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Palgrave History of SF cover

Here is the news: you are not special. Film at eleven.

If there is any debate in the whole of literary criticism which can match the "which book constitutes the first novel?" controversy blow-for-blow in terms of its circular tedium and irresolvable pointlessness, it is "what is science fiction and when did it start?" The truth is that, because both of these questions contain the very terms they seek to define, they are essentially impossible to answer satisfactorily. The inquiry begins at a contested starting point, and therefore cannot hope to proceed with the full support of all its readers.

When it comes to the novel, it may be easier to speak of the development of prose narrative. A sly sidestep, perhaps, but for most purposes (i.e. those not involving circular tedium and irresolvable pointlessness) one which at least allows potential for dialogue. In The Palgrave History of Science Fiction, Adam Roberts similarly sidesteps the genre's central definitional question, and chooses to begin his review of the mode, and his search for its exemplars, at more or less the birth of literature. I have a certain sympathy for both these sleights of hand: for a literature based on leaps of unpredictable imagination, the enthusiasm for definition and delineation displayed by SF's critical community has always struck me as self-defeating, and Roberts's forgivingly loose treatment of the question (a review of previous definitions, a synthesising theory that SF is simply stories about the space, clash, and negotiation between what the Greeks called episteme [loosely, "theoretical knowledge"] and technê [even more loosely, "practical knowledge"]) is satisfyingly airy. In addition, I have always felt misled by arguments that science fiction stretches back only to Gernsback or Wells or even Shelley, as if the modern instances of science fiction—that is, science fiction with science we do not deride as naïve—are the only instances of this stripe of fantastical fiction to which SF should claim relation.

Roberts should, therefore, be commended for attempting to re-frame critical discourse on these two issues. Traditionally, science fiction histories have virtually revolved around questions of definition: most famously, perhaps, Brian Aldiss defined the mode in the precise way necessary to ensure that his favoured candidate for the position of SF's ur-text, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, won exactly that place in the pantheon outlined in his Trillion (née Billion) Year Spree. As argued above, such manoeuvres should be distrusted: stifling definitions deny SF its principle strength—its elasticity—and embracing the idea that SF is in truth legion, that it will be and always has been, provides the kind of critical narrative which can free the critic to examine this most imaginatively daring of literatures in a less hamstrung fashion.

And all-embracing the Palgrave History certainly is. Not content merely to stretch its attention from Ancient Greece to contemporary India, it also does that which so many reviews of SF fail to do—include media other than books. There is a kind of wounded denial at work within the SF critical field which seeks to airbrush from the genre and the mode its most popular manifestations: movies, TV series, comic books, even pop music. Roberts refuses to indulge in this snobbery, even going so far as to make an impassioned and logical defence of screen SF, arguing that it is in fact vital and nourishing to the wider genre, and that when judged on its own terms (the visual rather than the theoretical) it should be rescued from the disparagement and prudish disdain with which the "literary" SF community so often view it. In addition, an illuminating (if hardly revolutionary) reading of comic books, particularly the superhero variety, and a fascinating and unbending analysis of what is often termed "fandom," contrive to produce a wide-ranging work with the admirable aim of considering science fiction as an expansive form with a long history and deep roots widely spread. Again, Roberts should be applauded for his lack of cant.

Because, in writing such a book, he is certainly leaving himself open to attack. The first line of this review is deliberately flip, but, quite aside from the fact that "literary criticism" is in and of itself often derided by SF "fans," there is a sense in which The Palgrave History of Science Fiction tramples all over the genre's favoured shibboleths: SF is not new or particularly twentieth-century in origin; it is not a unique type of fiction which spectacularly and uniquely addresses the modern human condition; fandom is as much a curse to the genre as it is a boon; what has been ludicrously termed "media" SF, as if paper is in some way something more than mere medium, is fundamental to any true understanding and examination of the genre; the short story is a drop in the science fictional ocean, not its very ebb and flow. These things are often said outside of the genre, but too often rebound off the ghetto walls, or are thrown back like live grenades by the brave policemen of the battlements. It is not necessarily the case that all of these assertions are 100% true; rather, it is the case that nor is the conventional wisdom. Roberts asks questions of the genre—particularly the genre, as distinct from the mode—whilst he tells us its history. His inquiry is a probing one, a sceptical ramble across open country rather than mere cartographical exercise.

