Friday, 5 September 2014

Method and anti-method

I've been thinking a lot about what I do, why I do it and how I go about it. I'm middle-aged now, I suppose (more than half-way through my life, I would guess; 'middle age' is really the third quarter of your life-span, past what Dante calls 'the middle of the journey of our life' when he finds himself 'within a dark wood where the straight way was lost' in Canto I of the Inferno, though I deeply sympathise with that feeling), a time when the unthought elements of life and purpose come to the surface and ask for explanation. These are troubled times for the life of the institutions I've existed within for the majority of my adult life, as I indicated in yesterday's blog post, and for someone of my sensibilities, they are personally troubling too, for I am not in sympathy with the current marketisation of higher education, and feel that its purpose (and thereby my own) has become eroded. Of course, I do what I can, particularly as a teacher and administrator, to give as good and fulfilling an experience to my students as possible while they study at my university, in my department, but the tide runs against me, against us.

Reading Raymond Williams' Border Country has drawn me back to his critical work, and the connection between the community he grew up in in South Wales, and its emphasis on learning and its valuing of literature and culture, and his Socialism, the need for collectivity. We have most of his books in the house. (Although books can be a fearful clutter, it's actually lovely to root on the shelves and find The Country and the City waiting for you, or as I just did, pluck down the John D. Sinclair translation of the Inferno to get the quotation right. Sometimes I wonder just why we have all these books, and it seems a burden; but right now, I'm really glad to see them there, to feel that we have a small library), a resource of thought, or in Williams' words, a resource of hope.

As in Scotland, there is still a residuum of the respect for education and literature that was crucial not just to traditional forms of Welsh cultural and social life (the eisteddfod and so on) but also to the Trade Unionism and Socialism in Welsh communities that were vitally important to the growth of the Labour Party and, it must be said, to socially progressive developments in British society in the 20th century, things which neo-liberalism is successfully rolling back. (Aneurin Bevan, son of Tredegar and Ebbw Vale MP, was of course the Minister of Health who successfully introduced the NHS.) I’ve lived in North Wales for 14 years now, in a beautiful valley that feels like home, in some ways, and though I’m not Welsh, my daughter was born in the country and speaks a bit of Cymraeg at school, and I feel deeply attracted to the history and traditions and literature of Wales. (The wonderful (and wonderfully grumpy) R.S. Thomas, my favourite poet, was a curate in a parish in Chirk for 4 years, just a couple of miles away.) But I am English; in fact, London and Essex blood runs in my veins, back some 200 years. And that is a difficult freight to bear, because I dislike what Englishness has come to stand for, I despise Toryism, and I hate know-nothing individualistic consumerism that would cast the social collective and ‘culture’ into the dustbin.

Not that I’m some Thomas Carlyle type, or Arnoldian nostalgic, wishing that all could partake of ‘the best which has been thought and said’ (though this should be available to all), something that would seal social bonds; no, like the Socialists of the coalfields, I believe in books, in learning, as a means by which to combat ideology, to see more clearly, and that is partly what I hope to do when I teach. It’s not about getting students to know things; it’s about equipping them with a method with which to read, to read and counter the ideological frameworks we all live within.

But my own method, you see, is not particularly methodical. I’m not someone who likes to pore through archives. I have trained myself to keep notes, to be systematic, just as I have trained myself to put my wallet and keys and watch and phone in the same place every night, because I know I would forget them the next morning otherwise. That kind of structure is helpful to me (and I get exasperated with family members when we have to hunt out stuff, partly because I see myself in that very behaviour and know that very little separates me from it). When it comes to work, to writing, to my ‘career’, I stand condemned by Captain Willard’s judgment of Kurtz: ‘I don’t see any method, at all, sir’. Academic careers are made by ploughing the same furrow, producing books and articles on the same field or subject, knowing the people in your field and getting on with them, reviewing and being reviewed, citing and being cited. Until the last one, all of my books have been on different subjects: literature and science, masculinity, Iain Sinclair, literature and film, science fiction. (The next one returns to sf.) Articles and chapters tend to follow these clusters. I’m spread out, I follow my interests, I jump from thing to thing, article to article, project to project.

My method, or rather my anti-method, is to yoke disparate things together, using this jumping around to see patterns, correspondences. A colleague and friend, Liz Oakley-Brown, has characterised some of my blog posts here, such as the one about Jason Bourne and Bilbo Baggins, as ‘nifty’ (thanks, Liz!) in this diverse comparison, this unusual combinatory move. Of course it’s entirely contingent, depending what I’ve watched or read in coincidental proximity. Some of my critical-creative work relies precisely on that approach. Sometimes I’ve tried to theorise it as ‘remix’; sometimes as ‘collage’; but really, it’s accident, or ‘inspiration’, or something-or-other.

Why do I work this way? Why jump from thing to thing, project to project? Probably it’s because I have a bit of a magpie mind; perhaps it’s because I get bored; but also, I think, it’s because I’m not the product of a methodical form of training or schooling. I went to an ordinary comprehensive schooling Essex in the early 1980s, where progressive ideals were beginning to be eroded, and where my immersion in football (every lunch and breaktime) offset the awkward fact that I was a ‘boffin’. My family have been firmly working-class: drivers, factory workers, labourers, oyster dredgers. I’m still the only member of my family to go to university (though my niece might well go in a few years). But my grandfather, Stanley Staples, was a kind of autodidact, loved finding things out, was fascinated by the longest train station name in Britain, Llanfair­pwllgwyn­gyllgo­gery­chwyrn­drobwll­llanty­silio­gogo­goch, or Llanfair PG as we know it now when we drive past it on the way to the beach on Angelsey, and struggled mightily to say it out loud.

And so I wonder whether that’s my anti-method, the magpie yo-yoing of the autodidact, the collector of curious correspondences. I’ve never been schooled in method, never inherited one, so like my Granddad, I made one up. Sometimes this leads me into difficulties, particularly when I come against people who have been trained more methodically, and have all that at their fingers, who would not need to pull down the Inferno from off the shelf because they already have the quotation memorised. And, I guess, it might leave my work feeling as though it makes surprising and illuminating connections, but it doesn’t really follow this through, or doesn’t want to: it would like to shoot off in another direction, make another leap, another correspondence. It probably makes me a good, entertaining and effective teacher: the seminar room becomes a laboratory where we can put A and X together and, boom!

