In Defence of Science Fiction

Let’s face it. Science fiction isn’t placed high on society's list of Art forms . Specifically in the world of enduring literature there are a handful of sci-fi writers who are included in the Classics bookshelf while a perfunctory glance is bestowed on the humongous number of novels with dystopia, parallel universes, time and interstellar travel. Having just finished a brilliant book by Cory Doctorow, I was consumed by the question: why is science fiction so harshly ignored?

The world looks at the writers who turn inwards towards society and the ramshackle depressing thoughts of losers. Lyrical prose, Kevlar piercing deadly observations and powerful themes mark these creations. I was re-reading parts of Jane Eyre recently and I was struck by the beautiful balance of Charlotte Bronte’s writing. Science fiction writers are scrawny scratchy runts in comparison.

Science fiction is what I call disbelievable. Science fiction takes its fuel not from stirring prose (not always true) or boast of a Kafka on the Shore (although Murakami does well in cyber punk) but from Ideas. Ideas that can light a candle on the underbelly of Enceladus through a magical mix of science and telepathy. Ideas that have inspired countless young minds. Ideas that have pushed us to invent miracles of modern life such as the remote control. And the genre is huge. People who quote Asimov and Bradbury have just scratched the surface (it’s still a great start).

And science fiction has evolved. It all started during the mid-nineteenth century with books like Frankenstein. It took off with the concurrent brilliance of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne. These stories spoke of nascent scientific achievement and the dangers of going overboard – one can always find an underlying acknowledgement of Nature’s supremacy. It didn't take long for people to break those rules as Huxley chose to paint the future in a Shakespearean mass tragedy. Then came the authors who came to define modern and conventional science fiction. Today, we’re deep into cyber punk and as always, fantasy and science fiction continue to mix.

Frank wasn't my name, you know

In fact, there are so many sci-fi writers that a rookie like me has no right to list them down let alone comment on them. So, what's the blog for?

My question touches on the correlation between accessibility of different novels and their relationship with Art (you can read a previous post on Art). On the fag end, you have the rather too accessible horde of "Life is Love" authors (copyrighting that name) which despite clicking with a number of people aren't qualified to be considered in the same stead as, say, Catcher in the Rye. Note the choice of analogy. It is not necessarily an over-pumped highfalutin work of GRE words that needs to be called Art. It's okay to be raw and to shriek and scream at your audience. That indescribable element of class is all that's needed.

Coming back to science fiction, there are two factors IMHO that hamper its chance of being rated as Art:

1. It's too accessible.
2. It's more about ideas.

That sci-fi is accessible makes it a mass choice. Edgar Rice Burroughs was pulp fiction. Kurt Vonnegut, on the other hand, was class the moment people saw him as more than a science fiction author. Asimov has inspired eminent academics such as Paul Krugman, but he has already been listed in the Big Three and that's enough respect for a guy who writes, well, science fiction. Accessibility cuts at greatness. You have to be Douglas Adams to turn prophetic science fiction into a work of unmatched humour and satire.

That beats the Nobel any day

The second point holds weight as well. When you choose to speak with ideas and visions, you are capturing the imagination of a child, whatever be his age. That's hard to keep hold of. For one thing, the world is turning increasingly gruesome before your very eyes to care about a possible Hari Seldon. As a reinforcing consequence, it's disturbed and emotionally complicated stories (not necessarily romance) that catch the eye. There is only so much of hope in the world. I think this might well be a bigger reason for the resurgence of sci-fi on the wave of dystopia and despair (Others may well blame this trend as killing nascent curiosity and that's an open debate for another day). Writing in ideas also has the distinct disadvantage of coming across situations that can't be conveyed in words. Some things are best left to the imagination.

Science fiction is Art. It can bring to life a world that never existed. It can predict inventions long before science has the wherewithal to actually build it. It is utopia and dystopia. And there is an unexamined overstated assumption of its works lacking beauty. Go read Bradbury and witness the haunting loneliness in his prose. Read Orwell and his command over ideas and words. Imagine having no conceivable image of Rama in the world around you and reading Clarke for the first time. Look at robots and planes but don't forget to notice the small bits and pieces of innovation that have changed the way we live. Science fiction may well be a far more democratic form of Art. All you need is your imagination.

Science Fiction deserves respect.

(Next time: I'll move to contradict this post. Some good fun, eh?)

The Fairness of Art

Is Art fair?

The cherished ability to make money and have the textbook “good life” seems attainable even to the most deprived individual even if the chances of “getting there” are slimmer as you slide down to the BoP. People are driven. They’ll take great pains at disguising it as a path to some higher salvation and autonomy. They’ll grind out the hours and become unconditionally loyal to their ambitions. They’ll get to the top through their job or they’ll start a start-up and hope to get to the top. Whatever they do, they’ll want success with that irresistible cocktail of power and means.

