Maka says, Read a book! Or she'll take your soul.
It’s been quite a while since I posted anything worthwhile. I suppose it’s possible that will continue after today, but whatever. This is a little different from most of the AiC entries, as I’m going to post a piece I wrote for my SF literature class. It is much in the vein of the AiC posts, sort-of; that is, when he gave us grad. students the assignment (we’re crashing an undergrad. course), he said it was a completely arbitrary assignment that would never be published anywhere. We’re meant simply to respond to two critical essays he gave us. I riffed on them in the way I will, sometimes, and have no idea if it’s what he wants to see. I’m turning it in tomorrow, so we’ll see. But I just wrote the last paragraph and I’d talked to Pontifus about posting it when it was finished. It is. So, uh, woo. The essays are “On the Origins of Genre” by Paul Kincaid and “Science Fiction and Literature — or, the Conscience of the King” by Samuel Delany. (Kincaid’s most recent book is up for a non-fiction Hugo this year, by the way.)
In “On the Origins of Genre” Paul Kincaid tracks the movement of science-fiction across its evolution, ultimately coming to the conclusion that the genre has no beginning or end of any significance, and because of that, “science fiction is what we point to when we say ’science fiction’” (52). We have no single way to identify the genre; there is no fingerprint or DNA matching, only a kind of familial resemblance one might expect from an essay titled after Darwin’s On the Origin of Species.
Kincaid begins the essay by providing a good overview of attempts to define “science fiction,” with entries from critic Darko Suvin to The Oxford Companion to English Literature. He comes to the conclusion that science fiction is too broad and diverse to admit of a definition that would both cover everything readily acknowledged as science fiction and be limiting enough to be of use as a definition. Kincaid ultimately says the act of creating a hard definition will not work.
Similarly John Frow, in his book Genre, suggests that genres provide readers with a “horizon of expectations;” genres use a system of commonly-understood tropes to provide readers with ideas about the work drawn from a kind of pool that already exists (69-70). A work may violate the expectations without becoming another genre. “Genres,” he claims, “are neither self-identical nor self-contained” (71). This process is quite different from using a hard and fast definition (or even one that is not so fast). Frow’s conception of genre is fluid, which in turn allows the text to remain fluid and still use the genre markers it needs to make its meaning. Kincaid and Frow seem to agree on the generic system which draws from a source larger than any one text. I have to wonder if the tradition of attempting to define science fiction is, at least in part, a way to legitimize a genre that still meets occasional resistance from more staid academic circles.
Kincaid also soundly repudiates another habit I have seen in commentators on science fiction: the attempt to find an original science fiction text. On the idea of an “urtext” he says “there is no such thing” (51), unequivocally stating that it is impossible to find a single textual source for the origin of science fiction. I feel this is true of more genres than science fiction. The Gothic genre is often traced directly back to Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto. It’s certainly not wrong to do so, just as it is not wrong for Brian Aldiss to trace science fiction back to Frankenstein, but the Gothic was created both before and after Walpole’s novel. Before in the sense that he willfully drew from medieval romances for many of his elements; after in the sense that the Gothic could not be a genre until enough texts existed to group together and form the pool I alluded to above, the one from which readers draw their expectations for a new work participating in the genre. A genre is always made up of more elements than any single work; attempts to get every genre identifier into a work leads to “kitchen sink” stories that almost never read well. Given the inability of any one text to participate in every identifier of a genre (Castle of Otranto can’t even do it, and it is the first Gothic text for all practical purposes), it seems as though the search for an urtext is essentially futile. Kincaid deals with the problem in a relativistic way by claiming, that tracing the “family resemblances” of science fiction elements “does lead, rather, to a series of urtexts” (51). He goes on to claim that individual threads (tropes) could be traced back in this way, and those may originate in individual texts (52), such as the mad scientist, which can be drawn back to Frankenstein, even though Frankenstein cannot serve as an “urtext” for the genre as a whole. Examining elements rather than either the whole genre or the whole text is more useful, as it provides methods for critics and readers to, in turn, examine the themes and issues within the genre and the texts, which strikes me as much more important.
