Tagscience fiction

To see in Seattle: ‘When I Come To My Senses, I’m Alive!’

When I Come To My Senses, I’m Alive! from Stephen McCandless on Vimeo.

I’m not going to have time to get up to Seattle to see this play, but it sounds great. Check it out if you’re in the area:

It runs April 23 – May 22, 2010. The play is a near-future sci-fi story about a technological provocateur who invents a method for capturing emotions as digital information, as part of a project to “chart the emotional genome.” She develops a cult following of fans who download her very addictive “emoticlips” – each delivered with cryptic, poetic file names like “the surprise of an unfamiliar memory” – and play them back in hobby-built receiver helmets. The experience is not full blown virtual reality; instead, emotional responses & sensations are triggered, and each fan experiences something unique. A seedy television executive tries to coopt her technology to syndicate the emotions of TV stars, hiring an elite P.I. to figure out what her weaknesses are when she refuses to sell out… but in the meantime, publishing digital versions of her emotions to the internet has unexpected consequences amongst the botnets of the world.

Scotto: ‘When I Come To My Senses, I’m Alive!’

Comic Book Adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s Electric Ant

David Mack's Electric Ant

Preview on davidmack.com

(via Wade)

Update: You can now buy the collected edition in paperback.

Full text of Meda: a Tale of the Future

Meda: a Tale of the Future as Related by Kenneth Follingsby

Meda: a Tale of the Future as Related by Kenneth Follingsby is an early mutant fiction written in 1888, printed for private circulation in 1891, and finally published in 1892. It’s an exceedingly rare book – I traveled to Riverside, CA to read it last November. I’m quite excited to see it online.

You can get it in several formats at archive.org

I’ve also mirrored the PDF and txt versions here.

See also:

My excerpts from the book here

More mutant history details here

J.G. Ballard – The Catastrophist

jg ballard

Christopher Hitchens writes:

Readers of Ballard’s memoir, Miracles of Life (a book with a slightly but not entirely misleading title) will soon enough discern that he built on his wartime Shanghai traumas in three related ways. As a teenager in post-war England he came across first Freud, and second the surrealists. He describes the two encounters as devastating in that they taught him what he already knew: religion is abject nonsense, human beings positively enjoy inflicting cruelty, and our species is prone to, and can coexist with, the most grotesque absurdities. What could have been more natural, then, than that Ballard the student should devote himself to classes in anatomy, spending quality time with corpses, some of whom, in life, had been dedicated professors in the department. An astonishing number of his shorter works follow the inspiration of Crash, also filmed, this time by David Cronenberg, in morbid and almost loving accounts of “wound profiles,” gashes, fractures, and other inflictions on the flesh and bones. Fascinated by the possibility of death in traffic, and rather riveted by the murder of John Kennedy, Ballard produced a themed series titled The Atrocity Exhibition, here partially collected, where collisions and ejaculations and celebrities are brought together in a vigorously stirred mix of Eros and Thanatos. His antic use of this never-failing formula got him briefly disowned by his American publisher and was claimed by Ballard as “pornographic science fiction,” but if you can read “The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered As a Downhill Motor Race” or “Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan” in search of sexual gratification, you must be jaded by disorders undreamed-of by this reviewer. Both stories, however, succeed in being deadpan funny.

The Atlantic: The Catastrophist

(Thanks Alex Burns)

The Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot

This is a formula, a master plot, for any 6000 word pulp story. It has worked on adventure, detective, western and war-air. It tells exactly where to put everything. It shows definitely just what must happen in each successive thousand words.

No yarn of mine written to the formula has yet failed to sell.

The business of building stories seems not much different from the business of building anything else.

The Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot

Dent goes on to explain point by point, chunk by chunk, what must go into a marketable pulp story. I don’t know if this formula would still be effective today, but I suspect it could still be of some use to genre writers.

Thanks to Trevor for telling me about this a couple years ago, at one of the very first PDX0 meetups. I only just decided to find it today.

