Reading Through the Bookcase: Arthur C. Clarke (and Gentry Lee) – RAMA

With some stories that leave you with a cliffhanger, the big question is this: Should you write a sequel, just because you can?

And for many stories, I think the answer has to be no. No matter how popular the story is, no matter how the fans clamour for a sequel, no matter how much even you yourself want to know what came next–no. That’s because sometimes, part of what makes that story a great story is the hanging end itself. The sense of breathless anticipation. The not knowing. Take one step beyond that and remove that veil of not knowing, and the original story’s bubble is popped. Its mystique is gone, and it sinks back into the mundane. It has become just another story. And sometimes, the new story or stories go in a direction that should not have been taken.

That’s what I think happened with Rama.

Two books: Rendezvous with Rama and Rama II, by Arthur C. Clarke

Rendezvous with Rama

To say I loved Rendezvous with Rama when it first came out is an understatement. To me, this book was the most precise, pure exemplar of the science fiction “what if” that you could possibly imagine. What if an alien spaceship just happened by, and humans got to explore it without having to deal with the aliens who originally created it? What would be discovered? What would the alien technology be like? Would the human explorers be able to understand anything they found? How would they balance the potential dangers against this stunning chance to explore the gigantic alien ship?

The enacting of this scenario was a thing of beauty. Even though the action moved slowly, you were still on the edge of your seat, waiting for the next discovery by Commander Norton and his crew. The book was full of constant wonder. The very precision of the descriptions of the things the explorers found induced this wonder: your senses were overwhelmed just as the crew’s were as you tried to put yourself in their place in that vast, amazing ship. And you couldn’t wait to see what they found next.

I had only one very slight complaint, at first: there didn’t seem to be much real development of the human characters. The book had the same feature I had always noticed in the earlier science fiction writers, which was that the science and “what if” was more important than the human characters. So the only small flaw I thought I saw in the book was that, apart from Commander Norton himself, the human characters didn’t have much development.

Be careful what you wish for…

Rama II – with Gentry Lee

Spoiler alert! The last sentence in Rendezvous with Rama was this: The Ramans do everything in threes. Talk about breathless anticipation!

So when I heard that there was going to be a sequel, Rama II, I was thrilled. It was co-written with Gentry Lee, a famous NASA engineer, and I was very excited that even more wonderful Raman technology was probably going to be discovered. And I was so happy that we could probably anticipate yet another book after that. Rama III coming up!

I was so young.

My first hint of unease began when I was almost a third of the way through the book, and we weren’t even close to getting to the actual spaceship yet. All of this stuff about the semi-collapse of earth society after the first Rama book, and the politics, and, and, and — I didn’t like it. And talk about character development! There were so many extra characters this time, and we had to learn the backstory of all of them, and it was like every one of them was involved in some kind of secret plot. As though they could all use the second Rama spaceship for some kind of personal advantage.

What the — ?

And even when we finally, finally got into the ship, it was like the characters’ secrets and plots and their machinations even in the midst of exploring Rama overshadowed everything about the ship itself. Rama felt almost incidental to this plot of odd intrigue and personal undercurrents. Excuse me. You are in the middle of a gigantic, incredible, really stunning and advanced spaceship that dwarfs anything you yourself have ever dreamed of accomplishing on earth, and you can somehow step inside that thing and retain any sort of idea that your earthly plots, politics, schemes, and squabbles actually matter?

I found myself thinking again and again, in the midst of the various plots and intrigues, “Yeah, but the ship…?” They’d do a bit of exploring, but those bits would be subsumed under some intrigue between different characters. It was like the story went, “intrigue-plotting-argument-character-character-plotting-oh right, here’s a quick, interesting fact or tidbit about the ship, intrigue-character-plotting-character-intrigue…”

Note that I had not actually read the second book for the first time until this recent reading. That meant that I could read about both the third and fourth Rama books when I was done, to get an idea of what they were about and whether I wanted to get them. And as I read all sorts of confusing things about humans being examined and tested in some kind of social experiment by the “Ramans,” and yet more intrigue and plotting and violence and awfulness in some kind of human colony the Ramans established, I realized that all the wonder of Rendezvous with Rama had sunk into a rather nasty and wretched soap opera that was all about humans behaving exactly as they do all around me every day–and was nothing about the wondrous ship and the exploration of it.

No. I will not be reading any more of the Rama books. I can turn on the news if I want that stupid, small-minded sort of intrigue. I wanted the ship.

