I’m fairly interested in different kinds of information-giving (or information-withholding) approaches. I’d agree that it’s an important part of what makes literature work the way it does. Tomino could’ve never gotten away with the structure of Overman King Gainer (which doesn’t withhold information strategically so much as just not give much of it) if it were a biography — that’s probably why I don’t read many biographies, actually. Now that I think about it, selective withholding may be even more integral to science fiction than other types, given the way it works as far as world-building during reading, which is something Cuchlann could explain much better than I could; circumdation may feel more “natural” in something like Diebuster for that reason.

I wonder if we should differentiate between literature in which humans achieve godlike proportions, and literature in which their creations do the same. The latter situation makes us sort-of gods, I guess — ancient gods were always taking power from their forebears, so it may not matter that we’re less obviously potent — but maybe there’s something to be gained from speculating on whether humans are ultimately Olympian or primordial.

Yeah, I’ve considered that part of it is a matter of spectacle in literature changing with the times. It’s hard to be impressed even by a rocket traveling to the moon anymore; we need ships and people who can step into and out of physical space, and so on. But it almost feels as if the foresight from which we pull impressive science-fictional things knows no bounds; we’re confident in our ability to do just about anything, eventually. Maybe it’s a result of the last hundred years’ rate of technological and scientific development, whether godly awareness or overconfidence. I’m not suggesting that the point of science fiction is the suggesting of things that may actually happen; it’s just interesting that, when writers could turn to literal gods or at least similarly powerful entities to fulfill their spectacular needs, they choose humans and human-made things instead.

I did read Frankenstein, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge of early literature with those kinds of creator characters. Just a thought…is there any criticism out there that judges Dr. Frankenstein by way of the monster’s attributes, or advocates such an approach? I feel like it’d be useful to figure out how much the creation is or can be an extension of the creator.

Thought: it’s actually possible that a new literary construction may allow for narrative outside Frye’s system. That is, the SF conception of humankind as creator of something that could be likened (at least) to life itself. Go Frankenstein (and/or golem stories, you know, whatever)! The humans are mimetic/romantic (depending on how you view their ability to do science), the creations are romantic or, in this case and others, god-like (Mazinger = Zeus?), and the parts are integrated using the irony you’ve identified.

I guess the question is whether these creations are really gods. Does Nono ever do anything she wasn’t originally designed for? I’ll have to re-watch soon and see.

Oh, also, see Stanislaw Lem’s book, The Cyberiad, about a universe populated by robots (who, it’s hinted, were made by organic lifeforms at some point, but they’re all dead); the stories center around two constructors — two robots who are robot engineers, effectively celebrated (rather than despised) Victor Frankensteins.

The difference between constructed lives as either romantic or mythic, is Nietzsche (of course!). Robots without the will-to-power are just like Asimov’s robots: awesome but dawdling. With it? Nono.