Samuel Delany’s “Science Fiction and ‘Literature’ – or, The Conscience of the King,” in contrast, attempts to grapple with what people do in that process; it is how people of different sorts make meaning when reading. He primarily focuses on the differences between science fiction and what he terms “literature,” or academically-accepted mainstream fiction. The essay suffers an ambivalence that makes it difficult for a reader to understand, at first, who Delany is criticizing. He refers to not knowing important information about the SF field as “certain academic blind spots” right after summing up an episode wherein a well-respected SF editor he knew had no idea what the Hugo awards were (100-101). He also provides examples of academics failing to know important information about SF, but I am left wondering why he believes it is specifically an academic problem when, by his own admission, it is no such thing.
His greater point, concerning the need for readers of all sorts to pay attention to the field, and not just their perception of it, finally comes clear. He claims that “the assumption of most academic critics [. . .] is that somehow the history of science fiction began precisely at the moment they began to read it” (99). while SF readers “deny all existence to the interpretive space around the SF text” and “assume a conscientiously philistine approach” to set them apart from readers of “literary” fiction (114). Both these views reduce the field of SF writing to what the reader wants. These readers do not admit of anything counter to their desires and will alter or misinterpret whatever they need to in order to maintain their views.
These “ruptures” (the term Delany uses throughout to describe these problems) are clearly bad for the interplay of intelligent discourse around SF, but I am forced to worry whether or not Delany alienates more people from his ideas than he gathers to them in this work. His attitude towards academics, those already in place to do what he asks of readers in a significant and influential way, is dismissive at best. He claims “reading literature as if it were ‘literature’ is [. . .] pretty much a waste of time” (117). This statement, while driving home his point about the proper method of reading, insults anyone who has engaged in traditional reading of literature, even if it is not meant to. Meanwhile, Delany, in summing up the views of the “philistine” SF fans, insults them in almost as bald a fashion. It doesn’t seem to me as though it’s a very helpful strategy.
Delany’s views of reading, as stated in this essay, are enormously compelling and probably the most useful portions of it, though his move to call it “reading as though a text is science fiction” perhaps, again, hobbles the effort. Delany outlines the systems mainstream and SF writing use to make meaning: both use words, but in a science fiction novel any metaphorical phrase, such as “her world exploded” could also be literal, and the reader must strive to make sense of the phrase, always keeping in mind that both the literal and the figurative are both lending meaning to the work at the same time (103-104). I agree with this entirely; his study on the ways in which we organize information in this way and the effects of it are effective and interesting.
Delany’s second major idea, that science fiction reading should overtake “literary” reading (as I referenced it before), is interesting as well, but slightly misled. Delany tells the story of a 19th century literature scholar who began to consume more SF than mainstream fiction; upon going back to one of his favorite novels, Pride and Prejudice, he found himself enjoying it more, and using the book as a way to wonder about what sort of world it created – whereas, beforehand, he read it as an account of the world as it was when Austen wrote (116). Delany commends this method of reading, claiming it is particular to science fiction. And while I agree SF can make a reader more likely to engage in this reading, it is not that field’s particular birthright. In his essay “On Fairy Stories,” Tolkien describes an alternative to Coleridge’s “suspension of disbelief.” He claims that something unbelievable, such as a fantasy, creates a “secondary world” of the fiction, and within that world all the unbelievable events are just as natural as any other. There is no question of belief, as the world contains them (57-68). This idea can be expanded to all literature, not just fantasy (of which Delany’s SF is a kind). Anything read in a book is not reality, which is obvious; however, when a book is realistic most readers don’t notice. A realistic book is experienced in the same way as a fantastic one: it is read, not heard or seen or felt or smelled. The events of a realistic novel, such as Pride and Prejudice, occur in a secondary world as removed from the real world, by virtue of the way in which is is experienced, as any science fiction novel. Delany has described something very valuable, but in claiming it for SF readers he widens a gap that needs to be closed.
Works Cited
Delany, Samuel R. “Science Fiction and ‘Literature’ – or, The Conscience of the King.” Speculations on Speculation: Theories of Science Fiction. Scarecrow Press, Inc. Maryland: 2005. 95-117.
Frow, John. Genre. Routledge. New York: 2006.
