Rebecca Wilson

May 10, 2004 

The Literature of Discovery 

A long time ago, in a classroom not so far away, my film-making instructor once told us that one of the most important questions a wannabe filmmaker could ask himself was “Why do people read stories?”  By way of an answer, we eventually arrived at two key elements.  First, people read simply for the innate vicarious pleasure.  Second, they read stories to better understand the potential consequences of their projected actions.  Since the purpose of the question was to be useful to his students, in the intervening years, I have modified the second answer to read: to gain an understanding of the world around them and the people who inhabit this world.

Dr. White has described science fiction as “the literature of ideas,” and I find that to be a very useful working definition for readers and writers.  I contend that the literature of space and exploration is “the literature of discovery” in much the same vein.  As such, does this body of literature answer the needs of readers?  How can 100-year-old stories of polar exploration or 50-year-old Martian adventure stories or 30-year-old stories of alien worlds or real-life lunar landings have relevance to the lives of contemporary urban Americans?

The literature of space and exploration that I have read this semester has scored very high marks in the innate vicarious pleasure department – even the works I thought I wouldn’t enjoy.  While this may not seem to be an important factor to some scholars, I ask what good there can be in a book that nobody will read?

Our reading has provided some fabulous thrills and chills for me, the reader.  The Scott and Amundsen parties fall into apparently bottomless crevasses as they explore one of the most hostile environments on the entire surface of the earth.  Robyn Davidson fends off wild bull camels with nothing more that a club.  Being a science fiction snob (is that an oxymoron?), I never thought I’d like A Princess of Mars, but the blurb “What if Mars was sexy and sun?” was just the viewpoint I needed.  John Carter escapes a band of murderous savages to save Dejah Thoris from the looming specter of death more than once.  Aquarius unearths the subtle tensions inherent in riding a tin can strapped on top of a barely-controlled explosion while attempting to journey from fast-moving one infinitesimal speck to an even smaller fast-moving one.  Mary Doria Russell’s band of Jesuits revolt against the social order of Rakhat when the Jana’ata patrols come to cull the “herd” they’ve been living with; in Children of God, the court intrigues, and their potential consequences, can make you heart a little faster.  All of this exists for you, the reader, in the comfort of our air-conditioned couch.

Even the language of these works can be a thing of sheer joy.  The contrast between Amundsen’s cheerful, plucky writing style lends character to the Norwegian party.  On one of the Fram’s stops, his Eskimo dogs “resounded day by day…with the most glorious concerts of howling” (Amundsen’s journal). Robyn Davidson peppers her memoir with: “This is complicated by the fact that whoever those people who fly in planes and make maps of the area, they need glasses; or perhaps were drunk at the time…or rubbed out a few features in a fit of anarchistic vice.” (Davidson, 120)  Ursula K. Leguin’s prose in The Left Hand of Darkness exhibits a stark simplicity, befitting her tale set on a plane so cold that we call it Winter.  When Genly Ai is trundled back into his prison cell in Orgoreyn, near death from the effects of the interrogation drugs, he only says, “… they called me in for examination; this time they had to carry me in, and I can’t remember anything further that that.”  (LeGuin, 132)

Unlike most of my classmates, my favorite prose was probably Norman Mailer’s.  He fuses technology, humanity and a portrait of his culture in every paragraph, sometimes every sentence.  As a minor technocrat literature major slightly askew of American culture (Subvert the dominant paradigm! – sorry, couldn’t resist advertising here), I respond with most fibers of my being to Mailer’s prose fusion.  He writes of Armstrong and the psychology of machines: “multi-billion dollar technical bands which belted the very economy of the nation…even belted the plastic surface that gray Armalon fireproof fiber-glass cloth…yes, Armstrong was a general of the church of all these forces holy or most uncomfortably holy and now soon to be on the loose” (Mailer, 169.)  The examples above are probably not the best ones from each work, but I chose them at random, thinking that this small litmus test would be more fair that way.

With writing that sometimes sparkles, an infinite variety of tone and form, running the gamut of human emotion, the literature of discovery springs to life in the mind of its readers.  And, best of all, it’s a secret -- a secret that the reader and the character (or explorer) share as they journey together toward their discoveries.  In his final speech in the 1982 movie Blade Runner, the dying replicant Roy Batty tells Deckard that he (Batty) has “seen things that you’ll never see.”  Or something almost exactly like that.  In the literature of discovery, more than any other, the reader can share the sheer wonder character/explorer’s experience in a way that’s seldom found in other genres.  The innate pleasure of vicarious experience abounds in this genre – in fact, it’s hard to suppress.

