Yet More Penguin Science Fiction, ed. Brian Aldiss

Second paragraph of third story (“Before Eden”, by Arthur C. Clarke):

There was no way forward; neither on its jets nor its tractors could S.5—to give the Wreck its official name—scale the escarpment that lay ahead. The South Pole of Venus was only thirty miles away, but it might have been on another planet. They would have to turn back, and retrace their four-hundred-mile journey through this nightmare landscape.

An anthology of cutting edge SF as of the year 1964, when the book retailed for three shillings and sixpence, equivalent to 17½ new pence. There are twelve stories, nine first published in the 1950s and three in the 1960s, all by white men, eight Americans (one of whom was the naturalised Canadian-born A.E. van Vogt) and four British. This was the third of a series of Penguin anthologies edited by Aldiss with the intention of bringing new readers into SF.

All of the stories feature memorable concepts, maybe some of them out of date now (eg the magic-using community sealed off from the scientific world, the defeated white Americans who decide to try and conquer Europe), but stimulating for the Penguin reader of 1964. The standout piece is probably Arthur C. Clarke’s “Before Eden”, in which two cynical technicians accidentally discover life on Venus and unwittingly destroy it as they leave.

The stories do not at all reflect the coming New Wave, but I guess that can be forgiven for a collection which was probably assembled in 1962 and 1963, and perhaps the New Wave might not have appealed to the average Penguin reader as much. It’s an interesting snapshot of the genre at a particular time, and from a particular angle. You can still get Yet More Penguin Science Fiction here.

This was both the shortest unread book that I acquired in 2022, and the sf book that had lingered longest unread on my shelves. Next on those piles respectively are The Forgotten and the Fantastical, ed. Teika Bellamy, and Utterly Dark and the Face of the Deep, by Philip Reeve.

The best known books set in each country: Sri Lanka

See here for methodology. Books are disqualified if less than 50% of them is set in Sri Lanka.

These numbers are crunched by hand, not by AI.

TitleAuthorGoodreads
raters
LibraryThing
owners
The Fountains of ParadiseArthur C. Clarke31,2563,686
Anil’s GhostMichael Ondaatje18,5934,118
The Seven Moons of Maali AlmeidaShehan Karunatilaka 54,6651,257
WaveSonali Deraniyagala22,405939
Running in the FamilyMichael Ondaatje9,6991,781
The Tea Planter’s WifeDinah Jefferies21,637608
You’re InvitedAmanda Jayatissa24,448457
Funny BoyShyam Selvadurai8,648887

You may quibble that The Fountains of Paradise is mostly set on a fictional island called Taprobane; but Taprobane is in almost exactly the same place as Sri Lanka in our world, and it’s pretty clear where the writer had in mind when he was writing the book. Also I love it.

It’s surprising for the top book on my metric to be only in second place on both Goodreads and LibraryThing. Indeed there is an unusual divide between the two systems here: Michael Ondaatje is relatively way more popular than usual on LT, while the women writers on the list are relatively way more popular than usual on GR.

I must say that the book I most want to read off this list is probably Wave, which sounds interesting but tough, as Huck Finn said about Pilgrim’s Progress. I am not completely sure if it passes my 50% test, but it seems more likely than not.

I disqualified only two books this time (see also ChinaIndonesiaMexicoSouth Africa, Cameroon and Australia). They were both by Michael Ondaatje, who attracts “sri lanka” tags for obvious reasons. One was The English Patient, which actually outranked everything else by miles, but has no internal reference to Sri Lanka at all, and the other was The Cat’s Table, which would otherwise have been just below Anil’s Ghost and just above The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida.

Coming next: Taiwan, Malawi, Zambia and Chad.