Oh, for the clear, pure precision of the exploration conducted by Commander Norton and his crew! From now on, I will only read Rendezvous and I will not (never?) read Rama II again. I will revel in the beautiful scientific study in the first book, pretend the other stuff never existed, and read again in breathless anticipation, with no desire to go beyond those glorious words, full of wonder and the perfect science fiction “what if” –

* * * * *

The Ramans do everything in threes.

* * * * *

Reading Through the Bookcase: Arthur C. Clarke, Part I

Where. to. begin.

When it comes to Against the Fall of Night and Childhood’s End, I love several things and I dislike one other rather big thing. First, in Childhood’s End, I love the way we get to follow through the entire process as humanity evolves to its next, seemingly higher step. I didn’t remember much about the story except how it ended (I first read it long ago), but I did remember Karellen, the Overlord who shepherded humanity through the final years. I remembered how he seemed rather gentle and wise. I might quibble now about the evolution into the next form being so drastic and happening so quickly (surely there would be intervening steps, like humanity gradually becoming a species of telepaths?) But I did enjoy the speculation about what the next stage of human evolution might be.

However, there was a reason I hadn’t reread this book since the first time, at least a couple of decades ago. I really disliked what happened to the children and to the human race in general. More on that in a minute.

I also really enjoyed Against the Fall of Night, for a completely different reason. I absolutely love stories about finding remnants of civilization on a lost, supposedly dead earth. (This was one reason why I loved Edmond Hamilton’s City at World’s End so much when I was a teenager and why I searched for it for years so I could read it again.) I think it’s the disappointed archeologist in me; I love the idea of the melancholy of the lost earth as well as the idea of the descendants of the survivors having forgotten their beginnings but starting to discover the truth about where they came from. Or probably not the entire truth — but finding artifacts and fragments of writings or even ancient machines that they can start up again and try to figure out the original use of — and trying to piece all these things together to recall as much as they can. I also love stories about people who have been sheltered in some kind of scientific or historic refuge, perhaps for centuries, finally breaking out and discovering that the world is out there.

All of that is wound up in Against the Fall of Night. So I read it quite avidly. But…

Two books: Childhood's End and Against the Fall of Night, by Arthur C. Clarke

Childhood and Night – What I Don’t Like

There were two elements that were somewhat similar, between Against the Fall of Night and Childhood’s End, that I really don’t like. In Childhood’s End, it’s considered some sort of good thing that humanity evolves into a type of bodiless, impersonal Unibeing with all sorts of mental powers, but loses the “selfness” of individual, separate human beings. Clarke isn’t alone in portraying this as some kind of “higher state,” but I don’t buy it and never have.

I see this idea both in scientific speculation and in religion. While I got my two degrees in Religious Studies, I spent a fair bit of time becoming familiar with religious world views that teach that being absorbed into a higher being and losing one’s self is a great thing. It’s often referred to as “bliss,” in fact. It’s stronger in some religions than in others, but there are elements of this idea in most of them, western or eastern.

I have always felt that if I had this kind of personal, individual annihilation as my goal, it would be some kind of death wish. I do like the idea of being able to see the universe more clearly and deeply and perhaps have some influence on its material nature. (Though we already have some influence, don’t we? We just use other physical objects to make the changes. In this scenario, we’d use our minds.) But if there is no “me” there, remembering what “I” did in the past and looking forward to “my” future, as an individual — well, “I” am dead. There might be something there, exhibiting some kind of universal awareness, but it’s not me or anything that gives the word “me” any meaning at all.

So I didn’t reread Childhood’s End for all this time because although it was an interesting study, I hate the way it ends. Humanity dies. Those children die. Absorbed/eaten up by something that is not “them.” That kind of scenario has no appeal whatsoever for me.

There are elements of it in Against the Fall of Night as well, though not as strongly. There, at least, it seems to be understood that a disembodied consciousness can be mad or it can be sane, and it can have desires and a sense of self as well. But the thing that bothered me most was not actually in the book as such, but was in the fact that it was rewritten as a book called The City and the Stars.

What I liked about Against the Fall of Night, or most of it, anyway, was that things were not explained. Even when Alvin and Theon got some answers, they only answered broad questions, and many things were left in mystery. There was a feeling that there would be more detailed understanding as the years went by, but that was not in the book itself.