Professor Bommsenn’s Germs

The short story, “Professor Bommsenn’s Germs” by Ernest George Harmer first appeared in the November 1887 edition of Belgravia Magazine.

Harmer describes a bald, large headed creature with a small body and “mesmeric” powers. It is perhaps the earliest piece of fiction to feature the mutant motif. Following is the Google Books digitization of the story.

Professor Bommsenn’s Germs
by Ernest George Harmer

Carl Ferdinand Bommsenn, Ph.D., Professor of Comparative Embryology in the University of Brevik, sat in his study chair, lost in meditation. The wrinkles on his fair Teuton brow deepened, as there fled through his brain, in all its mysterious complexity, a Great Idea. Presently his face grew calmer, and he turned quickly to touch the bell which hung in a handy nook by the fireside. His demonstrator appeared.

‘Pack.’

‘Yes, professor. What shall I -‘

‘Shirt, boots, trousers, microscope, notebook, gun.’

‘And -‘

‘Nothing else.’

The demonstrator seemed to be at a loss. Was it a lecture at Bergen the Herr Professor was going to, he wondered, or a tramp over the Dovrefeld in search of recreation. He asked the question.

‘Siam. We start to-morrow. Lock the laboratory door and bring the key with you. Leave me. I must prepare.’

Straussheim stared with all his might. ‘ You say ” we,” professor. May I ask who ? ‘

‘You and I. One portmanteau between us. Call me at five.’

The young biologist was not unused to the vagaries of his master, but he had never received so startling a communication as that which Professor Bommsenn had just made so curtly. He was inured to unexpected journeys, conceived on the spur of the moment, to Trondhjem, or the Isefjord, or even the Black Forest. But Siam! What would become of the lectures for the rest of the term ? How could they possibly leave the experiments which had taken them three months to prepare, and which were just beginning to ripen? And, above all, what would Gretchen say?

It was no use grumbling, however, and wondering what the professor was about. The student’s reverence for the scholarship of his master was so profound that he never dreamed of fighting against any of his wishes. Was it not he who had worked out the embryonic history of the bluebottle? Who would not feel proud to follow such a man to the ends of the universe—nay, even to Siam itself!

The next morning the professor and his assistant walked down to the quay, and took the steamboat for Hamburg. There they took the overland express for Marseilles, which they reached just in time to catch the outgoing mail. A sharp run of twenty-eight days, and the ‘ Peiho’ steamed gaily into the harbour of Singapore. At this port they found a steamship just about to start for Saigon, on reaching which they embarked, after some delay, on board a native flat-bottomed boat manned by coolies, and in this they ascended the Mekong as far as the rapids. At this point they landed, and sat down on the bank, with their portmanteau between them, the contents of which they proceeded to transfer to two knapsacks.

Straussheim ventured to speak. ‘I have not been able as yet, professor, to divine the motif of our journey, and I should be proud to become your confidant in this matter, in a due measure. Our scanty baggage would seem to indicate that your intentions will not involve a long sojourn in this country.’

‘Possibly. I wish to visit the great elephant cemetery which, according to the report of the earlier Jesuit travellers, is to be found in the northern Shan states. It has occurred to me that an inspection of this collection of bones should be of value in working out the life-history of the Pachydermata. I also cherish the hope of meeting with a nursery of immature specimens of Elephas, the study of which in their native environment will doubtless modify the prevalent attitude of science towards this problem.’

‘I thank you, professor. May I inquire, however, whence our supplies are to be drawn when we are beyond the reach of men?’

‘There is a teak forest to the north. Let us go and choose our camping place for the night. When the proper moment arrives, I will explain.’

II.

Just as the sun, six months later, was marching with hasty strides down the steep hill of day, the two travellers reached an opening in the forest through which the fast-vanishing daylight penetrated. It was a wide glade, filled up with tanglegrowth, having been formed by the fall and gradual decay of a great teak trunk. Pulling down the rich pendulous herbage which clothed the broken root, they cleared a nook into which they crept, and arranged their slender baggage comfortably. They had found fruits enough during their day’s march to make an excellent supper, and they now sat down to partake of it before lying down to sleep. One of them was to take a spell of watching while the other rested, and the first turn fell to Straussheim, who lit his long briar root and folded his arms with the intention of taking his ease. Before reclining for the night, he took the opportunity of reminding the professor of a promise he had made that morning to explain the ground of his steadfast confidence in their future.

