New Widget

Walt Whitman is a Big Fat Loser!

Ouch! What the hell am I saying here, right? Who the hell do I think I am getting in Wally’s face like that and calling him a loser. And Big. And Fat.

Listen, I’m going to need some latitude here, so please stick with me.


First of all . . .


It’s not that I don’t think Walt Whitman isn’t worthy of praise. I just happen to think that much of his work is imprecise and flowery. Some of you out there may say that my taste for poetry is as rich as a troglodyte, but I challenge those tens and tens of readers of this blog to consider this: Occam ’s razor. This is the same principle sometimes called the principle of parsimony. It is used in science and punishes us for choosing elaborate sets of otherwise simple models. Occam's razor "shaves off" those concepts that are not needed to explain a phenomenon.

I often apply the same concept to fiction, or poetry. I also use it as a tool for appreciating what a poet has to say. Indeed, while attempting to capture that which exists on the edges of our senses, why would you need to jazz it up and confuse its purpose? Adding furlative words to prose is like jazzing up directions to the post office. In fact, my litmus test for prose is “What would total bad ass John McLain from Die Hard enjoy reading while in the latrine?” I will answer that question for you: Papa Hemmingway, Sappho and of course, Neruda.

Ahhh . . . Neruda.

Even his name is onomatopoeia.

While both Whitman and Neruda are to be considered gentleman, only one hits me in the gut where it counts. Only one employs Occam’s stingy use of language, which, in my view is the point of poetry. Certainly both are part of the cannon, but only Neruda once said (after being asked the meaning of a particular verse) that there was no other way to say it and that his words were all that he meant. Here’s what I mean:


What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride. . .


See what I mean? His love has consequences, pride and complexity. There is something so precise here, short phrases that go straight in like a blade. There is no circumlocution, no fancy words: just the words that he would say on one knee to a dewy-eye’d lover (maybe before a battle?) If Neruda were a car, he’d be a Bitchin’ Camero with a straight six.

Even though Whitman looked like Zeus in his day (Zeus –a total bad ass that did not mince words! Even his consorts were thrifty with their words. Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what Zeus will send you! --Aristophanes) much of his watery prose falls through a mental sieve in my mind . . .


Now, let’s compare a few verses of a Whitman poem:

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.



See what I mean? So, as a favor to Wally and to his fans, I took the liberty of editing this down to something I think John McLain would enjoy on the can. (Seriously, do you think he has room to carry a pocket dictionary with him? Couldn’t he use that extra room to carry a Baby Browning or a Saturday Night Special?)


A noiseless, spider,
isolated;
launched a filament,
Ever unreeling

And you, my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
musing, venturing, throwing --seeking spheres to
connect;
Till the bridge you will need, till the anchor which
holds the threads that you fling . . .
catches.


Ahhh, that’s much better! I feel like I just dumped a huge favor onto the literary world. You’re welcome Whitman scholars. (My wife is actually groaning at this moment!)

Alright then. Now the stage is set.
What’s my angle?

Well, this is a blog on speculative fiction. And as I said in my last post, I’ve been on a poetry kick as of late. I read poetry as a sort of appetizer for writing fiction, primarily to keep longer prose from infecting my creative process. Nevertheless, I’ve been busy reading a wide range of work (Neruda, Sappho, and a little Hemmingway) and came upon Whitman’s, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry. It surprised me, caught me like a crook in a flashlight. I devoured the entire piece without losing word or a subtle turn of phrase. Why, I asked. Why did this poem hit me in the gut Here’s why. I found this poem to be a fantastic example of speculative fiction.

First, let me remind those of you who are unclear about the genre. Generally, in is in flux and does not have a clear definition. The definition that does work for me is the following, which I pulled from Wikipedia: “Speculative fiction is a style of fiction which explores the nature of unproven entities or occurrences. In some contexts, it has been used as an inclusive term covering a group of fiction genres that speculate about worlds that are unlike the real world in various important ways. In these contexts, it generally includes science fiction, fantasy fiction, horror fiction, supernatural fiction, superhero fiction, alternate history, and magic realism. The term is used this way in academic and ideological criticism of these genres, as well as by some readers, writers, and editors of these genres.”


