As a further contribution to our recent discussion of science fiction, modernism, and a "Post-Millennial Malaise," noted author, physicist, and raconteur David Brin has provided for us the following guest commentary:
The Age of Wonders
Science fiction, a genre often thought to be obsessed with exotic machinery and aliens is, at its best, far more focused on human nature, and especially with the provocative premise that human nature can change. Indeed it is almost a defining feature of the SF genre -- separating it from cousins such as fantasy -- that science fiction perceives humanity as capable of change.
Make no mistake; that is a subversive notion. The typical view, professed by generations of cynics, critics and academics, maintains that any true literary work must focus on eternal verities, human attributes of poignancy and drama that have remained and always will remain fixed, as constant as the stars. Examples of such archetypes might be foredoomed rebellion against a brutal father… or obeisance to a disciplinarian god. Others we've all seen countless times include unrequited amorous fixation, adolescent anomie, and coming to terms with the inevitability of death.
Of course these aspects of existence, from tragic to absurd, continue to merit attention from great writers. But it's quite another thing to contend -- as some scholars solemnly do -- that authors should worry over the same territory, moving forward in the tiniest increments, measured by the rigid yardstick of their predecessors.
In naïveté, one may wonder -- "If it's all been done so well before, why create new stories at all? Why new art?"
Moreover, what if some of our 'eternal' problems actually get solved? Don't great writers aim to shed light on the human condition, exposing injustices and mistakes for the elevation of others? If so, one reward for their efforts should be solutions -- whole or partial -- that make some dire problems go away!
For example, the enduring works of Charles Dickens continue to inspire sympathy in modern hearts for the plight of his characters, but the other role he intended for his books -- to serve as reformist polemics -- has diminished in comparison. Ironically, this is because they were largely successful in that role, generations ago, provoking many of the reforms that Dickens sought.
In other words, human conditions can change. Great literature can be part of that process of change. Moreover, I suggest that science fiction is the genre, above all others, that acknowledges and embraces this interaction.
Change is a broad subject, covering every way we've transformed (and failed to transform enough) since leaving the caves. Many of the SF writers and readers I know have immersed themselves passionately in Montaigne, Shakespeare, Joyce, Heller, Achebe and Kobayashi Issa. Only a minority of these colleagues have backgrounds in science, yet nearly all share a love of history, reflecting a pervasive belief that the present should surrender its parochial self-importance and recognize the vast sweep of continuity, from a partly-known past into the future's undiscovered country.
That is why I hold that the deep premise of science fiction has nothing to do with superficialities like spaceships and ray guns, or even the most sober prescription for utopia. Rather, it is the revolutionary notion children can sometimes learn from the mistakes of their parents.
Not only may we come to know more about the workings of nature and our own minds, but our descendants might someday solve most of the physical, social, and even metaphysical problems that now cause many sleepless nights. And, having done so, those heirs may confront new dilemmas we can barely imagine
From a literary perspective, this implies that many an angst-ridden "truth," laboriously kneaded and worried over by one generation of writers, may someday seem too obvious or simple-minded for their grandchildren to dwell upon, except perhaps in sympathy with victims of ancient ignorance. Worse, some "verities" may prove to be untrue!
Shakespeare's noble works appear vouchsafed eternal reverence, even when some well-turned generality or platitude proves misguided or wrong. But there are many “profound” writers whose fame may fade if humanity changes, or even progresses slightly. No wonder some of them seem to dread the possibility!
Change doesn't always correlate with improvement, nor does science fiction always presume happy endings. Mistakes are explored, which often lead to well-drawn tragedies. Sometimes an entire world is destroyed. But always, lurking in the background, is the underlying assumption -- that those crucial mistakes might have been avoided, if only...
This, too, flies in the face of standard literary tradition. In his Poetics, Aristotle contended that the fate of the protagonist in a tragedy must have been unavoidable. The hero's struggles against destiny must be futile from the start. Only thus will the audience come to sympathize in their deepest hearts, crying at the cruelty of implacable fate.
Not so in science fiction, where the worst disaster can be made even more horrific, by hinting that it needn't have happened. Choices -- rooted in an obstinate refusal to listen or learn -- underly the most vivid and memorable tragedies in our modern era.
Think about it. Which strikes you as a recipe for a tale to writhe or cringe over, in sympathetic agony for some made-up character? To me, that layer of might-have-been is what drives the best modern cautionary tales, like On the Beach or Walter Tevis's Mockingbird. In contrast, while I feel the agony of Oedipus, his foredoomed Aristotelian struggles seem as pointless as those of a fish who is both hooked and gaffed. The gods have him cooked. Mostly, I just want to see the poor bloke put out of his misery.
Anyway, what's wrong with a literature that bucks tradition by suggesting children can occasionally avoid their parents' errors? True, a chief quandary of parenthood is expressed beautifully by the song Jose Feliciano sang, at Woodstock: "You teach 'em and you learn 'em, and hope they'll understand, and still they stick their fingers in the fan." Verbal instructions, even dire warnings, are never as vivid or effective as life experience.
Yet, observation shows that kids sometimes do heed adults they respect. You can, every now and then, pass along ideas to the next generation. Those who deny this make one wonder -- if it's not possible to build wisdom upon wisdom, why have children at all? In a broader sense, that is what the power of the written word has been all about, ever since the
beginning. If we want to honor our ancestors, who sweated and struggled so hard to get us here, the best way will be to learn from their mistakes and to far exceed their accomplishments, in every way.
And may our children do the same to us! They should find trivial the troubles that vex us today. Don't worry, they'll come up with new problems of their own.
Originally published in 2000 by David Brin.
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