Review of "Mythago Wood" by Robert Holdstock

Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood Cycle (or as it is also known, the Ryhope Wood series) is one of fantasy literature’s truly unique creations.  Like most works of quality, the books are founded upon a simple premise, in this case an alternate reality where the sub-conscious comes alive.  Mythago Wood, the first book published in the series, immediately garnered attention, winning Holdstoock the World Fantasy and British Science Fiction Awards in 1984, and formed the basis for the seven books that followed.  Informed by Jung and mythical archetypes more than Tolkien, the book is unconventional to say the least, and worth a read for anyone seeking cliché-free fantasy rich with imagination, symbolism, and quality writing. 

Mythago Wood is the story of a soldier returning home to see his family after being injured at the end of WWII.  Stephen Huxley’s family home is situated in the English countryside along the edge of a small patch of forest called Ryhope Wood.  Events peculiar from the outset, Stephen’s brother Christian acts in a peculiar fashion and hints at fantastical creatures, strange women, and the lure of traversing Ryhope’s dark shadows.  Uncomfortable memories of the boys’ father also linger, adding tension to a situation already moody with the strangeness of the Wood.  Curiosity piquing with each mystical element emerging from the trees, it’s not long before Stephen decides to make his own excursions into Ryhope.  What he finds leads inward as much as onward.

Review of "The Second Trip" by Robert Silverberg

In 1962 Anthony Burgess wrote A Clockwork Orange, the story of a young man attempted to be cured of anti-social behavior by extreme means of therapy, all for naught (the original American/Kubrick version, that is).  Apparently dissatisfied with the dystopian overtones of the novel’s conclusion, Robert Silverberg wrote his own story in an attempt to prove that man, in fact, had the power to overcome his worst temptations—a Counter-clockwork Orange.  The result falls short by comparison.

The Second Trip is the story of Paul Macy, a man just out of a government rehabilitation program which wiped and replaced his memory with implants to eliminate his criminal past.  Stepping back onto the street after four years isolation from the public, Macy has the bad luck to run into an old flame, Lissa Moore, who immediately begins to chip away the layers of pseudo-self to reveal the artist and rapist he had been, Nathaniel Hamlin.  This former identity soon rises to the surface and the fight for Macy/Hamlin’s soul begins.

The premise of The Second Trip is extremely promising (a man battling his psychological alter-ego), however, Silverberg develops the idea incohesively.  1971 productive, he published seven novels around the year, and The Second Trip, unfortunately, seems not to have received his full attention.  Son of Man, A Time of Changes, and Dying Inside­—all written around this time—contain more focused themes and consistently evolving plotlines.  The life of Macy/Hamlin, while at times portrayed in truly human fashion, at others seems engineered.  The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transitions in particular are heavily contrived, the surrounding events not flowing with the tone of the story.  

Many are unaware, but Silverberg utilized a Jekyl-Hyde routine of his own writing soft porn to earn extra money when the sci-fi magazine business went belly-up in the middle of his career.  While the majority of his sci-fi/fantasy works give little hint of this, The Second Trip on numerous occasions indicates the success of his more than dozen “red-light” books.  Simply put, the sexual life of Moore and Macy, not to mention Hamlin’s immoral lusts, play a strong role in the narrative.  The language is not discreet and at times seems comical, euphemisms like “spearing”, “pronging”, “thickened member” and “mast” all used.  

Content can be forgiven, but the manner in which the sexualization is used, cannot.  Far from realistic characterization, every female character besides Moore is ready and willing to tear off their clothes and throw themselves upon Macy/Hamlin.  Burgess used this same motif for allegorical effect, but as The Second Trip story intends to be a work of speculative realism, Silverberg cannot be forgiven.  Sexuality in the novel is nothing more than sensational digression subverting gender, and as a result, the novel’s integrity.

There are, however, a few positive aspects to the story.  Along with the transcendent worldview, Silverberg applies his usual smooth and clear style, making the book easy to read. Likewise, his portrayal of the self-destructive side of human nature, particularly in the Macy and Moore characters, seems more than fit for discussion on the modern social condition.  Though degenerate, it remains realistic, Moore’s character particularly poignant.