As I’ve pointed out on this blog, Spec-Fic has been taken hostage by the science fiction and mysticism, which is a tragedy. The kid of Spec-Fic that I enjoy is deep and rich and seeks to not over explain and therefore allows the reader to participate in the myth, and more precisely (or, less) the je-ne-sais-quoi of the piece. This is exactly why I loved Brooklyn Crossing. Here it is below, in its entirety. (You can read to III and get my point at the end). While reading, may I suggest that you read it with the eye of a spec-fic fan, and not the eye of a classicist or an admirer of lexicon? If you think of this as a time travel story (a gravy train in the Spec-Fic genre) perhaps a worm hole will open, and you will be transported back to the future, as Whitman intended.


Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
by Walt Whitman


Flood-tide below me ! I see you face to face !
Clouds of the west - sun there half an hour high - I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me !
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

II
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future,
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small ;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

III
It avails not, time nor place - distance avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d.

I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old,
Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,
Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left the rest in strong shadow,
Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south,
Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water,
Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite storehouses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,
Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

IV
These and all else were to me the same as they are to you,
I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river,
The men and women I saw were all near to me,
Others the same - others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them,
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

IV
What is it then between us ?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us ?

Whatever it is, it avails not - distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had receiv’d identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.

VI
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre ?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,
I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

VII
Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you - I laid in my stores in advance,
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me ?
Who knows but I am enjoying this ?
Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me ?

VIII
Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d Manhattan?
River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide ?
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter ?
What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach ?
What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face ?
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you ?

We understand then do we not ?
What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted ?
What the study could not teach - what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not ?

IX
Flow on, river ! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide !
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves !
Gorgeous clouds of the sunset ! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me !
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers !
Stand up, tall masts of Manhattan ! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn !
Throb, baffled and curious brain ! throw out questions and answers !
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution !
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly !
Sound out, voices of young men ! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name !
Live, old life ! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress !
Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one makes it !
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you ;
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current ;
Fly on, sea-birds ! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air ;
Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you !
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sun-lit water !
Come on, ships from the lower bay ! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops, lighters !
Flaunt away, flags of all nations ! be duly lower’d at sunset !
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys ! cast black shadows at nightfall ! cast red and
yellow light over the tops of the houses !
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,
You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,
About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas,
Thrive, cities - bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers,
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,
Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers
We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate hence-forward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us,
We use you, and do not cast you aside - we plant you permanently within us,
We fathom you not - we love you - there is perfection in you also,
You furnish your parts toward eternity,
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.


I know, I know. I just spent half this post ripping Zeus a new one, right? And now I’m praising him like a kid in an autograph line. But you know, I remember hearing this for the first time in high school, and perhaps due to immaturity or boredom, I was not able to connect to it. I was not “hit in the gut”! As a matter of fact, it was not until years later, after becoming a fan of quality Spec-Fic that I was able to unlock and enjoy this poem. Now when I read it, I am transported back in time and then into the present and on to the future. Whitman’s scheme is to make time fluid, to put the past into silly looking clothes and to plug it into the constant, transgressive force of meditation. Yes, we all do it when looking out on a ferry, while making a crossing into the setting or rising sun, and for nearly a century, and for as long as there will be a Brooklyn ferry crossing the Hudson, there will be people who are experiencing the same cognitive Zen of water. Furthermore, even though Brooklyn Ferry is one of Zeus’ longer poems –in attempting to arch the fabric of space-time, something that Einstein and Hawking wrote pages and pages to describe --Whitman does it with economy.

So I guess I have to back off Wally-Boy a little, and perhaps re read his loquacious prose with a new eye. But only after I bone up on a little Spec-Fic.
And lest you are confused by my flip-flop, I hold to my original position: Neruda shanks Whitman in a poet death match.

Should Michal Jackson’s “Thriller” Be Part of the Literary Cannon?

I’m really putting myself out-there with this one. . .

I mean, who else do you know with the temerity to mutter these words together: “Francis Thompson” and “Michal Jackson”? But, since this is a blog about speculative fiction, here I go. . .

