Review of "Dying Inside" by Robert Silverberg

After writing dozens and dozens of genre stories, it is perhaps inevitable that the publishing industry will market an author’s latest work alongside the other titles in their oeuvre, even if it holds nothing in common.  Dying Inside, Robert Silverberg’s 1972 deeply psychological novel that contains only one loosely identifiable sci-fi trope, is one such book.

Dying Inside is the very personal and very intimate story of David Selig and his coming to terms with the loss of mind-reading capabilities.  Born able to enter the minds of people and read their thoughts at will, middle age finds his powers diminishing, in fact threatening to fade forever.  Having used his talents to acquire little of material value, Selig wastes his days “ghosting” terms papers for Columbia students, his spiritual life full of bitterness and self-disappointment.  With knowing others’ true opinions of himself threatening to bear Selig down, the only thing stopping him from giving in completely is the uncertainty of what lies on the other side.  But with his powers wilting further each day, Selig must soon decide what to do with his life.

Introspective to the point of nearing autobiography, it would seem Silverberg has invested a great deal of himself into the narrative.  Likewise growing up in New York City, attending Columbia, and immersing himself in all things literature and art, there are more than one strong parallel to Selig’s life. The relationship troubles which play such a vital role in the story, however, can only be judged based on the text.  Likewise, as mind reading is impossible, the analogy remains open to Silverberg’s personal life.  (Some have posited the loss of creativity given that the author took a lengthy hiatus from writing not long after publishing the novel.)

As a result of his condition, Selig faces a host of pain interacting with those he is most familiar with, from sexual to familial,.  His sister Judith is one of few people who know of his carefully guarded secret and resents him for it, no privacy between them, enmity instead.  Encountering one other man, Nyquist, who is likewise a telepath, Selig finds himself constantly in awe, jealous of the man’s ability to morally distance himself when using the talent and live a normal life.  The relationships he enters into with women meet no greater degree of success, the knowledge of what they truly think of him tearing at his soul.

Whether real or imagined, making all of Selig’s troubles worse is the pessimism with which he’s come to rely on when perceiving others’ opinion of himself.  One of the students in particular for whom he writes a term paper clashes mightily with his idea of what degree of work they were capable of producing, and therefore insults the man, the reality of the situation not everything he’d believed.  Given the emotional outcome, the realist underpinning of this idea certainly benefits the novel.

The book not a long, drawn out internal monologue, Silverberg varies the style of text considerably.  The predominantly first person narrative is broken consistently with third person flashbacks, from the Selig’s point of view as well as an omniscient narrator, to cast more objective light on the scenes.  Bits and pieces of the main character talking to himself in the third person are also mixed in.  Like journal entries, this text contains, amongst other things, Selig’s attempts to distance himself from the pain and stress of his past, the result more justification than apology.  And lastly, Silverberg also includes a few of the essays that Selig writes for the students.  One regarding Kafka’s The Trial and The Castle stands out given its meta-textual relevance to the impenetrable walls of psychology Selig repeatedly encounters.

The book is not without its faults.  Most easily recognizable is the unnecessary sexualization of women.  Not as overt as The Second Trip, Silverberg nevertheless includes only one female character who is not spoken of in sexual terms.  All of the women save Kitty are open and wanton sex objects to be used as needed—Selig’s sister even falling under fire, she being described as the most promiscuous person in the story.  Given the unavoidable manner in which sex shapes human relationships, one expects a certain degree to be included in such a highly personal and psychological story.  However, that Silverberg so often identifies a female character by the size of their bust and slenderness of their waist rather than mental or social qualities detracts from the maturity of the discussion.