The book is laudable in both aim and approach, then. It is a refreshingly irreverent attempt to look at science fiction without blinkers. Of course the book has an agenda and a thesis, but the openness with which Roberts expresses them, and the degree to which both embrace multiplicity, engenders confidence rather than scepticism. It is a pity, then, that at the level of its detail The Palgrave History of Science Fiction begins to lose that confidence, if not the reader's goodwill.

It's possible to pick holes. For instance, "the Ancient Greek novel" is not a particularly useful phrase, and not widely used, but it appears in the first few lines of Roberts's preface, and is repeated throughout the study. In addition, his writings on particularly Renaissance literature but also eighteenth-century fiction are less than assured, sometimes vague and often unconvincing (though when discussing nineteenth-century literature, in which he holds a professorial chair, he is a confident and knowledgeable guide). But it is possible to split hairs too readily—the book covers a huge breadth of time and texts, and some inexact sentences can be forgiven, even if it is difficult to pass by the attribution of Wuthering Heights to Charlotte Brontë or the decline in the book's potency and argument just as it reaches the date at which Roberts's science fiction truly begins (1600, with Kepler's Somnium). Nits can always be picked, but this review began by insisting that this is a pastime best left to silverbacks. What must instead be said, then, is that the conclusions Roberts reaches, and the arguments he uses to reach them, too often fail to convince.

The first, that science fiction is "Protestant" whilst fantasy is "Catholic"—that is, one is rationalist, north-eastern European in origin and outlook, and strives for personal relationships with knowledge and the world, whilst the other is superstitious, derogates authority to unseen higher powers, and involves worlds more hierarchical and ordered—is one which even Roberts seems to lose faith in. He makes the argument fairly strongly in his preface, but proceeds to hedge his bets for the rest of the book's closely-printed 392 pages. He didn't really mean "Protestant" and "Catholic"; the division is of course not perfect; there is "Catholic" SF and "Protestant" fantasy, too. The back-pedaling is furious.

The reason Roberts ties himself in such knots is that he needs to account for what he perceives to be the total lack of science fictional writing between Lucian of Samosata and Kepler. His scapegoat becomes Roman Catholicism, making the Reformation the spectacular return of free thought and love of seeking knowledge for its own sake. Anyone familiar with the Renaissance and Reformation periods will immediately identify how limited an analysis this is, but it is necessitated by Roberts's attachment to the term "science fiction." For all the book's desire to wrest control of SF's history from the twentieth-century exceptionalists, it still occasionally misses the point that, if "science fiction" is merely a subset of fantastical fiction (as fantasy itself is), then individual works must be seen in their contemporary contexts. In this light, "science fiction"'s' progression into its modern form is less fitful, and its explication requires no grand theory of epistemological conflict.

If Roberts thus falls prey to the trap of stretching SF's boundaries whilst remaining if not married to then at least co-habiting with its current form, it may explain his History's greatest failure. It is not that the Palgrave History argues that science fiction started before Christ—certainly, Roberts is as confident as anyone that what we today recognize as SF is a far more modern beast, probably arising out of the curious alchemy between its previous forms and the Gothic, and appearing fully-formed for the first time in Wells. But what Roberts does try to do is identify a tradition of science fictional writing—some genealogical sense that SF has been being written for centuries in various ways. This is undoubtedly true, but Roberts struggles to show it. What he instead gives us is, in turn, a variety of types of story with science fictional elements. That is, he gives us utopian fiction (uf), moon fiction (mf), invasion fiction (if), last man fiction (lmf), and any other number of different subsets of fantastical fiction which he fails to prove had any influence on each other. There can be no "science fictional" tradition unless Kepler was aware of and building upon the work of Lucian, for instance, and Roberts does not convince that, in writing The Battle of Dorking, Chesney was conscious of or interested in the interplanetary fiction of Trueman's The History of a Voyage to the Moon.