Asia: India | China | Indonesia | Pakistan | Bangladesh (revised) | Russia | Japan | Philippines (revised) | Vietnam | Iran | Türkiye | Thailand | Myanmar | South Korea | Iraq | Afghanistan | Yemen | Uzbekistan | Malaysia | Saudi Arabia | Nepal | North Korea | Syria | Sri Lanka | Taiwan | Kazakhstan | Cambodia | Jordan | UAE
Americas: USA | Brazil (revised) | Mexico | Colombia | Argentina | Canada | Peru | Venezuela | Guatemala | Ecuador | Bolivia | Haiti | Dominican Republic | Honduras
Africa: Nigeria | Ethiopia (revised) | Egypt | DR Congo | Tanzania | South Africa | Kenya | Sudan | Uganda | Algeria | Morocco | Angola | Mozambique | Ghana | Madagascar | Côte d’Ivoire | Cameroon | Niger | Mali | Burkina Faso | Malawi | Zambia | Chad | Somalia | Senegal | Zimbabwe | Guinea | Benin | Rwanda | Burundi | Tunisia | South Sudan
Europe: Russia | Türkiye | Germany | France | UK | Italy | Spain | Poland | Ukraine | Romania | Netherlands | Belgium
Oceania: Australia

From Narnia to a Space Odyssey: Stories, Letters, and Commentary By and About C.S. Lewis and Arthur C. Clarke, ed. Ryder W. Miller

Second paragraph of third chapter:

But Clarke was also a famous visionary linked with developments in space exploration, and he explored the role and potentials of technology. He has been one of our guides to the grand adventure of space exploration, one who could write a story and one with wit, but also one who could bring clarity to the explication of complicated scientific issues.

I skimmed this book when writing up Childhood’s End and then came back to it a couple of days later. It has three parts: 1) an analytical introduction, including short profiles of Lewis and Clarke and a preface by Clarke himself; 2) the actual correspondence between Lewis and Clarke, which consists of fifteen letters over the years between 1936 and 1954, some of them very short; and 3) stories and essays by the two writers, three by Lewis and eight by Clarke. The publication history is rather droll, but Miller isn’t a terribly deep analyst and he makes a number of obvious mistakes in reading Lewis’s handwriting; also the first of the stories included, “Ministering Angels” by Lewis, is just repulsive (a sex worker and a feminist go to Mars). The primary non-fiction material is welcome, but the rest a bit superfluous.

The Americans who married C.S. Lewis and Arthur C. Clarke; and Childhood’s End

In C.S. Lewis’s earliest surviving letter to Joy Davidman Gresham, dated 22 December 1953, he wrote:

Dear Joy–

As far as I can remember you were non-committal about Childhood’s End: I suppose you were afraid that you might raise my expectations too high and lead to disappointment. If that was your aim, it has succeeded, for I came to it expecting nothing in particular and have been thoroughly bowled over. It is quite out of range of the common space-and-time writers…

[three paragraphs of substantial analysis follow]

And now, what do you think? Do you agree that it is AN ABSOLUTE CORKER?

…It is a strange comment on our age that such a book lies hid in a hideous paper-backed edition, wholly unnoticed by the cognoscenti, while any ‘realistic’ drivel about some neurotic in a London flat–something that needs no real invention at all, something that any educated man could write if he chose, may get seriously reviewed and mentioned in serious books–as if it really mattered. I wonder how long this tyranny will last? Twenty years ago I felt no doubt that I should live to see it all break up and great literature return: but here I am, losing teeth and hair, and still no break in the clouds.

One of many interesting things about this is that Joy actually knew Arthur C. Clarke, and other London science fiction writers such as Sam “John Christopher” Youd, long before she knew C.S. Lewis; her previous husband, William Lindsay Gresham, knew Martin Gardner, Frederik Pohl and Robert A. Heinlein, and Joy herself was a regular attender of the science fiction meetups at the White Horse Tavern which is how she knew Clarke.

She showed Lewis’s letter to Clarke, and (needless to say) he was thrilled, and fired off an enthusiastic reply. An exchange of views between Lewis and Clarke began, though there was no real meeting of minds. Clarke himself wrote in a preface to the published correspondence:

As far as I can recall, Lewis and I met only once. The encounter took place at Oxford in the well-known pub, the Eastgate. I was accompanied by my fellow Interplanetarian, Val Cleaver, and Lewis brought along a friend whose name I didn’t catch. Needless to say, neither side converted the other, and we refused to abandon our diabolical schemes of interplanetary conquest. But a fine time was had by all, and when, some hours later, we emerged a little unsteadily from the Eastgate, Dr. Lewis’s parting words were: “I’m sure you’re very wicked people—but how dull it would be if everyone was good.”

C.S. Lewis’s friend? It was another Oxford don, one J.R.R. Tolkien, who I met again some years later at a lunch in London. My only recollection of that occasion is Tolkien pointing to his diminutive publisher and whispering to me: “Now you see where I got the idea of the Hobbits?”

