soviet, a winner of the Lenin Prize for literature, a Hero of Socialist
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Labor, an editor of NOVY MIR, an official correspondent for PRAVDA. His
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Marxist-Leninist credentials are impeccable.
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And he is wildly popular. He is considered one of the most gifted
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authors of the post-Stalinist generation, not only by Party hacks but by the
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'liberal' intelligentsia. When a writer like Aitmatov turns to science
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fiction, it behooves us to take notice.
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THE DAY LASTS MORE THAN A HUNDRED YEARS, published in 1980 to vast
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acclaim, is a remarkable, revealing piece of work. We should make it clear
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at once that it is terrible science fiction. Aitmatov has not escaped the
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condescension typical of mainstream writers who dabble in the field. In fact
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the SF element has been grafted into the narrative for ideological reasons,
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which is remarkable in itself.
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The predominant movement in Brezhnev-era Soviet fiction was the
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'village novel,' simple small-scale narratives of rural life, drenched with
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pre-Revolutionary nostalgia. Through this device it was possible to dodge
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the crippling load of Marxist relevance demanded of State writers.
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In the early '80's, literary ideologues decided that enough was enough and
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demanded that Soviet writers to produce large works on a "global scope."
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Aitmatov has used wide-screen SF techniques to combine the popular 'village'
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narrative with the new requirements.
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Strangely, although its traditional SF elements are abominable --
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ludicrous blue-haired aliens, moons and planets whizzing by at the speed of
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light -- Aitmatov's novel does have a genuine SF feel. For it is about
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technology and its impact on human life.
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The hero is a Kazakh Central Asian railroad worker. He lives in a
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godforsaken steppe railway junction with a handful of sturdy peasants. For
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decades he and his friend have tended the snorting machines, living a harsh,
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isolated life, not without dignity, but without much decadent fun. The book
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opens with the friend's death.
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The Kazakh hero stubbornly decides to give his friend a traditional
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Kazakh Moslem burial, a rite worthy of a 'true steppe cavalier.' But
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technical progress has invaded everything. He has given his life to the
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railroad. A large rocket-complex has been built across the steppe, and its
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great rumbling launches light the sky. What is left to our hero? What is
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the meaning of his tribal traditions and memories? Has he thrown away his
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life, or does it all mean something, was the sacrifice worth it? These
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issues are handled with great skill and deep ambiguity.
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At the same time, a large and somewhat bogus SF counterplot rumbles
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along in parallel. The novel is set in the near future, in which aliens have
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been contacted, through Soviet-American cooperation in space.
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Here is another remarkable aspect of the book: its utter lack of
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hostility toward the West. This space effort in administered in friendly
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unison by Yanks and Soviets, from an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. (This
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ship is in itself a powerful image of hope for the Soviet audience. They
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have no aircraft carriers and see them as fearsome symbols of aggressive
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capitalism.)
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These aliens are blissful, socially-advanced superbeings of vaguely
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Marxist derivation. They are of vast power and supernal wisdom. Are we to
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join them, or stick mulishly to our human heritage and its faults?
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This question roughly parallels the first theme. Aitmatov attempts
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to give the events in the remote railway junction a cosmic resonance. If he
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fails, it's because his SF concepts are essentially ridiculous. And because,
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in the last analysis, his book has the painful, disjointed feel of a work
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designed by committee.
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Yet it remains engrossing. Its flinching view of delicate political
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issues, such as the Stalinist purges, has a hot-potato daring. Its
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allusions are subtle and its scenes memorable. And there's no
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red-flag-waving, sunset-riding agitprop trash here; but hard issues faced
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down by a brave man who is in too deep to back out.
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This book was written in a metaphorical straitjacket, and it shows
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it. Yet this much must be admitted: Aitmatov's book speaks to us in the
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West with force and relevance. Would our glittery, escapist tripe translate
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half so well?
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CHEAP TRUTH radical Sue Denim seizes the Dean's Office and issues her list of
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demands:
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** SON OF KENT STATE **
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The 1985 Nebula Awards will be handed out on May 4, fifteen years to
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the day from the shootings at Kent State University in Ohio.