Can anti-method become method (of sorts)? Can you teach others to see those connections? In some ways you can, and my wonderful experience of teaching classes on American literature, on film, on screen adaptations, on science fiction, has been filled with moments where boom! the students put A and X together and there we have something surprising, stimulating, exciting happening, and this demonstrates to me that it can. In the current marketization of higher education, this kind of anti-method is difficult to incorporate into learning outcomes, into ‘skills’, into vocationality, into the hearts and minds of ‘consumers’ who worry (quite rightly) how they will pay off the 27 grand’s worth of debt. I’ve recently tried to do so in a new first-year course (taught by others) that comes onstream in a few weeks, and I dearly hope it works. Is this poetics? Is this critical/creative practice? I don’t know. But I’m glad to have tried.
  

Thursday, 4 September 2014

Feels like down to me

I don't know whether you've read Marina Warner's London Review of Books blog on why she quit the University of Essex (happily, she's now at Birkbeck, so no need for tea and sympathy), but in it she contrasts the aspirations and hopes of the expansion of higher education in the mid-60s, embodied in the Brutalist architecture of the Wivenhoe campus, with the neo-liberal managerialism of the current regime. My own university, Lancaster, is one of the same generation of UK universities, founded in 1964. It is therefore 50 years since the institution opened its doors, and 'Jubilee' celebrations have been held throughout the year. Not much of the old fabric of the Lancaster campus remains, as in the 8 years I have been there, several new buildings have gone up and a fair few torn down. The picture is from old accommodation stock, now mothballed, that my friend and colleague Lindsey explored a few months ago. There are still some old areas of departments that retain the dusty flavour of the old university: the Physics department, for instance. But most other places are 'renewed', hygienic, corporate, soulless. Working there is no different from working at one of Ballard's science parks.

This means, of course, that we are subject to the same kinds of 'renewal', the same kinds of corporatisation, that afflicts the space of the campus. Imogen Tyler, who wrote Revolting Subjects, tweeted today from a conference in Brighton, in which a presenter described academics as the ideal neo-liberal subjects, 'practicing freedom to manage "selves"'. This idea has haunted me for quite a while. It came to mind when I read Simon Reynolds' Retromania, and his blogs on Ghost Box and 'nostalgia for the future'; and with Chris Witter (a former PhD student of mine, now friend and co-conspirator) have planned a '1964 day' in November this year, on the Lancaster campus, to try to revisit that spirit informing the new universities of the 1960s, one that embraced dissent and openness of thought rather than 'entrepreneurialism' (i.e. drawing down large research grants) or audit-friendly research 'outcomes'. In the Lancaster University student paper, SCAN, Toby Atkinson pondered a similar question recently: 'Whatever happened to Higher Education?'

I'd like to recapture the spirit of Mario Savio, whose speech at Berkeley on 2 December 1964 is a constant inspiration to me. This may be a forlorn task. Savio's right: if the management of the university are now a board of directors, then the faculty (the teaching staff) are employees, making products for the marketplace. Higher education is now a marketplace itself, of course, and our students are now, in the words of the University, 'consumers'. The situation we find ourselves in now is even more eroded than the one in Berkeley in '64.

This week I read Raymond Williams' Border Country, about a Welsh university lecturer, working in London, who returns to the village where he grew up when his father falls ill, a village that he has long felt alienated from and has, in some senses, disavowed. As someone whose own life anagrammatises this story, I too feel the alienation, loss, the not-at-homeness that is the prevalent contemporary condition, acutely. The novel was published in the early 1960s, and inhabits, in some ways, a longing for community, for the collective bonds that may constrict but which also support and give meaning. The communities Williams writes of, particularly the mining communities of South Wales, were subject to the same marketisation and erosion as now overtakes the university sector, but some thirty years ago. (This is, of course, the year of the 30th anniversary of the miner's strike.) Williams' nostalgia is a complex one, of course; there is no real return, though there may be renewal. And that is what my own 'nostalgia for the future' is, in my mid-40s, a longing for a different kind of world.


Saturday, 17 May 2014

I've Got a Feeling

It’s a strange thing to admit, but literature rarely moves me to tears. For me, reading is, and I think always has been, a pleasure of the head: imaginative or intellectual stimulation rather than emotional. (This is perhaps why I have ended up an academic in an English literature department who writes and teaches on science fiction.) That’s not to say that I don’t react emotionally to culture, but I am most moved by other things; namely, movies and music. I regularly cry in the cinema, at the most emotionally manipulative things, in spite of myself; rarely does a children’s animated film go by without me piping my eye, and I’m not even talking about the genius at work in the opening sequence of Up. In the cinema, I’m a softy.

Certain songs almost always trigger tears. ‘Spare Parts’ and ‘Cautious Man’ from Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, for instance (the hair stands up at the back of my neck too). And recently, although I don’t cry, some of the late work of The Beatles works emotionally in a powerful way for me. In particular, it’s the songs of Paul McCartney that do this.

In a sense, it’s one of those wild goose chases that occasionally engulf me that has been at work, in part precipitated by Ian Macdonald’s brilliant Revolution in the Head, which I have read compulsively, over and over again, since Christmas. I’ve always been a Revolver man; I remember buying the album at the Woolworth’s in Southend in the company of my good friend Simon when I was about 16 or 17. The first album I ever owned (a present) was A Collection of Beatles Oldies…But Goldies, which still has my childish scrawl upon the back cover declaring me its (new) owner. (Curiously, listening to tracks from that album always brings to mind images from Ryan’s Daughter, which must have been playing on the tv once while I sat listening to the album on headphones in the sitting room.) But Revolution in the Head sent me to those later albums I’d never had much contact with; the White Album, Abbey Road, and Let It Be (which I bought in the …Naked version), along with Sgt Pepper, which I’d borrowed from the local library as a teenager and liked, but couldn’t remember in detail.

I’m still getting my head around the White album. It’s sprawling, of course, if not incoherent; from Macdonald’s book, it seems as though that was the point at which the group worked most separately, and you can tell. What really strikes me, though, is the incredible range of styles, a lot of which is flat out pastiche (‘Back in the USSR’, ‘Rocky Racoon’), and some is a clear attempt to turn to a late-60s heavy electric blues-rock ('YerBlues’). Lennon is particularly keen on this latter style; McCartney the former. But then there’s ‘Helter Skelter’. How do you place this next to ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da’, which apparently drove McCartney’s band-mates mad when he drilled them over and over to the perfect the song?

I have to admit that Lennon, after Sgt Pepper, wearies me a bit. For all his sarcasm, I see him as a sentimentalist of the ego in his Yoko-buttressed insistence that all art must be personal (and thereby dismissing McCartney songs like ‘Eleanor Rigby’ as ‘boring songs about boring people’). Lennon is both cynic and idealist (two sides of the same coin), but while keenly attuned to the bullshit of others, found it difficult to diagnose his own. Macdonald has it right when he says that Lennon was particularly dismissive of intellectuals because their pretensions mirrored his. It’s a bit of a glib binary, but where Lennon is a cynical idealist, I see McCartney as a Romantic. I don’t just mean a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, which I think is central to his songs, but also in a powerful emotional (rather than political) sympathy with the lives of other people. It’s McCartney, after all, who writes ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and ‘She’s Leaving Home’.

