Seas Beyond the Sunset

I spent most of today being whisked about by a pair of Boeing 757s, on my way from Seattle to Cleveland.  The best part about traveling for business is that it lets me catch up on reading for pleasure.  I came prepared; I saved the April 2008 issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction for just such an occasion.

First Editions, by James Stoddard, was an early highlight.  It deals with a sorcerer and a very special book collection, and though the story is quite new, it has the timeless air of a classic in the making.

A neighbor of mine collects signed first edition books by speculative fiction authors.  He has some very rare ones, and some that are worth quite a lot. My own collection is not as large, and not as nice: mostly mass market paperbacks, some used, none signed.  They would fetch very little on the open market, but I could never sell or trade them.  The memories are worth more than the money.

Back in middle school, the crown jewel of my collection was a paperback copy of Hellstrom’s Hive, by Frank Herbert.  Not because it was in great condition; the book was falling apart.  Not because I loved the story, either; I only read it once.

Then why, you ask?  Because of its cover.

As I matured, I continued to read science fiction and fantasy, but I developed more sophisticated tastes.  (It was either that, or live out my days reading Maxim and Stuff.)

I found Harlan Ellison in college, and spent most of my freshman year devouring his output: Deathbird Stories.  Approaching Oblivion.  Angry Candy.  And on and on.  Never before had I read anything as savagely powerful, and as mercilessly honest.  Ellison can wield words the way lesser men wield weapons, and to more lasting effect.

I went home that summer filled with an overwhelming sense of depression, and a newfound obsession with becoming a writer.  Nine years later, I am a good deal better at my chosen craft, and a great deal happier, not least because I have learned to read the masters with care.

The hotel room here is only few snow-shrouded miles from Painesville, where Harlan Ellison spent his childhood.  That small coincidence has inspired this post, as he once inspired me.

One of my favorite works of interactive fiction is Michael Gentry’s Anchorhead.  He channels the essential horrors of Lovecraft into a haunting thriller with a very modern resonance.

Others have discussed this decade-old game in greater depth, notably Emily Short in her review.  Consensus calls it a classic, though that has not stopped Gentry from planning a Director’s Cut authored in Inform 7.

As I remarked earlier this week, the continued currency of Lovecraft comes from his focus on the diabolical stranger lurking within the dear and familiar.  Those who doubt the relevance of this message in modern times have only to look to the Internet.  As it revolutionizes communications and community, it offers a harrowing glimpse into the perversions and depravity of our fellow man.

Most of us are quick to turn away.

Anchorhead forces the player to look.  You must watch your husband fight his dark nature.  You must face him when he loses.  And after your utmost efforts to rescue him and save yourself, you must bear witness to your doom.

The window is pink. The test is positive.

From downstairs, you can hear Michael joyfully talking to himself:

“Oh, I hope it’s a little girl,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to have a little
girl.”

You can download Anchorhead here and play it with Gargoyle or Spatterlight.

Gary Gygax, the creator of Dungeons and Dragons, passed away earlier this week.  There’s been a incredible outpouring of well-written commentary already, and I can add very little of substance to that chorus.

I have fond memories of playing D&D in high school, huddled over character sheets late into the night, fueled by chips and soda.  During the last such evening, I burned an enchanted forest to the ground with a well-placed fireball, while Alex incited a subterranean race of kobold slaves to armed Marxist revolt.

We weren’t invited back.

My first encounter with the D&D experience, as a young kid with few friends and no money, was even less authentic.  I had no Dungeon Master’s Guide, no Monstrous Manual, no dice and no miniatures.  What I did have was a secondhand copy of the Player’s Handbook to provide a semblance of structure, and a great deal of firsthand experience with the devious traps and deadly creatures of Nethack.

So I dreamed up a few dungeons that were heavy on combat and light on plot, and I talked my siblings through them.  These early role-playing sessions were my first attempts at fictional storytelling, and they planted the seeds for all my later efforts.

It may not have been Dungeons and Dragons the way Gary envisioned it, but it would not have been possible without him.

I recently finished the March 2008 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction, and my favorite story from that crop was Shoggoths in Bloom, by Elizabeth Bear.

My experience with H. P. Lovecraft’s work is limited to three Penguin Classics paperbacks, and countless horror movies and games that credit him with as an inspiration. That was more than enough to appreciate this skillful evocation of a bleak New England setting and an air of unnatural mystery.

But Bear’s exploration of racial strife and slavery move the story beyond mere fan fiction. After all, Lovecraft and racism go together like the conjoined tentacles of an unspeakable horror. The union of his mythos and her progressive perspective is refreshing and perhaps inevitable.

Yet in one respect this offspring is strangely bloodless.

To paraphrase Faulkner, it seems to me the point of Lovecraft is to show the human mind in conflict with madness. There is madness in “Shoggoths in Bloom,” but it is not the deeply personal insanity of so much of Lovecraft’s fiction. Instead, it is the tragic insanity of mass murder so familiar in our modern world.

Lovecraft is at his best when he unmasks the horrors that lurk just beyond our sight: in the next town over; in our friends and neighbors; and within ourselves. His ideas lose much of their unique power when used to confront the wholesale atrocities we routinely ignore.

Whether this is a fault in her story or a flaw in myself, I leave as an exercise to the reader.