Another aspect potentially problematic is a matter of perspective.  Dying Inside a character study, there are two different ways in which to view the book.  The first is speculation on what the life of a mind-reader may be like, the second being mind-reading as an allegory, possibly for the loss of the creative spirit, but also possibly for pre-conceived ideas we have of how others perceive us.  Approaching the novel from the first, the result is one more entertainment oriented given humans cannot read minds, albeit interestingly explored by Silverberg.  From the second, however, there is more to be gleaned from the text.  Analogies between Selig’s behavior and the outside world possible, there are nevertheless other novels which better illustrate protection against false perceptions and improvement of self-esteem, diminished mind reading a strange plot device to exemplify loss.  

In the end, Dying Inside is a character study of a mind-reader, that despite being well-written, will not please everyone.  At its root, readers should expect an open, adult book that digs at the roots of psyche, its overtones dark and brooding.  Whether thought experiment or allegory, the story will be interesting to some for its discussion on the fallibility of, and issues with, human self-perception and the internalized perception of others.  Female characters, which take on such a large number of roles in the novel, will be a problem for others, their sexuality overt and immature.  No matter the perspective, Dying Inside is a book that deserves to be shelved alongside literary realist works long before science fiction. 

Review of "Nightwings" by Robert Silverberg

In the late 1960s, Robert Silverberg’s home caught fire, forcing him to start afresh in a variety of ways.  Wallowing through insurance bureaucracy and trying to dig himself out of the ensuing financial hole, he wrote a novella called “Nightwings” out of desperation for cash.  Despite the circumstances, the story was well received, winning awards, and prompted Silverberg to continue the story by writing two additional novellas, “Among the Rememberers” (also called “Perris Way”) and “The Road to Jorslem” (also, “To Jorslem”).  In 1972, the three were collected into a single edition called simply Nightwings, the subject of this review.

While each novella’s storyline closes on itself, Silverberg achieves the superlative by simultaneously advancing the umbrella story of the three to an expanse of literary magnificence.  One novella suffusing into the next, readers are left with a strong sense of spiritual empathy for the struggles and atonement of the protagonist.  Evolving through a variety of names, this man begins as the Watcher, a guilded worker whose job it is to wander the earth and scan the heavens for invaders.  Recently humbled, humanity is entering its Third Cycle and is on its toes, wary of species seeking revenge for the hubris and downfall of its Second Cycle.  In his travels the Watcher’s companion is a Flier, a biologically altered teenage girl whose gossamer wings are only capable of bearing her weight at night.  As times fall suddenly into uncertainty, the two seek to redeem the past to have a life for the future.

Silverberg’s prose is velvety smooth.  Words, sentences, and paragraphs move effortlessly, a tone of soft beauty gently buoying the story onward.  In a poetic tongue rare among sci-fi writers, inner monologue on loyalty, shame, pride, subjugation, faith, and hope are the foremost ideas expressed.  The Watcher’s choices and consequences thereof -  paralleled by humanity’s history - are exposed and dealt with at an introspective level.  Though these themes will seem familiar to readers of Downward to the Earth, the mode by which the characters of Nightwings overcome the problems they face are more religious in nature than the cultural terms of Gunderson and the Nildor/Sulidor.  That Silverberg uses future Earth as the setting and a variety of familiar place names and concepts – geography, Western religion, Jerusalem, etc. - also grounds the novel in sentiment more strictly human and less alien.

Due to the fact the book began as a novella and only later were its three parts collected into a single edition, “Nightwings” is not as well known as Silverberg’s other works, Dying Inside, A Time of Changes, and the Majipoor series.  Thus, fans of those books, along with Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz will undoubtedly want to check out Nightwings as well.  From a theoretical standpoint, Ken Wilber’s theory of Integral Psychology has perhaps never been represented so well in fiction.  Beautifully crafted, containing wonderful symbolism, and a having a strong moral and spiritual core, this work easily exists in the upper echelon of science fantasy.  As writing the book was an act of transcendent catharsis for Silverberg, so too will its reading be for the reader.

