Brief biographies are, like history texts, too organized to be other than orderly misrepresentations of the truth. So when it's written that Lucius Shepard was born in August of 1947 to Lucy and William Shepard in Lynchburg, Virginia, and raised thereafter in Daytona Beach, Florida, it provides a statistical hit and gives you nothing of the difficult childhood from which he frequently attempted to escape, eventually succeeding at the age of fifteen, when he traveled to Ireland aboard a freighter and thereafter spent several years in Europe, North Africa, and Asia, working in a cigarette factory in Germany, in the black market of Cairo's Khan al Khalili bazaar, as a night club bouncer in Spain, and in numerous other countries at numerous other occupations. On returning to the United States, Shepard entered the University of North Carolina, where for one semester he served as the co-editor of the Carolina Quarterly. Either he did not feel challenged by the curriculum, or else he found other pursuits more challenging. Whichever the case, he dropped out several times and traveled to Spain, Southeast Asia (at a time when tourism there was generally discouraged), and South and Central America. He ended his academic career as a tenth-semester sophomore with a heightened political sensibility, a fairly extensive knowledge of Latin American culture and some pleasant memories.
Toward the beginning of his stay at the university, Shepard met Joy Wolf, a fellow student, and they were married, a union that eventually produced one son, Gullivar, now an architect in New York City. While traveling cross-country to California, they had their car break down in Detroit and were forced to take jobs in order to pay for repairs. As fortune would have it, Shepard joined a band, and passed the better part of the 1970s playing rock and roll in the Midwest. When an opportunity presented itself, usually in the form of a band break-up, he would revisit Central America, developing a particular affection for the people of Honduras. He intermittently took odd jobs, working as a janitor, a laborer, a sealer of driveways, and, in a nearly soul-destroying few months, a correspondent for Blue Cross/Blue Shield, a position that compelled him to call the infirm and the terminally ill to inform them they had misfiled certain forms and so were being denied their benefits.
In 1980 Shepard attended the Clarion Writers’ Workshop at Michigan State University and thereafter embarked upon a writing career. He sold his first story, "Black Coral," in 1981 to New Dimensions, an anthology edited by Marta Randall. During a prolonged trip to Central America, covering a period from 1981-1982, he worked as a freelance journalist focusing on the civil war in El Salvador. Since that time he has mainly devoted himself to the writing of fiction. His novels and stories have earned numerous awards in both the genre and the mainstream.
This is a collection of seven stories by Shepard, all of which were originally published from 1987-1996, two each in and Omni and Playboy and the rest in Asimov's SF magazine. His prose is quite dense and elegantly structured, and I think it's necessary to read each one in a single sitting in order to keep the thread. Some of the sentences are extremely long and very elaborate constructs, and many of the paragraphs fill up most of a page. The stories all have a surprisingly high sexual content, too. There are two pieces of novella length, Human History, which is a very richly told post-apocalyptic tale that I'm sure I fully grasped, and the title story, an old-fashioned outer-space story with a dark shade. Beast of the Heartland has no speculative element; it's a rather unpleasant tale story about an aging pugilist. A Little Night Music is a quirky horror story, and Sports in America examines the universality of sports fandom from as assassin's view. (As a life-long Yankees fan, I always suspected Red Sox devotees were a bit off.) My two favorites were The Sun Spider and All the Perfumes of Araby, the former a traditional science fiction story and the latter a crime adventure, both with the theme of romantic affairs having difficulties no matter how much society and technology change. It's a thought-provoking and interesting, very literary collection.
Lucius Shepard creates beautiful and complex characters, and his fascinating stories are filled with brilliant ideas. His short stories are good enough to be enjoyed patiently, one at a time. Loved this !
A bit of a frustrating collection, especially compared to the thrilling The Ends Of The Earth. There's a tendency towards machismo that sometimes works ("Beast of the Heartland"'s blind boxer tragedy) but often doesn't (real-world crime caper "Sports in America", portions of the post-apocalyptic "Human History"), and at the low-points things occasionally drift into disjointed action-movie territory. However, Shepard's writing is always engaging and readable, and he is deft at weaving hallucinogenic poetry into his stories. The highlight here has to be "The Solar Spider", an esoteric and alchemical sf story that hits similar weird highs as Ballard or Tiptree Jr. at their best. I'll definitely be reading much more Shepard in the future, but curious readers are recommended to check out The Ends Of The Earth first.