Recently, poetry has filled a need which has long been missing in my life. No, not a lack of passion (’got plenty o’ that) or inspiration (that’s what Sponge Bob is for) nor was it due to a lack of love (I married to a torch singer). Embarrassingly, I admit to not being a strong reader.

Oh!The irony!
A writer who doesn’t read.

Actually, I do read –almost anything, so long as it’s not fiction! Why? Recently, David Wolach and Elizabeth Williamson, both writers and Professors at Evergreen College here in Washington State, invited me to read in a literary series titled, “Change and the Avante-guard”. After the event and over a few beers, our conversation naturally turned to the writing process. And in my post-libations state, I confessed to being a serial mimic. Chagrinned, I further explained that –if I spend a Saturday afternoon watching Raider’s of the Lost Ark”, I’ll spend the rest of the weekend with that damned theme music playing in my head, thinking I’m some sort of a total bad-ass. In traffic, a small part of my mammal brain is seriously interested in steering with my feet while climbing onto a moving semi. I ask for milk with attitude. I want to punch out the lights of every Nazi I see.

So you can imagine what happens when I read an interesting novel, say Ralph Ellison’s, The Invisible Man.

"I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me." (from The Invisible Man, prologue)

See what I mean? At this very moment I feel like I’m diss . .a . .. pe r . . .

Ok, I’m back.

Just as it should, great fiction infects me! And if I am working on a project --which always seems to be the case --then my prose becomes hopelessly welded to snippets of text that I’ve ingested --which then tend to convolute and complicate my writing process.

David Wolach admitted to the same disease, and recommended that I read more poetry. His theory was that poetry infects a different part of a writer’s brain, one not so impressionable. (I confess: I thought he was talking about cute, short and sassy little poems –but I later found out that he was mostly is interested in 300-800 page novel-length poems. Not exactly what I had in mind.)

Considering our conversation, I fell upon Thompson’s poem, The Hound of Hell.

For those of you who do not know Francis Thompson (1859-1907), he was a poet recognized post humorously, which makes poetic sense --that is, if you’ve ever read the poem that made him famous. I’ve skipped to the relevant passages below –the gothic, urgent prose of a man who seeketh repentance. But you can see the full poem at http://www.cs.drexel.edu/~gbrandal/Illum_html/hound.html.

[ ]With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death ?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit ;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea :
"And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard ?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me !
"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting :
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art !
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."


Now for some strange reason, I started thinking of the lyrics to Michal Jackson’s “Thriller”. Perhaps it was the impending doom that seems to haunt both pieces, or maybe the choppy, broken verses . . . nevertheless, I can’t believe I’m about to do this (sorry David and Elizabeth) but, here goes nothin’:

It’s Close To Midnight And Something Evil’s Lurking In The Dark
Under The Moonlight You See A Sight That Almost Stops Your Heart
You Try To Scream But Terror Takes The Sound Before You Make It
You Start To Freeze As Horror Looks You Right Between The Eyes,
You’re Paralyzed

‘Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
And No One’s Gonna Save You From The Beast About Strike
You Know It’s Thriller, Thriller Night
You’re Fighting For Your Life Inside A Killer, Thriller Tonight

You Hear The Door Slam And Realize There’s Nowhere Left To Run
You Feel The Cold Hand And Wonder If You’ll Ever See The Sun
You Close Your Eyes And Hope That This Is Just Imagination
But All The While You Hear The Creature Creepin’ Up Behind
You’re Out Of Time

‘Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
There Ain’t No Second Chance Against The Thing With
Forty Eyes
You Know It’s Thriller, Thriller Night
You’re Fighting For Your Life Inside Of Killer, Thriller Tonight

Night Creatures Call
And The Dead Start To Walk In Their Masquerade
There’s No Escapin’ The Jaws Of The Alien This Time
(They’re Open Wide)
This Is The End Of Your Life

They’re Out To Get You, There’s Demons Closing In On Every Side
They Will Possess You Unless You Change The Number On Your Dial
Now Is The Time For You And I To Cuddle Close Together
All Thru The Night I’ll Save You From The Terror On The Screen,
I’ll Make You See