The knack of experiencing the overbearing and uplifting enormity of an act of creation is, alas, much rarer. To see a stunning painting, one that captures the senses, one that seems to convey all that is inconspicuous to the conscious mind but is the true reason for adding authenticity to the description, is scarcely seen. You can go deeper. The layers beyond your conscious radar add an element of unfamiliarity, one that sprouts from the artist’s imagination, instantly and subtly inscribing a signature that pulls out the work from the clutter of imitation.

Is the ability to genuinely feel the above undemocratic?

One might argue that it is a provenance of the rich. Surely, the art connoisseurs and critics are generally no ordinary individuals. Their lives are those of privilege. Looking at them, one would not be exaggerating in feeling left out, in feeling that the taste of Art is artificial and lies outside the boundaries of experience of the majority.

And yet, we all go through moments of ecstasy; moments of unhindered, uninhibited joy; moments that transport us to a higher Truth and give us a transcendentally extraordinary realization.

It may be through a dusty old book, a book written originally by an author in a different tongue in a different time and place. The words attain the equivalence of a painter's brush as each stroke defines and conveys thoughts that seem so strangely familiar but would never be expressed with the same lightness of expression and depth of thought. It may be during a music concert when a strange radiance permeates one's thoughts and gives us a ridiculously short lived stay in paradise. At that moment, the lyrics blend together with the music to produce something that goes beyond ordinary expression.

There is, to be sure, a primeval understanding for the beautiful even in the most uncouth of individuals. It is a strange mystery to wonder what sharpens the mind - what tunes the senses to appreciate the beauty of Art. And, what do we gain from it?

Greater people have come and pondered over this matter, not least in the period of the Enlightenment. Let us call upon Jean Jacques Rousseau,

For all the rest of the day, wandering deep into the forest, I sought and I found the vision of those primitive times, the history of which I proudly traced. I demolished the petty lies of mankind; I dared to strip man’s nature naked, to follow the progress of time, and trace the things which have distorted it; and by comparing man as he has made himself with man as he is by nature I showed him in his pretended perfection the source of his true misery. Exalted by these sublime meditations, my soul soared toward the Diviniy; and from that height I looked down on my fellow men pursuing the blind path of their predjudices, of their errors, of their misfortunes and their crimes. Then I cried to them in a feeble voice that they could not hear, “Madmen who ceaselessly complain of Nature, learn that your misfortunes arise from yourselves!”

And he goes on to say,

“If nature has destined us to be healthy, I almost dare to affirm that the state of reflection is a state contrary to nature and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal” 

Rousseau's stand is interestingly contrarian to his own standing as an intellectual. In brief, what he says is that the very act of erudition pushes us into misery. It is an affliction or rather, an addiction. A person who has experienced the bliss of higher beauty or the comfort of knowledge will no longer feel content with basic material joy. This "state of reflection" is a curse, an irresistible power that forces normal primitive man to yearn for that which is beautiful, that which is fulfilling in a deeper sense. Talk about paranoia. And yet, if you ponder over it you would realize that there is more than an inkling of truth in his words.

For all of us are born with a fuzzy appreciation of the beautiful but it is the refined person who truly grasps the layered subtlety of Art. And a person need not be refined by the brute force of wealth. He may do so through a manic desire for learning, or the courage to discard the merely convenient.

A recent article in a popular newspaper quoted an agent of a mainstream novelist as saying that it was an elitist illusion to assume that "Victorian" literature and style was what counted as good writing. What people really want, he alleged, was a read that was more grounded and easy to parse through. That's true, in a way. A good writer is tiresome- he'll make you stop occasionally to let out gasps of amazement, she'll make you re-read entire sections for correct comprehension and also make you use that dictionary you've had decorated on the drawing room shelf. Those who make that effort, who can afford to pause and not check the ending page number of the story, will find themselves bequeathed by something more substantial and longer lasting than entertainment. They'll feel enriched and inspired. Not that I hate the Meluha trilogy (it's all real good fun).

I surrender to the chains of this addiction. I cannot hope for others to follow me- it is good that they don’t. What I know is that every time I read a piece of classical poetry, whenever I ponder over the intention behind an artist’s portrayal of a war or when I see a Roger Federer winner I am transported to a place of pure ecstasy, one that I want to come back to again and again, at the risk of losing touch with the unadulterated joy of normal success…

I believe I am in a position here to write many more pages on the value and fairness of Art. I don't think anyone will read more. If you've come this far, I appreciate it tremendously. Let's talk some time.