Review of "A Time of Changes" by Robert Silverberg

One of the best aspects of speculative fiction is, when in the right hands, an author creates a wholly plausible society not unlike our own, yet bends and twists the tradition, custom, and social habit to suit thematic needs.  The narrative which results can subsequently offer brilliant commentary on our real world.  Robert Silverberg’s A Time of Changes is a book that works at this level - like Orwell on LSD.

At heart, the novel is a character exploration of Kinnel Darival, a prince living in the kingdom of Borthan.  Ruled by a Covenant, Borthans follow a strict code that renders personal pronouns taboo.  While simultaneously setting a stylistic challenge for himself, Silverberg describes a society wherein overt references to the self are forbidden.  (The belief is that the repression of such expression makes a person stronger inside, and therefore more suited to the rigors of life.)  Due to a family tragedy, Darival soon finds himself on the run from a brother who seeks to eliminate competition for heirs to the throne.  In his travels, Darival is slowly introduced to the “other side,” a world wherein a person can comfortably refer to one’s self as ‘I’ and ‘me.’  Helping this transition along is his experimentation with a wonder drug that telepathically links people, bolstering empathy.  Not wanting to describe the whole plot, suffice to say the manner in which Silverberg chooses to uses the drug as a literary device is paramount to the novel’s conclusion.  John Lennon would have been proud.

By contrasting a society with strong limitations on expressions of the self with one featuring seemingly no socially unacceptable forms of expression, Silverberg creates a juxtaposition not unlike 1984.  The lies one must tell themselves and the isolated manner in which people move through society echo in A Time of Changes.  While the telepathic miracles performed by Silverberg’s drug are perhaps an idea that only someone from the flower-power generation could sculpt into speculative fiction, the fundamental idea that the freedom to express emotion is something lacking in our present day society still rings true.  Though not quite on par with Orwell or Huxley, A Time of Changes is still worth a read, prose and structure nearly perfect.  And if not for these reasons, why not for the controversial nature of the story?

Review of "Downward to the Earth" by Robert Silverberg

Take the seed of Heart of Darkness, the soil of the Hainish Cycle, and water with the ideals of the 60’s peace movement.  Tend for three days and you will have read Robert Silverberg’s Downward to the Earth.  Beyond left wing, in the very least you will not be disappointed by the novel’s transcendence of secular interests. It is the love child of Joseph Conrad and Ursula Le Guin.

Downward to the Earth tells the story of Edward Gundersen, a former planet administrator who returns after eight years, seeking retribution for the crimes he committed against the native population.  The elephant-like nildor and ape-like sulidor – both sentient - peacefully coexisted until the arrival of humans, who subjugated them, put them to work for commercial interests, and separated them from cultural traditions practiced for time on end.  Seeking to relieve the guilt he bears for preventing a group of seven nildor from participating in their rebirth ritual, Gundersen leaves the human tourists he traveled to the planet with and sets off into the jungle.  Along with flashbacks, much of the story is told through the encounters he has with former friends who remained on the planet.  But is in his dealings with the native population that Gundersen begins to come to terms with the consequences of his actions, agreeing to go on a pilgrimage with one of the nildor and participate in the rebirth ritual.  While the ending will certainly divide readers (Silverberg takes the psychedelic drugs and free love attributes of the hippy generation on a literary journey), the fundamental link connecting the ideas of the novel remains meaningful, no matter the plot devices.   There’s something to be said for good intention.

Fully realized, character and setting mesh together to form a planet that comes vividly to the imagination like the creations of Le Guin.  And while the sentience of the elephant-esque nildor is an acquired taste, it’s at the point the reader accepts them that Silverberg makes one of his main points; the value of an animal or person is not to be based on situation, appearance, or environment.  (Think Heart of Darkness’s examination of Europe and “the Other.”)   And so while some of the activities the characters participate in may not win over the more prudent, those willing to see the novel as a quest for  retribution will appreciate the transcendent ending with which Silverberg reconciles the interests of the involved.  The sub-theme of colonialism, though now called “globalization,” remains relevant.