I started to recognize, even in this book, that sometimes a story works better if it doesn’t explain everything or find solutions to every problem or answers to every question. Sometimes the adventure that remains–the fact that there is yet more to discover–is the story itself. Or it is the element that makes you come to the end of the story in a state of breathless anticipation. I was just beginning to realize this when I read this book, but it hit me with a hammer blow when I read my two Rama books.

Next time!


Reading Through the Bookcase: David Brin and John Brunner

I’ve been on quite a science fiction jaunt lately. After I finished my Jane Austen books, I was in the mood for another switch, so I went back over to science fiction for a bit. I read one David Brin, two John Brunners, and four Arthur C. Clarkes. I’ll get to Clarke in a later post, because I have a bit to say there.

David Brin: The Postman

Book cover for The Postman, by David BrinI don’t often read “post-apocalypse” books (or, for that matter, watch such movies), because I just get too depressed by them. And that was probably why I started The Postman, by David Brin, so reluctantly and took a while to get going on it. I did love the idea of a guy discovering an old postal worker’s uniform and starting to use it to gain entry into little suspicious enclaves of survivors who tended to run their towns in a way that made the old Wild West look like a prim high society dinner party. And I liked how people were so moved by the uniform, and started sending letters to people and relatives they hoped were still alive in towns several miles away, gradually starting to create a movement taking people back to civilization. The thought gives me goosebumps.

But I didn’t like reading about how war, an “ultimate weapon” that killed electronic communications, and finally a plague wiped out virtually all of the civilized institutions in North America (and probably the world). Or how huge bands of “survivalists” throughout the country, especially the west, were the reason that civilization didn’t recover from those disasters — when it really could have done so and probably would have.

The story was intriguing and, ultimately, very hopeful. But even so, although I ended up enjoying it a great deal, it still made me uneasy. I felt that I was actually reading a prediction of our future. Who knows how many secret camps and stashes of weapons and food there are, down in people’s basements or in bunkers created on wilderness properties? Sometimes it seems like they’re all doing it. Fundamentalist Christians are literally training their kids to be “warriors” and to violently resist the government, who they think are “persecuting” them despite the way they enjoy greater favour and control in North America than anywhere else on the planet. Gun nuts are doing the same thing, even without any Christian connection (though very often, the two groups are the same). And white supremacists are doing the same thing. Every one of them planning to “take the nation back” in some stupid way. When what they’re really going to end up doing is killing each other and innocent bystanders with great gusto and destroying what could have been the greatest civilization ever seen in history.

So…yes, I did really enjoy The Postman. And at the same time, I disliked it a lot, only because I sometimes felt that I was reading a history of the future. A future I think I might even live to see.

John Brunner: Science Fiction and Fantasy!

I’ve never known much about John Brunner. For years, I only had his book, The Long Result, and then someone gave me The Traveler in Black as well.

I actually read The Long Result when I was a young teenager, and it was just the right length for me at that time. The plot moved fairly quickly, and it was quite a straightforward story about managing Earth’s future contacts with alien species from the stars. It did what the early science fiction novels were meant to do: engage in speculation and give us a “what if” glimpse of a possible future, based on science.

TheTravelerInBlackWhich was why I was then so delighted with The Traveler in Black, as it was a total contrast. It’s a fantasy novel of somewhat the same ilk as Michael Moorcock’s Elric books. That is, it portrays a world where Chaos holds considerable sway, manifested by strange Elementals and gods and magic. The stranger Traveler is working to bring everything that is chaotic under the umbrella of Order. But in the meantime, we are surrounded by hints of high and strange magicks or arcane relationships–none of which are ever explained but of which there are countless signs and evidences all around us. (A river that changes the nature of anything that enters its waters. A wizard of such foul nature that every time he speaks, plants and animals shrivel and die all around him, and foul creeping things emerge and devour them. Sights that are never described but which, in the story, destroy the minds of any who behold them.)

I’ve always liked stories that leave some mystery. Yes, I love science fiction, and I do like things explained. And yet…I love SF stories that recognize that there are some things we haven’t figured out yet. (See my next post, about the Rama books, for example.) And while I also recognize that a fantasy story is unlikely to seem plausible unless it is consistent, internally, I love stories that don’t explain the mechanics of absolutely everything.

So I was positively tickled to read The Traveler in Black. I had no idea what I was in for when I picked up the Brunner books after reading Brin’s. But the Traveler, in particular, really delighted me. Kind of an odd sort of palate cleanser.