What is occurring here is the unearthing of the revelation that today's science fiction is yet another instance of, another incarnation of, and another community devoted to, a type of storytelling which has been written for centuries. The Palgrave History manfully handles this discovery whilst attempting to place it into the context of modern science fiction, but this is a teleological effort: if we start at Ancient Greece, we must do so without the baggage of modern science fiction. The latter develops organically from the former; if we attempt to view the past from the vantage point of the present and seek to make sense of it in that fashion, we are likely to require a thesis which will not convince.

The Palgrave History of Science Fiction, then, sets out along the right road, but doesn't have the right fuel mix to get there. It makes mistakes, chooses long ways round, and is sometimes just plain wrong. It is the sort of book that needs to be checked when it says something, just in case. But it asks crucial questions, and seeks to shake off all the baggage of science fictional critical discourse—it seeks to blaze a trail. Roberts is too often idiosyncratic in his theses and even sometimes sloppy in his research, but if he has failed to find the North West Passage, and wound up getting lost somewhere in the Dakotas, he's at least set out with the right equipment, and he deserves to be read.

Special? Maybe.

Dan Hartland is a British writer of various words, of which some are occasionally about science fiction. He retains a perspective decidedly outside of the genre, one which could conveniently be described as well-wishing frustration. He awaits the day he can do this for a living and copy-write for fun.

Dan Hartland's reviews have appeared for some years at Strange Horizons, as well as in publications such as Vector, Foundation, and the Los Angeles Review of Books. He blogs intermittently at
13 comments on “The Palgrave History of Science Fiction by Adam Roberts”

Dan: a great review of a book I've only dipped into (and so of which it would be unfair to vent my preliminary impressions in public), and I have no problem with your contentions about the not-specialness of sf. But one question for you: you say that there is a "decline in the book's potency and argument just as it reaches the date at which Roberts's science fiction truly begins [1600]". Since some scholars suggest that a significant amount of science fiction's history falls after that date, that might arguably be a problem. How did you find the book's treatment of post-1600 sf, and in particular post-1900 sf? You say elsewhere that his treatment of (non-written) C20 is pretty good.

Dan Hartland

Graham: it's more or less Roberts's position that sf is written more regularly post-1600, too, so the dip in his arguments at that date do significantly undermine his analyses. It is on the level of detail that Roberts's 'middle period' fails to convince: works are discussed rather shallowly, and connected to anything wider only tentatively or tenuously.
His post-1900 stuff is better in those terms, if patchier in others. As I say in the review, Roberts's focus is very much on going above and beyond the usual remit of sf histories - given his limited wordcount, that means that his sections on the written twentieth century texts are necessarily far from comprehensive. So why we get more detail on individual works, we lose the panoramic view in the process.
As a result, there is a sense of cherry-picking in the book's latter stages - the feeling that the works that Roberts has found room for are those most useful to his arguments (a taxonomic survey of which can be found here. Frustratingly, then, the reader is left with a fairly comprehensive view of the earlier texts, which is more thinly argued, and a thickly argued review of contemporary work, which is highly selective.
It's a pity that more care was not taken in achieving a better balance, since, as I argue, the macro-level arguments Roberts makes are very useful starting points for further discussion.

OK. I now can't remember where Chip Delany put forward the argument that we should only really start thinking about an entity called "science fiction" from about the 1920s - from the foundation of Gernsback's _Amazing_, and the consequent creation of a market, a readership, a fannish community, and all the consequent conversation between and around texts that resulted. (It is, in the end, I guess, a Marxist definition: science fiction is that which is labelled and sold in the market as science fiction.) I've tended in my own work to shorthand post-1920s sf as "self-conscious science fiction", that is, sf conscious of the larger tradition it's operating in rather than just the odd ancestor text; I don't buy the Delany argument in the end, but it sounds as if Roberts is offering a pretty extensive over-correction.