Kincaid, Paul. “On the Origins of Genre.” Speculations on Speculation: Theories of Science Fiction. Scarecrow Press, Inc. Maryland: 2005. 41-53.
Tolkien, J. R. R. “On Fairy Stories.” The Tolkien Reader. New York: Ballantine Books, 1986. 33-99.
Thanks for posting this – informative and thought provoking.
How is genre, or at least sub-genre created anyway? While creating something I may have an idea of what I want to do, how I’m trying to innovate from an established form (i.e. blog post), but isn’t the genre categorization and taxonomy the creation of readers, critics, and scholars?
If that’s the case it is quite tempting to trace a genealogy but ur-texts may be elusive, rather these ur-texts may rather be ‘missing links’ to extend the evolutionary metaphor.
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And yeah, good post, write moar! ^_^
Sounds good. I don’t have much to add in the way of intelligent comments.
Not particularly helpful comments, though…well, you can always count on me for a few of those.
I was under the impression that everyone reads like that, or at least that’s the point at which everyone begins when they read. The latter bit about altering/”mis”-interpreting…well, I don’t know if I’m willing to allow that there’s such a thing as “misinterpretation” in reading. Maybe on a macro level, but not a micro level, if that makes sense — or, maybe if the reader just dispenses with textual evidence altogether. As to the former point, the refusal to acknowledge things counter to one’s desires, I suppose that’s the habit against which I level my crusade. Or maybe I take advantage of it, jump in the middle of the resultant arguments and claim the middle ground as that especially serviceable kind of stance formed when opposing viewpoints make sweet love. Probably a little of both.
THIS^9001
@Tom: No problem. I do my best.
@ghostlightning: at this point I would say that genre is created in the body of readers and creators; we all agree there are genres, and thus there are. Basically it’s like Saussure. : ) So I think you’re on there. But it is something a text references willfully. Again, now. So I’m not sure how effective it would be to try to take urtexts as “missing links” to find a real original. First, because if you go back far enough there will no longer be the genre one is trying to identify; two, because you can always go back farther, tracing one element; three — most importantly to me — I don’t think it’s really that important to find the original.
@pontifus: Yeah, the refusal is the real problem.
Oh, also, if anyone’s interested: Professor Kincaid ran across this entry before I linked him to it, and made an LJ post about it that’s pretty neat. Here’s the link: http://peake.livejournal.com/139136.html
In fairness I have to say that I am not a Professor, I am not even a teacher. I am what is politely called an ‘independent scholar” which is a gentle way of saying rank amateur. (I was once contacted to do a review for Utopian Times, and in all their correspondence with me they addressed me as ‘Dr Kincaid’, another honourific I don’t possess, but I couldn’t persuade them otherwise.)
I think the problem with genre is that everyone wants it to be different things so they can hang different ideas on it. Which is fine as far as it goes, but it does tend to obscure what genre actually is. But then, no-one really knows how to define science fiction, most definitions end up being catalogues of devices (it’s got a robot in it, so it must be science fiction), but that will not allow us any insight into what is actually being done within genre.
I think that is the broader point that Delany was trying to make also: everyone has their own private definition of science fiction, but that is in many ways irrelevant. What is important is how the reader responds to the genre, how it changes their view of other literatures and of the world. This issue is not something that is limited to science fiction, or even to genre, but it is one of the important issues surrounding how (and, indeed, why) we read.
Ha ha. Sorry about that. It’s good to know scholarly study happens outside the realm of teaching.
You make a lot of sense when you say everyone wants it to be different things. I think that comes from wanting genre (or one particular genre) to be *something*, which isn’t strictly necessary. I’ve been struggling to articulate an idea recently, that a work has genre markers in it — in the same way SF is said to have “distance markers.” There can be all sorts pulled from different places, like the detective story, horror, fantasy, what have you. I think one of the risks I run there, though, is quantification, claiming that more markers make a story more of one thing or another.
I’ve often heard it said of genres that the only real use they are is to tell readers where the books are in the store (or movies, or whatever). I wonder if, extending that comparison, what draws a reader into certain sections of the store is the reaction engendered by the particular genre, and how to discover what that is.
I have no idea if I’m making sense, I’m up way too early so I can go teach freshman comp.