Although you only have to do a bit of reading to know that it was McCartney, not Lennon, who was involved in the London avant-garde scene in the mid- to late-60s (Lennon was tripping in uneasy domesticity with wife Cynthia in Weybridge); and it was McCartney who was really enthusiastic about musique concrete and tape loops and William Burroughs and so on; but McCartney, for all his intellectual curiosity, isn’t an artist of the head, which is why he was so enthusiastic about marijuana. For McCartney, it’s all about feel. (It’s no surprise that McCartney hightailed it off to Scotland to live on a farm, for all one might be suspicious of Macca as l’homme naturel.) It seems to me that McCartney’s work is fundamentally unthought, though his genius is not that of Shafer’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, taking ‘dictation’ from God. The direction of McCartney’s work is always towards feeling.

By unthought, I mean that it doesn’t involve agonising, about meaning or shape or genre; though he liked the product of tape loops and cut-ups, his aesthetic is all about flow. Lennon, by contrast, was well known for his practice of writing bits of songs and sticking them together. That’s how you get the effect of ‘I Want You (She’s So Heavy)’, which is literally two different parts put together in rotation, or ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, a mini-suite of elements composed of different time signatures, different forms and styles. (Curiously enough, Abbey Road’s Long Melody, an idea usually credited to McCartney, is a macrocosmic analogue of Lennon’s method.) I suspect that for most of McCartney’s songs, the melody just appears in his head. This is certainly true of ‘Hey Jude’, which McCartney ‘wrote’ while driving to see Lennon in Weybridge.

This is why matters of taste, and in particular failures of taste, the accusation always levelled at McCartney, are besides the point when looking at his work. I suspect that McCartney just thinks his songs up and does them, whether it’s ‘Helter Skelter’ or ‘Ob-la-di’ or ‘The Frog Chorus’ (or ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and the skirl of bagpipes). It is simply a matter of what he thinks the song should sound like, be it cod-ska (‘Ob-la-di’), Chuck Berry/ The Beach Boys (‘Back in the USSR’) or 50s doo-wop (‘Oh! Darling’). McCartney was steeped in show-tunes as well as r&b and rock’n’roll, and you can tell: his work fuses Tin Pan Alley, pop and rock, but these threads can be more dominant than others in certain songs. ‘Got to Get You Into My Life’ is brilliant, blaring r&b; ‘When I’m 64’ like a show-tune standard; ‘Paperback Writer’ is classic ’66 freakbeat, fuzz guitar and all.

For all Lennon’s declamatory rhetoric about love, I don’t find much in his songs. There’s yearning and loss in ‘Julia’ and a kind of spindly otherworldliness in ‘Across the Universe’; there’s desire, even obsession in ‘I Want You’; there’s cynicism and anger (and misogyny) everywhere. But it’s in McCartney’s songs that I find depth of emotion, and in particular some songs which, I feel, are about Lennon, and the break-up of the band, which work in terms of their melodies and words to manifest a powerful sense of regret, and pain, and love (in part, for his ‘mate’).

In ‘Two of Us’, from Let It Be, McCartney sings to a friend, celebrating their time together, but it’s filled with wistfulness (accentuated by the arrangement, with strummed 12-string guitars and a simple beat); it’s sometimes thought to be a song to Linda, but the lines ‘You and I have memories/ Longer than the road that stretches out ahead’ suggest a much longer-standing relationship. The song is filled with images of travel – ‘Sunday driving’, ‘the road’ – but the sense is that the friends are ‘getting nowhere’, making no progress, ‘chasing paper’. (This is a line that has produced some comment to do with McCartney’s legal dispute with Apple and the rest of the Beatles. ‘Paper’ could also mean money, as in Lennon’s line in ‘Mean Mr Mustard’: ‘shaves in the dark trying to save paper’, which would connect very interestingly with ‘You Never Give Me YourMoney’, of more anon. ‘Chasing paper’ would then mean chasing money, losing sight of friendship through the pursuit of the material and worldly.) The chorus declares ‘We’re on our way home’, but it’s a home they can no longer find. There’s a longing for this sense of arrival, to restore what has been lost, but it’s lost for good.

The same images recur in ‘The Long and Winding Road’, which Ian Macdonald reads as McCartney’s farewell not only to the Beatles, but to the dreams of the 60s in their entirety. Here, the road leads ‘to your door’, but the door isn’t opened. ‘Don’t leave me standing here’, McCartney sings; ‘you’ll never now the many ways I’ve tried’. The stories of George and Ringo’s anger with McCartney’s seemingly patronising attitude towards them are legion, and Lennon’s exasperation with his writing partner is evident; but ‘The Long and Winding Road’ seems like a mea culpa (‘I’ve tried’) and also a plea: please open the door.

The third of the songs in this thread is from the Long Melody of Abbey Road, in my mind a masterpiece of sequencing; but also, in the last three songs, excluding ‘Her Majesty’ (all McCartney), there is a moving leave-taking. In ‘Golden Slumbers’, McCartney begins: ‘Once there was a way to get back homewards/ Once there was a way to get back home’, echoing ‘Two of Us’; homecoming, returning to the excitement and happiness of the early 60s, isn’t possible. The road has been too long, the alienation too profound. Then McCartney ‘sings a lullaby’: ‘Golden Slumbers fill your eyes’. I can’t help but read this against two Lennon songs, ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ (from Revolver) and ‘I’m So Tired’ (from the White album). It’s a call for peace, for calm, even for release from the striving of life: to let it go, to let be.

Golden Slumbers’ segues into ‘Carry that Weight’, a song I find myself humming all the time. Again, I think Macdonald’s right: McCartney might well have sung ‘boys, you’ve got to carry that weight’, about all of them, and what they would have to put up with as (former) Beatles. In a brilliant touch, ‘Carry That Weight’ turns to a reprise of ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’, where McCartney sings ‘I break down’, almost a confession and a self-indictment. There’s no finger-pointing here, just a sense that things are at an end. And then they do end, with the coruscating soloing of ‘The End’, and the lines ‘And in the end, the love you take/ Is equal to the love you make’, which is hippyish stuff but also, again, a kind of plea: please let there be an end to bitterness, to rancour. Let love and peace reign, in hearts as well as heads.

