Analog April 1975

The health debate from forty years ago!

Analog April 1975

“…listen to your Alpha and Theta brainwaves!” said the Analog ad.

Listening to my brainwaves, I realize that one of the most unexpected things about reading these ancient Analogs from the year before my birth is how much they speak to today. I don’t mean how some of the stories fit into my own reading history (such as the section of Haldeman’s THE FOREVER WAR in its original publication as a serial novella). No, I mean how the politics embedded in the magazines leap out to yell, “Hey, you! This was going on even then! What’s changed? Tell me, man, what has actually changed?”

Because in this issue we have the regular editorial replaced with an essay debate between F. Paul Wilson and Alan E. Nourse (both SFF writers and doctors) about National Health Insurance. And forty years later we are fighting about the same thing, with almost the same talking points. The government should stay out of health care, just like it should’ve stayed out of Vietnam! The purpose of a government is to take care of its citizens, and it will do so whether there is insurance or not, so let’s make sure the government has a system in place to manage health and control costs! Government should stay out of people’s affairs! Government, by definition, IS the affair of the people!

There is no conclusion to the debate, though both lay out their points solidly. Just as there is no real solution to the other facticle in the magazine, that of robot workers replacing their human counterparts. Well, James S. Albus proposes a solution, but doesn’t seem hopeful it’ll take: mainly, that governments should provide standard incomes for their citizens, because the wealth of a government should be, at its base, owned by the citizens that make up the government–and in a situation where labor is divided from capital, how else does one make sense of capital?

To be fair, my understanding of economics is…poor.

Another thing that’s poor: my knowledge of older SFF writers. I assume that if I haven’t heard of a writer (like Wilson or Nourse) then they couldn’t have been that successful or good (even though I know that popularity has nothing innately to do with longevity). But Wilson has written a ton, published bestsellers, and is still writing. Nourse wrote both YA and adult fiction, and one of his books donated its title to Blade Runner.

Those bits are perhaps the most interesting things about this issue. There’s a story by Brenda Pearce called “Crazy Oil” where the twist is not a twist and the only female character is pretty much set decoration. “To Be or Knot to Be” by Alecs Baird is a joke story about aliens who are pieces of rope for whom knot-tying is sex. Oh god is it a waste of space. Thomas Sullivan’s “The Sixth Face” is basically a spy-thriller with Russia/Asia as the antagonists to the West (another sad echo coming down to us today). Its worst sin is the lack of tension.

Then there’s Gregory Benford’s “Doing Lennon” and the last part of Gordon R. Dickson and Harry Harrison’s “Lifeboat.” They are both well-written, which is a plus. But Benford’s story doesn’t really do much with a man from our time freezing himself in order to pretend to be John Lennon in the future (obviously, Lennon hadn’t been killed yet, so this story is not just an alternate future but an alternate future written from an alternate past). But “Lifeboat” has grown on me, even if the first two parts of it seemed lackluster or full of problematic views of society (untreated in any way by the text). What this serial would gain by having it all sewn together into a single book is that the questioning of that society would come sooner, because it’s all here in the last part. Again, not that easy solutions are given to class issues and the inherent disparity between labor and administrators, but that there’s a path drawn to a better, fairer society.

I wonder. I’m doing these write-ups as an exercise in understanding SFF history, and how writing often reflects that history. What do you want as a reader? In-depth evaluations of the stories? More general thoughts (as with this review)? If you have an opinion, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.

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Even the Grass (The Samizdat experiment poem #2)

It’s true, I’m going to be publishing a few of The Samizdat poems out of order. If you want to always get them in order along with occasional awesome broadsides of the poems designed by Jaime Questell, you can pledge the Patreon here for $1 a poem to support both political poetry and various charities.

As for this poem, it seems to grow more true as time goes on, as the White House becomes the Muddy Gray House, no longer emblematic of a shining city but instead a back room filled with cigar smoke. If the head of a government is insane, how can the body be anything but?

Even the Grass

And soon no one will call Stalin’s government anything but a government of insanity and treason.
~Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

Even the grass is tearing itself up by the roots.
Even priests drag down prayers from the heavens.
Even our organs are organizing against us. If I remove

my lungs, I remove the need for clean air. This is the logic
I was born for. Some other people were born
but this is not their poem. They have no poems

or need for poems, the insurers tell me. Even the grass
needs taking care of. Even a dull mower gets the job done.
What are we left with? A denuded ground, a desert of dirt

a stiff rain washes into the river. Even the sun
is blind. Steeped in its gloried light, even the grass
stretches up like arms, grasping for as much

as the muscles and tendons will let them take.