Genre is very useful. It allows for more efficient marketing and distribution of media. We can talk long-tail economics and niches, but it’s hard for me to imagine the participants/stakeholders of a cultural production in whatever medium not to collectively want their product to sell.
Genre in this perspective, is a virtuous thing and is of interest as a field of study.
I certainly am more interested in a wider readership/participant base for this discussion.
This is interesting: given our discussion previously right here, I posed this question as a discussion-starter with my poetry students. One of them gave the eternally-cynical answer that genre is “to let people know what section of the bookstore to go to.”
I told her that’s a common answer, but it points out that people still *want* to go to different parts of the store; which means people want different things; which continues to beg the question: how are these things significantly different and what gives them varied appeal? So ultimately it still comes back to a philosophical question of what marks each genre as different.
Yes, and not only that – they need mental pegs to distinguish works and authors from each other so that they, the readers can also feel different, discerning, unique perhaps.
I’ve heard it mentioned that books are an intellectual’s trophy case. My own library is haphazardly arranged, but I can imagine how much fun it can be cataloging one’s own collection physically, and how looking at the spaces and ratios on the shelves may actually influence book-purchasing behaviors.
I’m not sure without checking, but I believe my essay “Science Fiction and ‘Literature’” first appeared around 1978 in–of all places–Analog Magazine. The literary criticism that I am polemicizing against is what might be called today “pre-theory” literary criticism, or perhaps “thematics” or “thamatic interpretation.” I pretty much agree in pinciple with everything you say. I might even be a little harsher on it than you were. Back then I was also arguing against the idea of hard-edge genre deffinitions. It’s hard to believe today, however, that such an idea was once a radical crirtical notion. But when I said, 31 years ago, that reading literature as if it were literature is a waste of time, I meant that reading literature as if it was a set of texts that each belonged to a definable genre with fixed themes that were either correct or incorrect was a waste of time. And I still think it is. But today, thanks to the prevalence of “theory” over the past 35 years, it’s the rare teacher who does that, even if he or she never mentions Derrida or Barthes.
I’m really glad to get some of the history of the article. I had actually asked my professor if criticism of the time was blind enough to need such a talking-to; he couldn’t really tell me one way or the other. It’s good to know things have improved since then. I’m also pleased you spotted the post, and that I don’t seem to have misinterpreted the essay too much.
Apropo of little, I’m reading The Jewel-Hinged Jaw right now (between a paper on Nova and finishing my thesis), and I like it very much. It may, in turn, be the subject of one of these posts I do from time to time.
Prof. Cuchlann
So, the other day, when I was registering for courses, my schedule was not as keikaku, and I was soooo close to taking contemporary lit theory, but dropped it in favor of a history seminar on Russian dissent (I’m not an English major so spare credits are rather sparse). This was a random comment.
Contemporary lit. theory would be fun, though. If you ever get a chance, get into a course on it. It’s really some of the most fun I’ve ever had in a course, staring at visual depictions of Derrida’s theory of text and wondering what goes where.
I may need to take one more theory course in the next few years; I might just take one for the fun of it.
TAKE THE THEORY CLASS AT SOME POINT. I AGREE WITH CUCHLANN, DO IT FOR TEH FUN TIMES.
It just occured to me, us bloggers use categories and tags to organize our archives. However, we vary wildly with how we name our categories. When it comes to tags there’s less variance somewhat (though I didn’t really study the statistics so don’t quote me), only that some of us use tags that others name as their categories.
This supports the ‘fluidity’ theory discussed in the post.
As an exercise in taxonomy, it may be useful to introduce tags (the web 2.0 trope) into the discussion. See how a group of people/readers/students would tag a sample of literary works.
Then look at the subsets that are created, and discuss your findings. I’m very interested with what comes up in terms of actual sets and their contents and the insights from the exercise.
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There is variance with how tags mean from one person to another, but put that aside for now and let that be surfaced in the discussion after the experiment proper.
[...] dusty corner of my internet empire (more of an inconsequential fiefdom, really, but hey, we have Samuel Delaney and Paul Kinkaid’s occasional attention) for month-long stretches. You can stop your despairing, however, as I’ve finally gotten far [...]
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