You Never Give Me your Money’ is an astonishing song in itself. Like ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, it’s a mini-suite, built of extraordinary parts: the opening piano chords, Harrison’s guitar, McCartney’s expressive singing; the bouncing bar-room ensemble section (‘out of college, money spent’); the arpeggiated breakdown (‘oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go’) which becomes a lovely chiming Harrison break; then a return to a rock dynamic (‘soon we’ll be away from here, step on the gas’); and then a final arpeggiated guitar riff and fade (‘all good children go to heaven’). It’s virtuoso stuff all round, from the shifts in dynamic, tone and melody, to the fabulous playing and production, to the sequencing of the different sections of the song. ‘Money’ here is a metaphor, no matter what McCartney says about the song being about Allen Klein; it’s about not giving of your best, your truest and deepest emotion, to a friend or lover. (In terms of the Beatles as song-writers, by the time of Abbey Road it’s most likely that both Lennon and Harrison were keeping back their best songs for pending solo efforts, though the last Beatles album has two of Harrison’s best-loved songs.) The singer isn’t spared; both are passing ‘funny paper’, counterfeit coin.

All the songs I’ve mentioned move me. They don’t bring me to tears, but they do produce a kind of wistfulness, a deep sympathy, a feeling. These are songs of pain and loss and sadness, but also of a coming to terms. They’re brave, in a way, in exposing the rawness of emotion of that period, not just in what is being sung, but in how the music is able to transmit that feeling.

Abbey Road is a brilliant album (despite ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’, a sure-fire example of McCartney’s facility with music leading to produce something that is pretty tasteless.) I return to the ‘Long Melody’ obsessively, and love the Lennon songs too (especially ‘Polythene Pam’, which has a humour and energy many Lennon songs of the period lack, to my ears). But the most resonant album of the period is Let It Be …Naked, strangely, in all its bodged glory. To me, it sounds like the most Stones-like of all the Beatles albums, not least because of the presence of Billy Preston on keys. It’s not just that; the music is rootsy, vibey. In a sense, this isn’t surprising, because the ‘Get Back’ sessions (which were turned into Let It Be) approximated the Stones’ way of working: endless rehearsing, on and on and on until they selected a take through some means or other (boredom or exhaustion or ‘feel’).

I love the Stones’ music, more perhaps than the Beatles’. Jagger/Richards, Lennon/McCartney. Sometimes I try to think about who matches up with who, and on first take, you’d say Lennon and Richards, the hell-raising bad boys, against Jagger and McCartney, lighter-weight, more showbiz-aware operators. But actually I think it’s the other way round. Jagger and Lennon are the faux-intellectuals, the seekers. McCartney and Richards are all about flow, and about the music itself. I take Keith’s use of heroin as to do with work rather than decadence: he could go on for 30 hours before crashing. When you watch Sympathy for the Devil/ One Plus One, Godard’s film, you can see Keith keeping the band going when Charlie fluffs a drum part, waving his arm to say ‘keep on’; it’s key to the Stones’ working methods. And this was McCartney’s method to keep the Beatles together, to keep working, to do the ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, to try the back-to-basics no-overdubs ‘Get Back’ sessions, to push and push and push. Without him, in the stead of Brian Epstein (who became peripheral once they stopped touring in ’66), the band might well have split after Sgt Pepper; in the end, his solution, to keep the boys working, ended up compounding the tension and assuring the split.

This is typical McCartney; he doesn’t step back and think about it, he pushes on with what feels right, even though it ends up backfiring. And I admire this, in the end. He pushes on. He keeps working. He thinks of what he does as entertainment, as pop, not art. He writes ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and ‘The Frog Chorus’ (but also, recently, the Fireman albums, experimental looping psyche-electronica). He sells millions of records with Wings. In the end, McCartney’s endless facility and imaginative fertility is his downfall, his worst enemy, because he just gets on and does it. But that’s all right. And he does it because it’s important; and he cared, even though sometimes he cared too much.

Friday, 25 April 2014

A certain melancholy

Over the past few days I’ve watched the first two films of two trilogies: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and The Desolation of Smaug, and The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy. None of them I found particularly happy experiences, which is especially problematic with regard to The Hobbit (an adaptation of a children's adventure story, after all), which I found very gloomy, much more so than The Lord of the Rings trilogy. The Hobbit begins with an invasion, of Bilbo’s house; and yes, he’s a fussy, nerdy creature, but he becomes the unwitting victim of Gandalf’s social engineering: ‘if you return, you will not be the same’.  Both Bilbo and Jason Bourne are made into problematic heroes by authority figures whose motives are opaque, if not outright dubious. Each is sent on a ‘mission’ that may prove fatal; each loses their sense of themselves along the way. Each must adopt a ‘warrior’ masculinity, and in both films the personal body-count is pretty high. The saving grace is that, for both films, Bilbo and Bourne must come to question not ‘who am I?’, but ‘what have I become?’ The personal trajectory is, hopefully, also an ethical one.

In The Bourne Supremacy, the images that stay with me most powerfully are not the action scenes or car chases, but the shots of Bourne peering mournfully out of train and car windows, looking out upon the autobahn or grey suburban sprawl or the light industrial and mercantile infrastructures that tend to accumulate alongside train routes. These are, of course, physical analogues of Bourne’s own dislocation. One of the interesting generic revisions that both films make is to invert the jet-setting, hyper-mobile modes of the contemporary thriller. For Bourne, such mobility is not a kind of tourism, but instead a permanent state of dislocation or exile. Bourne travels externally, but is lost inside, in melancholy and grief.

The underpinning narrative topos of the Bourne films, of course, is psychological damage or trauma. Both Bourne and Bilbo often enter into dislocated states of mind – fragments of memory for Bourne, the haunted state of invisibility for Bilbo – but these should reveal to the protagonists themselves just how damaged they have been. Some shots in Supremacy, and the use of music to emotionally cue the scene, suggest this: a man aware of how much he is not there. In The Desolation of Smaug, Bilbo seems to begin to understand the power of the ring he has found, how it has worked upon Gollum to make him into the creature in the cave, and how Gollum represents a possible future for Bilbo himself. The flashes of Sauron’s eye that begin to accompany Bilbo’s wearing of the ring are flashes both forward and back, to the events of The Lord of the Rings that cast a very long shadow over The Hobbit.