Perhaps one reason why our correspondence was virtually non-existent in later years was that I was in indirect touch with Lewis all the time through Joy Gresham. Every week we London science fiction writers, editors and publishers met in the White Horse tavern—the scarcely disguised background of my Tales of the White Hart. It was Joy who sent Lewis Childhood’s End—I don’t know whether she did it on her own volition, but can well believe I did a certain amount of arm-twisting.

I was very fond of Joy, one of the most charming and intelligent people I’ve ever known. Her ultimate marriage to C.S. Lewis was a great surprise to everyone. Its tragic outcome has been dramatized in the play, Shadowlands, and was described by Lewis himself in A Grief Observed, which I have never had the heart to read.

(I’ve now also read the correspondence between them, and will write that up in a couple of days.)

As well as seeing the TV play Shadowlands when it was first broadcast in 1985, I actually saw it on stage in London in 1990, with Nigel Hawthorne as C.S. Lewis, Jane Lapotaire as Joy and Geoffrey Toone as Lewis’ brother Warren. I can still count the number of West End shows I have been to on the fingers of both hands, and this was definitely in the top three.

Childhood’s End was Clarke’s fifth novel, after Against the Fall of Night, Prelude to Space, The Sands of Mars and Islands in the Sky. It’s in a completely different league to the others, and indeed to most science fiction of the day; and it’s impossible that Joy could not have recognised this. So it’s entirely plausible that Lewis’s guess was right, and she did deliberately underplay her enthusiasm for Childhood’s End to him, partly out of concern that he might not like it and partly in hope that he would be pleasantly surprised when he did.

It is an interesting coincidence that within a couple of years of each other, both Arthur C. Clarke and C.S. Lewis married much younger American women. While thinking about what I was going to write here, I looked a bit more into Clarke’s own brief marriage to Marilyn Torgeson née Mayfield, which almost precisely coincided with the finalisation and publication of Childhood’s End in 1953 – the first edition is dedicated “To Marilyn, who let me read the proofs on our honeymoon.” (You will probably not find this in your edition of the book.)

The received wisdom is that when they met in March 1953, Marilyn was 22, divorced and had a son by her previous marriage. However, the data I have gleaned on Ancestry.com suggests a more complex backstory, as follows:

  • 28 April 1931: born as Marilyn Martin Mayfield to David Alexander Mayfield jr (1901-1997) and Nellie Lee Martin (1907-1932) in Jacksonville, Florida. She had one older brother, David Alexander Mayfield III (1928-2008).
  • 1932 (precise date unknown): death of Marilyn’s mother.
  • 1933: father remarries to Erma E. Myers, née Eleazer (1908-1964), from South Carolina.
  • 12 August 1948: Marilyn, age 17, marries 19-year-old Robert Ives Brooks (1919-2011) in Jacksonville, which is where both were born.
  • 24 May 1949: Marilyn, now 18, marries 21-year-old Edwin Torgeson (1927-2003) in Los Angeles. He was born in New York. Presumably her first marriage had been formally dissolved; available records are incomplete.
  • 1950: Edwin and Marilyn Torgeson are recorded as living together in Jacksonville in a city directory.
  • 24 April 1950: the federal census records Edwin as living in Alachua, Florida, 120 km / 70 miles from Jacksonville. His marital status is given as “Separated”.
  • 25 March 1951: Marilyn gives birth to Philip Alexander Torgeson (1951-2005), who lives all his life in Jacksonville (and did not marry, as far as I can tell).
  • 21 February 1953: Edwin Torgeson remarries in Los Angeles to Mary Jane Highfield (1930-2008). They have one son.
  • 28 May 1953: Marilyn meets 35-year-old Arthur C. Clarke (1917-2008) a month after her 22nd birthday. She is working at the Ocean Reef Harbor Club in Key Largo, Florida.
  • 15 June 1953: Marilyn and Arthur marry in New York, and she moves to London with him, leaving her son in the care of the Torgesons.
  • August 1953: Childhood’s End is published, and rapidly becomes a huge success. As previously noted, it is dedicated “To Marilyn, who let me read the proofs on our honeymoon.”
  • Late 1953: the Clarkes’ marriage does not work out.
  • December 1953: Marilyn returns to Florida.
  • January 1954: Arthur visits Marilyn in Florida to agree the terms of their separation.
  • February 1955: publication of Arthur’s next novel, Earthlight. This time the dedication is “To Val/who massacred the second draft/And Bernie who slaughtered the third—/but particularly to Marilyn who spent the advance before I got to Chapter 2.”
  • 1956: Arthur moves permanently to Sri Lanka, where he later develops a relationship with Leslie Ekanayake (1947-77).
  • December 1964: Marilyn and Arthur’s divorce is formalised. Neither married again.
  • 24 June 1991: Marilyn dies aged 60 in Jacksonville, still using the surname “Clarke” after almost forty years.
  • 19 March 2008: Arthur C. Clarke dies aged 90 in Sri Lanka.