Book covers -- The Postman by David Brin, and The Long Result and The Traveler in Black, by John Brunner



Reading Through the Bookcase: Jane Austen

I only have three of Jane Austen’s novels — Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility — so those were the only ones I read in my “read through the bookcase” immersion. And I remain convinced that Pride and Prejudice is far and away the best of the three. Sense and Sensibility didn’t make sense at all to me. And Emma…well. It’s got its own story.


I read Emma first, and my copy includes a long Introduction. The author claims that this book is Austen’s most mature book, showing how her writing had matured and developed. That sure wasn’t the impression I got! But he did say something I really agreed with, though: that you get something very different each time you read this book. I believe he ascribed this fact to changes in your own life; the different response to Emma depends on the different person that you are, each time you read it.

In that case, I’ve changed again, and how. When I first read the book, as a teenager, I wasn’t thrilled by it and found it a bit boring. Then, perhaps fifteen years later, I read it again and really liked it. Now, on my third read, mumbledy-mumbledy years later, I really, really did NOT like it. Though it did get better as it went along.

In the first half or so, though, I kept wanting to yell at all the insipid people with their insipid lives and their insipid minds, “Is any single one of you capable of talking about something of actual INTEREST??” The shallow superficiality, and the way people could talk for hours, day after day, about a couple of paragraphs in a letter, just made me want to throw the book at the wall. And the way things worked out in the end, for all the major characters, seemed awfully contrived. (SPOILER ALERT:) Mrs. Churchill’s death is awfully handy, for example, the way it clears the way for Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax.

So I found the book frustrating and kind of boring, and way too handy.

Sense and Sensibility

But speaking of contrived! (I read Sense & Sensibility third, but I’m saving the best till last, heh.) While there was plenty of angst and drama in this book, the resolution of it all was so implausible that I was grinding my teeth by the end. Again, the two final pairings were simply handy, but they did not make sense to me at all.

(If you haven’t read the book and don’t want spoilers, maybe you can just skip this whole part.) While the characters of all the women, including Elinor and Marianne, were quite well developed, the character of Colonel Brandon was barely developed by the end, while Edward Ferrars remained nothing but a pale, pale ghost. Even if these guys were okay characters, there was no reason on earth that either of the sisters should have fallen for either of them. I mean, would Marianne really have fallen in love with Brandon, even after she became wiser? (And for that matter, would he really have fallen in love with her?) And Elinor was so strong, with such backbone, that it’s beyond me to imagine how she could have fallen in love with the pale ghost, though I can imagine how he could have fallen for her. It just. wasn’t. plausible.

So no. This one simply didn’t work for me. Even if I had Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Hugh Grant, and Alan Rickman in my head through the whole book.


Pride and Prejudice

And once again, I discovered that it truly wasn’t hype. Pride and Prejudice really, really was the best book of these three, and frankly, one of the best books I’ve read, period. That’s not because of Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle either. (If the quartet mentioned above couldn’t sell me on Sense and Sensibility, these two probably wouldn’t manage it with this book either.) It’s like all of the flaws in the other two books are almost consciously contradicted in this one.

The characters of Elizabeth and Darcy, for example. We know them so well by the end; we’ve gotten into their minds, we’ve seen them mature and grow — they are extremely well developed. I might want Jane to be a little less saintly and Mr. Bingley to have considerably more backbone and discernment, but Elizabeth and Darcy? Beautifully developed. The Gardiners are great characters, too. Mr. Collins is a bit of a caricature, as is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but the plausibly practical Charlotte Lucas adds a nice balance to them.

The whole plot is plausible, the entire way through! Even when Darcy seems to miraculously save the day where it comes to Wickham and Lydia, that’s not just contrived as a way to wipe away any final doubts Elizabeth might have about him. There are good and plausible reasons why he does what he does, and his actions fit with other things we’ve already learned in the plot and fit with the changes we’ve already begun to see in his character. Every chance meeting fits into all the other events without feeling at all contrived. And the resolutions of the problems also seem plausible, and the characters seem to fit together for very good reasons. And the ones who don’t — Lydia and Wickham — well, we know exactly why they’re together, and that’s all part of the plausible plot too.

So of the three books, the only one I really liked is Pride and Prejudice. Unless Jane Austen really outdid herself in the other three books (and I’ve never gotten the impression that that’s the case), I’d say that this was the pinnacle of her achievement.


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