‘Ah! it is very simple. You see this match-box.’ And the biologist drew from his pocket a common Swedish safety matchbox. ‘This box is filled with primordial germs.’

‘Prim-ord-ial germs !’ shouted Straussheim, in amazement.

‘You appear astonished,’ calmly resumed the professor, with a touch of pride. ‘ I made the discovery quite unexpectedly. I was examining some mammalian embryos under the Gundlach immersion 1/16 a few weeks before we left, and it struck me that they differed but slightly from some lowly organic forms which we dredged last winter in the Baltic. I made a few tentative experiments, and found that I was able to bring forward the growth of the germs with considerable speed, by means of a secondary battery. Under a temperature of 31 229 Centigrade they developed so rapidly that I had to remove them from the slide lest they should burst the objective.’

The demonstrator was listening eagerly, his hand grasping a liana.

‘The careful experiments in which you assisted me last year in so able a manner’ – Straussheim bowed gracefully – ‘ resulted in our determining the precise composition of protoplasm. I have long been of opinion that the failure of Europe to build up living organisms in the laboratory arose from this circumstance. Biologists expected to obtain germs similar to the Monades, or, let us say, Bacterium termo, which the English microscopist Dallinger has shown to be the least and lowest form of life. But that Bacterium, simple as its structure seems, is a complex organism, at the end, not the beginning, of an infinite chain of being. When the elements of protoplasm are brought together, it is not Bacterium that results, but that immeasurably remote form of life which through innumerable ages gradually developed into such complex organisms as Bacterium and Spirillum. That remoter, ultimate form of life I have succeeded in producing from dead matter.’

The listener was breathless with awe. He clasped his hands aimlessly as the sublime thoughts raised by these words passed through his mind. With what immortal glory would the name of Bommsenn be covered when the discovery became known in the laboratories of Europe !

‘This being so, it occurred to me that the expedition which had been in my thoughts for some years was at last brought within the domain of the possible. I have been deterred hitherto by the necessity for a carefully equipped band, armed with the latest results of applied science. That necessity no longer exists. Everything we can possibly need lies potentially within the compass of this little box,’

Straussheim looked on, overwhelmed by the brilliancy of the conception which the fertile intellect of his master had brought forth. He was unable to speak.

The professor went on. ‘Our dietary has been confined of late to the productions of this country, and even these we have not been able to obtain in an adequate measure.’ He looked at his bony arms, which had lost not a little of their normal size. ‘ I feel the heimweh to-night very keenly, and could fancy a Frankfort sausage and some sauerkraut. Get out the microscope. I propose to develop them.’

III.

As he spoke he opened the match-box, and, with a pipette, drew forth a minute speck of matter.

‘From this germ,’ he began, with the vivid gesture with which the lecture-room at home was familiar, ‘ I will proceed to evolve a head of Brassica. Watch the field very closely, and tell me what you observe.’

While Straussheim adjusted the focus, the professor turned up their travelling lamp to its fullest capacity, and polished the reflector on the tattered sleeve of his shirt. The deathly stillness of the tropical night could almost be touched with the hand. ‘ I see nothing.’

‘Obviously. The germ is now passing through the stages of its life, which are beyond the reach of the vision of science. The miniature battery which I brought with me, and which I will connect with the substage, will be useful in hastening the process of evolution.’

“There is a Proiococcus in the field.’

‘Good. In the few minutes that have already elapsed, the primordial germ upon which we are experimenting has travelled through more than half the total length of the biological chain. From the Protococcus to the cabbage is a short and simple journey, compared with the toilsome path already traversed.’

‘It is growing.’

‘Naturally. I should like to watch its progress myself. Hold the notebook in readiness.’

