dé grootmeester van de science ficton,
progressief schrijfster,
onderschat schrijver in een onderschat genre
maar wat een talent.
prachtig artwork door Essy May
Voor de barbaren en de snobs die nog niet van haar gelezen hebben: rep je stante pede naar de lokale bibliotheek
voor de echte liefhebber, in 1975 bracht het tijdschrift 'Science Ficton Studies' een themanummer over de Science Fiction van Ursula K. Le Guin, met daarin volgend bijzonder lezenswaardige stuk van de grootmeesteres zelve.
One of the great early socialists said that the status of women in a society is a pretty reliable index of the degree of civilisation of that society. If this is true, then the very low status of women in SF should make us ponder about whether SF is civilised at all. The women's movement has made most of us conscious of the fact that SF has either totally ignored women, or presented them as squeaking dolls subject to instant rape by monsters-or old-maid scientists desexed by hyper-trophy of the intellectual organs-or, at best, loyal little wives or mistresses of accomplished heroes.
Male elitism has run rampant in SF. But is it only male elitism? Isn't the "subjection of women" in SF merely a symptom of a whole which is authoritarian, power-worshipping, and intensely parochial? The question involved here is the question of The Other-the being who is different from yourself. This being can be different from you in its sex; or in its annual income; or in its way of speaking and dressing and doing things; or in the color of its skin, or the number of its legs and heads. In other words, there is the sexual Alien, and the social Alien, and the cultural Alien, and finally the racial Alien.
Well, how about the social Alien in SF? How about, in Marxist terms, "the proletariat"? Where are they in SF? Where are the poor, the people who work hard and go to bed hungry? Are they ever persons, in SF? No. They appear as vast anonymous masses fleeing from giant slime-globules from the Chicago sewers, or dying off by the billion from pollution or radiation, or as faceless armies being led to battle by generals and statesmen. In sword and sorcery they behave like the walk-on parts in a high school performance of The Chocolate Prince. Now and then there's a busty lass amongst them who is honored by the attentions of the Captain of the Supreme Terran Command, or in a space-ship crew there's a quaint old cook, with a Scots or Swedish accent, representing the Wisdom of the Common Folk. The people, in SF, are not people. They are masses, existing for one purpose: to be led by their superiors. From a social point of view most SF has been incredibly regressive and unimaginative. All those Galactic Empires, taken straight from the British Empire of 1880. All those planets-with 80 trillion miles between them!-con- ceived of as warring nation-states, or as colonies to be exploited, or to be nudged by the benevolent Imperium of Earth towards self-development-the White Man's Burden all over again. The Rotary Club on Alpha Centauri, that's the size of it.
What about the cultural and the racial Other? This is the Alien everybody recognizes as alien, supposed to be the special concern of SF. Well, in the old pulp SF, it's very simple. The only good alien is a dead alien-whether he is an Aldebaranian Mantis-Man, or a German dentist. And this tradition still flourishes: witness Larry Niven's story "Inconstant Moon" (in All the Myriad Ways, 1941) which has a happy ending-consisting of the fact that America, including Los Angeles, was not hurt by a solar flare. Of course a few million Europeans and Asians were fried, but that doesn't matter, it just makes the world a little safer for democracy, in fact. (It is interesting that the female character in the same story is quite brainless; her only function is to say Oh? and Ooooh! to the clever and resourceful hero.) Then there's the other side of the same coin. If you hold a thing to be totally different from yourself, your fear of it may come out as hatred, or as awe- reverence. So we get all those wise and kindly beings who deign to rescue Earth from her sins and perils.
The Alien ends up on a pedestal in a white nightgown and a virtuous smirk-exactly as the "good woman" did in the Victorian Age. In America, it seems to have been Stanley Weinbaum who invented the sympathetic alien, in A Martian Odyssey. From then on, via people like Cyril Kornbluth, Ted Sturgeon, and Cordwainer Smith, SF began to inch its way out of simple racism. Robots-the alien intelligence-begin to behave nicely, With Smith, interestingly enough, the racial alien is combined with the social alien, in the "Underpeople," and they are allowed to have a revolution. As the aliens got more sympathetic, so did the human heroes. They began to have emotions, as well as rayguns. Indeed they began to become almost human. If you deny any affinity with another person or kind of person, if you declare it to be wholly different from yourself-as men have done to women, and class has done to class, and nation has done to nation-you may hate it, or deify it; but in either case you have denied its spiritual equality, and its human reality. You have made it into a thing, to which the only possible relationship is a power relationship. And thus you have fatally impoverished your own reality. You have, in fact, alienated yourself.
This tendency has been remarkably strong in American SF. The only social change presented by most SF has been towards authoritarianism, the domination of ignorant masses by a powerful elite-sometimes presented as a warning, but often quite complacently. Socialism is never considered as an alternative, and democracy is quite forgotten. Military virtues are taken as ethical ones. Wealth is assumed to be a righteous goal and a personal virtue. Competitive free-enterprise capitalism is the economic destiny of the entire Galaxy. In general, American SF has assumed a permanent hierarchy of superiors and inferiors, with rich, ambitious, aggressive males at the top, then a great gap, and then at the bottom the poor, the uneducated, the faceless masses, and all the women. The whole picture is, if I may say so, curiously "un-American." It is a perfect baboon patriarchy, with the Alpha Male on top, being respectfully groomed, from time, to time, by his inferiors. Is this speculation? is this imagination? is this extrapolation? I call it brainless regressivism. I think it's time SF writers-and their readers!-stopped daydreaming about a return to the Age of Queen Victoria, and started thinking about the future. I would like to see the Baboon Ideal replaced by a little human idealism, and some serious consideration of such deeply radical, futuristic concepts as Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. And remember that about 53% of the Brother- hood of Man is the Sisterhood of Woman.
meer op haar eigen website,
een interessante inleiding door Julie Philips van de NewYorker,
en deze 'where to start' van Slate.
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