In the end, The Second Trip remains second rate to the novel it may or may not have been attempting to subvert, the abridged version of A Clockwork Orange.  The premise promising, Silverberg struggles to develop the story in convincingly enough fashion to match the other’s success, something which the over-sexualization of women does not help.  The book not entirely bad, fans of Philip k.Dick (who obviously influenced the story) may want to have a read.  Containing ideas like ESP, schizophrenia, memory wipes, and broken relationships, there is more than one similarity to the master of the cerebral surreal.  Likewise, given Macy’s experiences of blended memory, fans of Christopher Priest’s The Affirmation may want to have a read—as long as they do no expect a story developed in as consistent a manner and with such convincing plot motivation.  Silverberg has better, more carefully crafted novels (Downward to the Earth, Nightwings, and A Time of Changes, for example) which offer better starting points to his oeuvre.  This is just a mediocre book.

Review of "Solaris" by Stanislaw Lem

Depending on the viewpoint, the term ‘science fiction’ means different things to different people.  To Margaret Atwood, the term implies “monsters and spaceships”, while Isaac Asimov defines the genre as “that branch of literature which is concerned with the impact of scientific advance upon human beings”.  From derivative space adventure to the most thought provoking of commentaries on the future human condition, the fact remains that the genre is used as a medium to look at things in a perspective possible only through an imagined mindset.  Nothing less could be said of Stanislaw Lem’s 1961 Solaris.

A purist of sorts, Lem washed his hands of involvement in American sci-fi during the 70s believing that the focus was more on entertainment than human interest.  He chose to walk his own path in the genre, focusing on the philosophy of mind in relation to futuristic situations, instead.  Throughout the majority of his novels, the theme of confronting the unknown, and by analogy, the sub-conscious, continually reveals itself.  A bold statement regarding psychology, Solaris—perhaps Lem’s masterwork—is no exception.

Solaris is the story of the researcher Kris Kelvin and the unreal trip he makes to the planet Solaris.  Sent to further mankind’s efforts penetrating the otherwise indecipherable geology and oceanography of the planet, he soon finds mystery existing inside the research station—his very bedroom, in fact.  Life becoming more surreal with each day that passes in the relative isolation of the station, Kelvin soon finds himself confronting questions about the nature of the planet in terms he never dreamed: is the planet and its massive ocean alive?

Not wholly a mind-trip, Lem effectively balances internal monologue with events and happenings in- and outside the research station.  The ocean taking on kaleidoscope shapes and forms, he goes into strangely beautiful descriptions of the variety of visages that seem to randomly appear and recede from the water’s depths.  Likewise, the beauties and stresses of life on the strange planet affect the other researchers at the station in a variety of fashions.  Some handling the version of life there with aplomb, others crack like an egg, their psychotic explosions and sublime trickery making the plot all the more interesting, the conclusion far more than Kelvin expected.

In the end, Solaris is among the top science fiction books ever written if cerebral qualities, not “monsters and spaceships” are your expectation.  Though a philosophically quiet tone permeates the story, the imagery and storytelling remain vivid.  The haunting, unexplainable situations Kelvin finds himself in on the strange planet will hang in the reader’s mind for ages.  The novel also an art piece, the metaphors are grand, expanding the reader’s understanding of Lem’s ideas in the process.  Fans of Ursula Le Guin will definitely want to check out Solaris (she was one Lem’s few American supporters in the 70s), as will fans of Rendezvous with Rama despite Clarke’s polar view of humanity’s hopes for the future and technology.

Review of "The Crystal World" by J.G. Ballard

After finishing the J.G. Ballard’s 1966 The Crystal World, I went online in search of not only what other people thought of the story, but also to see if I’d missed any of the hidden meanings or symbolism that seemed to always be lurking just below the surface.  I found articles about its parallels to hallucinogenic drugs, reviews pointing out its apocalyptic overtones, essays on its psychological allegories to the sub-conscious, comparisons to Heart of Darkness—and all mentioned a dystopian thread running through the story.  I relate this because, while these elements do play on the surface playing with the mind, the undercurrent of the novel seemed something more bittersweet than just another Brave New World or a Gibson novel.  Wanting a better view, I re-read the book (at 176 pages, it’s quite easy), and much to my satisfaction, discovered something deeper.