The two scientists sat side by side, the one with his eye bent earnestly upon the microscope, the other jotting down the phases of growth observed by his master. Around them, not a breath stirred; all was noiseless, save for some stray beetle, beating against the lamp-glass, and the soul-piercing rustling of the uppermost leaves of the forest-trees.

‘ We have now arrived at the characeous stage in the life- history of the plant, and shall presently see it undergoing the changes which are connected with the embryonic growth of the fern. You will perceive that this organism is passing by swift stages through the same series of mutations through which the vegetable world has passed from the beginning.’

The two students of nature stood facing each other, the plant between them, watching this sublime panorama of the world of life.

‘Quick. The embryo is now cruciferous. Place it gently in the peat-mould at your side, before it grows and bursts the objective.’

The demonstrator obeyed. The four eyes watched hungrily the progress of their creation. In a few minutes the leaves expanded, the head of flowers burst into full glory, and the cabbage was mature.

‘ You have watched my method of using the battery. Take some chips of wood, and extract from them by the same process some acetic acid. Steep the cabbage in it, while I produce the sausage.’

As he spoke, the professor opened his match-box once more, and drew therefrom another germ. Placing it on the stage, he prepared to follow it in its career. Straussheim, the sauerkraut ready, looked on. The biologist could scarcely repress a burst of triumph as he perceived the germ gradually unfolding all the mysterious processes of mesoblast, ectoblast, and endoblast, which pertain to the earliest history of an arthropod. ‘ We have here,’ he remarked aloud, ‘ if such were needed, a complete refutation of the views advanced by Weissner of Salerno at the last annual meeting of the Crustacean Society. You will remember that I attacked them at the time, basing my argument on the analogy of the Cephalopoda. The history of this germ abundantly proves that the mesoblast is the primary origin of the stomach and its accessories. I wish Weissner was here.’

By some slight process of association the professor turned, as he spoke, to see that the sauerkraut was all right. He gave a, grunt of satisfaction,

‘We are now face to face with the true development of the birds, and their embryologic relations with the lowest mammals. My view that the higher birds are morphologically above the marsupiata here receives incontrovertible support.’

The demonstrator acquiesced, with a gesture of unfaltering reverence.

‘Time flies. What does the chronometer say ?’
‘Two o’clock.’

‘Ah, we are nearing our goal. I begin to recognise the generic characters of the Bovidie. Clear a space beyond you in the underwood, so that our beeve may have free exercise.’

‘You incline, professor, to the bovine theory of the morphology of the sausage. I have always assumed its porcine character.’

‘Your assumption is perhaps scarcely warranted. An analysis I conducted a few years back revealed little of a definite nature except trichinosis. The evidence as to the structure of the sausage is conflicting. I have selected the most generous hypothesis.’

All this time, Herr Bommsenn’s gaze was riveted to the eyepiece. He at first appeared interested, rapidly dictating notes of his observations. Then his face clouded with anxiety, and with breathless suspense he watched the progress of development. Gradually a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and he clasped his hands, half in dread, half in triumph. Presently he spoke, almost under his breath.

‘ The germ has passed the stage of the Ruminantia, and is rapidly assuming the characteristics of the Primates. I begin to fear we shall not be able to stop it.’

The demonstrator felt a thrill of dread, as of some approaching evil. With one hand he tightly clutched the gourd in which the sauerkraut was lying ready for consumption, and with the other pressed his forehead, watching the professor’s movements keenly. ‘The embryo is losing the precursors of the caudal vertebrae. It presents characters which I do not recognise as pertaining even to the human species. Straussheim, we have outstripped the chain of zoological life; this embryo is higher than man.”

Suddenly the professor rose with a gasp of nervous terror, and gingerly slipped the glass off the stage. His eyes were riveted upon the spot where the germ had dropped amongst the teak roots. The men grasped each other’s hands in the intensity of their fear, too intent to notice the approach of a group of elephants, attracted by the glare. Presently they saw arising before them with visible progression a being not utterly unwomanlike, with its human features overclouded by others of a strange terrifying character. It had no teeth, no hair, no toes. Its face was dirty white, its height about four feet, and its thoracic cavity shrunken and bowed. Beyond this it was impossible to carry the description. The horrible development presented features which the language of men is powerless to express. The two biologists gazed on the work of their hands until the pupils of their eyes dilated to an alarming extent, and they fell together to the ground in a mesmeric trance.