Tony Keen

A thought-provoking review of a book I have yet to read, but will do. I am beginning to wrestle with the whole issue of definition for my own work, and find myself heading towards the notion of asserting that science fiction is that which I point to and name as such, an approach which I suspect is simultaneously an enormous cop-out and the only sensible thing one can actually say.
But why is '"the Ancient Greek novel" ... not a particularly useful phrase'? You say it is 'not widely used', but that depends on context. It is a standard term used by Classical scholars to describe a genre of prose fiction that emerged in the eastern provinces of the Roman empire in the early centuries of the Common Era. I presume that Roberts, whose undergraduate degree was partially in Classics, is using it in that sense.

Dan Hartland

Graham: I think Roberts's may actually be an under-correction, as I imply in the review, but then our emphases are always going to be different in this regard. It seems to me that it is only possible to define what is and is not 'self-conscious' sf by first defining what sf should be conscious about. (Which texts, which themes, etc.) You can thus pretty much decide for yourself when sf becomes self-conscious, depending on your definition of this wonderfully new thing called 'sf'.
Tony: My Classical background is significantly flimsier than your own, but in my admittedly sparse reading I've tended to prefer the more neutral terms for the works in question. 'Novel' seems to me to read things onto the prose narratives that we should not necessarily read. Having said that, Roberts's Classical stuff is rather more in-depth than the 'middle period' material Graham and I were discussing. You might be interested in what Roberts has to say, and may find his terminology and/or readings less objectionable. I know I'd be interested in whether or not you thought the Classical texts he discusses are put sufficiently in context.

Tony Keen

It is entirely possible you've read as much of the Greek prose narratives as I have - Apuleius' (Latin) Golden Ass and its Lucianic Greek model aside, my knowledge of the early imperial 'novel' does not go much beyond a few passages here and there. It's not been an area I've needed to know much about up to now (though I will read the True Histories soon, and there's an unread copy of the Alexander Romance kicking around on my shelves somewhere). From what I read in the standard reference works, your view on the application of the term 'novel' is certainly tenable, and shared by some scholars. But I think this is an argument you need to have with a wider field of scholarship rather than use it as a criticism of Roberts specifically - he has merely adopted a term with is in common circulation in the scholarly works with which he is familiar.
I am very interested in finding out what Roberts has to say, and if anyone cares to lend me a copy of this tome (£55 being a bit more than I can justify spending at this exact moment) I will happily tell all and sundry what I think of his handling of the Greek material.

As something of an exceptionalist myself as to the nature of the fantastic as a whole over the past two centuries or so, I did find this review a bit odd in places. And I do take some (what you might call) exception to a feeling I have first to clear myself of the imputation that people like me are uttering "cant" when I do say I feel there are strong arguments for arguing that the literatures of the fantastic do in a sense come out of the Sturm und Drang of the later 18th century, and that Sturm und Drang, ever since, has been us: that the story of the world for the past two centuries has been frying pan to fire, and that the literatures of the fantastic have well and grotesquely shaped themselves around the conflagration.
Moreover, Dan Hartland's description of the tenets of us exceptionalists do seem to me a bit belated; I (for one)(and with many) have been arguing against a too narrow 20th century "good science"-based understanding of the literature for decades, and don't really want to have to go right back to 1970 again and start all over. At the same time, moreover, Dan gives Roberts precisely the wiggle room he might have accorded others as well. At the beginning of his review, he says (rightly) that Roberts (I think wrongly) has no patience for exceptionalism; but toward the end of his review suggests (wrongly, I think) something like the reverse: that Roberts "is as confident as anyone that what we today recognize as SF is a far more modern beast [than an SF that started before Christ], probably arising out of the curious alchemy between its previous forms and the Gothic, and appearing fully-formed for the first time in Wells." This is a modestly fair description of what I, and lot of other exceptionalists, do in fact tend to think, though most of us do, I think, contemplate Wells in a Scientific Romance light, too ... But Dan's description of Roberts is an extremely forgiving version of what the proportions and sensitivities of Roberts's readings of the period do in fact convey.
In a piece of my own I said I thought maybe I (and I think others) differed most profoundly from Roberts in that, where he thinks sf is basically about space (of all sorts), we tend to think sf is basically about time. But of course how could he think of time -- of the envisioning of the future -- as anything but a "cult" (his term) if he were to maintain his view of sf as a millennium-long (barring the occasional Catholic century or so) uniformitarian gaze?
John Clute

