Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 144
September 12, 2014
The Evolution of the Martini (Part 1)
.
Like it or loathe it, the Martini is the most austere and uncompromising of alcoholic concoctions -- indeed, the very king of cocktails.
But how did it come about?
We at the American Martini Laboratory determined to find out, to sample the ancestral drinks, and to pass judgment upon them. Over the next several weeks, one drink at a time, our researches will be shared here.
The scholarly study of the history of cocktails has been, since the beginning, a difficult one, and there are very few facts that are uncontested, particularly when it comes to the Martini. However, the majority of scholars agree that the very first almost-Martini was a late nineteenth-century cocktail called the Martinez -- a drink consisting chiefly of equal parts of sweet vermouth and Old Tom gin. This is the drink the AML will be testing and tasting next week.
But first, let's look at the precursor drink, that from which the Martinez was derived. Which is, improbably enough, the Manhattan.
To understand this, it helps to know that Nineteenth-Century cocktails were almost invariably sweet and that, as often as not, they included a raw egg. The original Manhattan did not include an egg, thank God, but it was even sweeter than the amber and autumnal drink we enjoy today. To appreciate it, let's first look at a contemporary recipe for this drink:
There are variations, of course. In my household we use cherries that Marianne has spiced in maraschino and add a few drops of the maraschino.
In the nineteenth century, this drink was much sweeter. Here's one of several very similar recipes from the time:
This is the drink the AML recreated the other night and taste-tested. It should be noted that the original recipe called for whiskey rather than rye. That was for the simple reason that in the nineteenth century rye was what was meant when people spoke of whiskey. You'll note also that the maraschino cherry has yet to make an appearance. Back then, people were as likely as not to drop a slice of orange in their drink, along with possibly a splash of of simple syrup, just to sweeten it up.
And the result of the tasting?
The Nineteenth-Century Manhattan was, it goes without saying, a sweet drink. It had not reached the golden beauty of the contemporary cocktail. But it was on its way. It was recognizably the same drink -- though probably not in the proportions that you and I would mix them today.
And it was in no way like the modern Martini.
Next Friday (if all goes as planned) I will post the second drink in this series -- the Martinez. Which, while recognizably ancestral to the Martini, is still not a drink that could be mistaken for one.
Above: The makings of the (Nineteenth Century) Manhattan. The Art Deco glasses with naked female dancers are courtesy of the estate of William C. Porter, my late father-in-law.
*
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Like it or loathe it, the Martini is the most austere and uncompromising of alcoholic concoctions -- indeed, the very king of cocktails.
But how did it come about?
We at the American Martini Laboratory determined to find out, to sample the ancestral drinks, and to pass judgment upon them. Over the next several weeks, one drink at a time, our researches will be shared here.
The scholarly study of the history of cocktails has been, since the beginning, a difficult one, and there are very few facts that are uncontested, particularly when it comes to the Martini. However, the majority of scholars agree that the very first almost-Martini was a late nineteenth-century cocktail called the Martinez -- a drink consisting chiefly of equal parts of sweet vermouth and Old Tom gin. This is the drink the AML will be testing and tasting next week.
But first, let's look at the precursor drink, that from which the Martinez was derived. Which is, improbably enough, the Manhattan.
To understand this, it helps to know that Nineteenth-Century cocktails were almost invariably sweet and that, as often as not, they included a raw egg. The original Manhattan did not include an egg, thank God, but it was even sweeter than the amber and autumnal drink we enjoy today. To appreciate it, let's first look at a contemporary recipe for this drink:
Manhattan
combine:
three parts rye
one part sweet vermouth
a dash of angostura bitters
shake well over ice
strain into cocktail glasses
add a maraschino cherry
serve
There are variations, of course. In my household we use cherries that Marianne has spiced in maraschino and add a few drops of the maraschino.
In the nineteenth century, this drink was much sweeter. Here's one of several very similar recipes from the time:
Manhattancombine:
one part whiskey (rye)
one part sweet vermouth
two dashes angostura bitters
one dash maraschino
shake well over ice
strain into cocktail glasses
serve
This is the drink the AML recreated the other night and taste-tested. It should be noted that the original recipe called for whiskey rather than rye. That was for the simple reason that in the nineteenth century rye was what was meant when people spoke of whiskey. You'll note also that the maraschino cherry has yet to make an appearance. Back then, people were as likely as not to drop a slice of orange in their drink, along with possibly a splash of of simple syrup, just to sweeten it up.
And the result of the tasting?
The Nineteenth-Century Manhattan was, it goes without saying, a sweet drink. It had not reached the golden beauty of the contemporary cocktail. But it was on its way. It was recognizably the same drink -- though probably not in the proportions that you and I would mix them today.
And it was in no way like the modern Martini.
Next Friday (if all goes as planned) I will post the second drink in this series -- the Martinez. Which, while recognizably ancestral to the Martini, is still not a drink that could be mistaken for one.
Above: The makings of the (Nineteenth Century) Manhattan. The Art Deco glasses with naked female dancers are courtesy of the estate of William C. Porter, my late father-in-law.
*
September 11, 2014
Owls for Literature!
.