This summer, a French officer, passing through the teak forest on a journey of prospection on behalf of his Government, found in a natural glade the bones of two men, and by their side a battered microscope, a gun, and the remains of a secondary battery. With the instinct of his race he covered the remains gently with a little earth, and, on the trunk of a rubber tree hard by, carved this inscription:—

‘Died in the cause of Science.’

More mutant history: The Argonaut Folly and more

I’ve been updating my timeline of mutants in popular culture, and have just discovered a wealth of information thanks to the independent scholarship of Josh Glenn, who is particularly focused on pre-Golden Age science fiction.

Of particular interest:

The Argonaut Folly. “It’s a fantasy about not just working, but living in close company with one’s most talented peers. Nietzsche wanted to do so; so did D.H. Lawrence and Andre Breton. I call it the Argonaut Folly because the Argonauts were the original band of talented individuals who together were able to accomplish great things, but whose very superiority (in my reading) rendered them misfits and losers among ordinary mortals.”

Superman, Homo Superior, Accelerated Evolution – Glenn’s history of mutants. Lots of material I’ve missed.

A Media History of Gray Aliens

man of year one million

Above is a illustration from the December 23, 1893 edition of the Ottawa Journal‘s reprint of HG Wells’s article ” The Man of the Year Million.” It may be the first visual representation of the famous “Greys.” The first description, however, may belong to Kenneth Folingsby, who wrote about a race of evolved beings in Meda: A Tale of the Future.

Iron Skeptic: A Media History of Gray Aliens

This makes an excellent companion to my Evolution of the Mutant in Popular Culture.

I will echo the comment from the bottom of that page that points out that there were many other representations of aliens in popular culture. The Grey-esque images the author links to sound relatively obscure compared to other portrayals by the time Grey sitings became popular.

A few questions:

1. Are there any older portrayals of “Grey-esque” creatures – in, for example, ancient tribal art?

2. When did accounts of Greys become particularly popular?

3. What is the likelihood that the earliest reporters of Greys had seen stuff like Amazing Tales covers?

FWIW, I like Douglas Rushkoff’s hypothesis from Playing the Future: the archetypal image of the Greys comes from the human fetus, and both their appearance and alien abduction phenomena correlate with the increased public debate over abortion.

JG Ballard’s final short story: “The Dying Fall”

Three years have passed since the collapse of the Tower of Pisa, but only now can I accept the crucial role that I played in the destruction of this unique landmark. Over twenty tourists died as the thousands of tons of marble lost their grasp on the air and collapsed to the ground. Among them was my wife Elaine, who had climbed to the topmost tier and was looking down at me when the first visible crack appeared in the tower’s base. Never were tragedy and triumph so intimately joined, as if Elaine’s pride in braving the worn and slippery stairs had been punished by the unseen forces that had sustained this unbalanced mass of masonry for so many centuries.

The Guardian: “The Dying Fall” by JG Ballard

(via Bruce Sterling)

JG Ballard dies aged 78

The novelist JG Ballard, who conjured up a bleak vision of modern life in a series of powerful novels and short stories published over more than 50 years, died today after a long battle with cancer.

His agent, Margaret Hanbury, said tonight that it was “with great sadness” that the 78-year-old author passed away yesterday morning after years of ill health.

Hanbury, who worked with Ballard for more than 25 years, said he was a “brilliant, powerful” novelist. “JG Ballard has been a giant on the world literary scene for more than 50 years. Following his early novels of the 60s and 70s, his work then reached a wider audience with the publication of Empire of the Sun in 1984 which won several prizes and was made in to a film by Steven Spielberg.

Guardian: Crash author JG Ballard, ‘a giant on the world literary scene’, dies aged 78

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