Dan Hartland

John: My problem with the exceptionalist argument is actually right there in your comment, when you argue that modern dilemmas are so fundamental and critical as to shape an entirely new form of fantastical literature - nay, to reshape the fantastical in its entirety. ("[...] the story of the world for the past two centuries has been frying pan to fire, and [...] the literatures of the fantastic have well and grotesquely shaped themselves around the conflagration.")
Certainly every age has its own particular questions and intellectual crises; it is therefore possible to argue that the fantastical addresses different concerns, but I'm not convinced that it ever really does so in radically different ways. With different data or assumptions, sure, but I'm less confident than you that this necessarily means wholly different forms. I reflect that mimetic narratives change in much the same epistemological way without actually changing the basis of their form, but accept that as an exceptionalist you may not think that a valid comparison.
The contradiction you point out in the review is deliberate: I think Roberts's book falls when it does because, whilst trying to broaden the canvas, he's still to some extent painting the same old picture. This sort of thing happens, of course, precisely because - as you point out - a critic's definition of sf (using space, time or alien space bats) is always constructed to suit his or her theory. That is, an a priori assumption is made, and the definition is then stretched to fit.
I'd suggest this is because sf - and the fantastical of which it is part - existed in a far more amorphous state long before anyone started trying to nail it down, and thus now defies anything but a polemical codification. I allow that this is a frustrating position, but I plead impish innocence. Possibly puckish.

Dan Hartland

Tony: You're probably right re: it being an unfair criticism to level on poor old Roberts's shoulders alone. I think, though, that his use of the term was another example of that teleology I talked about.
I'll work on my source and wangle you a loan of the book. 🙂

Dan: wow. That puts it on the line for sure.
1) I'll stop saying exceptionalist if you will, as I think it's probably a term best reserved to describe a specific history-based strain in the American psyche.
2) I'll continue to think that the transforms in our relations to the world (itself suddenly, from say the French Revolution on, perceivable as being vulnerable to constant and dizzying evolution) are sufficient for the genres of the fantastic effectively to re-create and in fact create themselves in the cauldron of those transforms. Which is fine for me.
Single example: Obvious distinctions of authorship and medium aside, I think THE TEMPEST and PROSPERO'S BOOKS are more than epistemologically distinct, but hey, I would....
3) You'll continue to think different, surely. Which is also fine.
4) Adam Roberts once (maybe in the book under review) took me kindly to task for being a outmoded "structuralist" in my relating a certain term (I don't remember which) to various texts; to which my response (under my breath) was "duh, I was writing an ENCYCLOPEDIA at the time, Adam..."); and I take a similar mild exception to the assumption you make that to talk about sf as being governed by time rather than by space as essentially identical to claiming it was governed by time rather than "alien space bats". I suppose this was part of being "puckish", but it did give me rather a sense that the vision of sf you preferred was maybe a tad peneplainal: no contours, no pack drill, a lot of soil being dumped indifferently into the salt sea. Disctinctions are like rapids: they shake things up. They oxygenate the river.