I've got a link for you which I haven't seen yet. Chris Urie of Geekadelphia gave it to me, noting that it goes live at 10:30 a.m. Which is inconvenient since, as always, I'm on the road again.
But thanks to the miracle of Blogspot, I'm posting this the night before and scheduling it for midmorning.
Here's the deal: on September 25 at 7:30 p.m., Chris will be hosting an author event at the Free Library of Philadelphia with Jeff VanderMeer. Since VanderMeer's latest novel features an owl, a rep from the Academy of Natural Sciences will be present with a live barn owl.
If you don't think this is cool, I have no hope for you whatsoever. None.
Here's the link. I look forward to seeing it.
*
I've got a link for you which I haven't seen yet. Chris Urie of Geekadelphia gave it to me, noting that it goes live at 10:30 a.m. Which is inconvenient since, as always, I'm on the road again.
But thanks to the miracle of Blogspot, I'm posting this the night before and scheduling it for midmorning.
Here's the deal: on September 25 at 7:30 p.m., Chris will be hosting an author event at the Free Library of Philadelphia with Jeff VanderMeer. Since VanderMeer's latest novel features an owl, a rep from the Academy of Natural Sciences will be present with a live barn owl.
If you don't think this is cool, I have no hope for you whatsoever. None.
Here's the link. I look forward to seeing it.
*
September 10, 2014
Graham Joyce: "Walk It Off, Lad!"
.
I only met Graham Joyce the once and that was in a busload of writers, so I'm not sure if he ever caught my name. You couldn't say we were close. Nor have I read much of his work. I'm not big on horror fiction. But there was that bus trip...
This was in San Francisco. There was a World Fantasy Con going on, and somebody organized a signing at a bookstore with twenty or thirty writers. A bus was rented to drive us from the convention to the signing and back again. Flocks of people showed up to snag autographs they normally couldn't get. It was a great deal for collectors with enough money to drop on a pile of new hardcovers and a terrific scam for the bookseller. I have no idea who put that one together.
On the bus on the way back, there was a certain amount of jockeying for who would get to talk and who would have to listen. Somehow Joyce found an opening and mentioned that he'd just won an award for best non-fiction book about sports. He'd gotten a call asking if he'd be willing to be the goalie for England's national soccer (or football) team -- him forty-something years old, with a bad back, shot knees, eyesight going, you must be mad. Ah, but it was the national writers' team and they had to take who they could get. Plus there was a free trip to Italy in it. So...
And on he went, mesmerizingly. At one point, he said, "So I combined this with my experiences with soccer as I was growing up." And we all leaned forward anxiously
"You made it self-deprecating, I hope?" somebody said.
"Oh, yes, very self-deprecating."
And we all leaned back in relief. An audience of writers is not quite the same thing as an audience of readers.
It was a lovely story and Joyce told it so well that even today I could tell you most of it from memory. When I got home, I bought a copy of Simple Goalkeeping Made Spectacular . Soccer means nothing to me, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. I'm guessing that people who have actually played the sport, or watched it for pleasure, would love it to pieces.
Yesterday afternoon, Graham Joyce died. The world has been diminished by one storyteller. This is, as John Clute observed, deeply sad.
Based entirely on the one book and single bus ride, though, I'm guessing that he wouldn't want us to get all mawkish about it. In my mind's ear, I hear his voice in that working-class accent of his saying the same thing his coaches would tell him if he twisted an ankle: "Walk it off, lad!"
Well, it won't be easy. But we'll do our best.
And on a much lighter note . . .
The august two-person ruling board of the American Martini Laboratory has decided to re-create the evolution of the Martini, drink by drink, starting deep in the 19th Century with the rather surprising ancestor from which this most austere of all cocktails ultimately arose.
The first installment (with recipe) will be posted on Friday. Barring exceptionally bad or particularly good news, of course.
*
I only met Graham Joyce the once and that was in a busload of writers, so I'm not sure if he ever caught my name. You couldn't say we were close. Nor have I read much of his work. I'm not big on horror fiction. But there was that bus trip...
This was in San Francisco. There was a World Fantasy Con going on, and somebody organized a signing at a bookstore with twenty or thirty writers. A bus was rented to drive us from the convention to the signing and back again. Flocks of people showed up to snag autographs they normally couldn't get. It was a great deal for collectors with enough money to drop on a pile of new hardcovers and a terrific scam for the bookseller. I have no idea who put that one together.
On the bus on the way back, there was a certain amount of jockeying for who would get to talk and who would have to listen. Somehow Joyce found an opening and mentioned that he'd just won an award for best non-fiction book about sports. He'd gotten a call asking if he'd be willing to be the goalie for England's national soccer (or football) team -- him forty-something years old, with a bad back, shot knees, eyesight going, you must be mad. Ah, but it was the national writers' team and they had to take who they could get. Plus there was a free trip to Italy in it. So...
And on he went, mesmerizingly. At one point, he said, "So I combined this with my experiences with soccer as I was growing up." And we all leaned forward anxiously
"You made it self-deprecating, I hope?" somebody said.
"Oh, yes, very self-deprecating."
And we all leaned back in relief. An audience of writers is not quite the same thing as an audience of readers.