This perhaps accounts for its melancholia. There isn’t much real fun in either Hobbit film. Much of The Hobbit, as filmed by Peter Jackson, is anticipatory, signalling the beginnings of the return of ‘evil’ to Middle Earth: the hallucinatory pall that covers Mirkwood, for instance, or the presence of Orcs, or even Saruman’s lack of sympathy for Gandalf’s suspicions. This isn't really children's cinema; in fact, I found The Lord of the Rings to be lighter of heart (perhaps because evil is defeated at the end? Is this what also afflict the Star Wars prequel trilogy?) Gandalf, in The Hobbit films, becomes a kind of Cold Warrior, alert to the incursions of malign forces of which neither ‘men’ nor elves truly understand the significance. Gandalf seems to stand accused of paranoia for his fixation on Smaug (a Middle Earth WMD); his imprecation to Thorin Oakenshield to retake his Kingdom under the Mountain could be read as a rather rogue incitement to adventurism. The film, of course, and in particular The Lord of the Rings, proves Gandalf to be right.

This revision of Cold War tropes was also central to the most recent Bond film, Skyfall, but I was interested to note that in the Bourne films, and particularly Supremacy, the Cold War apparatus of secrets and espionage (and consequent ethical centrality of personal and political betrayal) is displaced by a globalised geopolitics of money and oil, despite the Berlin setting. Bourne is not betrayed, as such; the point is that his training, or programming, as a killing machine cannot completely override his ethical misgivings about assassination, one that results in his ‘death’ in The Bourne Identity when he cannot kill his intended target when Bourne comes across him with his daughter.  Bourne, an instrument in a corrupt ‘spy game’, malfunctions. The films’ thrilling action sequences show, of course, that much of the physical programming remains all too efficiently in place.

By the end of Supremacy, it is somewhat moot in terms of how much Bourne still really understands about what ‘Treadstone’ was all about; I hope I will find out myself when I watch The Bourne Ultimatum shortly. Here, though, at the end of the second film in the trilogy, there is little sense of the alienation from the ‘mission’ that Bilbo evinces when, gazing after Smaug at the end of The Desolation, who is about to descend upon Laketown, he says: ‘what have we done?’ Bourne seems to feel nothing for the multiple dead he leaves behind him, nor for those (like the technical operator Nicky Parsons) he terrorises en route. Bourne’s own melancholia, his alienation and loss of identity, operates as an ethical bubble, a way of not seeing the destruction he causes about him. Smaug boasts that ‘I am death’; Bourne does not even understand this about himself. This is perhaps the heart of the melancholia in The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy: a void that is the subject, Jason Bourne himself.

Monday, 7 April 2014

The Critic as hack(er)

A couple of things last week made me wonder. The first was when I was invited to contribute an article to a journal. My first thought, as usual, was ‘Great! Yes, of course!’ But then I came up dry. I couldn’t think of a single thing that I wanted to write about.

The second was that I had a few ‘free’ days at the end of last week. It’s Easter vacation, but my daughter Isobel is still at school, and Deniz took my step-daughter down to Oxford. So three clear days for – what? I have a couple of pressing projects (a monograph to finish, corrections and revisions to another book), and this seemed like time I could use. But – no. I read a bit, thought a bit. Let my brain tick over without forcing it. And the days went by.

And I realised that I hadn’t posted on here for a couple of months. Traffic is still steady (thanks), but nothing had come to mind, nothing urgent that I wanted to write about. So I wondered: have I written myself out?

I asked myself this last night. I wanted to write for a long time, and in a sense becoming a university lecturer is the fulfilment of my wishes. I teach (which I love doing), and apart from that admin stuff, I read and I watch films and I write. But writing is now work, and sometimes it feels like hack work. I’m not particularly disciplined as a writer: I don’t have set times and patterns. Perhaps I should. But I realised that the reason why I’ve resisted doing so is that I’ve tried to cling to the idea that writing isn’t work, it’s something to do with inspiration or the critical moment when you see the pattern emerging, that this is connected to this and maybe means this. (It’s a version of the conspiracy narratives I enjoyed as a teenager. Everything connects.) 

That’s how I think of myself as a critic, I suppose: a recogniser of pattern. As I’ve written before about Amadeus, I’m no genius, no paradigm-shifter. I work, tinker with stuff, come up with interesting stuff (I hope), often on popular culture and its guises, because that’s where certain diagnoses can be found. Hardly any of my work can be said to be written on ‘high’ literature (except maybe the Sinclair work, and he’s a hybrid writer), though I have a distinct bias towards the experimental. In fact, experimental work in a popular idiom is precisely where my interests lay. When it comes to science fiction, I love the New Wave; and though I’ve read plenty of commercial hack-work, work written for payment by-the-word, and can appreciate it for what it is, the idea of writing like that, writing hack work, is kind-of where I find myself. Because that’s part of the deal of being a contemporary academic.

And I do too much, I know it. I say ‘yes’ too much. I’ve always had ideas and like to get them on paper (out of my head). I probably do ‘need to write’ in some ways, even though that might be detrimental (perhaps to quality). But is needing to write work, or is it to do with something else? Compulsion, inspiration?

In an essay titled ‘The Essay As Hack’, Ander Monson writes about the lyric essay as a form that ‘can potentially incorporate anything, draw from anything, in search of the range of human thought it attempts to match’. I like this thought, and try to correspond to that in my blog posts. (The strictures of the academic essay often mitigate against that fluidity.) If the essay is a hack, then the essayist is a hacker: a figure to conjure with in the post-cyberpunk, digital age, and used by critics like Andrew Ross or Mark Dery (as well as Monson) to indicate a cultural politics and practice as much as a writerly technique.

But I’m no hacker either. Or, if I am, it’s another kind of metaphor. Not for me the glamour accruing to the infiltrator of digital data systems, Gibson’s console cowboys, the liberators and disseminators of hidden information. Rather, I’m the hacker of the golf course, slicing and hooking his way along and across the fairways, swish and snick, losing the odd ball in the rough, but eventually (never mind the score) getting there, getting that damned white ball into the cup, and along the way there might be the occasional flash, the shot that flies true and lands just where you want it to.

I’ve no cultural (or social) affinity for golf, though I used to regularly watch it on tv as a lad and even tried it a few times, but I always liked Severiano Ballesteros, and now I know why. Seve was the sublime hacker, who would whang a drive into a car park and then strike the most outrageous, perfectly shaped recovery shot just a foot from the cup (and then might miss the putt). A fallible genius, an angelic hacker, but also a golfer who, despite fading powers and incapacitating back injuries, carried on.

So I will carry on. I will carry on hacking, hacking away at stuff, working, writing. It’s my job, after all.