Clarke’s authorised biographies say that Marilyn had one previous marriage and a child at the time that they met, but in fact, as far as I can tell, she had been married twice. I note that her son was born eleven months after Edwin was recorded in the census as ‘separated’, though it’s also clear that Edwin exercised paternal rights and treated Philip as his child. It’s not really anyone else’s business, of course.

So, coming back to Childhood’s End for myself, I had read it a couple of times previously but needed to be reminded of it. (I’m a bit ashamed to realise that the last time I name-checked Clarke’s best books in a blog post here, I forgot about it.) It was a happy return.

To get one thing out of the way, here’s the second paragraph of the third chapter:

This was another of those restless nights when his brain went on turning like a machine whose governor had failed. He knew better than to woo sleep any further, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. Throwing on his dressing gown, he strolled out on to the roof garden of his modest flat. There was not one of his direct subordinates who did not possess much more luxurious quarters, but this place was ample for Stormgren’s needs. He had reached the position where neither personal possessions nor official ceremony could add anything to his stature.

Many of Clarke’s books explore, with some fascination, the world of metaphysics and the spirit, and I think Childhood’s End sets the tone for that exploration. It’s a book that is ahead of its time, sowing the seeds for the hippy era a decade in the future, with the whole of humanity being prepared by for a massive shift of consciousness, into transcendence – but overseen by the alien Overlords who force the people of Earth to give up childish things like war and religion. It feeds directly into the climax of 2001. Yes, it’s a clunky 1950s story in form and style, but not in content.

It’s also got the closest examination of human relationships that I can think of in any of Clarke’s works. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the women (or indeed the men) are particularly memorable, but the book shows a sympathy for emotional and family life that is unusual both for sf of that time and for Clarke’s work as a whole. We know that he did not meet Marilyn until the book was almost finished, but I surmise that he was emotionally ready for a committed relationship, and she happened to be in the right place at the right time. (Though unfortunately they turned out to be the wrong people for each other.)

You can get it here.

So, this was the top book on my shelves which I had not already reviewed online. Appropriately enough, the next is Voyage to Venus, by C.S. Lewis.

No, But I Saw the Movie: The Best Short Stories Ever Made Into Film, ed. David Wheeler

Second paragraph of third story (“Blow-Up” / “Las Babas del Diablo”, by Julio Cortázar):

Puestos a contar, si se pudiera ir a beber un bock por ahí y que la máquina siguiera sola (porque escribo a máquina), sería la perfección. Y no es un modo de decir. La perfección, sí, porque aquí el agujero que hay que contar es también una máquina (de otra especie, una Contax 1.1.2) y a lo mejor puede ser que una máquina sepa más de otra máquina que yo, tú, ella – la mujer rubia – y las nubes. Pero de tonto sólo tengo la suerte, y sé que si me voy, esta Remington se quedará petrificada sobre la mesa con ese aire de doblemente quietas que tienen las cosas movibles cuando no se mueven. Entonces tengo que escribir. Uno de todos nosotros tiene que escribir, si es que todo esto va a ser contado. Mejor que sea yo que estoy muerto, que estoy menos comprometido que el resto; yo que no veo más que las nubes y puedo pensar sin distraerme, escribir sin distraerme (ahí pasa otra, con un borde gris) y acordarme sin distraerme, yo que estoy muerto (y vivo, no se trata de engañar a nadie, ya se verá cuando llegue el momento, porque de alguna manera tengo que arrancar y he empezado por esta punta, la de atrás, la del comienzo, que al fin y al cabo es la mejor de las puntas cuando se quiere contar algo).Seated ready to tell it, if one might go to drink a bock over there, and the typewriter continues by itself (because I use the machine), that would be perfection. And that’s not just a manner of speaking. Perfection, yes, because here is the aperture which must be counted also as a machine (of another sort, a Contax 1.1.2) and it is possible that one machine may know more about another machine than I, you, she – the blond – and the clouds. But I have the dumb luck to know that if I go this Remington will sit turned to stone on top of the table with the air of being twice as quiet that mobile things have when they are not moving. So, I have to write. One of us all has to write, if this is going to get told. Better that it be me who am dead, for I’m less compromised than the rest; I who see only the clouds and can think without being distracted, write without being distracted (there goes another, with a grey edge) and remember without being distracted, I who am dead (and I’m alive, I’m not trying to fool anybody, you’ll see when we get to the moment, because I have to begin some way and I’ve begun with this period, the last one back, the Blow-Up one at the beginning, which in the end is the best of the periods when you want to tell something).