Though the pleasure is all very nice, what can we learn from it – how does our investment of time in these stories repaid?  How does it fulfill the second part of my long-ago film-making class’ assessment of our readers’ desires? Does this body of literature help us to gain an understanding of the peopled world around us?  As a devotee of “soft” science fiction, the question of why people do the things they do has always been of vast interest to me.  So, what have I learned from our real and fictional explorers?

Amundsen’s success reinforces the value of preparation, planning, and huge margins of safety; the Norwegians’ experience stands in marked contrast to the suffering and misery of the over-worked, inadequately-clothed, near-starved Scott expedition.  Amundsen’s style of leadership reinforces the value of leadership by example, the desire to assign the best person to the task at hand, and the willingness to accept ideas better than your own.  Amundsen’s men were treated like trusted experts, and their innovations and knowledge were used to ensure the success of the group overall.

One of the things Scott and Amundsen shared is a lesson I may never learn, that greatness is almost always preceded by ambition.  From the Apollo 11 astronauts to the white-shirted NASA engineers, ambition must have been a driving force in their lives.  John F. Kennedy said that “we do these things not because they are easy, but because they are hard,” and our real-life explorers exemplify this attitude.

Mailer’s book illustrates, thought perhaps unintentionally, Thomas Edison’s observation that “genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.”  That the successful Apollo 11 moon landing is a work of technological genius is indisputable, especially in light of the short time-frame of the accomplishment.  Aquarius’ WASPs work hard like interchangeable drone insects to achieve their great feat.  They subsume their personality in the spirit of teamwork, and the desire to inspire confidence and ability in the mind of the press and the American public who funds this great effort.  But, the perspiration behind the scenes in  Of a Fire on the Moon is Mailer himself.  His understanding of, and explanation of, the technology involved can only be the result of endless hours of effort poring over technical reports and diagrams.  He doesn’t simply regurgitate technical detail, like Poe in The Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym, he relates it to American culture and the human condition, which implies that reflection probably followed his technical understanding.  For a journalist-hipster, he must have worked very hard indeed to understand the nuance and meaning behind the clipped, dry conversations between CAPCOM and the three astronauts. 

Robyn Davidson offers a lesson in the vastness of human potential.  She shares her sanity and craziness, her knowledge and ignorance, her joy and despair in an almost brutal honesty.  And, in the end, Davidson learns two important things: “… that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and that the most difficult part of any endeavour is taking the first step, making the first decision” (254).  More than thirty years after Davidson’s journey, corporate America still tries to learn and teach this same message.  As corporations struggle to change their culture from hidebound hierarchal thinking to a culture of empowerment and teamwork, they take the proverbial one step forward and two steps back.  Davidson’s message is as relevant now as it was in the 1970’s, especially to women.

John Carter of Mars illustrates a traditionally masculine sense of honor, duty, and even chastity.  His idealistic love for the beautiful but seemingly helpless Dejah Thoris recalls the Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table.  Most importantly, he honors his own virtues; he displays an adherence to his own moral code.  The question of right and wrong was probably debated before humans invented sentence structure – the first such conversation may well have been voiced by grunts and gestures around an open fire.  To be sure, people remain concerned with this topic in our times.  John Carter shows us how to be true to what you believe in, whatever what that may be.

In The Left Hand of Darkness, LeGuin raises issues of gender and equality, of democracy and bureaucracy, of tolerance and intolerance.  Her non-gendered Gethenians throw our own inescapable attitudes into sharp relief; try though I might, I am unable to describe Estraven as anything other than “him,” probably because he’s capable, cunning, ruthless, and very smart.  I am trapped in my own gendered culture as surely as any other American.  Bureaucratic Orgoryen and monarchic Karhide display two equally ruthless types of tyranny over the lives of our two protagonists.  Most Gethenian’s general tolerance of Genly Ai, the Pervert, could serve as a useful lesson for modern America, could we only heed her words.  LeGuin offers much meat for reflection on our lives, thirty-five years after her book was published.

LeGuin’s work also offers a study on faith, love, and sacrifice in the twisting tale of Genly Ai and Estraven.  Estraven sacrifices everything he is, everything he has, and everything he ever will be in support of Genly Ai and his mission to Gethen.  Of all the people on Gethen, Estraven is the only one who Genly Ai doesn’t trust at the outset, and Estraven is one of the few who doesn’t betray him before the end.  Leguin’s beautiful treatment of one of man’s most basic desires, the desire for love and acceptance, is meaningful to today’s readers.

Why should we read stories of exploration, the literature of discovery?  For my money, this body of work always fulfills those two reasons mentioned in a classroom a long time ago -- an opportunity to learn and relearn, all wrapped up in a sense of wonder.