Leave Us Our Pulp

In literature, or art in general, there must be some series of standards that defines what is expected of those who produce it. Without objectivity, we'd no doubt fall prey to such a meaninglessly existential view of our entertainment that there would be no point in such formalities as the Pulitzer, the Hugo, or the Oscar.

Where, then, can we be expected to draw the line? I was reading an essay by S. T. Joshi, introducing a compilation of the poetry of Clark Ashton Smith. Joshi mentions that Smith's poetry will likely never achieve much of anything but disdain from the critical majority, and with good reason: compared to his great contemporaries, Smith was a hack.

Actually, I rather enjoy Smith's poetry in its way; his peers also produced some intriguing pieces, such as Lovecraft's Fungi From Yuggoth cycle. It seems unavoidable, though, that those of us who prefer sonnets meditating on unearthly blasphemies that dwell in howling caverns beneath the sea may be relegated to the ranks of goth poets and (gasp!) blog writers.

Is it really necessary to drive a wedge between guilty pleasures and...well, just pleasures? This is exactly the point that Vern makes in his review of the recent bomb Snakes on a Plane. There are some types of entertainment that aren't meant to be over-analyzed; if they do, they'll often disappoint. Far be it from me to belittle any of Joshi's work on the weird tales of the early 20th century, but at least he understands a fundamental fact about their nature: some books (or movies, or albums) just aren't for everyone.

I'm not implying that there should be no objective standards for literature; on the contrary, I hope that by emulating the generally accepted classics, today's English majors may produce this century's works of literary genius. By encouraging these high standards, we're hopefully contributing to the quality of future literature.

But there must also be a place for the next Burroughs, the next Derleth, the next Dunsany. Surely they can coexist with the new wave of neo-realists, or beats, or whatever movement emerges and immediately does its duty by scorning the fabulists.

Most everyone can accept that there are standards of some kind that enable us to critique a piece of writing. It's only insecurity, though, that creates the concept of a guilty pleasure. For my part, I'll enjoy what I enjoy, and may a foetid ichor dissolve those who don't like it.

Open Books

Those controversial champions of public-license information strike again! Google is now offering full PDF downloads and searches of out-of-print books. I will say this for Google: they've been one of very few companies to truly realize the value of digital communication in the service of leveling the scholarly playing field.

Of course, no rose is without its thorn, and in this case, the barbs are being thrown by publishers concerned with the Google Book Search project's copyright issues.

Unfortunately, it makes sense that free distribution controversies will continue to plague every form of art and comunication made available digitally, and that the frustrating arms race will escalate any time there's a demand for a certain type of media. As long as there's such a thing as art, there will be those who seek primarily to profit from it, and those who believe it should be openly available to everyone.

Which leaves us with a dilemma. It would seem significant, even necessary, that every economic class be allowed access to inspiring works of literature. But should we be supporting the writer financially, or supporting a beneficial literary Darwinianism, by making it necessary for authors to survive via their merits, not their agents?

A lack of the former may (potentially) hurt the economy. But by downplaying the latter, we may ultimately commit a worse sin: waiving our right as consumers to demand a high standard of art. Not that we should pirate indiscriminately; on the contrary, we should buy selectively. Creativity thrives on competition, and no strides will be made if the incumbents are allowed to rest on their lapels.

Serials 2.0

I stumbled upon Serial of the Dead today. I adore the idea behind it, and not just that this site contains a rather well-written piece of fiction (cue anticipatory goosebumps). It's yet another example of an art form that could only have emerged in the digital age: the blog serial (serialog?).

They're growing in ubiquitousness, though I'd say the original, and still the best, is the infamous John Dies at the End. Using blogs as vehicles to deliver a narrative seems to me to offer a rare glimpse of the internet (now apparently known as Web 2.0, or, weirdly, web-20) as it could be--a vehicle for sharing interesting, useful, and entertaining information.

What a novel concept: driving traffic to your site through engaging content, that's unique from week to week! Thanks to Flickr and YouTube, the visual media have plenty of platforms, but slow and steady, the serial story format is re-emerging. I find it exciting, and I'd love to see a more complete integration of literature and web content, especially as open-endedness becomes an ever more necessary feature of a successful web 2.0 site.

We live in a time filled with potential for the expansion of literature. Imagine a fictional blog where the writer develops the story as though it's his actual life, or an investigation on which he's reporting. I know it's been done, but I don't believe it's been attempted as an atmospheric weird tale. I might just have to pursue that concept myself.

Literary Horror Criticism

Supernatural Horror in Literature, Lovecraft's extended essay on the nature of the weird tale, has long been one of my favorite pieces of literary criticism concerning the weird tale. The edition pictured to the right is an annotated version, edited by S.T. Joshi (who's a significant figure in the world of horror criticism in his own right).