It was a lovely story and Joyce told it so well that even today I could tell you most of it from memory. When I got home, I bought a copy of Simple Goalkeeping Made Spectacular . Soccer means nothing to me, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. I'm guessing that people who have actually played the sport, or watched it for pleasure, would love it to pieces.
Yesterday afternoon, Graham Joyce died. The world has been diminished by one storyteller. This is, as John Clute observed, deeply sad.
Based entirely on the one book and single bus ride, though, I'm guessing that he wouldn't want us to get all mawkish about it. In my mind's ear, I hear his voice in that working-class accent of his saying the same thing his coaches would tell him if he twisted an ankle: "Walk it off, lad!"
Well, it won't be easy. But we'll do our best.
And on a much lighter note . . .
The august two-person ruling board of the American Martini Laboratory has decided to re-create the evolution of the Martini, drink by drink, starting deep in the 19th Century with the rather surprising ancestor from which this most austere of all cocktails ultimately arose.
The first installment (with recipe) will be posted on Friday. Barring exceptionally bad or particularly good news, of course.
*
September 8, 2014
This Glitterati Life: Morrow and Gregory at Big Blue Marble
.
Saturday, I went to Big Blue Marble in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, to hear James Morrow and Daryl Gregory read. It was a hoot.
Jim read from his latest book, The Madonna and the Starship , a novella in which a writer of pulp television has to face down diabolical space lobsters. Daryl read from We Are All Completely Fine , in which survivors of various horror-movie scenarios undergo group therapy.
In the audience were many writers including Fran Wilde, Eugene Meyers, and Darrell Schweitzer.
Also, for some reason, a lot of psychiatrists.
And I may have said this before . . .
There was a good turnout at Big Blue Marble. But the sad truth is that, for a variety of reasons, you don't always get a crowd for readings and signings. I was at a reading by Samuel R. Delany once, back at the peak of his popular fame, at which only four people attended -- and one was a book dealer who had brought a pile of books to be autographed so he could charge more for them.
So I always tell gonnabe writers -- if you're one, pay close attention -- that while they're still unpublished they should go to as many readings, signings, and other public appearances by writers they know are good. "Just so when it happens to you, you won't slit your throat."
I've had published writers tell me that was the best advice they ever received.
Above: Rather a terrible phone snap. That's James Morrow on the left; Daryl Gregory on the right.
*
Saturday, I went to Big Blue Marble in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, to hear James Morrow and Daryl Gregory read. It was a hoot.
Jim read from his latest book, The Madonna and the Starship , a novella in which a writer of pulp television has to face down diabolical space lobsters. Daryl read from We Are All Completely Fine , in which survivors of various horror-movie scenarios undergo group therapy.
In the audience were many writers including Fran Wilde, Eugene Meyers, and Darrell Schweitzer.
Also, for some reason, a lot of psychiatrists.
And I may have said this before . . .
There was a good turnout at Big Blue Marble. But the sad truth is that, for a variety of reasons, you don't always get a crowd for readings and signings. I was at a reading by Samuel R. Delany once, back at the peak of his popular fame, at which only four people attended -- and one was a book dealer who had brought a pile of books to be autographed so he could charge more for them.
So I always tell gonnabe writers -- if you're one, pay close attention -- that while they're still unpublished they should go to as many readings, signings, and other public appearances by writers they know are good. "Just so when it happens to you, you won't slit your throat."
I've had published writers tell me that was the best advice they ever received.
Above: Rather a terrible phone snap. That's James Morrow on the left; Daryl Gregory on the right.
*
September 5, 2014
Science Fiction & Rock and Roll
.
One of the first lessons I learned as a science fiction writer was that it was extremely hard to sell a SF story about rock and roll. Editors didn't want it. Worse, they'd rather condescendingly lecture you on the absolute lack of overlap between people who read science fiction and people who listened to rock music.
That was in the early 1980s -- late enough, one would have thought, for the message to have gotten through that rock music was a popular art form.
And things got better . . . approximately never. There have been either one anthology in the English language ( Rock On! edited by Paula Guran) or two ( In Dreams , billed as a celebration of the 7-inch single and edited by Paul J. McCauley & Kim Newman, may or may not limit itself to rock and roll; plus, it included horror stories) of science fiction stories about rock and roll and that's it.
So I'm particularly pleased that "Touring," a tale of Elvis and Buddy Holly and Janis Joplin getting together for one last concert, which I co-wrote with Gardner Dozois & Jack Dann, is included in Alternative Rock, an honest-to-God sci fi rock'n'roll anthology. Published in France by Editions Gallimard. In French, of course.
The other stories are:
In the meantime . . . How long has rap been around? Have you noticed that there aren't many science fiction stories about rap music either?
Above: The book with and without a promotional wrapper. Looks great either way.
*
One of the first lessons I learned as a science fiction writer was that it was extremely hard to sell a SF story about rock and roll. Editors didn't want it. Worse, they'd rather condescendingly lecture you on the absolute lack of overlap between people who read science fiction and people who listened to rock music.
That was in the early 1980s -- late enough, one would have thought, for the message to have gotten through that rock music was a popular art form.