An anthology of 18 short stories which were all adapted into well-known films. I remain fairly illiterate in movie lore, so I’m sorry to say that I have seen very few of the classic movies represented here; the ones I knew were “The Wisdom of Eve” by Mary Orr, source for All About Eve; “Night Bus” by Samuel Hopkins Adams, source for It Happened One Night; and “The Sentinel”, by Arthur C. Clarke, source for 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I had seen two of the other films, but not previously read the original stories: Guys and Dolls, based on “The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown” by Damon Runyon, where I think the show is better than the original, and Psycho, which is very different from “The Real Bad Friend” by Robert Bloch to the point that I actually query the strength of the connection between them. Also, which I have not seen Stagecoach, Ernest Haycox’ story “From Stage to Lordsburg” seems to me rather derivative of Maupassant’s “Boule de Suif”.

There were several here that I liked, enough to make stronger efforts to see the films: “The Fly” by George Langelaan, “The Greatest Gift by Philip Van Doren Stern which was the source for It’s A Wonderful Life, “The Day of Atonement” by Samson Raphaelson which was the source for The Jazz Singer, and “Mr Blandings Builds His Castle” by Eric Hodgins, which became Mr Blandings Builds His Castle. On the other hand I could not make head nor tail of “The Tin Star”, by John M. Cunningham, supposedly the basis for High Noon.

Long out of print but a quirky and interesting collection. You can get it here.

This was the non-genre fiction book that had lingered longest unread on my shelves. Next on that pile is Bulgarian classic Under the Yoke, by Ivan Yazov.

Tales from Planet Earth, by Arthur C. Clarke

Second paragraph of intro to third story (“Publicity Campaign”):

Although the references in the story are somewhat dated, the questions it raises are certainly not. And by a curious coincidence, I’ve re-read it the very week the media are ruefully celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Orson Welles’ famous War of the Worlds broadcast. (CBS’s Mercury Theatre of the Air, 31 October, 1938.)

Second paragraph of text of “Publicity Campiagn”:

R.B. heaved himself out of his seat while his acolytes waited to see which way the cat would jump. It was then that they noticed that R.B.’s cigar had gone out. Why, that hadn’t happened even at the preview of ‘G.W.T.W.’!

Of the three great mid-century sf writers, Clarke has aged much better for me than Asimov or Heinlein. This collection, originally published in 1989, brings together some familiar friends (“‘If I Forget Thee. O Earth…'”) and some unexpected discoveries (“Wall of Darkness”) in the Clarkeian œuvre. (I checked, and they are all in the Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke which I read in 2016, but not all of them had lingered with me.) What’s also nice is to read his introductions to each story, written in 1988 when he had just turned 70. It’s old-fashioned stuff but I found it really refreshing, reading it in the middle of my Clarke Award duties for this year. You can get it here.

I also want to shout out to Michael Whelan’s art. The cover is also rather glorious – though he notes on his website that the spaceship to the top right of the primitive human’s head was added at the publisher’s insistence, rather than the egg which the artist had originally painted. Greyscale snippets from the cover photo illustrate each of the sixteen stories.

This was the top unread book that I acquired in 2021. Next on that pile is Twelve Caesars, by Mary Beard.