14612. (Michael Cunningham) At Home at the End of the World

This nov­el pleased me. It’s well-writ­ten, the char­ac­ters come alive, and the author doesn’t pussy-foot. Cun­ning­ham takes three char­ac­ters from child­hood, bring­ing them up to youth­ful adult­hood. They end up form­ing a pre­car­i­ous fam­ily and raise a shild. Noth­ing very extra­or­di­nary hap­pens. But it is all done with great skill. The book is grown-up. As I turned the pages, I was remind­ed of my pro­tracted strug­gle with the cur­rent situ­ation in Sci­ence Fic­tion pub­lish­ing. I grew up with Sci­ence Fic­tion, and I would rather write in that genre than write the sort of thing that Michael Cun­ning­ham does.

Unfor­tu­nately, the field of Sci­ence Fic­tion has so pro­foundly degen­er­ated in the last few years that there seems no point to even try­ing. The Sci­ence Fic­tion com­mu­nity is sim­ply not com­posed of grown-up peo­ple. I am not refer­ring to chrono­log­i­cal age — I know many peo­ple who were grown-up at the age of thir­teen. But the Sci­ence Fic­tion com­mu­nity no longer seems to be peo­pled with intel­lec­tual adults. If Mr. Cun­ning­ham were writ­ing SF, and sub­mit­ting a work of this qual­ity, tone, and tech­nique to SF pub­lish­ers, he would get nowhere. He would be con­fronted by moron­ic taboos, self-cen­sor­ing cow­ardice, and idi­otic social val­ues. In short, he would be enter­ing an infan­tile world that sim­ply can’t be grown-up enough to per­mit lit­er­a­ture, or to cre­ate it.

This has not always been the case. There was a time when Sci­ence Fic­tion was quite the oppo­site. It was where the action was. It was writ­ten and pub­lished by grown-up peo­ple to be read by grown-up peo­ple, who did not cringe in ter­ror at the pos­si­bil­ity of offend­ing illit­er­ate yokels who plant corn by the moon. Many of those grown-up peo­ple hap­pened to be teenagers. The SF com­mu­nity is now con­sid­er­ably old­er in bio­log­i­cal age, on aver­age, than it was when I entered it. But it has rock­eted from the uni­ver­sity to kinder­gar­den in a sin­gle generation.

So I turned the pages of this nov­el with a mix­ture of plea­sure, and envy. My inter­ests and imagery are such that I will nev­er feel called to write a nov­el like this. I want to be able write with­in the broad and spec­tac­u­lar can­vas of Sci­ence Fic­tion, unbound by time or space. I could prob­a­bly nev­er write a nov­el about three peo­ple work­ing out a rela­tion­ship in upstate New York. But damn it, I would like to be able to write in lib­erty, for a think­ing audi­ence, with some seri­ous expec­ta­tion of mak­ing a liv­ing from it.

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