And things got better . . . approximately never. There have been either one anthology in the English language ( Rock On! edited by Paula Guran) or two ( In Dreams , billed as a celebration of the 7-inch single and edited by Paul J. McCauley & Kim Newman, may or may not limit itself to rock and roll; plus, it included horror stories) of science fiction stories about rock and roll and that's it.
So I'm particularly pleased that "Touring," a tale of Elvis and Buddy Holly and Janis Joplin getting together for one last concert, which I co-wrote with Gardner Dozois & Jack Dann, is included in Alternative Rock, an honest-to-God sci fi rock'n'roll anthology. Published in France by Editions Gallimard. In French, of course.
The other stories are:
"The Twelfth Album" by Stephen BaxterSo it's a good selection of stories.
"Red Elvis" by Walter Jon Williams"
"A Dead Singer" by Michael Moorcock
"Snodgrass" by Ian R. MacLeod
In the meantime . . . How long has rap been around? Have you noticed that there aren't many science fiction stories about rap music either?
Above: The book with and without a promotional wrapper. Looks great either way.
*
September 3, 2014
Russia in War and in Peace
.
I am currently reading Gogol. Not systematically, mind you. Just for pleasure. It put me in mind of how much I love Russia, and how much I hate geopolitics.
The first time I visited Russia was in 2004 when I went to Ekaterinburg for Aelita, that nation's oldest science fiction convention. Ekaterinburg was a little scary back then. Russia had just pulled itself back up from Perestroika and things were a bit rough around the edges. So it was startling how fast and how hard I fell for the place.
Partly it was the people, of course. I will always be friends with (in the order we met) Alexei Bezouglyi and Boris Dolingo and my brother by another mother Andrew Matveev. But there's also a quality that's kind of hard to explain, a familiarity about Russia. Russians, while being very much different from us, feel a lot like Americans, both in good ways and bad. It's as if we were twin brothers, separated at birth, one of whom got all the good luck and the other all the bad. Neither of whom had done anything to deserve it.
I had the privilege of returning to Ekaterinburg in 2012, after eight years of economic growth, and the transformation was startling. There were huge postmodern residential high-rises at the edge of town, looking like they'd just been air-dropped from Mars. One of the main avenues was lined with miles of shiny new construction. Everything was cleaner, pleasanter, more optimistic. It felt like a European university city. Were it not for the fact that I don't speak Russian, I could have imagined myself living there and being happy.
I thought then: Prosperity is a good thing. I wanted nothing more than for Russia to keep getting richer and richer.
Now, alas, Russia and the West are at odds again. Russia has sent troops into the Ukraine. The U.S. is imposing economic sanctions. Which is good because in Realpolitik terms, America has to do something and sanctions are preferable to bullets. But still. I wish we were not seeking to undo the material progress that Russia was just beginning to achieve.
Well, I am an American and, unlike Russians, Americans are still an irrationally optimistic lot. So I persist in believing or at least hoping that someday we will all awaken from the nightmare of history and be brothers again. Difficult brothers, mind you, because we are both difficult peoples. But brothers (and sisters) nonetheless.
Be well, my brothers. My thoughts and prayers, such as they are, are always with you.
*
I am currently reading Gogol. Not systematically, mind you. Just for pleasure. It put me in mind of how much I love Russia, and how much I hate geopolitics.
The first time I visited Russia was in 2004 when I went to Ekaterinburg for Aelita, that nation's oldest science fiction convention. Ekaterinburg was a little scary back then. Russia had just pulled itself back up from Perestroika and things were a bit rough around the edges. So it was startling how fast and how hard I fell for the place.
Partly it was the people, of course. I will always be friends with (in the order we met) Alexei Bezouglyi and Boris Dolingo and my brother by another mother Andrew Matveev. But there's also a quality that's kind of hard to explain, a familiarity about Russia. Russians, while being very much different from us, feel a lot like Americans, both in good ways and bad. It's as if we were twin brothers, separated at birth, one of whom got all the good luck and the other all the bad. Neither of whom had done anything to deserve it.
I had the privilege of returning to Ekaterinburg in 2012, after eight years of economic growth, and the transformation was startling. There were huge postmodern residential high-rises at the edge of town, looking like they'd just been air-dropped from Mars. One of the main avenues was lined with miles of shiny new construction. Everything was cleaner, pleasanter, more optimistic. It felt like a European university city. Were it not for the fact that I don't speak Russian, I could have imagined myself living there and being happy.
I thought then: Prosperity is a good thing. I wanted nothing more than for Russia to keep getting richer and richer.
Now, alas, Russia and the West are at odds again. Russia has sent troops into the Ukraine. The U.S. is imposing economic sanctions. Which is good because in Realpolitik terms, America has to do something and sanctions are preferable to bullets. But still. I wish we were not seeking to undo the material progress that Russia was just beginning to achieve.
Well, I am an American and, unlike Russians, Americans are still an irrationally optimistic lot. So I persist in believing or at least hoping that someday we will all awaken from the nightmare of history and be brothers again. Difficult brothers, mind you, because we are both difficult peoples. But brothers (and sisters) nonetheless.