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Unpulped #16: Earthman’s Burden by Poul Anderson

Sometimes I think I don’t write about a book immediately after reading it so that the bad feelings have time to fade. If I wrote in books, this one would be furiously underlined, bracketed, and starred. I’d be having one-sided arguments in the minuscule margins. There’s be so many highlights, the pages would become beautiful rainbows.

And then sometimes I think I don’t write about a book immediately after reading it because I hope it’ll transform into something beautiful in hindsight, time and memory sanding away the edges until I can see what’s beautiful hiding underneath. The book as sea glass or driftwood.

Instead, we’ve got “The Adventures of the Incredible Hokas” which are not all that incredible, and generally uninspired and somewhat boring IN ADDITION to being sexist, racist, and imperialist. In all of Poul Anderson’s books-made-of-stories so far, I’ve found no stories which are worth reading, that stand out as memorable rather than workmanlike.

(And, yes, this is a collection co-written by Gordon R. Dickson, but I honestly couldn’t tell the difference between this book and the others I’ve read by Anderson. Does that mean his writing is bland? That it easily takes on the color of whoever he’s writing with? Or that Dickson’s writing is also literary mayonnaise? I don’t know, because I’ve never read Dickson outside of this book, and Anderson’s already so grimed in my eye I don’t think I can judge his writing in an unbiased way anymore.)

The Story: Ensign Alexander Braithwaite Jones of the Interstellar Survey Service crashes on Toka far from where he needs to be in order to rejoin Earth society and be rescued. On his way to safety, he encounters alien teddy bears (the Hokas) acting like they are in the Old West (the movie version) because they are simple-hearted mimics and the first humans on the planet showed them Westerns. Anyway, he helps them commit genocide against the other alien race on the planet, and he becomes the official ambassador/liaison to Toka. Hijinks ensue for the next five stories where, in each, the Hoka attach themselves to another genre, from opera (via Don Giovanni) to space patrol stories (a la the Lensman series).

As you might guess from the above, the Hoka are used for comedy and Braithwaite Jones is the straight man in all the comic scenes. Which might be fine, I suppose, if the comedy was funny. (And who knows, maybe it was funnier in days of yore, but I think it more likely the stories came off like not-terrible SNL sketches: okay in the moment, maybe even eliciting a chuckle or at least acknowledgement that was you just read was a “joke,” but not even worth repeating the next day, forgotten instantly.) But the comedy isn’t funny. And it’s not just the naive and inane Hoka played for laughs, but also women (Isn’t it funny when women (professional women with their own jobs) fight over men, and are just working the job angle in order to get married HAHAHAHAHAHA) and alien races (which are basically non-white person equivalents, dominated for monetary purposes by Earth people).

I mean, there’s an alien race called the Pornians. From Pornia.

And it’s not even good writing. Each story starts off with Braithwaite Jones in the same position. The Hoka take on a role, and he is AMAZED and ASTOUNDED that they would behave so strangely, and oh my God, what will he ever do? (Answer: He’ll bumble along and manage to save the day by accident, then take all the credit.) What we’ve got here is the equivalent of an inoffensive sit-com in SFF story form.

Strangely, there is some self-awareness of the imperialist aspect of the stories in one of the interstitial pieces written (I believe) to connect the stories.

But I have been increasingly nagged by a very basic doubt–a doubt of the value, even the rightness, of the Service’s very raison d’etre. Is it possible that our problem of “civilizing backward planets” is only a subtle form of the old, discredited imperialism of Earth’s brutal past? Have I merely been turning my wards into second-rate humans instead of first-rate Hokas? I don’t know. In spite of all our pretentious psychocultural tests, I doubt if anyone really knows.

I know. And Braithwaite Jones knows, despite all his protesting, just like Poul Anderson knows, even if he hides it behind the ignorance of a fictional persona.

I mean, admitting your doing something shitty doesn’t really matter if you continue doing that shitty thing. Like with the depictions of women (even though there’s never a point where Anderson or Braithwaite Jones admits their sexism) which continues wherever women are present in the stories. For example, the final one where Braithwaite Jones’ wife crash lands on a planet and is desperate for rescue only, apparently, because the local food will make her fat.

No, seriously, that’s her main motivation.

“But there’s something in it! High calories or something. I’m putting on kilos and kilos. Alex, you’ve got to come right away!”

Right. No real fear of, you know, having crashed on an alien planet without a way to return home.

You know, I want to be done with Poul Anderson. And I don’t really think I have much more to say about him–each book pretty much repeats all the faults from the previous books without having any redeeming qualities. So I’m skipping out of three of the four Anderson books I have left in my Unpulped stash.

However, there is one book of Anderson’s which was nominated for a Nebula the same year Dune won that award. This is The Star Fox and it’ll be my final foray into Poul Anderson. It was nominated for a Nebula award, so how bad can it be?

I intend to find out.