There is no question that science-fiction writers have become more ambitious, stylistically and thematically, in recent years. But this may have less to do with the luring call of academic surroundings than with changing market conditions—a factor that academic critics rarely take into account.
Robert Silverberg, a former president of The Science Fiction Writers of America, is one of the most prolific professionals in a field dominated by people who actually write for a living. Unlike mystery or Western writers, most science-fiction writers cannot expect to cash in on fat movie sales or TV tie-ins. Still in his late thirties, Silverberg has published more than a hundred books, and he is disarmingly frank about the relationship between the quality of genuine prose and the quality of available outlet. By his own account, he was “an annoyingly verbal young man” from Brooklyn who picked up his first science-fiction book at the age of ten, started writing seriously at the age of thirteen, and at seventeen nearly gave up in despair over his inability to break into the pulp magazines. At his parents’ urging, he enrolled in Columbia University, so that, if worst came to worst, he could always go to the School of Journalism and “get a nice steady job somewhere”. During his sophomore year, he sold his first science-fiction story to a Scottish magazine named Nebula. By the end of his junior year, he had sold a novel and twenty more stories. By the end of his senior year, he was earning two hundred dollars a week writing science fiction, and his parents were reconciled to his pursuit of the literary life. “I became very cynical very quickly,” he says. First I couldn’t sell anything, then I could sell everything. The market played to my worst characteristics. An editor of a schlock magazine would call up to tell me he had a ten-thousand-word hole to fill in his next issue. I’d fill it overnight for a hundred and fifty dollars. I found that rewriting made no difference. I knew I could not possibly write the kinds of things I admired as a reader—Joyce, Kafka, Mann—so I detached myself from my work. I was a phenomenon among my friends in college, a published, selling author. But they always asked, “When are you going to do something serious?” —meaning something that wasn’t science fiction—and I kept telling them, “ When I’m financially secure.”
January, 2010
The Success Of Robert Silverberg
Tags: characteristic, fiction, market, secure
Music Culture
Material culture refers to the touchable, material “things”—physical objects that can be seen, held, felt, used—that a culture produces. Examining a culture’s tools and technology can tell us about the group’s history and way of life. Similarly, research into the material culture of music can help us to understand the music-culture. The most vivid body of “things” in it, of course, are musical instruments. We cannot hear for ourselves the actual sound of any musical performance before the 1870s when the phonograph was invented, so we rely on instruments for important information about music-cultures in the remote past and their development. Here we have two kinds of evidence: instruments well preserved and instruments pictured in art. Through the study of instruments, as well as paintings, written documents, and so on, we can explore the movement of music from the Near East to China over a thousand years ago, or we can outline the spread of Near Eastern influence to Europe that resulted in the development of most of the instruments on the symphony orchestra.
Sheet music or printed music, too, is material culture. Scholars once defined folk music-cultures as those in which people learn and sing music by ear rather than from print, but research shows mutual influence among oral and written sources during the past few centuries in Europe, Britain and America. Printed versions limit variety because they tend to standardize any song, yet they stimulate people to create new and different songs. Besides, the ability to read music notation has a far-reaching effect on musicians and, when it becomes widespread, on the music-culture as a whole.
Music is deep-rooted in the cultural background that fosters it. We now pay more and more attention to traditional or ethnic features in folk music and are willing to preserve the folk music as we do with many traditional cultural heritage. Musicians all over the world are busy with recording classic music in their country for the sake of their unique culture. As always, people’s aspiration will always focus on their individuality rather than universal features that are shared by all cultures alike.
One more important part of music’s material culture should be singled out: the influence of the electronic media—radio, record player, tape recorder, and television, with the future promising talking and singing computers and other developments. This is all part of the “information-revolution”, a twentieth century phenomenon as important as the industrial revolution in the nineteenth. These electronic media are not just limited to modern nations; they have affected music-cultures all over the globe.
The Ingredients of Drama
One meaning of the Greek word “dran” is to accomplish, and in this meaning lies a further key to the structure of drama. A play concerns a human agent attempting to accomplish some purpose. In tragedy his attempt is, in personal terms at least, unsuccessful; in comedy it is successful; in the problem play final accomplishment is often either ambiguous or doubtful.
This action, from the beginning to the end of a movement toward a purposed goal, must also have a middle; it must proceed through a number of steps, the succession of incidents which make up the plot. Because the dramatist is concerned with the meaning and logic of events rather than with their casual relationship in time, he will probably select his material and order it on a basis of the operation, in human affairs, of laws of cause and effect. It is in this causal relationship of incidents that the element of conflict, present in virtually all plays, appears.