Be well, my brothers. My thoughts and prayers, such as they are, are always with you.
*
September 1, 2014
Jay Kay Klein's Astounding Bequest
.
You don't have to be exceptionally good at what you do to be important. Sometimes a combination of hard work, persistence, and caring for the right thing will suffice.
Case in point: Jay Kay Klein.
Jay Kay was a fixture in science fiction long before I discovered fandom, and for decades thereafter. At every convention he attended -- and he went to lots -- he was constantly wandering about, taking pictures of greats, near-greats, and obscurities of science fiction receiving awards, speaking on panels, taking part in costume events. He began taking photographs in the 1940s and continued doing so until he could no longer attend science fiction events. How many thousands of photos did he take? I couldn't tell you. But I do know that every single one of them had his photographer's stamp on the back, along with a penciled notation of who the photo was of, when it was taken, and at what event. Thus making them extremely useful to scholars and literary historians.
Jay Kay was a competent photographer, nothing special. His pics were clear and in focus, but only rarely striking. They were good snapshots, for the most part. But the number and range and comprehensiveness of them made them extremely valuable.
How valuable? Well, he willed them to the University of California Riverside's Eaton Collection of Science Fiction & Fantasy, reputedly "the largest publicly accessible collection of its kind in the world." Which had them appraised as being worth $1.4 million dollars.
Wow.
There's a lesson to be learned here, and I'm not above pointing it out to you: Even if you don't have a special ability to paint or create music or write fiction, you can still lead a life of importance. All it takes it gumption, hard work, and the ability to stick to a useful task.
And falling in love with the right thing, of course.
You can read io9 's account here. And UCR/Today 's account here.
And as a happy side-effect . . .
Generous man that he was, Jay Kay Klein also left cash to the Eaton Collection. Specifically, he left $3.5 million dollars.
Again, wow.
This may have had the happy side-effect of saving the Eaton Collection. Recently, it looked like a new university administration -- not understanding the value of an archive dedicated not to the history of chemistry or Jacobean tragedy or Japanese ukiyo-e, or anything self-evidently worthwhile but to science fiction and fantasy, literary forms so young that there are still many of doubt their validity -- was going to downsize the collection or even fold it into some other department in their library system.
Jay Kay's bequest has surely saved the collection from any such fate, however. Because this is America and in America nothing validates an intellectual endeavor like money.
And how cool is the Eaton Collection . . . ?
I have almost no idea. But I do know that they recently bought Gardner Dozois's correspondence, dating back to long before he became an editor. Letters from writers like Gene Wolfe, George R. R. Martin, and William Gibson back when they were perfect unknowns. Or the letter from a writer whose name I have conveniently forgotten, writing from Paris and signed "Your sniveling poodle." Or the round-robin story beginning "There are seven silent salacious ways to fellate Robert A. Heinlein," and continuing in another hand (each writer got to contribute one sentence at a time) "And six of them don't work." Or . . .
Oh, there's some juicy stuff in there, all right. Scholars are going to have a great glimpse behind the curtain at how literature is really collected, once the stuff is available.
And once again . . .
I've told this story before, but what the heck. I ran into Jay Kay Klein at the Millennial Philcon in 2000, and stopped to chat. He told me he'd been at the 1953 Worldcon, the first one held in Philadelphia. "I know things about it that nobody else remembers," he said.
"Oh yeah?" I replied. "Like what?"
"Like the fact that I was there."
And now you've had the last laugh, Jay Kay. For as long as scholars care about science fiction -- and I am confident that will be a long, long time -- there will be people who are grateful that you were there.
Above: The image of Jay Kay Klein at work was taken from Mike Glyer's legendary fanzine File 770. Click here to see their 2012 obituary of him.
*
You don't have to be exceptionally good at what you do to be important. Sometimes a combination of hard work, persistence, and caring for the right thing will suffice.
Case in point: Jay Kay Klein.
Jay Kay was a fixture in science fiction long before I discovered fandom, and for decades thereafter. At every convention he attended -- and he went to lots -- he was constantly wandering about, taking pictures of greats, near-greats, and obscurities of science fiction receiving awards, speaking on panels, taking part in costume events. He began taking photographs in the 1940s and continued doing so until he could no longer attend science fiction events. How many thousands of photos did he take? I couldn't tell you. But I do know that every single one of them had his photographer's stamp on the back, along with a penciled notation of who the photo was of, when it was taken, and at what event. Thus making them extremely useful to scholars and literary historians.
Jay Kay was a competent photographer, nothing special. His pics were clear and in focus, but only rarely striking. They were good snapshots, for the most part. But the number and range and comprehensiveness of them made them extremely valuable.
How valuable? Well, he willed them to the University of California Riverside's Eaton Collection of Science Fiction & Fantasy, reputedly "the largest publicly accessible collection of its kind in the world." Which had them appraised as being worth $1.4 million dollars.
Wow.
There's a lesson to be learned here, and I'm not above pointing it out to you: Even if you don't have a special ability to paint or create music or write fiction, you can still lead a life of importance. All it takes it gumption, hard work, and the ability to stick to a useful task.
And falling in love with the right thing, of course.
