To Die in Italbar

A lot of the bile spewed the way of genre writing is the misdirected product of snobbery. While it's true that anyone who thinks Stephen King is worthy of awards and prizes other than for sales has probably been out in the sun too long, there are books recognisably within genres that are better than most "literary" scribblings. LA confidential is one, Smiley's people another: books that go beyond the bounds of the formula to astonish and delight. (In talking about genre, I feel one should restrict oneself to books that do admit of a formula, so that, for instance, most of Graham Greene's books, although "thrillers", cannot properly be considered genre books. This is not a fixed opinion though. Of course, most literary books can be considered genre works in their own right. Many are comedies of manners -- the dullest form known to man in my opinion; others nothing more than overwritten soap operas or family sagas.) Science fiction, though, usually is poorly written rubbish, and To die in Italbar is no exception. Enjoyable rubbish, yes. You might devour it with relish. But whatever hunger you brought to it will not be sated.

Why do I say it is poor? Contrary to the impression I might give -- which is a consequence of being an editor by profession -- I don't judge books solely on their mechanical success (unless we are understanding that more broadly to include plot, character and scope). If I did, I would not think it a bad book. It is well enough written technically. Zelazny -- or his editor -- is a good judge of technical English, and his style is very readable. He doesn't fall foul of the common mistake of overwriting that makes much science fiction and just about all fantasy entirely unreadable. He is not an elegant writer -- no Philip K Dick (Lord of the high castle is a book I would without hesitation recommend to anyone, it is such a beautiful work, which, if it were packaged as lit fic under a pseudonym, would be recognised for what it is, a truly great work in English).

But Zelazny does fall foul of simply not bothering to have credible characters. They are cyphers. Actually, I'm being far too generous. They are not well-drawn enough even to be considered cyphers. They are blocks that he moves around a (rather dull) plot. I simply didn't care about them, and because the plot was too workaday, I didn't care what happened. Neither were his premises very exciting. The soldier who is still fighting the war was just unbelievable; the child orphaned by the war just left me unmoved; the healing/destroying man was poorly described, nothing like as mysterious as Zelazny hoped, and the explanation was far too limp to make for a satisfying denouement. The scientist frozen ten seconds from death was a tremendous idea, sadly wasted by being used simply as a piece of plot mechanics rather than a character of substance. The book should have been about him. As it was, with the perfect means to carry on doing what he loved, he pursued an end that would destroy that means (don't be mistaken into thinking that Zelazny made a thrilling torment out of this potential crisis -- he did not, he allowed it to pass with barely any notice).

No surprise though. I couldn't understand what was motivating anyone in this book. Well, that's not wholly true. Mr H and Sandow were having their strings pulled by ancient deities (yawn), so they were not in the being motivated business.

But I did read it all the way through. Why? Well, it was short and easy to read. There's a lesson there for most aspiring writers, I reckon. Learn to write. Learn to write sentences that do not turn the reader off. Don't make mechanical mistakes and keep the plot moving. You can get away with a lot if you do.

posted by Dr Zen @ 9:50 am