Monday, 10 February 2014

Anarchy (and science fiction) in the UK



I met Ken Macleod fleetingly at a science fiction conference over a dozen years ago now, and he seemed a very approachable and friendly fellow. This week I read the first in his Fall Revolution series, The Star Fraction (1995), though it’s been sitting on my shelf for while. Immediately prior to this, I had read Lauren Beukes’ Moxyland (2010) for the science fiction reading group that some students are running in the department; and I also scooted through Michael Moorcock’s Modem Times 2.0 (2010), a short Jerry Cornelius text published in PM’s ‘Outspoken Authors’ series. While I though Moxyland so-so, a variant on cyberpunk tropes, I really engaged with The Star Fraction, which was no less post-cyberpunk (its central narrative concerning the coming-to-consciousness of an AI, and the end a When-It-Changed kind of moment, straight outta Neuromancer). Macleod imagines a fractured Britain, with a Hanoverian Kingdom, an archipelago of mini-states dotted across the isles (including the Christian Beulah City, occupying parts of North London, and Norlonto, the ‘free’ space around Alexandra Palace that is home to a non-governmental space program), and the remnant of the overthrown Republic existing as both an exiled government-in-waiting and private military force. Macleod’s future Britain is both Balkanised and militarised.

Norlonto is, though, a kind of anarchy. That is, it has no central government; law is enforced through contractual agreements between groups and individuals; social welfare is organised through collectives and mutual aid; and freedom of speech, individual liberty and a free market are crucial to how Norlonto operates. It is, in fact, a variant of anarchism closer to anarcho-capitalism than a classical model of anarchy; and the militarization of its fabric, its competing ‘terrorist’ groups and security outfits, marks Norlonto as a problematic ‘utopia’. If this is a social space in some senses ‘more free’ than one with an oppressive state apparatus, it is also one riven with factionalism, violence and insecurity. The London of The Star Fraction is no News from Nowhere.

What I really liked about The Star Fraction was the concreteness of the imagined future, and its embeddedness in a history of the politics of resistance or opposition. Many of the fighters and space workers are communists or anarchists dressed in boots and jeans and leather jackets, their debates held in pubs over beer and cigarettes, their ideas informed by political tracts picked up from second-hand book stalls. The picture of Norlonto that Macleod paints for us seems derived directly from experience, from the politics and (counter-)culture of the late 1970s, the era of the end of the postwar British settlement and the arrival of Thatcher and monetarism: the era of punk.

Macleod’s punk sensibility is markedly different from a cyberpunk one, even though the narrative debt to a Gibsonian cyberpunk seems fairly clear. Rather than a romanticised hacker at the core of the narrative, with escape or transcendence of the system the aim (the Street a place to hide, to plan, but not to live), Macleod’s protagonist Moh Kohn is a communist, a mercenary, and the son of two Left activists murdered during the imposed restoration of the Hanoverian regime. The Star Fraction encodes the postwar history of the British Left and its several defeats, but is ultimately hopeful, if not strictly utopian. 

I’ve become interested in the theory and politics of anarchy, partly as an attempt to fit my own views into the political spectrum more sensibly. (I’m probably of the libertarian Left, a socialist with anarchist tendencies.) Reading Macleod, therefore, hit a chord. Over Christmas I had raced through Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, a counterpart to Nineteen Eighty-Four where, instead of that supremely dystopian figure of the future – imagine ‘a boot stamping upon a human face forever’ – there is the representation of fellowship, of community, of collectivity, apparent in the early days of the war in Barcelona, or the comradeship Orwell finds among the militiamen of the POUM. Orwell does not seem to believe in the possibility of a hopeful future – Homage, like Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm, is a text filled with the bitterness of the defeat of the hopes and aspirations of the Left – but in human feeling, in comradeship, there is something to counter the machinery of violence and oppression. 

The Alan Moore/ David Lloyd comic/ graphic novel V for Vendetta is deeply indebted to Orwell’s imagined future Britain, a police state of grey austerity, but its dystopian protagonist is a ‘terrorist’, whose adherence to a politics of anarchy is also deeply implicated in the violence of the totalitarian state: V counters this by blowing up Parliament and the Old Bailey, assassinating (or murdering) scores of people, suborning the super-computer Fate, and eventually entering Valhalla as his funerary train explodes beneath Downing Street. (With too much blood on his/her hands, V cannot live on into the new political dispensation, whatever that may be.) His/her ‘precious anarchy’ forms the political backbone of the narrative. When Evey Hammond, a young girl rescued from rape and death by secret policemen by V, and then ‘trained’ (in a variety of ways) to be V’s successor, asks: ‘All this uproar and riot, V... is this anarchy?’ (Book 3, chapter 2: ‘Verwirrung’, p.195), V replies: ‘No, this is only the land of take-what-you-want. Anarchy means ‘without leaders’, not ‘without order’. With anarchy comes an age of ordnung, of true order, which is to say voluntary order. The age of ordnung will begin when the mad and incoherent cycle of verwirrung that these bulletins reveal has run its course. This is chaos.’

The same might be said of The Star Fraction: from an oppressive order to verwirrung, the narrative ends in suspension, before the creation of either ordnung or (as is suggested) the potential for a different kind of totalization under the socialist Republic. Anarchy seems a way, for dystopian texts, to square the circle between a politics of the Left and the dystopian form’s implicit valuation of the individual against the state.
In Grant Morrison’s comic book The Invisibles, the connection between the politics of counter-cultural resistance, in particular an ‘anarchic’ libertarianism, and science fiction becomes even more explicit. The Invisibles narrates the battle between the heroic group of the title (led by the self-declared anarchist ‘King Mob’, not only a slogan daubed on the walls during the Gordon Riots in 1780, but the name of a revolutionary group active in London in the 1970s) and the ‘Conspiracy’, whose activities and organisation reflect the kind of tentacular secret group from paranoid conspiracy texts of the 1970s, and in particular the tone of Robert Anton Wilson’s Illuminatus! Trilogy. The first collection of the book is called Say You Want a Revolution, a reference, of course, to The Beatles ‘Revolution’; the third is called Entropy in the UK. This title connects up the dominant trope of New Wave science fiction – entropy, a metaphor for social and cultural disintegration – with the title of the Sex Pistols’ first single. This connection between the 60s counter-culture and Punk is at the centre of Greil Marcus’s Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century, which takes the Sex Pistols as a late manifestation of a political and artistic revolt, which is traced back through the Situationists (an overt influence on Malcolm McLaren) to Dada.

Entropy in the UK begins with King Mob captured by his enemies and being tortured. To combat this, King Mob uses his cover as a writer to spin a psychic defence made up of SF narratives and psychedelia, which are materialised in the character of ‘Gideon Stargrave’. Stargrave is King Mob’s alter-ego, a 60s fashionista-cum-spy who, at times, looks like Noel Gallagher in a Sgt Pepper jacket. The real model for Stargrave, indicated by the references to an incestuous relationship with his sister and the arch dialogue, is Michael Moorcock’s Jerry Cornelius. (Although Stargrave is a playful homage, I don’t think Moorcock was very impressed.) Cornelius, the ‘rock and roll Messiah’, the ‘English Assassin’, was Moorcock’s own attempt to deal with key concerns in the post-war period: violence, post-colonial struggles, sex and rock music, fraying of the social fabric, the condition of London. Starting off as a kind of 60s super-spy variant, Cornelius became the vehicle for several New Worlds writers to play with the ‘nature of the catastrophe’, before Moorcock ‘took him back’ (in the words of John Clute) in the quartet of novels published between 1969 and 1977, where the fragmented, non-linear form was pushed in a much more melancholic direction.
 