The Crystal World is the story of the doctor Edward Sanders and a trip he takes to visit an ex-lover in the jungles of Matarre, Africa.  The novel opens with Sanders on a ferry, arriving at the port which leads upriver to the jungle town.  Almost immediately he notices things are not as they should be.  The streets are deserted, what few people who appear keep to themselves, and strange, crystallized flowers are for sale in the dark recesses and behind closed doors of shops and kiosks.  When a dead body turns up in the river having an arm likewise crystallized in jewels, Sanders heads straight to Matarre to discover the implications behind it all.  The port just a hint, what he discovers in the jungle town may be more than he’s prepared for.

The scenery of The Crystal World is at times breathtaking.  Ballard’s prose agile and descriptive, images from the story hang in the reader’s mind long after.  The alligators, lepers, homes, palaces, and chapels hidden in the jungle are all described in rich, sensual detail.  Moreover, the descriptions are amazingly never repeated, only echoed, despite that the motif remains relatively the same throughout.  As such, Ballard is able to create the most strangely beautiful of pictures in the mind’s eye; at once dazzling for the surreal feeling it sends tingling up the spine, at others haunting for the dark visage seeming to underlie it all.  

Near the outset of the book, Ballard makes mention of the Isle of the Dead.  Anyone who has seen the Bocklin paintings (or listened to Rachmaninov’s composition based on the painting, for that matter), knows that despite the overt nature of the title, a sense of life quietly permeates the dulled image.  The Crystal World, both in form and substance, is the same.  At quick glance, a brooding mood superimposes the scenes, but upon closer inspection, a positive energy subtly infuses the story that transcends the apocalyptic in favor of something more personal.  While it’s difficult to write further without giving away major plot points, suffice to say the decisions Sanders makes during his time in Matarre, while surreal in appearance, have real meaning for his spiritual and psychological health.  (If this is the first review of The Crystal World you have read, I highly recommend that if you are intrigued thus far, don’t read any other reviews.  Most spoil major points, some the whole plot, save the final moments.)

Along with the vividly realized setting, Ballard’s other method of expounding theme is symbolism embedded in character.  Some may disagree, however, Sanders is the only fully fleshed character in the novel.  The others who appear, the journalist Louise, the priest Balthus, the madman Ventres, and others, merely act as foils for Sanders’ actions and behavior.  Presenting choices, they come and go on emblematic rather than empathetic terms, hinting at Ballard’s intents in the process.  Characters are thus representative rather than emotive, distance rather than understanding needed while reading.

In the end, The Crystal World is a beautifully strange enigma that requires a bit of puzzling out.  With so many factors in play (time, space, life, death, and so on) the true nature of the story is open to a wide variety of interpretations.  Though the novel’s prose is precisely in line with Graham Greene’s, Ballard moves deeper into fantasy for its substance, a metaphysical tale of surreal proportions the result.  More literary than entertaining, the book comes recommended for those who appreciate vibrantly described settings, psychological puzzles, and storylines that reach at more than just telling a good yarn.  Like the Isle of the Dead, it has the power to both haunt and invoke a sense of wonder. 

Review of "Integral Psychology" by Ken Wilber

Fully aware of the subtle nature of consciousness and mentality, Ken Wilber, the modern American psychologist and philosopher seeks to transcend both the ancient and modern perceptions of psyche and forge a new path towards acceptance, if not understanding of, the mind in all of its quantifiable and unquantifiable aspects.  In his 2007 The Integral Vision, Wilber founds his hope on the idea that “for the first time, the sum total of human knowledge is available to us—the knowledge, experience, wisdom, and reflection of all major human civilizations—premodern, modern, postmodern—are open to study by anyone” (16).  From this standpoint, Wilber intertwines the knowledge made available by conventional science, recurrent teachings, and the individual’s intuitive experience into one, all-encompassing theory of mind, a theory he calls Integral Psychology.       

 

Endeavoring to “honor and embrace every legitimate aspect of human consciousness,” Wilber draws upon important concepts of the mind, the perennial philosophies of the East, observations taken from the roots of modern psychology in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the more rigorous developments of present day psycho-dynamics and neuroscience in outlaying a totalizing theory of consciousness.  Believing that the “the whole discloses new meanings unavailable to the parts,” Wilber aligns the variety of psychological and philosophical theories and their supporting data alongside one another.  By doing so, he seeks to integrate the mind, body, spirit, conscious, unconscious, and dream states across every possible psychological spectrum—worldviews to ethical values, needs to self-identity, and others.  When comparing Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs with Vedanta Hinduism, for example, varying degrees of understanding, instinct, experience, awareness, and so forth are found inherent to each.  Analyzed graphically on a variety of axes, Wilber thus sets about finding the ideas and concepts fundamentally inherent to the whole of perennial philosophy and psychological theory to date.  