That This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
‘Cause I Can Thrill You More Than Any Ghost Would Dare To Try
Girl, This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
So Let Me Hold You Tight And Share A Killer, Diller, Chiller
Thriller Here Tonight

RAP

Darkness Falls Across The Land
The Midnite Hour Is Close At Hand
Creatures Crawl In Search Of Blood
To Terrorize Y’awl’s Neighbourhood
And Whosoever Shall Be Found
Without The Soul For Getting Down
Must Stand And Face The Hounds Of Hell
And Rot Inside A Corpse’s Shell
The Foulest Stench Is In The Air
The Funk Of Forty Thousand Years
And Grizzy Ghouls From Every Tomb
Are Closing In To Seal Your Doom
And Though You Fight To Stay Alive
Your Body Starts To Shiver
For No Mere Mortal Can Resist
The Evil Of The Thriller

Can you feel the same transgression? The all-powerful presence? The same mighty force closing in on Thomson that is closing in on “Those without the soul for getting down”? Literature or not, Thriller is every bit as surreal as Thompson. I see Thriller’s gothic, march to doom just as chilling as Thomson’s march to heaven. Agreed, any trustworthy literary critic might accuse me of having had one-too many energy drinks, but whether it be an accent or decent, with or without repentance, transcendentalism is always a scary and lonesome walk through the graveyard. In the afterlife, we like to image that there are other sinners and saints there, waiting –I guess so that we’ll have someone to chat with –but really, the walk to our respective heavens and hells are deeply personal. And any artistic piece which affords us a reflective glimpse into the abstract, disassociations that have long divided “good” and “evil”, “body” and “mind” --by nature, is speculative fiction –right?

I’m sure there are less work-a-day examples of this transgressive, descent-with a groove; if you know of some, please share. I’d love to hear form you.

Until then –I’m gonna go pistol-whip some bad guys. Who’s with me?!

Existential or Speculative? Make up Your Mind!

I first lost interest in mainstream fiction after I finished my last Dean Koontz novel. I don’t mean to knock him, really I don’t. He’s doing fine without my approval or my money. But his successes (and similar authors) perpetuate what generally passes today as contemporary fiction --a genre I charge as watered down and without wonder.

Speculative Fiction is a vague term more often used to describe “far-fetched fiction” or what for years has been called science fiction and fantasy. There is much debate as to exactly the genre, but I think this is healthy. In fact, because there are so many authors out there who use elements of speculative fiction, the category is constantly in flux. Only the extreme examples get attention and therefore (and unfortunately) characterize the genre.

Dean Koontz is not the only one responsible for the lackluster, speculative performance of fiction. What sells in the mainstream is safe and usually easy to understand. But that is exactly what ails the genre.

For instance, in Koontz’s novels, he very often explains away the monsters with logic or a series of misunderstood events. You know, something goes bump in the night, protagonist is haunted, chased, brought to the verge of insanity and then . . . well, then, a foil –say a coroner or a bright scientist type-person from the local university discovers that the “phantom” is really a demented human suffering from some genetic abnormality that causes its victim to crave human flesh. You can almost hear the authors saying, See, I told you not to be a scaredy cat! In Koontz’s defence, he’s not the only one, however I can only think of a few writers who allow the “monster” to exist in a realm just beyond our perception of reality. I’m always disappointed when the bump is explained away with reason and I leave the novel feeling like I just drank a light beer.

As a matter of fact, I tend to lean more towards “magic” then monsters. I don’t mean to piss off my fantasy and science fiction brothers and sisters (I happen to own a Jedi costume, and I once convinced my wife to dress up as Princess Leah. Also, what a great start to a story: “A long time ago, in a galaxy far away"). But, these genres can also leave me thirsty.

To most of us, speculative fiction means science fiction, which leads to images of futuristic robots, flying saucers and people with foil hats or aliens. But throughout the literary canon, there are excellent examples of speculative fiction that deal with subtle monsters, metaphorical or otherwise. Though sometimes the monster doesn’t have to be subtle, does it? What’s important in these cases is the tone. Here is an excerpt from The Odyssey.