In an interview published in Modem Times 2.0, Moorcock rationalises this by answering: ‘I modified the Cornelius books as I went along because too many you men were poncing about thinking it was cool to pose around being ‘amoral’. Like many writers attracted to SF, I’m intensely moralistic’ (p.111). In the same answer – to a question which asks why Moorcock describes himself as an anarchist rather than a Marxist – he states: ‘it’s a philosophical/ moral position from which I can easily make quick decisions of pretty much every kind. My anarchism informs my pro-feminism, for instance. I happen to believe as a writer that words are action and that we have to be able to stand by our actions and accept any consequences of our actions’ (p.111).

Moorcock’s anarchism is partly manifested in the ongoing flux between order and disorder in his novels, and in a sense, anarchism provides a kind of vital balance between the two: not the ‘order’ of tyranny, bureaucracy or even Utopia (nor even the order of the ‘heat death of the universe’), but the human order of collectivity, change, desire and everyday life. It’s clear that Moorcock locates this ‘anarchic’ order in the streets of Notting Hill/ Ladbroke Grove before London’s colonization by Capital and ‘the suburban’; in Modem Times 2.0 the narrative is bookended by two almost-sentimental sections located there in Christmas 1962. If there is nostalgia, though, it’s really for the period that follows and flows from this: Moorcock says, in ‘My Londons’, ‘through that era we called “the 60s” – which really ran from about 1963 with the Beatles first No.1 single to around 1978 with Stiff’s second tour – we continued to experiment in almost every field and genre’ (p.85). In Mother London (1988), Moorcock locates this in the chapter called ‘Variable Currents’ in 1970, and in particular at a fair (or appropriately, carnival) in which the characters ‘would all gladly live this instant forever’ (p.371). This chapter is the high tide of the 1960s, a happy whirl (embodied in the merry-go-round) which has yet to fling itself to pieces. The anarchic centre still holds.

Moorcock, Moore, Morrison, Macleod: all of these writers construct fictions with more-or-less explicit negotiation with the theory and practice of Anarchy, and also with the cultural politics of the period between 1963/4 and the end of the 1970s, the end of the post-war British settlement, the beginning of the neo-liberal project. What I haven’t stressed enough is the playfulness with which each deals with this history; although absolutely serious, none of these texts is solemn. I find the Cornelius books in particular very funny. It is in that spirit, of hope and of laughter, that these books illuminate their representations of anarchy.

References
Macleod, Ken, The Star Fraction (1995) (London: Orbit, 2004)
Moore, Alan, and David Lloyd, V for Vendetta (New York: DC, 1990)
Moorcock, Michael, Modem Times 2.0 (Oakland CA: PM Press, 2011)
Moorcock, Michael, Mother London (1988) (London: Scribner, 2000)
Morrison, Grant, et al, The Invisibles: Entropy in the UK (New York: DC/Vertigo, 2001)


Tuesday, 28 January 2014

The deep above

The film Gravity ends with a splashdown, as did the American Gemini and Apollo missions, whereas the Soviet space program opted for a dry, bone-rattling landing on the Russian steppe. For NASA, then, the space program is inextricably linked to the ocean. The launching grounds are, of course, on the Florida coast, at Cape Canaveral; astronauts train for zero-g EVAs in a large pool, to simulate weightlessness; and the discourse of space exploration recapitulates that of the maritime, from ‘voyages’ to ‘ships’ to ‘deep’ space to the very names given to NASA craft: Discovery, Endeavour, Atlantis. At the same time, deep-dive films often, perhaps unsurprisingly, echo the cramped, functional interiors of NASA vehicles: sweaty cabins crewed by hard-bitten professionals battling an inhospitable, indeed deadly external environment from within small pressurised canisters.

 In Sphere (1998) and in The Abyss (1989), where ‘non-terrestrials’ are discovered in the ocean deeps, this claustrophobic confinement is countered by the view out of the window (or porthole), the vast unknowable deeps which bring on a kind of (pardon the pun) sublime. These films, with denouements of ‘alien’ craft emerging from the ocean depths (a visual conceit repeated rather enjoyably near the beginning of Star Trek Into Darkness), make the connection between the depths of space and the depths of the ocean particularly explicit. As a further example, Arthur C. Clarke, author of that great deep-space fiction 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), went to live in Sri Lanka and had a fascination with the ocean; the science-fictional connection between the ocean and the space beyond this sea-blue planet runs very deep indeed. (I also remember an Asimov short called ‘Waterclap’ in The Bicentennial Man (1976) – apparently itself begun as a treatment for film – which featured a submarine habitat called ‘Ocean Deep’ in strategic competition with ‘Luna City’, but the granddaddy of oceanic SF is of course Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1860): as I said, very deep indeed.)

Ian Sales’ intriguing new book, Then Will The Great Ocean Wash Deep Above (Whippleshield, 2013), the third in his Apollo Quartet of alternate-history SF, is split into two distinct narratives, one of which is an alternative history of the Mercury/Gemini/ Apollo programs, in which an ongoing Korean War means that the NASA craft are crewed by female astronauts, and the other concerns a bathyscaphe dive to retrieve a spy-satellite film ‘bucket’ containing photographs of Sino-Soviet military build-up on the North Korean border. In the previous novellas Sales had used the technique of double narrative time-frames to focus his extrapolation of divergent post-war histories. In Adrift on the Sea of Rains (note the marine language), moonbase commander Peterson’s catastrophic error of judgement upon embarked on a mission to help rescue his marooned colleagues is, in part, rationalised by scenes of his role as a hawkish Cold Warrior; in The Eye With Which the Universe Beholds Itself (the title of this and the current book are derived from Apollo-themed quotations given as epigraphs) the narrative switches between 1979/80, when Bradley Elliott becomes the first man to walk on Mars, and 1999, when he travels to a far-distant exo-planet aboard a craft using the very alien technology that Elliott himself discovered on the surface of the red planet. In Then Will The Great Ocean, the two narrative threads seem distinct and separate worlds. 