The central figure of the play—the protagonist—encounters difficulties; his purpose or purposes conflict with events or circumstances, with purposes of other characters in the play, or with cross-purposes which exist within his own thoughts and desires. These difficulties threaten the protagonist’s accomplishment; in other words, they present complications, and his success or failure in dealing with these complications determines the outcome. Normally, complications build through the play in order of increasing difficulty; one complication may be added to another, or one may grow out of the solution of a preceding one. At some point in this chain of complication and solution, achieved or attempted, the protagonist performs an act or makes a decision which irrevocably commits him to a further course, points toward certain general consequences. This point is usually called the crisis; the complications and solutions which follow work out the logical steps from crisis to final resolution, or denouement.
From Relativity To The Concept of Particle
Relativity theory has had a profound influence on our picture of matter by forcing us to modify our concept of a particle in an essential way. In classical physics, the mass of an object had always been associated with an indestructible material substance, with some “stuff” of which all things were thought to be made. Relativity theory showed that mass has nothing to do with any substance, but is a form energy. Energy, however, is a dynamic quantity associated with activity, or with processes.The fact that the mass of a particle is equivalent to a certain of energy means that the particle can no longer be seen as a static object, but has to be conceived as a dynamic pattern, a process involving the energy which manifest itself as the particle’s mass.
This new view of particles was initiated by Dirac when he formulated a relativistic equation describing the behavior of electrons. Dirac’s theory was not only extremely successful in accounting for the fine details of atomic structure, but also revealed a fundamental symmetry between matter and anti-matter. It predicted the existence of an anti-matter with the same mass as the electron but with an opposite charge. This positively charged particle, now called the positron, was indeed discovered two years after Dirac had predicted it. The symmetry between matter and anti-matter implies that for every particle there exists an antiparticles with equal mass and opposite charge. Pairs of particles and antiparticles can be created if enough energy is available and can be made to turn into pure energy in the reverse process of destruction. These processes of particle creation and destruction had been predicted from Dirac’s theory before they were actually discovered in nature, and since then they have been observed millions of times.
The creation of material particles from pure energy is certainly the most spectacular effect of relativity theory, and it can only be understood in terms of the view of particles outlined above. Before relativistic particle physics, the constituents of matter had always been considered as being either elementary units which were indestructible and unchangeable, or as composite objects which could be broken up into their constituent parts; and the basic question was whether one could divide matter again and again, or whether one would finally arrive at some smallest indivisible units.
From Watching To Participating
I am not one who golfs. The only time I tried it I was confident that a dozen balls would be an adequate supply. This is the sport of retired people: how hard could it be? The confidence was misplaced, also, one by one, the balls, and I had to quit somewhere around the seventh hole. On the sixth, actually, I hit a car—there was absolutely no reason for a highway to be that close to a golf course—but that’s another story. The point is that the game did not yield up its mystery to me; I remain, in the golfing universe, a child of darkness. I do find that I am able to watch golf on television, however, where it is possible to experience a calmness that the game itself sadly lacks. Spread out on a couch and indifferent to the outcome (very important), you watch tiny white balls sail improbable distances over the biggest lawns in the world, interrupted occasionally by advertisements for expensive cars. One of the players is named Tiger. Another is named Love. If you have access to a bottle of Martinis (optional), the joy potential can be quite huge.
There is usually a price for pleasure so mindless. In the case of TV golf, it is listening to the commentators analyze the players’ swings. What looks to you like a single, continuous, and not difficult act is revealed, via slow motion and a sort of virtual-chalkboard graphics, to be a sequence of intricately measured adjustments of shoulder to hip, head to arm, elbow to wrist, and so on. Where you see fluidity, the experts see geometry; what to you is nature is machinery to them—parallel lines, extended planes, points of impact. They murder to examine. Yet, apparently, these minutes and individualized measurements make all the difference between being able reliably to land a golf ball in an area, three hundred yards away, the size of a bathmat and, say, randomly hitting a car, which, let’s face it, only a fool would drive right next to a golf course. There is a major disproportion, in other words, between the straightforwardness of the game and the fantastic precision required to play it, a disproportion mastered by a difficult but, to the ordinary observer, almost invisible technique.
Short stories are the same. A short story is not as restrictive as a sonnet, but, of all the literary forms, it is possibly the most single-minded. Its aim, as it was identified by the modern genre’s first theorist, Edgar Allan Poe, is to create “an effect”—by which Poe meant something almost physical, like a sensation or an extreme excitement.