Any of Joshi's annotated Lovecraft texts are phenomenal reads, and this on is no exception. It was in Supernatural Horror that Lovecraft composed one of his most famous sentences:

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

I've been known to give Supernatural Horror a bit more credence that is generally considered its due in standard literary circles. But how can I resist an analysis of the horror genre that's actually written in the style of a weird tale? Passages like this one abundantly season Lovecraft's scholarly writing:

In the West, where the mystical Teuton had come down from his black boreal forests and the Celt remembered strange sacrifices in Druidic groves, it assumed a terrible intensity and convincing seriousness of atmosphere which doubled the force of its half-told, half-hinted horrors.

It's quite rare (not to mention generally unacceptable) for a critic to step outside his sphere of observation and become an active participant in the very genre he's analyzing, as he analyzes it.

The idea, is, of course, a fairly abhorrent one in scholarly circles, but since he never truly considered himself a pro, Lovecraft is freed up to write in the style he chooses. What he produced was an exceedingly strange and fascinating piece of literature in and of itself. If you have any interest in the history of the horror and science fiction genres, it's definitely worth your time.

Genre Benders

The two elements common to science fiction and fantasy stories, according to this article, are 1) dissociation with the prosaic, and 2) a focus on scientific progress. Since the two genres are so frequently blended, mis-defined, redefined, and merged with others, it seems as though they're often defined by certain of their attributes, rather than by, say, a reaction they're meant to induce.

For instance, horror, as described by the estimable Robert McKee, should contain elements of both the horrific (repulsive), and the terrorizing (frightening) in order to work properly. He also explains that by stripping away sources of comfort and rescue one-by-one, these feelings can be intensified. At some point, I'll try to dig up an online copy of his superb analysis of the genre, but it's proving difficult to find. Disappointing, since reading his work has completely redefined how I approach writing horror.

Science fiction, on the other hand, may provoke feelings of wonderment, excitement, and eagerness to explore and understand, but it's usually defined more by setting and tone than by mood. What, then, are we to do with a story like Harlan Ellison's I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream? It's set in the future, and the antagonist is a supercomputer, but it's a horror story if I've ever read one, and a damn good one at that.

The point of all my rambling is this: such lists beg the question of what defines a genre. Can we group stories only in some vague neuronal manner, classing them all as seems most appropriate to our advanced-primate psyche, or can there ever be a set of absolute rules, however complex? Or are genres themselves protean, evolving with the minds of the people who create them? I'm inclined to believe the latter.

Fiction Within Fiction

Using Second Life to create interactive fiction? That's what this guy is planning to do, motivated by the fact that, like many of us children who grew up in the 80s, he was fascinated with these games, and their strange paradox of design simplicity and narrative complexity. But he's planning on taking his new project in a highly original direction:

Instead of using words to describe everything, we have a multitude of media for telling the story. Rooms won't have to be described in words, but using short audio clips and scripted events -- the thoughts and feelings that are implied can be attached to the environ.

What does it mean when we're so strongly attached to a certain style of art that we return to it even within the confines of a very different sort of sensory experience? Maybe it's just easy (in principle) to design interactive fiction games.

I think there's something inherently human about the idea of a story that's told in a somewhat traditional (i.e., linear) form, with which the listener can interact, and to some degree maybe influence the outcome, if he or she chooses. After all, that's essentially how we shared our stories for millennia.

Dreaming in Digital

Can a machine compose a story? Thomson Financial seems to think so. They've been using programs to write their financial reports for several months now. In a column on Wired news, Momus seems to react with an odd mixture of feelings: he sort of shrugs off the story, while making sarcastic (and sometimes funny) remarks about the future of our computerized lives.

Machines, programmed appropriately, can already solve nearly any mathematical problem thrown at them, and it comes as no surprise that we should continue to anthropomorphize them in every way possible. We try to teach them to write poetry, generate art, and compose music. Oh, and then there's this.

But will they ever pass the highly complex Turing tests of fine art and literature? Can all aesthetic experiences be broken down into formulas? Part of me wonders if this is a distinct possibility.

Get Lamp

Get Lamp, a film project I've been following, is about the history of the interactive fiction, or IF community. There was a time (known as the early 1980s) when there was a sharp divide between arcade games, like Space Invaders, and adventure games, such as Zork. I played the former quarter-by-quarter, pounding away at buttons in an arcade. The latter, if written well, consumed hours of free time as I navigated complex dungeons, solved puzzles, and read evocative passages that immersed me in the scenes in which I was participating.

These text adventures often contained no graphics, though while some designers imagined beautifully painted scenes in the genre's future. Oblivion and its ilk were still decades away, so the worlds of these games had to be brought to life through words alone.

This is why I remain so interested in text adventure games, despite the obvious fact that the technology driving them has long been obsolete. They are far more than a deprecated genre; they represent a now-obscure corner of culture, where literature and technology cross-pollinated, creating highly unique pieces of art that are often neglected today.

If approached merely as games, they will likely disappoint, because the concept of what a computer game "ought to be" seems to have been hardwired into our cultural perceptions by now. Instead, try playing Anchorhead, and approach it as a short story in which you are an active participant. Try playing text adventures without pigeon-holing them as a certain form of entertainment, and you'l be rewarded with some incomparable experiences.