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The Journey
Introduced by beloved Cuban science fiction author Yoss as one of the foundational novels of the genre, Miguel Collazo’s 1960s classic The Journey is a mind-opening parable of social progress, prophets and reluctant masses, and humanity’s metaphysical voyage inward.
On planet Ambar, long ago colonized by scientists who arrived by spaceship, inhabitants no longer live in cities. Generation after generation, Ambarians wander through the desert, the valley, and the ruins as the mysterious “symbols” loom in the sky. Once a new generation develops the ability to broadcast images, feelings and memories to others, they start to hope and wait for a life-changing The Journey.
Filled with intricate family trees, huge desert flowers, and intelligent automatons, Miguel Collazo’s evocative world traces the makings of a civilization that has lost its way and gradually rebuilds itself in a desolate landscape. This multi-generational saga highlights what binds us together as a community and the roles that memory, affection, and hope play in our history.
One of what Cuban science fiction great Daína Chaviano calls the “hexagon of top-notch, almost inimitable Cuban books of the genre,” The Journey is essential reading for anyone interested in the roots of Cuban literature and science fiction.
On planet Ambar, long ago colonized by scientists who arrived by spaceship, inhabitants no longer live in cities. Generation after generation, Ambarians wander through the desert, the valley, and the ruins as the mysterious “symbols” loom in the sky. Once a new generation develops the ability to broadcast images, feelings and memories to others, they start to hope and wait for a life-changing The Journey.
Filled with intricate family trees, huge desert flowers, and intelligent automatons, Miguel Collazo’s evocative world traces the makings of a civilization that has lost its way and gradually rebuilds itself in a desolate landscape. This multi-generational saga highlights what binds us together as a community and the roles that memory, affection, and hope play in our history.
One of what Cuban science fiction great Daína Chaviano calls the “hexagon of top-notch, almost inimitable Cuban books of the genre,” The Journey is essential reading for anyone interested in the roots of Cuban literature and science fiction.
- GenresScience Fiction
224 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 7, 2020
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
July 18, 2022
Celebrated Cuban science fiction writer Yoss loves this book. He has written an introduction to make his point, and it pains me to say that his introduction is the most readable part of the book. Not because I don't think Yoss can write, he certainly can, but because I found The Journey a chore to get through.
The book doesn't hide the fact that it was written in the 1960s - the text feels like a constant struggle between prose and what words actually mean. That sounds insane, and it sort of is. You get passages like this:
"Other worlds existed; and again, that was it, nothing else to know.… Cásel didn’t feel he was in a position to keep forcing himself like Vor; someday he would know it, easily, unexpectedly, or else not; maybe he’d never know it; maybe there was a spot in time and space past which you couldn’t get. Yes, there was probably nothing else to know. After all, was it important to know such things?"
And you're thinking, "that's just because it's missing its context", and I wish you were right. I have no idea what that passage is about, what it is trying to nail down (if anything?).
The book follows endless generations of a colony on an alien planet, sons and daughters of the sons and the daughters of the sons and the daughters etc. None of them have any kind of personality or character, they're just there to ask and then ponder vague questions.
"Now Ates and Bulis didn’t even come looking for him: they were more tired than he was, perhaps lonelier than he was, and sadder. Or maybe they were the only sad and lonely ones. Why him? Where did he get this idea of sadness and misery?"
All that said, there are beautiful passages in the book, that read more like poetry than prose. For example, there is a character called Vet, who sits by a small body of water, stuffing his face with leaves while his people don't really need to eat anymore, and then this follows:
"He later learned that Vet had died, had passed from life to death without a transition; the waters of what might have been his mind hadn’t stirred, there hadn’t been the slightest ripple, nothing. Nor had his body undergone any changes; it seemed not even to have stopped savoring the leaves; but it was dead, if it had ever been alive."
It's a striking image, a dead man still eating his leaves.
I get the idea that it matters greatly at what age you read this book - when you're 16 or 17, this book might speak much more to you. I'm not sure I have the patience for it anymore.
(Kindly received a review copy from Restless Books through Edelweiss)
The book doesn't hide the fact that it was written in the 1960s - the text feels like a constant struggle between prose and what words actually mean. That sounds insane, and it sort of is. You get passages like this:
"Other worlds existed; and again, that was it, nothing else to know.… Cásel didn’t feel he was in a position to keep forcing himself like Vor; someday he would know it, easily, unexpectedly, or else not; maybe he’d never know it; maybe there was a spot in time and space past which you couldn’t get. Yes, there was probably nothing else to know. After all, was it important to know such things?"
And you're thinking, "that's just because it's missing its context", and I wish you were right. I have no idea what that passage is about, what it is trying to nail down (if anything?).
The book follows endless generations of a colony on an alien planet, sons and daughters of the sons and the daughters of the sons and the daughters etc. None of them have any kind of personality or character, they're just there to ask and then ponder vague questions.
"Now Ates and Bulis didn’t even come looking for him: they were more tired than he was, perhaps lonelier than he was, and sadder. Or maybe they were the only sad and lonely ones. Why him? Where did he get this idea of sadness and misery?"
All that said, there are beautiful passages in the book, that read more like poetry than prose. For example, there is a character called Vet, who sits by a small body of water, stuffing his face with leaves while his people don't really need to eat anymore, and then this follows:
"He later learned that Vet had died, had passed from life to death without a transition; the waters of what might have been his mind hadn’t stirred, there hadn’t been the slightest ripple, nothing. Nor had his body undergone any changes; it seemed not even to have stopped savoring the leaves; but it was dead, if it had ever been alive."
It's a striking image, a dead man still eating his leaves.
I get the idea that it matters greatly at what age you read this book - when you're 16 or 17, this book might speak much more to you. I'm not sure I have the patience for it anymore.
(Kindly received a review copy from Restless Books through Edelweiss)
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews