Neuromancer-Part Seven

A Gothic Science Fiction

It has taken a lot of writing to get here, but my idea is that Neuromancer by William Gibson (1984) is a Gothic or Romantic science fiction, also a science fiction of decadence rather than of ascent. Romanticism and Gothicism are about the past. Very often they are about decadence and descent, as in weird fiction. Both science fiction and weird fiction descended (no pun intended) in part from the Gothic and Romantic works of Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe. But I think the Hugo Gernsback/John W. Campbell, Jr. type of science fiction is more nearly an innovation. It is, I think, a break with the past and is discontinuous with other types of genre fiction.

My idea is that Gothic or Romantic science fiction is an attempted return to the past, to a time before there were discontinuities in fiction or literature. Again, science fiction is an innovation. Rather than evolutionary, as conservative institutions are or tend to be, science fiction is more nearly revolutionary, as modern science is in the real world. In contrast, a Gothic or Romantic science fiction would appear reactionary. Reaction is one way of being conservative.

If there are spectra, then Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe are, in this interpretation, on the conservative side of the spectrum. Scholar Lee Sterrenburg opened his essay "Mary Shelley's Monster: Politics and Psyche in Frankenstein" (in The Endurance of "Frankenstein": Essays on Mary Shelley's Novel, edited by George Levine and U.C. Knoepflmacher and published by the University of California Press, 1979) with what reads like a conclusion:

     Mary Shelley was the daughter of two of England's foremost intellectual radicals, Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin. For a number of reasons--not all of which can be considered here--she rejected her utopian and radical heritage and opted for a more conservative and pessimistic view of the world. [Boldface added.]

As for Poe, American conservative author and poet Peter Viereck considered him among our culturally conservative authors. I won't argue.

I have written on these topics before. Here are titles and links to three entries:

• "Pipe Dreams and Premonitions-Part Three" (Aug. 9, 2015)

• "Skilled Destroyers" (May 20, 2017)

• "Frankenstein: A Monster of Gothicism and Science" (Aug. 11, 2015)

The last of those entries was supposed to have been the lead-in to the current series on Neuromancer and William Gibson. Well, better late than never. Besides that, I have brought in a lot of topics that I would not have had I written in 2015. This series is better--though longer--for it, I think.

I imagine there are other authors of Gothic and Romantic science fiction. Maybe William Gibson took the lead. If there is a category of Gothic or Romantic science fiction, then maybe its authors are like the Pre-Raphaelites in British art, i.e., a somewhat conservative or reactionary movement, or an attempted return to the past, before change and innovation had set in. The paradox is that the Pre-Raphaelites were not evolutionary. I don't know whether they ever published a manifesto--maybe their official publication The Germ was it--but their movement was conscious and intellectual, and it had a set beginning. In a way, it was revolutionary, and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood was established in 1848, a year of revolution in Europe and the year in which Karl Marx issued his regrettable and disastrous Communist Manifesto.

By the way, an associate of the Pre-Raphaelites was William Morris. He was also a socialist, though utopian rather than "scientific" as in Marx's case. As we have seen, socialism is an essentially reactionary movement rather than an innovation, for socialists seek a restoration of the feudalistic past in which there are only two classes of men, the few on top and the very many below. They also of course seek complete stasis, as in the feudal ideal, with everyone fixed in his current status and no change permitted. In one sense, Nazis were more forward-looking and less reactionary than were their communist counterparts. One thing that Nazis and Bolsheviks shared is their hatred of the Jewish people. If you doubt that Marxism began with anti-semitism among its strains of thought, read what Marx had to say about Jews and the so-called "Jewish question" in the 1840s. (Why is there always a "Jewish question" but no equivalent questions regarding other groups?) Remember, too, that the worst villain in 1984 by George Orwell (completed in the centennial year of The Communist Manifesto) is named Emmanuel Goldstein and was undoubtedly based on Leon Trotsky.

In 1926 when the first issue of Amazing Stories was published, science fiction was an innovation. Throughout the 1920s and into the 1930s, its various authors, artists, editors, and fans developed science fiction into a specific type--or two types, the hard science fiction type of Astounding Science-Fiction and what I guess you could call the adventurous or romantic science fiction or science fantasy of Planet Stories, Fantastic Adventures, etc. If there were two types, hard science fiction was the respectable one, at least in literary terms. It was or became the mainstream type. For example, in 1947, Robert A. Heinlein broke out of the pulps and into mainstream slick magazines with "The Green Hills of Earth," published in The Saturday Evening Post. (It's a story about music by the way.) Meanwhile, in 1947, the Shaver Mystery, a shabby chronicle based on the ravings of a real-life madman, was still the rage in Amazing Stories and related titles. Astounding Science Fiction started going the same way in May 1950 with the publication of "Dianetics: The New Science of the Mind" by L. Ron Hubbard. Maybe a process of decay had set in and the Golden Age of Science Fiction was thereby ended.

Pulp magazines faded in the 1950s. In 1960 came the question Is science fiction dying? (That same year, Astounding Science Fiction became Analog Science Fact & Fiction. Name changes in popular culture often indicate trouble.) I wonder whether the British New Wave of science fiction was the first sub-genre of the post-1950s or post-Golden Age. Cyberpunk followed the British New Wave. I wonder whether it was the second. Anyway, were New Wave and cyberpunk reactionary? If so, does that mean that they were or are conservative in some way? Were the authors of New Wave and cyberpunk in particular attempting a return to the past, to a time before the innovations of hard science fiction, before the innovation of science fiction itself, or even before the splitting of fiction or literature into recognizable and nameable genres and sub-genres? Finally, was that past Gothic or Romantic in its orientation, themes, and so on?

My idea is that Neuromancer by William Gibson and perhaps cyberpunk in general is a kind of decadent, Gothic or Romantic science fiction, oriented on the past and returning to the Gothic and Romantic origins of science fiction in Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, among others, before genrification set in, and when there was still continuity in literature. Neuromancer was a new romance and the work of a new romancer, a phrase from Hugo Gernsback's introductory essay of 1926. Mr. Gibson was fully aware of Gernsback and his brand of science fiction, for before there was Neuromancer, there was his story "The Gernsback Continuum," from 1981, in which there is talk not only of Gernsbackian science fiction--illustrated by Frank R. Paul--but also of Nazis and what a character in the story refers to as "raygun Gothic."

Innovations and revolutions very often begin with a gnosis or a priori systems of thought, very often expressed in a manifesto. Manifestos are very often intellectualized works, or they are pseudo-intellectual, as in Hubbard's "Dianetics: A New Science of the Mind." (Again, if we're looking for an end date to the Golden Age of Science Fiction, we might set it to May 1950 when "Dianetics" was published.) They are often visionary and sometimes seemingly mad and full of fury. They are often angry, aggressive, incoherent, or inarticulate. Science fiction is a field in which a pre-action manifesto was put forth in Hugo Gernsback's essay "A New Sort of Magazine," published in Amazing Stories in April 1926. Gernsback afterwards enacted his ideas. Unlike with other manifestos and the actions based upon them, nobody died as a result. Karl Marx had his manifesto, too. It was the basis of what he called "scientific socialism." Countless millions have died as a result of that idea. Nice work, Marxists. Marxism in general has been a model and an inspiration for science fiction authors since then, for example, Isaac Asimov and his  concept of "future history." A more immediate manifesto in the arts was the Futurist manifesto of 1909 with its emphasis on speed, newness, youth, technology--and destruction of the past and all old things. Italian Futurism is supposed to have influenced Italian Fascism. If it did, that wouldn't be much of a surprise to me. We should always remember, by the way, that Mussolini was a socialist.

I have been writing about music in parallel to science fiction. Cyberpunk was obviously named after punk music and punk culture. Did punk have a manifesto? I don't know. A more interesting question is this: was punk an innovation, or was it a reaction? If Neuromancer is an example of cyberpunk; and cyberpunk is or was an attempted return to the past; and cyberpunk took after punk music and punk culture; did it then depart from punk by being a reaction? Or did it actually follow punk, which may have also been a reaction? If it followed punk, does that mean that punk was also an attempted return to the past, a kind of Pre-Raphaelite movement except that it was Pre-Beatle-ite? In British music of the 1970s and 1980s, there were punk, New Wave, Goth, and New Romantic strains or genres. (Bauhaus, a British goth band, was named for the revolutionary and futuristic Bauhaus movement in art and design, founded in--when else--1919. Bauhaus had its manifesto, too, written by Walter Gropius.) The same strains and genres seem to have been in science fiction. Nothing stands alone in the arts. Music and science fiction must have fed off of each other during the 1970s and '80s. And it all makes for the most fascinating of ideas and speculations.

I have a coda still to come, and now something else has come up, too, so I'll have another coda after that. In the meantime, I would like to say: Happy 100th Anniversary to Pulp Science Fiction and Happy 50th Anniversary to Punk Music!

Amazing Stories, September 1928. The framework of the mechanistic logo of Scientifiction must be a cross section from the inside of a spaceship, but it takes a shape approaching that of a Gothic arch, and the planet-and-star studded blue background looks like a wizard's hat. Maybe the gears driving the writing pen should include "ROMANCE" and "MYSTERY."

And speaking of Gothic arches, a Gothic arch is a negative space. The positive shape that might fill it is the rocketship standing on its launchpad, ready to blast off, or on the surface of a distant planet, already having arrived on a new world.

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Gertrude M. Barrows Bennett (1883-1948)-Part Six

Conclusion

Charles Montgomery Stuart Bennett (1874-1910) was supposed to have been a writer for magazines. Maybe a shared interest in writing is how he and Gertrude M. Barrows (1883-1948) met. I have looked for his name in The FictionMags Index and have come up empty. I have also looked for different versions of his name and found an author named Charles Stuart who wrote several stories published in British story magazines in 1910-1911. Was he our man? Who can say?

Gertrude M. Barrows wrote a story under her own name published in 1904. As far as anyone knows, she did not have another of her stories published until 1917, and then only under the pseudonym Francis Stevens. Could she have collaborated with her husband in the time in between? Or if he was an author of stories for magazines, could she have actually been his ghostwriter?

In his introduction to The Heads of Cerberus by Francis Stevens, Lloyd Arthur Eshbach wrote: "He [C.M. Stuart Bennett] had been a newspaper reporter, a fact which probably led his widow to contribute feature articles to the newspaper" (Dover, 2014, p. 14). What newspaper? And if she wrote feature articles for newspapers, is that how she could have met A. Merritt (1884-1943), who worked as a journalist at the Philadelphia Inquirer and The Sunday Supplement and/or The Sunday American Magazine, forerunner to The American Weekly, of which he was later the editor? Again, who can say?

Speculations . . .

* * *

One of the themes in the fiction of Francis Stevens is that of old gods returning to earth after having been banished for many centuries, if not millennia. Her stories with this theme and the gods in them are:

• Nacoc-Yaotl in "The Citadel of Fear" (The Argosy, September 14-October 26, 1918)

• The scarlet archangel in "Claimed" (The Argosy, March 6-March 20, 1920)

• Serapion in "Serapion" (The Argosy, June 19-July 10, 1920)

These are dark gods, but they do not triumph in the end. For them to have triumphed would have been uncharacteristic of Francis Stevens, whom I feel certain did not work in the ill-defined, late-twentieth-century sub-genre or sub-sub-genre of dark fantasy. If you're looking for a triumphant old god, see Cthulhu in Strange Eons by Robert Bloch (1978). By the way, The Exorcist (1973), fifty years old this year, also involves the theme of the return of an old god, in this case the ancient Mesopotamian deity Pazuzu. Both "Serapion" and The Exorcist are about demonic possession.

* * *

Other motifs and recurring themes and settings in the work of Francis Stevens are those of treasure hunting, shipwrecks, and islands. Francis Stevens' stories in that vein include:

• "The Nightmare" (All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1917)

• "Friend Island" (All-Story Weekly, September 7, 1918)

• "The Citadel of Fear" (The Argosy, September 14-October 26, 1918)

• "Avalon" (The Argosy, August 16 to September 6, 1919)

• "Claimed" (The Argosy, March 6-March 20, 1920)

• "Sunfire" (Weird Tales, July-September 1923)

In "Friend Island," there is an Ancient Mariness who tells her tale and about her relationship with the eponymous island, which is actually a living being. I wonder if Gertrude Barrows Bennett could have known one of her husband's other wives, Marie La Ton (ca. 1886-?), who was a boat pilot and went with C.M. Stuart Bennett on one of his treasure hunting expeditions to the Carolina coast. If the Ancient Mariness was based on Marie La Ton, then maybe she comes by her feelings about men naturally, as Bennett seems to have been a real scoundrel, specifically when it came to women.

There is a group of treasure hunters in "Sunfire," Francis Stevens' only story in Weird Tales. Here I wonder if one of them could have been a portrait of her drowned husband. There would have been precedent for such a thing in fantasy and science fiction: I think of Victor Frankenstein as having been based in part on the authoress' husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). He drowned, too, by the way, probably also by misadventure.

* * *

I first wrote about Francis Stevens on March 10, 2015. In that posting, I listed her stories, the titles of the magazines in which they were published, and their dates of publication. Her career as a published author lasted a scant six and a half years, from 1917 to 1923, with a prior story having been published in 1904. This is the 100th anniversary year of the close of her career, which came when she was just forty years old. Francis Stevens' stories were rediscovered in the 1940s, though, and were reprinted during that decade, from January 1940 to November 1949 and as late as September 1950, in various pulp magazines. A. Merritt is supposed to have had a hand in that. The last two reprints were posthumous.

The writer behind the pseudonym, Gertrude Barrows Bennett Gaster, last wrote to her daughter, Constance Bennett Wilson, on September 1, 1939, coincidentally the day that Nazi Germany invaded Poland, thus setting off World War II. Thus also, Francis Stevens' stories were first published during World War I and in its aftermath, then published again during World War II and in its aftermath.

Gertrude Gaster lived in California during the 1940s, all or most of that time in San Francisco. If she was paid for her work, then payments would presumably have gone to her at her home in the Golden State. Would any payments made after her death, which came on February 2, 1948, have gone to her husband, Carl F. Gaster? Or to her daughter?

More speculations.

It appears that in writing his introduction to The Heads of Cerberus, Lloyd Arthur Eshbach was in contact with Constance, whom he called "Connie," quotation marks included. The whereabouts of Gertrude Gaster were then unknown, and only Connie could have told him the details of her mother's writing habits or about where and how they had lived in her childhood. Eshbach wrote that the stories of Francis Stevens have "a strong leaning toward the mysterious" (Dover, 2014, p. 13). She seems to have had the same kinds of leanings in her own life, for why ever would she have remained out of contact with her daughter for her last nine years on this earth? Did Constance see that her mother's stories were once again in print during the 1940s? Could she have tracked down Gertrude by going to the editors or publishers of the magazines that did the reprinting? And did Gertrude herself see that her stories were once again in print? Then in her fifties and sixties, could she have taken some final pride and satisfaction in that?

A last coincidence: Lloyd Arthur Eshbach's introduction to The Heads of Cerberus was dated February 1952, the same month in which Gertrude's widower, Carl F. Gaster, was found dead in his home on the other side of the country, in Portland, Oregon.

* * *

I have one more part in this series, inspired by a comment from a couple of weeks ago made by one of the readers of this blog.

* * *

Francis Stevens' Story in Weird Tales
"Sunfire" (two-part serial, July/August-September 1923)

Further Reading

• "Introduction" to The Heads of Cerberus by Francis Stevens, introduction by Lloyd Arthur Eshbach. I have the Dover edition from 2014.

• "The Woman Who Wrote 'Citadel of Fear'" by Sam Moskowitz, his introduction to The Citadel of Fear by Francis Stevens (Paperback Library, 1970).

• The Nightmare and Other Tales of Dark Fantasy by Francis Stevens, edited and with an introduction by Gary Hoppenstand (2004).

• "Navigating the Weird Mind of Gertrude Barrows Bennett--the Mother of Dark Fantasy (pt. 1)" by Taylor, on the website Fandomentals, March 19, 2020, at the following URL:

https://www.thefandomentals.com/gertrude-barrows-bennett-1/

Taylor's title repeats what I see as a misreading and misinterpretation of Francis Stevens as the inventor of what is called dark fantasy.

• "Fantascienza, un genere (femminile). Gertrude Barrows Bennett, alias Francis Stevens" by Laura Coci, on the website Vitaminevaganti, December 5, 2020, at the following URL:

https://vitaminevaganti-com.translate.goog/2020/12/05/fantascienza-un-genere-femminile-gertrude-barrows-bennett-alias-francis-stevens/?_x_tr_sl=it&_x_tr_tl=en&_x_tr_hl=en&_x_tr_pto=sc

• There are other websites and blogs that discuss Francis Stevens, some of which are Italian. It looks as though she and her works are of special interest to Italian fans and researchers. 

"The Funeral of Shelley" by Louis Édouard Fournier, 1889.

Original text copyright 2023 Terence E. Hanley

The Last of Colloids & Tentacles

A colloid is a suspension of one or more substances in another. Two thirds of the ingredients of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich are colloids. A long time ago, I knew a guy who liked banana and mayonnaise sandwiches. (They smelled like house paint.) Only one third of his ingredients--mayonnaise--is colloidal. Protoplasm is a colloid, too, so when John Corliss Cranmer's giant amoeba gulped down first his daughter-in-law, then his son, people were the meal and the colloid was the eater of the meal. But then the people were made of cells brimming with protoplasm, too, and so it was a case of one big colloidal mass eating lots of little ones--if you're a reductionist, that is.

The word colloid is from the French, originally from the Greek. It means "a substance in a gelatinous or gluey state," originally, simply, "glue." Colloid as a word and a scientific concept is from the mid-nineteenth century, as so many things in our daily lives and so many of the ideas in our busy little brains are. There are other gluey concepts in science, collagen, for example, also the subatomic particles called gluons. There are also gluey crafts and gluey art forms. The collage is the most obvious example of these.

People have made collages for a long, long time, but the collage as a work of art dates from the modern period, maybe from the eighteenth century, certainly no later than the nineteenth or early twentieth century. Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso made collages and coined the term papier collé. Those two artists, along with Juan Gris, were originators first of analytical cubism, then of synthetic cubism. In analytical cubism, the artist looks at his or her subject from many different points if view. That's why, in a work by Picasso for example, you can see both eyes in a portrait seemingly done in profile. So, no, Picasso's people are not part flounder. In synthetic cubism--I think a more playful and not so mathematically exacting variation--a work of cubistic art is synthesized by gluing together scraps and cuttings of paper, thus the collage or papier collé. I guess making collages would have been hard to do before there was a mass and popular press as a source of material.

In moving towards synthesis, or what we might call literary collage, modern authors followed modern artists, I think. The art seems to have come first--synthetic cubism was in flower, if you can call it that, in 1912-1914. Then came the literary works, "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot, for example, in 1922, Show Girl by J.P. McEvoy in 1928, John Dos Passos' U.S.A. trilogy in 1930-1936. I think we can include "The Call of Cthulhu" by H.P. Lovecraft (Weird Tales, Feb. 1928) in that list, too. Several stories in the first issue of Weird Tales (Mar. 1923) include notes, clippings, diary entries, and so forth, as if the story were a scrapbook or a collage. That kind of thing would continue in future issues.

"The Call of Cthulhu" also has an analytical approach, as do other works of weird fiction that refer or allude to weird geometries, outré mathematics, and multiple dimensions. Maybe pulp fiction wasn't very far behind mainstream literature in the 1910s-1930s in its move towards modernism. But maybe the pulp fiction genres--especially science fiction--were a little bit ahead because they were in such close contact with the scientific developments of their time. Mainstream authors of the early twentieth century could disregard science. F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and John Steinbeck didn't write science fiction. But then science and the future barged into the room and Walker Percy, Cormac McCarthy, and Margaret Atwood did and have. How times change.

There will be more on Ms. Atwood in a minute.

Dr. Frankenstein made a kind of collage using parts from different bodies, plus an Abby Normal brain. His goal was the synthesis of life from non-life. "I had worked hard for nearly two years," he wrote, "for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body." Lightning was the literal spark of life by which he would do it. And so his monster lived. A long line of proto-scientists, semi-scientists, pseudoscientists, and maybe the rarest kind, real scientists, has proposed that early in the earth's history lightning infused life in what they have called the primordial soup or primordial ooze, ooze being a species of colloid. Anthony M. Rud seems to have alluded to the primordial ooze--or jelly in H.G. Wells' formulation--in his story "Ooze" (Weird Tales, March 1923). Since the early nineteenth century, real-life scientists seem to have followed the example of Victor Frankenstein. We, the world over, recently had a deadly encounter with their Frankensteinian brand of science in the form of a lowly virus raised to the top of a Chinese/U.S. government-built Tower of Babel. They'll do it again. We can be sure of that. Next time it's likely to be worse, but that will be good for them because they can take more of what is ours in the process.

Life arising from non-life, called spontaneous generation, was debunked a long time ago. But I guess debunked things don't always stay that way. For example, there are yet again people who believe that a person can change his or her bodily form by some magical process of mind or by a series of practices they call "care," practices that the rest of us can only consider criminal, immoral, and unethical mutilations of the human body, a kind of witch-doctory or pseudo-medical falling-back on superstition, ultimately a literal diabolism. People who can supposedly transform themselves used to be called shape-shifters or skin-walkers, and they did what they did by supernatural processes. Now they go by a different name and we're supposed to believe that there is science behind it.

From the moment we ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, we have believed ourselves to be as gods and to hold in our hands godlike power, godlike authority, and godlike wisdom. Our punishment was expulsion from the Garden and a realization of death. The difference is that we once knew shame and walked in shame, out of the gates and into exile. Now there isn't any shame, only pride, or Pride as it is now capitalized. Now we walk in history every day, as the worst among us might say. Anyway, I guess if we're gods, we can create and mold bodies and parts of bodies, just as Dr. Frankenstein did. In creating our modern-day monster, we will fashion his/her whole body--his veins, his feet, his hands, his organs--everything, including a Frankenstein's schwanzstucker made from the flesh of her forearm--according to our own whims. It won't be real, but we will be required to call it real and her a man. It will in fact be grotesque, a monstrous simulacrum, at once a symbol and a manifestation of our reaching into hell in our efforts to reach into heaven, where we believe we are or shall be enthroned. And, no, she's not gonna be very popular because of it.

Margaret Atwood, who has been called a TERF because she knows what everybody in the whole history of the world knew until ten minutes ago, famously said, "Science fiction is rockets, chemicals and talking squids in outer space." As we know, squids are cephalopods and the bearers of tentacles. So Ms. Atwood has offended not only people who don't know what a woman is, but she has probably also offended a lot of science fiction fans with her opinions on these things. If you're an offended Star Wars fan, though, you might want to just slink away, the reason being that in the Star Wars universe, there is a literal talking squid. His title is Admiral and his name is Ackbar, and though his tentacles are small (they're more like the barbels of a catfish), he is a member of a race called the Mon Calamari, meaning, in una bella lingua of a faraway planet spinning on its axis a long, long time in the future, squid. (The noun is Italian, the possessive pronoun French.)

There are other tentacled aliens in the Star Wars universe. Oola is one. Ahsoka is another. They have tentacles coming out of their heads. The Thermians in Galaxy Quest (1999) are, in their true form, tentacled. They are one form but take another. Call them trans, I guess. Cthulhu of course has tentacles. In Frank Frazetta's interior illustration for The Chessmen of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs (1922), there are tentacled heads, called Kaldanes in the story, that frighten and horrify Tara of Helium. In Gino d'Achille's  cover version, the Kaldanes are more spider-like. I believe the Kaldanes have both kinds of members, though, both tentacles and jointed legs. Maybe a Burroughs fan can let us know for sure. That reaching down through the neck to control a host body is also in The Puppet Masters by Robert A. Heinlein (1951), the Star Trek Episode "Operation -- Annihilate!" (1967), and, if I remember right, a skit on SCTV in which cabbage leaves attach themselves to the backs of people's heads. In the Star Trek episode at least, the controlling aliens are colloidal, made by the prop master from bags of fake vomit. By the way, the ninth book in Burroughs' Mars series is The Synthetic Men of Mars, originally published in 1939, and so we have another example of Frankensteinian synthesis in genre fiction.

Colloids are sometimes fun. Give a child a bottle of Elmer's Glue-All along with some construction paper and glitter and see how she entertains herself. But in science fiction, fantasy, and weird fiction, colloids are more often gross, nasty, disgusting, and revolting--when they are not creeping, crawling, encroaching, and deadly in the way shoggoths or the Blob is. We have a different reaction to tentacled creatures, owing, I think, to our hundred-thousand-year experience with them. They are real, discrete, recognizable, nameable, alive. They look back at us with the biggest eyes in nature. And the smartest of them are very smart. More than any of that, though, they seem alien in their star-shaped or radially symmetrical bodies. It's no wonder tentacled creatures became the aliens of science fiction, or more accurately, why science fiction authors, beginning with H.G. Wells, would have fashioned the tentacled creatures of earth into aliens from outer space. Maybe we have atavistic memories of when octopuses first came to our planet, raining down on us in their iron spaceships.

We were made in the image of our Creator, and so we wish to create, thus our art and literature, among so many other great and wonderful things, including most of all love, which allows us an escape into eternity. Where we make our mistake is in believing we can create or re-create the things that he first created. And so Frankensteinian scientists, engineers, and technicians are busy. They believe they can create life (or that life was created) from non-life. They believe they can alter unalterable facts about human nature, human anatomy, and human biology. They believe they can make of us something beyond human, better than human, other than human, transhuman. They're working on synthesizing new forms from fragments of previously existing ones. The coronavirus and a million dead are one result of that. The supposedly counteractive "vaccine" and a million more dead are another. They also believe they can transfer the human mind into a machine, thus surviving their own deaths.* In fact, they appear to see little difference between the ghost and the machine. One can be the other. One is the other. And so we will soon have machines taking the place of human beings. Soon after that, our machines will probably enslave or kill us. If you have never read "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" by Harlan Ellison (1967), you probably should, like right now. It may give you a glimpse into our caliginous--not collagenous but caliginous--future. Anyway, thanks, scientists, but ultimately, thanks, all of us, for we have all done this. Scientists--others, too--are only at the vanguard of our limitless depravity in our fallen state. We fall. The asymptotic curve of our pursuit of perfection--of a perfect and limitless depravity--moves forever upwards.

-----

*Having eaten the forbidden fruit, they believe that the knowledge they have thereby gained will reopen the gates and allow them back into the Garden.

"To Tara's horror, the headless body moved, took the hideous head in its hands and set it on its shoulders." Illustration by Frank Frazetta from The Chessmen of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Text copyright 2023 Terence E. Hanley

Origins of Ooze-Part One

If it had not been the cover story in that first issue of Weird Tales, Anthony M. Rud's "Ooze" might now be forgotten. Instead, it was reprinted in the expanded and enhanced edition of The Weird Tales Story (2021) and is now available as an ebook. It has also been the subject of recent commentary, analysis, and criticism.

A century separates us from "Ooze." The world from which it came is gone forever. What do we know--what can we know?--of its origins or the context in which it written? Only a little? Or maybe a lot? If we follow some lines of inquiry--if we investigate today in the same way Rud's narrator investigated the events at that ruined house on the edge of Moccasin Swamp--maybe we can discover more about the origins of "Ooze."

"Ooze" would seem to have been something fairly new in its time, a work of science fiction before that genre was so named. Remember that Weird Tales was the first American magazine devoted to stories of fantasy. In March 1923, Amazing Stories, the first American science fiction magazine, was still three years in the future, while the term science fiction would have to wait until near the end of the decade before it appeared. Although "Ooze" wasn't the first science fiction story to appear in an American magazine, we can call it the first to appear in Weird Tales. That's easy enough.

"Ooze" is more than just an early science fiction story, however. It's also an implicitly self-conscious story. It knows what it is, and because of that, it might also be called metafictional. (1) The first-person narrator in "Ooze" comments on his missing friend:

As readers of popular fiction know well, Lee Cranmer's forte was the writing of what is called--among fellows in the craft--[the] pseudo-scientific story.

He proceeds to define the pseudo-scientific story:

In plain words, this means a yarn, based upon solid fact in the field of astronomy, chemistry, anthropology, or what-not, which carries to logical conclusion improved theories of men who devote their lives to searching out further nadirs of fact.

(That's a curious expression: "nadirs of fact." It makes me think of Charles Fort.)

In the paragraph that follows, the narrator mentions Jules Verne and "an Englishman named Wells" as authors of the pseudo-scientific story, observing:

In certain fashion these men are allies of science. Often they visualize something which has not been imagined even by the best of men from whom they secure data, thus opening new horizons of possibility.

(Remember that Charles Fort also called his clippings "data.")

I have said before that the artist is the canary in the coal mine of culture. Rud seems to have been saying the same kind of thing here.

It's no wonder that "Ooze" was the first cover story in Weird Tales, for here within a work of fiction rather than in any editorial or literary manifesto (such as in "Why Weird Tales?" from a year later) is a definition and a guide to the reader as to just what this is all about. It's a kind of announcement: in this magazine, you will read stories of a certain type, stories based on extrapolations of what we know about the physical universe. Significantly, Rud included anthropology in his short list of fields of inquiry: now the doors are thrown open to the human-inhabited universe as well.

The phrase "weird tales" appears in "Ooze." It is applied to stories told by locals about what they call "Daid House," Cranmer's mysteriously ruined backwoods lodge. If "Ooze" is metafictional in one way, it might be in another, too, for it is a science-fiction story told about weird-fictional events, using some of the conventions of weird fiction. The narrator solves the mystery at Dead House by conducting a series of interviews. In other words, using a scientific or journalistic approach, he gathers a series of weird tales about weird events that took place in a weird-fictional setting, involving a super-scientist and his son, a writer of pseudo-scientific stories, the result being an early science-fiction story published in a magazine called Weird Tales.

Again, "Ooze" is self-conscious. It seems to have served as a simultaneous statement of purpose and an introduction, welcome, and guide to readers. So, did Rud write "Ooze" specifically for publication in Weird Tales? Maybe. Maybe not. His narrator's investigations take place in 1913, a full decade before that first issue was published. Rud was still a student in 1913. He was also a budding teller of tales. We know from his first letter in "The Eyrie" that he wrote "A Square of Canvas" while he was still in college. Maybe "Ooze" dates from that period as well. On the other hand, we know from Katherine Hopkins Chapman's article that he spent the winter and spring of 1921 in Citronelle, Alabama, where he had gathered material for at least a couple of stories. So maybe we can say that "Ooze" is from about 1921-1922. Anyway, we can speculate that Rud functioned as a kind of literary agent for writers or as a kind of talent scout for Weird Tales. He seems to have been, at the very least, a connection to tellers of weird tales in Alabama. Whether he just lucked onto Weird Tales--and it lucked onto him--or the magazine actually sought him out, with "Ooze" as a result, Anthony M. Rud played his part in the early success of "The Unique Magazine," such as it was.

Science fiction wasn't fully formed when the first issue of Weird Tales arrived, but neither was weird fiction. Although it has its weird-fictional elements, "Ooze" is more nearly science-fictional than weird-fictional. In his story, Rud referred to Verne and Wells. Absent by name are authors such as Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe, whom we recognize as among the originators of weird fiction. (We should always remember the anonymous authors of Beowulf, too.) Both wrote what we might call proto-science fiction, but both might better be characterized as Gothic and Romantic authors, as authors who told tales of passion, vengeance, and the extremities of emotion, of irrationality, horror, terror, and madness. On the other hand, what is "Ooze" but just another instance of Frankensteinian science? Of an overweening pride in science and reason rather than an understanding of human frailty and the workings of human nature as the determiners of our fate?

It seems clear to me that Jules Verne and H.G. Wells--especially Wells--were Anthony Rud's models in writing "Ooze." Rud was, after all, trained in science and medicine, just as Wells had been. "Ooze" is an account by a first-person narrator of investigations carried out in a pretty even scientific or journalistic manner. The first-person narrator in The War of the Worlds is also, for example, a writer. (2) Wells' seminal works of science fiction were less than thirty years old when Rud wrote. Most were published in the same decade in which Rud was born. By the time Rud was a teenager--in other words, after his Golden Age of Twelve had passed--Wells had moved on. Rud's narrator in "Ooze" doesn't like that very much, commenting that, although Wells wrote pseudo-scientific stories for a time, he abandoned them "for stories of a different--and, in my humble opinion, less absorbing--type."

So I think that the origins of "Ooze" can be traced to the works of H.G. Wells, but I would also go back to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which was first published in 1818, and to other Gothic and Romantic tales of passion and madness, Moby Dick for example. (3) There's reason to believe that the origins of "Ooze" preceded even Frankenstein, though. And thereby hangs a tale of a scientific--more accurately a pseudoscientific--controversy from so long ago that no one now remembers it.

To be continued . . .

Notes
(1) I'm not the first to use the term metafictional in reference to "Ooze." See "American Weird" by Roger Luckhurst in The Cambridge Companion to American Science Fiction (2015).
(2) In the Mercury Theatre adaptation of 1938, the narrators are a number of reporters and--in the voice of Orson Welles--a surviving scientist. Thirty years later, WKBW Radio of Buffalo, New York, broadcast a second adaptation of Wells' story in which, again, radio reporters narrate the Martian invasion of Earth. 
(3) The second English edition of Frankenstein, with Mary Shelley's byline, was published in 1823, making this year its bicentenary.

Original text copyright 2023 Terence E. Hanley

Takings and Turnings

Some object to the supposition that Allison V. Harding was not a woman but a man, believing--rightly I should add--that the things that are women's should remain women's and not be taken from them. Yet every day in America, the things that are women's are being taken from them, most importantly the integrity of their bodies and of their sex, also their uniquely female experiences and identities. The things and places that are or should be women's are being taken from them, too. Women are now not always the victors in women's sports. Some sports records are held not by women but by men. Women and girls are no longer safe in women's restrooms, dressing rooms, changing rooms, shower rooms, and locker rooms. Men have entered women's prisons and women's shelters and have assaulted them there, sexually and otherwise. The takers in all of this are men, but they are being helped in many cases by women. Others who object are forced to remain silent, all that is, but the most powerful among them. Even then, these powerful women are vilified, and there are attempts to strip them of their power, to strip them even of their own creations. If we're looking for a case in which there are real attempts at silencing and erasing a woman writer and to take from her the things that she has created, look no further than that of J.K. Rowling. Men are doing that and women are helping them.

I have written before about the desire afoot in this world to destroy the past and everything that remains of the past. There is that negative goal to be sure, but I have overlooked the possibility that there could be a positive goal to replace it. The desire to destroy is a powerful one, but what comes after the destruction? The skilled destroyers among us can only wake up empty once they have done their work--either that or cast about for fresh, new things to destroy. The replacers, though, still have their goals and may pursue them through and past all of the destruction.

We have given up on God, and so there can be no spiritual transcendence. The yearning for transcendence remains, though, and so we replace spiritual transcendence with other kinds of attempted transitions, transferences, and transmutations. Ordinarily, we seek spiritual transcendence of the body and of our earthly experience because God and a purely spiritual existence lie on the other side. The replacers among us have decided that we are Gods--each one of us, capital-"G" Gods. We have usurped his role, believing we have his wisdom and authority, are confident that we can exert his power. We believe we can remake his world and his universe, of which we are a part. We believe we can remake ourselves in our own image. Whatever we can envision--whatever we might want of ourselves--we can become. We have become Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.

Weird fiction has its limitations. For one, it tends to be told in the form of a tale: One time this weird thing happened when somehow I stepped outside the normal world and normal experience, but then I came back, or: I witnessed this weird thing that came into our universe but then went away again, but we should be on the lookout for that ever happening again. The weird tale--tale being the operative word--tends to be a premodern form. Science fiction, on the other hand, tends to more sophisticated and modernistic. And it takes place in the real, material world. It isn't weird. It's real and normal, logical and rational. Weird fiction is also a prewar genre. Once the world was awakened from a sometimes irrational past into a scientific and technological present of atomic bombs and rocketships, of the possibilities of apocalypse and dystopia, of alienation and all of the psychopathology of modern living, weird fiction lost much of its power. Science fiction became the alternative. Before the war there were monster movies. After the war, Abbott and Costello met Frankenstein. Meanwhile, science fiction came into the movies, and we had The War of the Worlds, This Island Earth, Forbidden Planet, and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. There were weird-fictional monsters after the war--vampires and zombies for example--but these were often given scientific explanations, such as in The Last Man on Earth, Night of the Living Dead, and The Omega Man. Other weird tales were turned into types of horror, including body-horror (An American Werewolf in London) and the horror of the psychopathic killer, who was depicted as a supernatural or almost supernatural phenomenon, even if psychopathy is seen in our time as a scientific, medical, psychological, or sociological (i.e., a "soft"-scientific) problem. There were exceptions of course. I'm working here in generalizations.

Before the war there were serious authors who wrote weird fiction--their tales tended to be called "ghost stories"--but before the war there doesn't seem to have been any great discontinuity between serious literature and genre literature. Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Henry James, and still others wrote in those genres. Some authors of the American South before and after operated in what is called the "Southern Gothic" mode. After the war, though, serious literature turned away from weird fiction and ghost stories and towards science fiction. Again, there were exceptions. Flannery O'Connor, Shirley Jackson, and Joyce Carol Oates have worked in Gothic modes. But when turning to genre fiction for their subjects and themes, Cormac McCarthy, Margaret Atwood, Walker Percy, and others like them have chosen science fiction rather than weird fiction as their preferred mode. Put another way, science fiction is fiction, a higher and more literary form, versus weird fiction as a folk form, simpler form, or more popular form. Again, there are exceptions, H.P. Lovecraft being a notable example.

Still working in generalizations.

My point here is that we are living in and will continue to live in a science-fictional world and a science-fictional society. The real-world problems and threats confronting us are science-fictional, not weird-fictional: We have done away with the supernatural--or think we have done away with it--and have turned entirely towards the material and the scientific--or at least what we call the scientific. We face threats in the form of apocalypse and dystopia, but for now at least, the greater threats, I think, are our development of artificial intelligence, our turning towards robots and away from human beings, and perhaps greatest of all, our seeking to transcend ourselves as we were created towards something we believe we ourselves can create--or re-create. Again, we believe that we and the universe in which we find ourselves are flawed. And we believe ourselves capable--wise enough and powerful enough--to remake all of it. These attempts to correct our perceived flaws, to remake ourselves, to transcend ourselves, to remake the entire world and all of human nature--the belief that we can do these things--can be seen as a kind of gnosticism, if I understand the term and the concept correctly.

There are new gnostics--new progressives and new utopians--among us. Two of them were born in the 1930s--the last decade, by the way, in which weird fiction may still have stood above science fiction in popularity. These men, both from central Europe--a place of origin for so many twentieth-century horrors--don't have long for this earth. We can't rejoice that they will die, nor should we. That's not the point. The point is that they and everyone like them will die, and all of the grand ideas filling their heads will die with them. That's the fate of all of us, now and until the end of time. There is no escaping it. Our physical bodies are mortal. That's how we were made. We cannot transcend them, at least on our own and under our own power. We certainly can't transmute them. We cannot be anything other than what we are. It is essential that we all remember these things and hold them in our thoughts every day. 

The science-fictional idea is that we will progress into the future. The weird-fictional alternative might be that we are bound to ourselves and the world as we and it were created in a supernatural beginning and which continue to operate under supernatural auspices. We may try to escape those bounds, but our destiny or fate is either to return or to face the dire consequences of our transgressions. How many transgressive weird-fictional heroes and protagonists are punished or suffer these consequences in the end? Dr. Frankenstein is certainly one of them and may have been the first. His example is still with us. We should heed it.

Victor (an ironic name) Frankenstein tried to create a man where there was never before a man. Medical doctors today are trying to make men where there were never men and women where there were never women. Technologists would like to create beings out of machinery and souls where there were never before souls. These are things that simply can't be done. Women can never have the things that are men's. Beyond that, after their attempted transitions, they will never again have a chance at the things that are women's. They might as well try to get with child a mandrake root. But all women should remember that men in attempted transition may very well continue to have the things that are men's and take from women the things that are women's. Women in attempted transition give things up; men in attempted transition become takers. Remember that.

Trans- . . . that prefix . . . The word weird has to do with fate or destiny, but it also has to do with turning or becoming. To transgress, to transition, to transmute, to become transhuman, to pursue transference, to transcend--all are a kind of turning or becoming. But what things can we do strictly on our own, and what others will forever lie beyond our power? Transgression--our first sin--is a choice placed before us. Transcendence--offered to us so that we might live--is the alternative. All of these other things can only lead to earthly and bodily horrors.

And then maybe we will have a return to weird fiction.

In this cover for Mandrake the Magician, magic meets science--and wins!--but only by resorting to good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Note the Frankenstein-village setting of the Gothic romance juxtaposed with the flying saucers of science fiction. The monsters of science fiction have taken the place of those of weird fiction. Note, too, that the aliens and their ship (like a cupola) are entirely green.

Text copyright 2022 Terence E. Hanley

One More Thing . . .

So, what we have so far:

In working on this series, I have quoted from a website, which shall remain nameless:

A member of the Pulitzer Prize jury, the late Frank McConnell helped science fiction gain standing as serious literature. [. . .] Initially believing that science fiction is primarily one of many forms of storytelling, McConnell gradually recognized science fiction as a modern expression of Gnosticism, rejecting bodily concerns for an emphasis on spirituality. [Emphasis added.]

In one of my replies to a comment from a reader, Randy Stafford, I wrote:

Harold Bloom [. . . .] wrote on Gnosticism, too, including in a book called The American Religion: The Emergence of the Post-Christian Nation (1992, 2006). In that book (I haven't read it), he evidently proposed a unified-field theory of his subject, saying that American religion is essentially Gnostic.

In various political movements, science and religion have become wed: any science fiction that is progressive, leftist, socialist, or Marxist in nature would seem to have been born from that union. Science fiction certainly has its gnostic progenitors and practitioners, including Joseph Smith, Madame Blavatsky, Richard S. Shaver, L. Ron Hubbard, and even Charles Fort. In one of his comments, Mr. Stafford pointed out that Philip K. Dick "is frequently cited as gnostic, especially [in] The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch." I'm sure there are other gnostic authors, novels, and characters, including Weston, the villain in C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy.

Randy Stafford also wrote: "I think Brian Aldiss had the notion that [science fiction] was essentially gothic." Mr. Aldiss put forth that idea, I think, in his book The Billion Year Spree: The True History of Science Fiction (1973). (Unfortunately I don't have a copy of this book.) Here is a quote from that fount of all knowledge, Wikipedia, from Mr. Aldiss' book:

Science fiction is the search for a definition of man and his status in the universe which will stand in our advanced but confused state of knowledge (science) and is characteristically cast in the Gothic or post-Gothic mode.

There is plenty of gothic science fiction to be sure, from Frankenstein (1) to Neuromancer to Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, which might be the most gothic of all of the Star Wars movies so far. (This is assuming that Star Wars is science fiction and not something else.) (2) Now I have this, from a book I picked up over Christmastime:

Science fiction does not tend to support a given political establishment, but on a deeper level it almost invariably backs the basic tenet of Western civilization: that is, the concept that the individual man is worth more than the organization--whatever it may be--and that nothing is more important than human freedom. (3)

So according to whom you believe, science fiction is essentially gnostic, or gothic, or classically liberal. I'm not sure that any two of these things are easily reconcilable. I'm more inclined to think that some science fiction is gnostic, some gothic, some classically liberal, and some other things altogether. It's probably too simplistic to say that science fiction is all basically one thing--not that anyone is saying that, I guess.

And here's a thought: why do we not have theorizing like this about weird fiction? Could it be that weird fiction comes from a pre-intellectual or pre-academic culture? Is weird fiction, being an essentially conservative genre, necessarily anti-intellectual and so defies this kind of theorizing?

Notes
(1) Frankenstein is subtitled The Modern Prometheus. I think that like Frankenstein's monster, Mary Shelley's book is a hybrid: a proto-science fiction novel and a gothic romance. Well, as it turns out Ayn Rand's protagonist in Anthem, Equality 7-2521, takes the name Prometheus once he has gained--or made--his freedom. The theme, I think, is much the same in both books as in so much of our popular literature: a man reaching for godlike power. In Frankenstein, written perhaps by a closeted conservative, he falls short, but in Anthem, a book by an atheist and innovator, he may yet succeed. In any case, Anthem is a dystopian/post-apocalyptic novel, a genre that is very often gothic in its mood and imagery. Even 1984 has its gothic elements.
(2) The scenes in Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker that take place on the planet of the Sith are obviously infused with gothicism. They remind me of the drawings of Piranesi, more yet like images from Barlowe's Inferno by Wayne Douglas Barlowe. As for the Sith themselves, well, they are ghost-like or wraith-like figures in black robes and hoods (hoodies like the guy pirating the movie in the public service announcements before it begins) and chant like they're in Carmina Burana. Their world waits in darkness and drips with decay. William Basinski could easily have composed the score for their part of the movie.
(3) From "The Role of Science Fiction" by Ben Bova in Science Fiction: Today and Tomorrow, A Discursive Symposium, edited by Reginald Bretnor (Baltimore, MD: Penguin Books, 1974), p. 11.

Original text copyright 2020, 2023 Terence E. Hanley

The Eleventh Hour

This is a year of two anniversaries divisible by one hundred years each. Two hundred years ago, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, in which a man (or semi-man) is assembled from corpses, came out in an edition of 500 copies. One hundred years ago today, at this hour (my local time), the Great War, in which millions of men had been reduced to corpses, came to an end. Both were momentous events. One was a work of art, thus of life and creation. The other was a great and horrifying work of death and destruction. In 1818 and 1918, these were recognized as opposites: life and death, creation and destruction. On a much smaller scale, both had a great influence on the evolution of fantasy and weird fiction. Some people consider Frankenstein to be the first novel of science fiction. From it and similar books--books more properly called romances--came tales by British and American authors, chiefly Edgar Allan Poe, that led to weird fiction. And it is from Edgar Allan Poe that Weird Tales, no doubt named for a collection of his works published in the 1890s, is descended. But would there have been Weird Tales without the Great War? It's impossible to say. But in that war, horror, death, mutilation, and destruction met and in some ways became allied with art. I have recently read a book that makes that claim at least, and I have a hard time seeing that its author was wrong.

The book is called Art and Fear. The author was Paul Virilio, who was still living when I read it a couple of months ago but who has since died, on--of all days--September 10, 2018, the day before an anniversary of mass death and horror could revisit the world. (1) Art and Fear is a slim volume, published in 2006 by Continuum of London. It consists of two essays drawn from talks given by M. Virilio. Here I'll consider the first, "A Pitiless Art."

Four years ago, I wrote a series called "What is the monster of the twenty-first century?" My conclusion was that the zombie, representing mass man, in other words, all of humanity in our mass age, is that monster. Lately, though, I have seen signs that the zombie is fading. For example, we're already into the last season of The Walking Dead (supposedly), and it looks like zombies are going to lose their main television venue. Sorry, zombies. I have also seen signs that another monster for the twenty-first century could be on the horizon. Some people think that Artificial Intelligence (AI) or robots armed with AI will turn against us and seek to destroy us. Maybe. But maybe AI is a red herring. Maybe the next monster will be inclusive of AI but be something else instead.

Maybe the new monster of the twenty-first century will be the transhuman, or, perhaps more accurately, the man who makes him.

Whether it will be or not, Paul Virilio foresaw the coming of the transhuman and the maker of the transhuman in the monstrousness and horrors of the twentieth century, a century in which terror, murder, mutilation, and mass dehumanization of men became like artistic expressions, one in which science and the arts fused in the creation of new ways of representing the human form, not in stone or clay, not on canvas or paper, but in the murdered corpse, the dissected, mutilated, or vivisected body, and in the genetically altered human being himself.

In his essay, Virilio invoked Nietzsche, but he seems to have dated our drive towards teratogenesis to the Great War:

At the dawn of industrial modernity, Baudelaire declared, 'I am the wound and the knife.' How can we fail to see that, in the wake of the hecatomb of the Great War, when Braque and Otto Dix found themselves on opposite sides of the trenches in the mud of the Somme, modern art for its part forgot about the wound and concentrated on the knife--the bayonet--with the likes of Oskar Kokoschka, 'the scalpel-wielding artist', before moving on through the German Expressionism of Der Sturm to the Viennese Actionism of Rudolph Schwarzkogler and his cohorts in the 1960s . . .

ART MAUDIT or Artist Maudit? What can you say, meanwhile, about the likes of Richard Hülsenbeck, one of the founding fathers of Dada, who told a Berlin audience in 1918, at a conference on the new trends in art, 'We were for the war. Dada today is still for the war. Life should hurt. There is not enough cruelty!' The rest is history. (p. 16)

And so we have had a century not only of cruelty but also of terror, mass murder, self-destruction, dehumanization, and mutilation of the human form and the human person, much of it the hands of scientists (or pseudoscientists) operating beyond any previously observed or acknowledged limits. They are men without pity, practitioners of one of the pitiless arts of Virilio's title. They were and are technological giants but ethical pygmies, maybe even ethical amoebas.

Seven years after the war ended, the French-Jewish art dealer René Gimpel, who would go on to perish in a Nazi concentration camp, wrote in his diary:

The new German painting, naturally, represents current sensibility in Germany and it really frightens me. The Ancients invented and represented the world of witches, but the world of Hate is a modern invention, the invention of Germany, spread out over the canvas. The demons of gothic pictures are child's play when it comes to the human, or, rather, inhuman, heads of a humanity bent on destruction. Furious, murderous, demoniacal heads not in the style of the old masters but in completely modern manner: scientific, choking with poison gas. They would like to carve the Germans of tomorrow out of fresh meat . . . (p. 18)

This is a key insight, I think, for as Gimpel saw so keenly, Hate--a new and special kind of hate--is an invention of modernity, more specifically, a materialistic and thoroughly scientified modernity, one that has replaced God with countless minor gods. "The demons of gothic pictures," as Gimpel put it, "are child's play." The gothic, the supernatural, the romantic, the traditional, the folkloric--all have been overtaken and left in the dust by modernity. This was the greater problem for humanity in the twentieth century, a far lesser one for weird fiction. I have written before about this problem and how one teller of weird tales, Fritz Leiber, Jr., tried to deal with it.

Germans may have been first to sicken from this new disease of modernity--they were after all closest to the source of infection (2)--but the disease has spread throughout the world:

This is how Rothko put it: 'I studied the figure. Only reluctantly did I realize it didn't correspond to my needs. Using human representation, for me, meant mutilating it.' (p. 20)

Rothko killed himself in 1970, "exercising," Virilio wrote, "the most nihilistic of freedoms of expression: that of SELF-DESTRUCTION." (p. 21) In that, Rothko recapitulated other suicides by other artists and prefigured the suicides of many more to come.

Virilio continues:

As far as contemporary science and biology go, doubt is no longer an option, for genetics is on the way to becoming an art, a transgenic art, a culture of the embryo to purely performative ends, just as the eugenicists of the beginning of the twentieth century hoped. When Nietzsche decided that 'moral judgements, like all religious judgements, belong to ignorance', he flung the door to the laboratories of terror wide open. (p. 26)

* * *

The expressionism of a MONSTER, born of the labour of a science deliberately deprived of a conscience . . . As though, thanks to the progress of genetics, teratology had suddenly become the SUMMUM of BIOLOGY and the oddball the new form of genius only, not a literary or artistic genius anymore, but a GENETIC GENIUS. (pp. 26-27)

* * *

Sir Francis Galton, the unredeemed eugenicist, is back in the land of his cousin Darwin: freedom of aesthetic expression now knows no bounds. Not only is everything from now on 'possible'. It is 'inevitable'! 

Thanks to the genetic bomb [analogous to the atomic bomb in physics], the science of biology has become a major art only, an EXTREME ART. (p. 29)

* * *

Confronted by such 'expressionist' events [i.e., genocide in the late twentieth century], surely we can see what comes next, looming over us as it is: an officially terrorist art preaching suicide and self-mutilation thereby extending the current infatuation with scarring and piercing. Or else random slaughter, the coming of a THANATOPHILIA that would revive the now forgotten fascist slogan: VIVA LA MUERTA! (pp. 30-31)

* * *

Thanatophilia, necro-technology and one day soon, teratology . . . Is this genetic trance still a science, some new alchemy, or is it an extreme art? (p. 31)

* * *

Where will it end, this impiety of art, of the arts and crafts of this 'transfiguration' that not only fulfills the dreams of the German Expressionists but also those of the Futurists, those 'hate-makers' whose destructiveness Hans Magnus Enzensberger has dissected. (p. 34)

Where will it end? I suspect it won't, as "end" requires limit. There are and will be no limits in men who lack all moral and ethical sense. And so, as Mary Shelley foresaw two hundred years ago, as the men who lived through the Great War foresaw a century ago, and as Paul Virilio foresaw at the beginning of the current century, we will have things among us that cross boundaries, between man and animal, between man and machine, between man and monster. These will be transhuman. But will they be the real monsters among us, or will that role be played by the men who create them? Who in Frankenstein was the real monster, the creature or the creator?

* * *

The problem of transhumanism goes deeper than that, though. If we say that the transhuman or the creator of the transhuman is the monster, we remove the problem from ourselves. We are absolved. We can say to ourselves, Those people over there are monsters. But not us. We are good. Remember Virilio's premonition: "[S]urely we can see what comes next [. . .] an officially terrorist art preaching suicide and self-mutilation thereby extending the current infatuation with scarring and piercing. Or else random slaughter, the coming of a THANATOPHILIA [. . . .]" The signs are all around us. We are full of hatred, each for himself, all for all, all for humanity, for human history, culture, society, and civilization. And because of those hatreds we rush to negate ourselves, mutilate ourselves, destroy ourselves, or else commit murder, mass murder if we can, but murder nonetheless. We can point fingers and say that the transhuman or the men who will create him will be monsters, but what will stop us from rushing to those same creators, begging them to mutilate us, transform us, turn us into monsters, anything so that we might be something other than what we are in this hated thing? Are we not attempting transhumanism ourselves? And if the transhuman is a monster, what does that make us?

* * *

Paul Virilio did not mention Frankenstein in his essay, yet by strange coincidences, the connections are made in this year of a centennial, a bicentennial, and his passing from the earth. I am an artist. I can tell you that what Virilio described among artists is an actuality. I have seen so much hatred, violence, cruelty, nihilism, and destruction in the work of artists I have encountered. There isn't any question in my mind that they hate not only themselves but also life, God, the world, and the rest of humanity. Not knowing what they are or hating what they are, they engage in the everyday self-mutilations of tattooing, piercing, and scarring. And now we have people having their bodies surgically altered. Anything, they seem to be saying. Give us anything so that we don't have to be what we are. These things are the drip, drip, drip of suicide and self-destruction. If they could, these artists might very well commit murder. Short of actual killing, they commit murder in their art. It is an art of extreme cruelty, extreme violence, extreme destruction. Artists once provided warnings against such things. They were human, not anti-human. Artists and thinkers operating within limits foresaw that the transhuman and his extreme-scientist/extreme-artist creator, operating without limits or beyond limits, would prove monstrous. But then, in the twentieth century, the artist joined the scientist and the war-maker as one of a class of destroyers. Those who lived and operated within limits, before limits were destroyed, may have failed to see that we might all wish to be monsters, but we will be. Unless we draw back, unless we recognize limits, unless we say no to death and destruction and yes to life and creation.

Notes

(1) The translator's preface to Art and Fear, by Julie Rose begins: "Immediately after September 11--an event that did not take him by surprise--people who had always dismissed Virilio as a pessimist started plaguing him for interviews." (p. vii)

(2) And they're still carrying on quite well, despite their sickness, on their march to self-destruction and the destruction of Europe.

The Wounded Soldier by Otto Dix, 1917.

An illustration for Frankenstein by the American artist Lynd Ward (1905-1985).

Original text copyright 2018, 2023 Terence E. Hanley