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Once again the armed might of conservatism faces the radical vision
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of a new generation, this time across the distance of a ballot. The voices
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of repression range from the senile babblings of Robert Heinlein to the
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California vapidity of Larry Niven to the moist-eyed urgency of Kim Stanley
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Robinson; arrayed against them are William Gibson, Lewis Shiner, and Jack
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Dann. Can they prevail?
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Every year Heinlein cranks out another volume of brain-dead
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maunderings; every year the sycophants cry "Heinlein is back!"; every year
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they lie. Even if JOB (Del Rey, $16.95) were a good book, or even a readable
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book, which I assure you it is not, why would anyone want to give this man a
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Nebula award? Plenty do, and it's for the same reason they gave Henry Fonda
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an Oscar for a movie as wretched as ON GOLDEN POND -- because he was no
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longer dangerous.
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Larry Niven IS dangerous, but in a socially approved way -- much
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like, for instance, an armed National Guardsman at a student riot. "War
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would be a hopeful sign..." he muses in his latest perfunctory effort, THE
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INTEGRAL TREES (Del Rey, $3.50). It's touted as "his best since RINGWORLD!"
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by Heinlein fans everywhere. Even if it were, and it certainly isn't as good
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as RINGWORLD, is that qualification enough for a Nebula? Should we encourage
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this sort of thoughtless, derivative work?
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As for Kim Stanley Robinson, his overwrought, reactionary, and
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anti-visionary WILD SHORE (Ace, $2.95) has already been dissected by these
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hands (CHEAP TRUTH 5). Suffice to say that Robinson's relative youth has
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nothing to do with his literary politics -- keep in mind that the Guardsmen
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that pulled the triggers at Kent State were no older than their victims.
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But things are not as grim as they might sound. For once, the
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radicals are not outnumbered -- they match the villains man to man. (And
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men, you may have noticed, they all are. Where are the visionary women? Why
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don't we have novels this year from Leigh Kennedy or Pat Cadigan or Pat
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Murphy? Ask Ron Busch. Ask Terry Carr. Ask everyone you see.)
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You've already heard about Gibson's NEUROMANCER (Ace, $2.95), and if
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you've got any sense you've already read it. This book had half again as
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many recommendations as its closest competitor to get on the preliminary
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Nebula ballot, and its brilliant depiction of a credible future has appealled
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to the sense of wonder in even the most hardened of intellects.
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Yet it is also a victory that the other two novels made it on the
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ballot at all. Shiner's FRONTERA (Baen, $2.95) comes with conscious literary
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intent (allusions to Lowry, Dick, and Conrad) and decent, stylish prose; its
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flaws -- a couple of characters left hanging, a technological holy grail that
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is too powerful for the plot -- are forgiveable in a first novel.
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Dann's MAN WHO MELTED (Bluejay, $14.95) took years to find a
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publisher willing to print it, and no wonder. The raw alienness of his
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future, with its eerie religions, baffling technologies, and sensual
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onslaughts, is not for the timid; it's the sort of book a lot of people
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would rather shoot than listen to.
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And these are not the only victories. For once, there is no Connie
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Willis on the ballot. Bruce Sterling has a story up, Michael Swanwick has
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two, and Lucius Shepard three; two of the short stories, Shepard's "Salvador"
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and Zebrowski's "Eichmann Variations" are blatantly offensive and full of
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dangerously free thought.
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Political oppression breeds revolution. For every Heinlein that
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smites a Gibson, thousands more will rise in his place. The SF revolution is
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crying out for literacy, imagination, and humanity; it needs only a victory
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in the Nebulas to shatter the giant's terracotta feet. Up against the wall,
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Heinlein!
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CHEAP TRUTH On-Line, 809-C West 12th Street, Austin, Texas 78701 (512)
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UFO-SMOF. NOT COPYRIGHTED. Vincent Omniaveritas, editing. "The More
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Things Stay The Same, The More They Change"
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