Barnacle Bill (Bill Percebe) es un chico con retraso mental creciendo en una estación marciana que es parte de una empresa que busca nuevs planetas habitables, ya que para ese tiempo la humanidad ha echado a perder el planeta. Bill, que es el patito feo de la estación ya que consume recursos muy valiosos sin producir nada a cambio, tiene una rara obsesión con los percebes espaciales, unas criaturas que se alimentan del polvo espacial y que tienen algunas otras habilidades peculiares.
Hay una siniestra secta religiosa, la Extraña Magnificencia, que comete crímenes en la estación y han tomado a Bill Percebe como objetivo de algunos de sus ataques. Hay algunos crímenes y amenazas, y John, un miembro de seguridad de la estación, toma a Bill bajo su protección para evitar que lo maten.
El mundo pintado por Shepard es muy "terrestre", por decirlo de alguna forma. Como si, súbitamente, los habitantes de una calle cualquiera fueran trasladados a la estación espacial. Borrachos recorriendo por los pasillos, abusones, chicas fáciles, policías, políticos corruptos y curas (o sus equivalentes) llenos de intransigencia, dudas y apetitos. No son ciudadanos "selectos", ni parte de una elite. Y surgen problemas, muchos.
Es como una novela pulp a la que simplemente le han cambiado el decorado.
La novela (noveleta) ganó el premio Hugo a novela corta en 1993, pero a mí no me ha impresionado gran cosa.
There is no doubt Lucius Shepard can write incredibly well. Sometimes he does it a little too well, but still keeps a common touch with his choice of stories - stuff that is more pulpy than his heady prose sometimes would suggest.
That being said, I only enjoyed about three stories from this collection. My criticisms come down to two areas. Most of the stories tend to end weakly or incomprehensibly, and sometimes both. Shepherd also has a love for long paragraphs, preambles that go on for a while. These become tiresome, since there isn't that much substance to justify all the style. He can certain create texture and his characters really stand out. But it's disappointing to work through numerous pages, just to reach a dull and sometimes expected ending.
This was interesting and I can easily recommend the first three stories. But the rest ended up being a bit of a chore.
La Tierra es casi inhabitable y está dominada por una especie de caos violento. Escapar de allí es casi una bendición. Por eso, estar en la estación espacial Solitaria es una lotería, por mucho que vivir en el espacio, enlatados entre paredes metálicas, parezca más bien una condena. Desde allí la humanidad lanza «luminaves» en busca de nuevos mundos... sin éxito. Y es allí, en ese lugar frío y perdido en el sistema solar, donde habita Bill. Pero será John, el narrador, quien nos hará entender en retrospectiva por qué Bill Percebe es considerado un héroe.
Bill es un caso único y peculiar, y un personaje al que odiaréis y compadeceréis a partes iguales. Posee un deficiencia mental, lo que le habría condenado a la erradicación nada más nacer, pero alguien decidió que quizá no estaría mal dejarlo con vida y usarlo para hacer algunos estudios. Es por ello que lleva un implante cerebral que le guía y a veces le castiga con descargas eléctricas si se muestra desobediente. Lo triste es que este implante, al que Bill llama Señor C, es su único amigo, pues todo el mundo lo odia por considerar que ocupa en la estación el lugar que podría haber pertenecido a alguien normal. Y esto es así hasta que aparece John en su vida y las cosas se complican por culpa de cierta religión violenta y sangrienta que quiere imponer su dominio en la estación.
Bill Percebe el Espacial no es un relato fácil. Juega con muchas ideas, algunas de ellas bastante profundas desde el punto de vista moral, y logra tenernos intrigados por saber por qué Bill se ha convertido en un héroe. Es una lectura que de entrada no parece entusiasmar, pero que dejará un buen recuerdo gracias a una especie de aura mágica, de esas que tan bien domina Shepard. Así se entiende que haya ganado los premios Locus, Hugo y Dell Magazine en 1993.
Un intento de ciencia ficción que se queda en un relato cutre, violento, contaminado de un lenguaje vulgar cargado de expresiones originales. Pero al menos no hay drama.
More pre-Readercon reading- I'm still sticking with short stories. I've read one so far, which turned out to be horror more than sci-fi (though there was some overlap). I'm not that keen on horror, overall, and didn't like the protagonist. I probably wasn't supposed to though, and it was really compelling- I was almost late for work because I kept reading it instead of getting ready. Looking forward to the rest of the book.
No conocía a Lucius Shepard y tras leer este libro no creo que vuelvaa acordarme de él. Varias historias, siendo la principal una de cifi sobre un recogedor de chatarra espacial al que llaman el percebeiro (barnacle Bill). No fue un suplicio pero no me destacó por nada.