And he burst on them like as a wave swift-rushing beneath black clouds,
Heaved huge by the winds, bursts down on a ship, and the wild foam shrouds
From the stem to the stern her hull, and the storm-blast's terrible breath
Roars in the sail, and the heart of the shipmen shuddereth
In fear, for that scantly upborne are they now from the clutches of death.

(Iliad 15. 624-628, at Perseus).

Do you follow me? As Longinus points out in his Treaty on the Sublime, even though Homer escapes with his life, he’s up against a force that cannot be simply put in a tea pot. The monster is larger than him and his crew, and instead of focusing on the protagonist, the storm becomes much scarier as a swirl of atoms, agitated by chaos. What could be more unfeeling and cold blooded than that?

Of course, there is Moby Dick: a murderous, 80 ton embodiment of God’s wrath.
No wonder Ahab spent the prime of his life chasing it down. And all the while, his hate and venom, wasted on a mere animal. But wasn’t Ahab fighting his own supernatural ability to create a monster in his mind? And if this is true, aren’t we the monster? Additionally, if we are all monsters, isn’t it also true that we will never run out of monsters?

All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever present perils of life.

(Melville, page 281)

Seriously, doesn’t that give you chills? Notice how surreal Melville is, even existential. Does he hammer us down with a bunch of psycho-babble? Does he try to make our hero’s plight understandable through ordinary assessments? No. There is a hate and self loathing so intense that we can only speculate to understand it. The hypothesis is: What if it were me? What is my white whale? Or what situation would drive me to such measures? Anyone who takes this book seriously knows that to understand it, you must paste in you own reality. What could be more speculative than that?

And do I need to go into detail about Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”?


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Enough said.

Another example comes to mind. I happen to be a big Steinbeck fan. I did not understand it the first time I read it, but Cannery Row (NOT THE MOVIE, please!) has within it brilliant examples of speculative fiction. Just think of the mysterious presence of the old Chinaman who exits the sea every morning to disappear amongst the corrugated steel and boilers of the row. And what happens when local children attempt to harass him? One of them looks into his eyes, which becomes one giant brown eye and then engulfs the lad in a glow and transports him to a distant, lonely, windswept isle. There he is left all alone. When he returns, he never throws rocks at the Chinaman again. Moreover, the main character Doc smacks of Nietzsche's Superman. Mack and the Boys are a metaphor to the Lotophagi (Lotus eaters) of Greek mythology. And the very last line of the novel is speculative and surreal, wherein Doc is reading the poem Black Marigolds to his rattlesnakes while they “lay still and stared into space with their dusty, frowning eyes.”


Listen, I’m not saying that books like Kite Runner aren’t worthy of my time, but I ask you, is there really a difference between inspirational, feel good contemporary fiction and the farce, “A Million Little Pieces?” Fiction and reality should not be blurred in this manner. Why not push it over the edge? Stir in something unusual; mystify us and leave us wondering. If you can, refrain from answering the question you pose but still satisfy us. Speculative Fiction, done well, never leaves us thirsty. Done well, it lingers on out pallet, invades our dreams and our work-a-day lives.

You can keep your Non fiction/fiction-fiction. I want to be left mystified. In my own writing, I’ve always stirred in a little something unusual. Whether it be a spring –time blessing that kills and loves equally, a mystical motorcycle goddess, Han’s Christian Andersen’s four winds of the world trying to kill a little girl from Nebraska, a false prophet, or an immigrant landscaper who can see galaxies inside of every dandelion. I try to write stories that will be appreciated by those of us who need that little push over reality’s edge, but resent being shoved in with logic or silly, tired, one-dimensional, cliché, monsters. My hope in writing this blog is to post examples of writings, situations, events and artist who tempt us to look over the side without being pushy. Perhaps a better way to describe the speculative fiction genre is “existential fiction”. That way, we stop thinking of foil hats.


If you’d like to follow me on this journey, I’d love to guide you through some examples that I believe are speculative in nature, stylish and surreal. And, if you’re with me so far, check back from time to time and I’ll post what I’ve found. Or, better still, sign up to be automatically updated whenever I post.