You can read io9 's account here. And UCR/Today 's account here.
And as a happy side-effect . . .
Generous man that he was, Jay Kay Klein also left cash to the Eaton Collection. Specifically, he left $3.5 million dollars.
Again, wow.
This may have had the happy side-effect of saving the Eaton Collection. Recently, it looked like a new university administration -- not understanding the value of an archive dedicated not to the history of chemistry or Jacobean tragedy or Japanese ukiyo-e, or anything self-evidently worthwhile but to science fiction and fantasy, literary forms so young that there are still many of doubt their validity -- was going to downsize the collection or even fold it into some other department in their library system.
Jay Kay's bequest has surely saved the collection from any such fate, however. Because this is America and in America nothing validates an intellectual endeavor like money.
And how cool is the Eaton Collection . . . ?
I have almost no idea. But I do know that they recently bought Gardner Dozois's correspondence, dating back to long before he became an editor. Letters from writers like Gene Wolfe, George R. R. Martin, and William Gibson back when they were perfect unknowns. Or the letter from a writer whose name I have conveniently forgotten, writing from Paris and signed "Your sniveling poodle." Or the round-robin story beginning "There are seven silent salacious ways to fellate Robert A. Heinlein," and continuing in another hand (each writer got to contribute one sentence at a time) "And six of them don't work." Or . . .
Oh, there's some juicy stuff in there, all right. Scholars are going to have a great glimpse behind the curtain at how literature is really collected, once the stuff is available.
And once again . . .
I've told this story before, but what the heck. I ran into Jay Kay Klein at the Millennial Philcon in 2000, and stopped to chat. He told me he'd been at the 1953 Worldcon, the first one held in Philadelphia. "I know things about it that nobody else remembers," he said.
"Oh yeah?" I replied. "Like what?"
"Like the fact that I was there."
And now you've had the last laugh, Jay Kay. For as long as scholars care about science fiction -- and I am confident that will be a long, long time -- there will be people who are grateful that you were there.
Above: The image of Jay Kay Klein at work was taken from Mike Glyer's legendary fanzine File 770. Click here to see their 2012 obituary of him.
*
August 27, 2014
Peter Watts' Wall of Science
.
A few months ago, I received an Advance Reading Copy of Peter Watts' new novel, Echopraxia , from Tor, the publisher. They were looking for a blurb.
I couldn't give it one.
Not that the book wasn't brilliant. Watts is always brilliant. But there was so much science-stuff going on and all of it integral to an understanding of the book that I simply couldn't boil it all down to a coherent four or five sentences. I tried and, after a lot of hard work, I gave up.
Echopraxia is not an easy read. To begin with, it's a sequel to Blindsight , which also had enormous amounts of science-stuff going on and which ended with the death of pretty much everybody including (I think) the human race. It was, mind you, a wonderful play of ideas; once you accept that in a Peter Watts novel everyone and everything is going to end badly, the narrative is exhilarating. If you haven't read the first novel, the second will leave you baffled. There's simply too much science-stuff going on to leave room for a reader-friendly recap of what came before. So the motivations of several of the major players in this secret war for the control of human consciousness will be opaque to anyone who starts with Echopraxia.
It's also worth noting that Echopraxia ends with several essays on the science-stuff (mostly neuroscience) covered in the book, along with citations for the original papers and links to more essays Watts has posted online. This can be exhilarating. Or it can be daunting. It all depends on how you feel about science-stuff, particularly neuroscience-stuff.
Love it or loathe it, this all makes for a certain density of prose. The best way to think of this, I believe, is as the science fictional equivalent of Phil Spector's great contribution to pop music, the Wall of Sound. Just as Spector created a dense, overlapping, reverberative sound made up of many instruments playing at once in order to push through the sonic limitations of the jukeboxes and AM radios of his time, Peter Watts has created a dense, overlapping, reverberative Wall of Science that attempts to push through the limitations of the prose science fiction novel.
Anyway, that's one of the things he's up to. As I said, there's a lot of science-stuff going on in there.
Above: Peter Watts. Echopraxia (also known as echokinesis) is the involuntary repetition or imitation of another person's actions. If I tried to explain its relationship to the novel, we’d be here all day.
*
A few months ago, I received an Advance Reading Copy of Peter Watts' new novel, Echopraxia , from Tor, the publisher. They were looking for a blurb.
I couldn't give it one.
Not that the book wasn't brilliant. Watts is always brilliant. But there was so much science-stuff going on and all of it integral to an understanding of the book that I simply couldn't boil it all down to a coherent four or five sentences. I tried and, after a lot of hard work, I gave up.
Echopraxia is not an easy read. To begin with, it's a sequel to Blindsight , which also had enormous amounts of science-stuff going on and which ended with the death of pretty much everybody including (I think) the human race. It was, mind you, a wonderful play of ideas; once you accept that in a Peter Watts novel everyone and everything is going to end badly, the narrative is exhilarating. If you haven't read the first novel, the second will leave you baffled. There's simply too much science-stuff going on to leave room for a reader-friendly recap of what came before. So the motivations of several of the major players in this secret war for the control of human consciousness will be opaque to anyone who starts with Echopraxia.
It's also worth noting that Echopraxia ends with several essays on the science-stuff (mostly neuroscience) covered in the book, along with citations for the original papers and links to more essays Watts has posted online. This can be exhilarating. Or it can be daunting. It all depends on how you feel about science-stuff, particularly neuroscience-stuff.
Love it or loathe it, this all makes for a certain density of prose. The best way to think of this, I believe, is as the science fictional equivalent of Phil Spector's great contribution to pop music, the Wall of Sound. Just as Spector created a dense, overlapping, reverberative sound made up of many instruments playing at once in order to push through the sonic limitations of the jukeboxes and AM radios of his time, Peter Watts has created a dense, overlapping, reverberative Wall of Science that attempts to push through the limitations of the prose science fiction novel.
Anyway, that's one of the things he's up to. As I said, there's a lot of science-stuff going on in there.
Above: Peter Watts. Echopraxia (also known as echokinesis) is the involuntary repetition or imitation of another person's actions. If I tried to explain its relationship to the novel, we’d be here all day.
*
August 25, 2014
A Chinese Worldcon?
.
You probably know that Kansas City won the bid for the 2016 Worldcon and that I'll be a Guest of Honor at MidAmeriCon 2. These facts were announced a week ago at the Sunday morning business meeting at Loncon. But you probably don't know that the first thing the bid committee did, after coming to the front of the room and expressing their happiness, was to read a statement expressing their respect and admiration for the losing bid -- Beijing in 2016 -- and pledging their support for the effort to bring the Worldcon to China sometime in the future.
That was thoroughly admirable of the MAC 2 folks and, if I'm any judge of these things, absolutely sincere.
So . . . will there be a Worldcon in China in the foreseeable future?
I'm pretty sure yes. China is a wonderful place to visit, and the fans who put together the bid were a positive, idealistic, hard-working batch. Also, as John Updike wrote of the Chinese people he met on a trip there, "full of fun." It would take a world-grade curmudgeon not to wish them well. They're going to have a lot of friends and allies the next time they launch a bid.
Also, I can't help thinking of Jennie Bai who was, seven years ago, one of the editors of Science Fiction World, then (and perhaps still) the science fiction magazine with the largest circulation in the world. On my last day in Chengdu, she suggested that I should write a column of writing advice for the magazine. I wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea, but "Think about it," she urged me gently.
On the flight home, I did think about the offer and remembered that Nancy Kress (who was also at the conference, so I knew they were aware of her as a major SF writer) wrote a column of writing advice for Writer's Digest . I taught a Clarion West a few weeks after she did, so I also knew that her advice was a model of clarity and concision, far better than anything I might have been able to come up with myself. So I happily wrote back to Jenny and suggested she get in touch with Nancy.
By return email, Jenny Bai thanked me for the lead, said she had written Nancy Kress immediately, and suggested that I should write a column for the magazine on various science fiction issues.
Which is how I came to be, for a time, a columnist for Science Fiction World . I swear to God, I have no memory of actually agreeing to it. It just sort of happened.
I happen to have Chinese relatives in my extended family, so this is not the first time I've had this kind of experience. I think it's a cultural thing -- determination combined with patience and an ethos of playing fair and playing clean.
The Chinese fans think it would be a great thing to have a Worldcon in China, so it's almost inevitable that they will.
On my last day at Loncon, I talked about the Chinese bid with someone who'd served on several Worldcon committees. He too thought they would eventually succeed. "The first step toward winning a Worldcon bid," he told me, "is losing a Worldcon bid."
I don't know when that winning bid will be. But I'm sure I'll be a pre-supporter.
Above: It's not easy picking out a single image to represent all of China. I chose this one because it was the lifelong ambition of Samuel Johnson to see the Great Wall. He also urged Boswell to go, saying, "Your children will admire you for it."
*
You probably know that Kansas City won the bid for the 2016 Worldcon and that I'll be a Guest of Honor at MidAmeriCon 2. These facts were announced a week ago at the Sunday morning business meeting at Loncon. But you probably don't know that the first thing the bid committee did, after coming to the front of the room and expressing their happiness, was to read a statement expressing their respect and admiration for the losing bid -- Beijing in 2016 -- and pledging their support for the effort to bring the Worldcon to China sometime in the future.
That was thoroughly admirable of the MAC 2 folks and, if I'm any judge of these things, absolutely sincere.
So . . . will there be a Worldcon in China in the foreseeable future?
I'm pretty sure yes. China is a wonderful place to visit, and the fans who put together the bid were a positive, idealistic, hard-working batch. Also, as John Updike wrote of the Chinese people he met on a trip there, "full of fun." It would take a world-grade curmudgeon not to wish them well. They're going to have a lot of friends and allies the next time they launch a bid.
Also, I can't help thinking of Jennie Bai who was, seven years ago, one of the editors of Science Fiction World, then (and perhaps still) the science fiction magazine with the largest circulation in the world. On my last day in Chengdu, she suggested that I should write a column of writing advice for the magazine. I wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea, but "Think about it," she urged me gently.
