Was surprised to see that any other Goodreaders had actually read this book, much less reviewed it. It’s really just another old paperback from my Dad’s bookshelf, picked out for sentimental reasons before we called in the estate folks. Anyway, it turned out to be better than I expected, considering it’s a rather unmemorable collection of mid-50’s short stories.
First off, a terrible title, since these are mostly all straight horror stories, not sci-fi – none of them even take place in a future beyond (a rather amusingly portrayed) 1980. Like many short stories from that era, a lot of them are really just vignettes or one-note ideas that have since become clichés – they kept the robot child and killed the real boy!; the woman was impregnated…by an alien! – but there are still a few clever ideas here and some really nice writing, especially in the longer stories, “Being,” “The Test,” “The Last Day.”
What was really more interesting is what I learned about Matheson himself when I clicked on the author link. I really knew him only from I Am Legend, but it turns out he was a major horror/sci-fi writer of his time, and a bit of a player in both TV and the movies. Other than “Legend,” he wrote the books that were made into “Somewhere in Time” and “What Dreams May Come.” And he was an early writer for “The Twilight Zone” (which is probably why so many of his stories read like episodes). In fact, he wrote the famous William Shatner episode where he saw the alien on the airplane wing! Finally, he even wrote the story that Steven Spielberg made into his first real project, “Duel.” So an interesting character indeed.
That said, most of his work hasn’t held up very well. Again, what may have been fresh then is all a cliché now, and like many dreamers of the 50’s they were amazingly – and amusingly – off base on predictive science and technology. And what’s with the hats? No matter how far all these guys project into the future, they still have everybody wearing hats – apparently NOBODY saw that one coming.
Despite the overall level of what now reads as mediocrity, I was struck by a number of his final sentences, many of which had a surprisingly sad beauty to them:
“They sat there in the evening of the last day. And, though there was no actual point to it, they loved each other.”
“And all night there was silence in the old man’s room. And the next day, silence.”
“On Saturday…there was a violent explosion in the desert and people twenty miles away picked up strange metals in their yards.
“A meteor,” they said but that was because they had to say something.”