By interrelating the sum of these to date, drawing parallels and juxtapositions according to the individual stages and phases delimited by each, Wilber comes to the conclusion psychological development occurs in “waves.”  Preferring to call them waves because the term “emphasizes the fact these levels are not rigidly separate and isolated, but, like the colors of a rainbow, infinitely shade and grade into each other,”  Wilber understands human psychology to originate in the most basic of modes, such as egocentrism, archaism, or physiology, depending on the axis, with the potential to rise to great heights of supermind, self-transcendence, and transpersonalism (7).  As each wave builds upon and incorporates the former, all towards achieving the highest spiritual dimension, modes of operation, such as transpersonalism, are seen as being higher on the scale of development than altruism.  Wilber is, however, quick to point out that the spiritual dimension he purports as the highest plane achievable to the human mind is not religious by definition.  Rather, it is a transcendent mode which synthesizes altruism with personal awareness toward a better understanding of the nature of human existence.  

In the end, Wilber is a love-him or hate-him kind of writer/scholar/philosopher.  His fundamental view that the modern social paradigm is incapable of leading humanity towards greater spiritual heights is the reason he propounds Integral Psychology as a means of eliminating the issues currently facing mankind.  He states that his theory “is simply a great morphogenetic field that provides a developmental space in which human potential can unfold.” (27).  Thus, be warned that this book, though delving deeply into animism, religion, and modern psychology, nevertheless moves to the next level of universal spirituality.  Practical rather than mystical, however, thankfully no crystals or chanting are admonished.

Review of "Gateway" by Frederick Pohl

At heart a psychological drama which explores one man’s attempts at dealing with the negative aspects of existentialism (what Sarte called “nausea”), Gateway nonetheless utilizes the tools of science fiction for effect.  Less than 300 pages, the tropes of each are blended perfectly in succinct fashion so as to satisfy the readers of both genres.  An outline of the books is as follows.

After finding an abandoned alien base deep in an asteroid, humanity has learned the basics of piloting the remaining spaceships.  Emphasis on the word “basics,” not all the important details of light speed have been mastered, with the result people are sent shooting into space as “prospectors,” not knowing where the coordinates they’ve set will lead or if they’ll even make it back to the base.  For those who do come back, reward is not a guarantee, either.  Alien artifacts can help a person become rich, but as so few come back with any, is it worth the risk of dying alone in space?  Into this roulette wheel lifestyle comes the protagonist , Robinette, a man who feels he has nothing to live for on earth, so why not take a chance in the stars.  Told in alternating chapters, the reader takes turns absorbing the third person details of Robin’s time on the base and in space and his sessions with a computer psychologist that take place an unknown time after.  Not as corny as it sounds, Pohl plays the computer psychologist/A.I. off well, nothing predictable or preachy about technology in the machine’s nature.  So unimportant to the story, the question could be asked whether it was not human after all.  The third person narrative and flashback style sessions moving closer as the book progresses, the climax offers a satisfying conclusion to the story.

Feeling lost and purposeless, Pohl’s tale of a man lost is as human as stories come.  The fear and paranoia Robin experiences not knowing whether this will be the end each time he launches in one of the alien vessels serves to drive him deeper into uncertainty regarding life.  His love life, sense of direction, and even grip on reality all become drastically skewed the more time he spends in space.  A parody on the state of affairs in the US when the book was written (1977), Pohl’s post-modern story of a man equivocating in an increasingly subjective world transcends the sci-fi setting to comment directly on a state of affairs, that, if anything, has only become more relative in the decades since.  

As such, Pohl took aim, fired and hit a bulls-eye from a thematic point of view.  Robin, the blue-collar anti-hero caught in a web of his own design – alcohol, sex, drugs – and his attempts to free himself from the world of choice strike a chord with modern society.  Despite the spaceships flying around and alien artifacts, this is what makes the story true literature.  Secondary themes include the value of pain and suffering and exploitative nature of capitalism.  Short and sweet, Gateway comes recommended for those enjoying science fiction with depth and purpose.

(This review has also been posted at www.fantasyliterature.com)