Having read this review and the subsequent comments, I feel almost a little ashamed at having reviewed the book myself, coming from the perspective of someone with little or no education in matters literary (except that gained from simply reading books, which is naturally of a rather different quality to the scholarship in evidence here).
I'd agree that the detail of discussion thins out in some places, but in Roberts' defense I think it must be said that to really do the subject justice would take a work of a similar size and density to Mr. Clute's encyclopaedia - and I imagine that making it any larger than it already is would have either lowered the likelihood of publication or raised the already significant price of the volume. Furthermore the amount of time invested in researching much further would probably also have hindered the actual production of an end result.
But as I say, I'm no historian, critic or scholar - just a reviewer of little stature, and a lover of the genre. And from that perspective, I think it's fair to say that Roberts' overall thesis is a refreshing and slightly controversial change from the traditional dogma of the genre (as much as I may at times subscribe to said dogma without being conscious of doing so). What I'm trying to say is that I found it interesting, not from a purely intellectual point of view, but from the angle of a fan having my preconceptions challenged. I'm ignorant of the proposed target market for the book, but if it is the sort of thing a lone sf enthusiast on a literature course might dig out and use to build a paper of his own, I think it has done a valuable service by coming from a different angle, albeit a wide one with a sparseness of close detail.
This is not demean the work of other critics, historians and commentators, but instead to boost them, in a way. I think it's good to see such an academic work sparking off a bit of debate over what many fans take to be a closed discussion - and it will be interesting to see how the next historian or commentator to step to the crease decides to spin the ball.
Oh, and finally: Mr. Keen, for shame! Use your local library. If only for the reason that if you don't, the odds of you still having one to use in a decade's time are very slim indeed.
Thank you for a stimulating thread, gentlemen. I hope I've not intruded into it too boorishly. If I have, you can partially blame Niall Harrison, as he pointed me here. 😉

Dan Hartland

John: I've never thought of myself in terms of fluvial erosion before, so all I say is that I fully endorse your second and third points. I'm not convinced that it's the distinctions which oxygenate the river - rather, it is their interaction. I distrust systems because I think they encourage the idea that some things are best left in Box A and others in Box B (and that Box C should be created when dealing with those things), making the rapids distinctly less interesting. The fact that we can both argue the other is a traveller on featureless plains is probably a sign that we see not just your analogy but literature as a whole from completely separate perspectives. 😉
Paul: If my review was only of interest to the John Clutes and Graham Sleights on this world, I'd consider it a thorough failure. 🙂 You're right that space constraints are no doubt in part to blame for some of the omissions in the book - as I say to Graham above, there's only so many texts you can cover in X words.
Indeed, I agree with every word of your review, which may appear at first glance more positive than my own. I'm especially with you when you say that the Palgrave History is an essential read because it challenges its readers. I guess I just wanted even more in this vein from Roberts. What can I say - I'm greedy. Hopefully, as you say, he and others will continue to push the boundaries of what the sf community thinks it knows.

Paul Kincaid

Having been away for the past week I've come late to this discussion, but as another who has reviewed the book (for Foundation, not sure when it'll appear) I should add my two-pennorth.
I differ from John Clute in a number of our views of science fiction, but I agree that Roberts's limitation of science fiction to the fantastic voyage is probably the worst fault in a book that has many good points as well. It is (like the Aldiss definition Dan refers to in his review) the sort of pre-emptive strike that allows him to include some things and omit others that he does not want to discuss. But for any attempted definition (or delimiting) of science fiction, every science fiction reader will be able to name countless works that are undoubtedly sf but which fall outside the limits. So Roberts's book is at best a history of one aspect of science fiction, and not a very thorough history at that.
Having said that, I disagree with John when he says that sf is basically about time. No, that is too limiting, as limiting in its way as Roberts's assertion that sf is about space. Sf is about both space and time, and crucially the inter-relationship between them. And we must not forget that the most basic point on the time axis is now, just as the most basic point on the space axis is here. In other words, all that 'frying-pan into fire' stuff is just an exceptionalist way of saying that science fiction always reflects the here and now, and as the moment changes so does the science fiction that reflects it. Science fiction is no different than any other fiction in that. It is just that sf tends towards considering a spectrum - from now to then, from here to there - rather than just a point on the line. I am uncomfortable making any sort of exceptionalist point from such a basis.

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