On the flight home, I did think about the offer and remembered that Nancy Kress (who was also at the conference, so I knew they were aware of her as a major SF writer) wrote a column of writing advice for Writer's Digest . I taught a Clarion West a few weeks after she did, so I also knew that her advice was a model of clarity and concision, far better than anything I might have been able to come up with myself. So I happily wrote back to Jenny and suggested she get in touch with Nancy.
By return email, Jenny Bai thanked me for the lead, said she had written Nancy Kress immediately, and suggested that I should write a column for the magazine on various science fiction issues.
Which is how I came to be, for a time, a columnist for Science Fiction World . I swear to God, I have no memory of actually agreeing to it. It just sort of happened.
I happen to have Chinese relatives in my extended family, so this is not the first time I've had this kind of experience. I think it's a cultural thing -- determination combined with patience and an ethos of playing fair and playing clean.
The Chinese fans think it would be a great thing to have a Worldcon in China, so it's almost inevitable that they will.
On my last day at Loncon, I talked about the Chinese bid with someone who'd served on several Worldcon committees. He too thought they would eventually succeed. "The first step toward winning a Worldcon bid," he told me, "is losing a Worldcon bid."
I don't know when that winning bid will be. But I'm sure I'll be a pre-supporter.
Above: It's not easy picking out a single image to represent all of China. I chose this one because it was the lifelong ambition of Samuel Johnson to see the Great Wall. He also urged Boswell to go, saying, "Your children will admire you for it."
*
August 22, 2014
Obscurity and Fame
.
Writers have conflicted feelings about fame. On the one hand, it's a necessary attribute of the kind of success we want our books to have. On the other hand, we are by nature creatures of the shadows. Obscurity, anonymity, and the freedom to wander about wherever we wish without being noticed are valuable tools if you want to write about human beings.
A few years ago, in Chengdu, China, Neil Gaiman spoke for a bit about the inconveniences of being as famous as he is. This was in a private conversation, so I won't share the details. But afterwards, when Neil was off talking with somebody else, Rob Sawyer looked thoughtful, and said, "I think now that I only want to be forty percent as famous as he is."
I thought about this at Loncon, when I was sitting at a table full of friends and somebody approached George R. R. Martin with a paper napkin and a pen. George turned in his chair and was reaching for the napkin when one of his entourage leaped up, shouting, "No, no, no! He can't sign! It's not allowed! No signatures!"
Which was a reasonable thing to do because if it had been allowed, George would have been swamped with autograph seekers, and he wouldn't have been allowed to enjoy the convention at all. I am not exaggerating here. I recall running across another of my genuinely famous friends at a Worldcon and stopping to talk with him in the hall. A crowed gathered around us. Within minutes it was so thick that nobody could get by.
Whenever Neil or George has a signing, there are rules about how many books will be signed, whether there will be inscriptions, whether it's permitted for them to talk. Just so a reasonable number of people will be able to get autographs. I, on the other hand, signed autographs for an hour at the convention, and was able to chat a bit with everybody who showed up with books. It was a very pleasant experience. And when the weekend was over, I could return to obscurity.
I'm not saying I don't want my books to be better known, mind. Only, to paraphrase Saint Augustine, "Lord, make me famous -- but not just yet."
Above: I couldn't find an image to fit today's post. So instead you get a painting by Charles Knight. From the Field Museum. One of sacred places of the world.
*
Writers have conflicted feelings about fame. On the one hand, it's a necessary attribute of the kind of success we want our books to have. On the other hand, we are by nature creatures of the shadows. Obscurity, anonymity, and the freedom to wander about wherever we wish without being noticed are valuable tools if you want to write about human beings.
A few years ago, in Chengdu, China, Neil Gaiman spoke for a bit about the inconveniences of being as famous as he is. This was in a private conversation, so I won't share the details. But afterwards, when Neil was off talking with somebody else, Rob Sawyer looked thoughtful, and said, "I think now that I only want to be forty percent as famous as he is."
I thought about this at Loncon, when I was sitting at a table full of friends and somebody approached George R. R. Martin with a paper napkin and a pen. George turned in his chair and was reaching for the napkin when one of his entourage leaped up, shouting, "No, no, no! He can't sign! It's not allowed! No signatures!"
Which was a reasonable thing to do because if it had been allowed, George would have been swamped with autograph seekers, and he wouldn't have been allowed to enjoy the convention at all. I am not exaggerating here. I recall running across another of my genuinely famous friends at a Worldcon and stopping to talk with him in the hall. A crowed gathered around us. Within minutes it was so thick that nobody could get by.
Whenever Neil or George has a signing, there are rules about how many books will be signed, whether there will be inscriptions, whether it's permitted for them to talk. Just so a reasonable number of people will be able to get autographs. I, on the other hand, signed autographs for an hour at the convention, and was able to chat a bit with everybody who showed up with books. It was a very pleasant experience. And when the weekend was over, I could return to obscurity.
I'm not saying I don't want my books to be better known, mind. Only, to paraphrase Saint Augustine, "Lord, make me famous -- but not just yet."
Above: I couldn't find an image to fit today's post. So instead you get a painting by Charles Knight. From the Field Museum. One of sacred places of the world.
*
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