Both the earlier novellas use appendix material to act as evidentiary matter for the alternative histories Sales proposes: in Adrift, an Apollo program that is appropriated by the US military and carries on into the mid-1970s to construct a moonbase, whose crew are stranded when Earth descends into a catastrophic nuclear war; and in The Eye, that Armstrong aborted the Apollo 11 landing, allowing the Soviet Union to land the first man on the Moon, precipitating a NASA ‘Ares’ program to be the first to land on Mars. The appendices are organised alphabetically, a kind of glossary or mini-encyclopaedia, re-articulating chronology in a textual form that opens up the novella in interesting ways. The appendices are at once a supplement (the narratives can be enjoyed without them) but are also central to Sales extrapolative method. The encyclopaedic form is a kind of extrapolation/ legitimation, working to deepen or expand the narrative world but also to make it more concrete as a historical extrapolation; at the same time, of course, as with all formal play with this kind of apparatus, the effect is also self-reflexive, to foreground the text as a text. I was reminded of Tony White’s method in Shackleton’s Man Goes South (published by the Science Museum), which intercuts fictional and non-fictional sections in a technique which is really ‘critical/creative’, appropriating the forms of British disaster fiction (and making explicit references to Michael Moorcock’s own re-writings of the form of the scientific romance in the Nomads trilogy) to make an explicitly political point about climate change.

In Then Will The Great Ocean, the relation between narrative and ‘appendix’ (non-fictional) material that ‘explains’ the extrapolative method is different: more directly historical, even polemical, and also not bracketed off as a supplementary ‘appendix’, rather following directly from the narrative. Sales gives us the real histories of the ‘Mercury 13’ women who undertook the same physiological testing as the male NASA astronauts in a privately funded program; the 13 women passed ‘Phase I’ of the testing, and the only one to pass ‘Phase III’, Geraldyn ‘Jerrie’Cobb, is the narrative focus of the ‘Up’ (space) sections of Then Will The Great Ocean. He also outlines the career of the bathyscaphe Trieste/Trieste II, the submersible that features in the ‘Down’  (oceanic) sections, whose historical mission to retrieve a film ‘bucket’ from the Pacific Ocean in 1971 seems to be the model for the events narrated in the novella. The question is, why expose the historical basis of the extrapolation in this way?

The section on the female ‘astronauts’ is clearly polemical; at the very end, Sales notes that it was not until 1983 that NASA sent a woman crew-member into space (Dr Sally Ride), and not until 1999 that a NASA mission had a female commander (Eileen Collins). (What Sales does not state is that Judith Resnik and Christa McAuliffe, aboard Challenger, and Kalpana Chawla and Laurel Clark, aboard Columbia, lost their lives on Shuttle missions. The fate of mission specialist Dr. Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock) in Gravity is thought-provoking if read against these histories.)

Sales’ commitment to working towards establishing gender equality in SF (and restituting a ‘lost’ history of women writing SF) is demonstrated in his involvement in the SF Mistressworks project, and in Then Will The Great Ocean the focus on an alternative history where female astronauts are the norm seems an overt act of historical recuperation. The exclusion of women from the NASA program is revealed to be purely ideological, if a woman such as Jerrie Cobb is as physiologically, psychologically and technically capable of enduring the rigours of spaceflight as their male counterparts. Cobb is markedly different from either Adrift’s Peterson – whose violent action on seeing ‘our’ world’s Mir space station seems, upon re-reading, something like psychosis – or The Eye’s Bradley Elliott, who is very much a man alone, emotionally, spiritually and physically. Rather than the military man or career pilot (the two masculine avenues into the astronaut program), both implicated in an institutional and philosophical narrowness of mind, Cobb is religious as well as ambitious, full of wonder for the universe as well as inhabiting a burning will to succeed. Would the NASA program be different if it had been crewed by women? Then Will The Great Ocean's realistic answer is: perhaps not.

For Cobb, though, spaceflight is an encounter with God’s creation. On an EVA, Cobb is so intoxicated by the freedom of spacewalking and her sense that she is completing God’s purpose (as well as NASA’s mission) that she barely finds the will to re-enter the capsule. Sales politicises this sense of freedom by referring to Rosie the Riveter, and this admixture of a sublime sensibility and feminist politics lends Cobb a particular interest. McIntyre, the commander of the bathyscaphe, is, by contrast, a rather shrunken figure, who is immensely relieved to return to the surface. (He prefers diving in shallower waters.) Even though he imagines himself as Orpheus, descending into the underworld (mis-remembering the myth), it is Cobb, through her perception of the sublimity of even low Earth orbit, that ascends to an ‘epic’ grandeur of vision. (By contrast, Gravity’s Ryan Stone, battling disaster, says at one point: ‘I hate space’.) The fourth book in the Quartet will apparently be called All That Outer Space Allows , the reference to Douglas Sirk melodrama a rather tempting prospect with regard to revisions of gender representation in NASA/space fictions.

So far, then, so interesting. But when Sales, in his Acknowledgements, reveals that writing Then Will The Great Ocean was ‘much more of a challenge than I’d expected’, my feeling that this novella didn’t work quite as well as the previous two began to crystallize. The timelines of both ‘Up’ and ‘Down’ narratives of the novella are different, and very obliquely managed indeed, so getting a sense of when and how the events take place becomes a kind of puzzle. While the 1969 dive of the Trieste II in ‘Down’ returns photos of the Sino-Soviet build-up, presaging war to come, in the Cobb narrative the Korean War is drawing to a close in the final section, which again seems to be in 1969, but a rather different one.

The rationale for the female astronaut crews – that all the male pilots are on combat duty in Korea – seemed to me not very watertight; after all, the Gemini and Apollo missions took place while US military involvement in Vietnam was ongoing (particularly at its height during Gemini). And would the Korean War have lasted 16 more years? Unlike the asymmetric, guerrilla nature of much of the Vietnam conflict, Korea was much more of a conventional war to begin with, and then became a kind of stalemate; it’s difficult to think that, even in this manner, it would have ground on for so long. After his election in 1952, indeed, Eisenhower visited Korea to investigate what might bring the war to a close.

Interestingly, Sales plays around with the historical timeline, and it seems that Ike is President from 1956-63, as Kennedy is the ‘new’ President in 1964. So who won the 1952 election? Truman (who declined to run after performing badly in the Democratic primaries)? Adlai Stevenson (who was well beaten by Eisenhower in ’52)? Another Republican? It’s a gap that piques my interest, as it’s clearly deliberate, but I can’t quite diagnose the reason for it. As all the different timelines in the Quartet refract each other, rather than intersect, I can’t see this be ‘explained’ in the closing book.

What is clear, though, is Sales’ critique of the structural implication between the NASA space program and US militarism. In Adrift, the seeming inescapability of the Cold War mentality leads Peterson to an act of (self-)destruction; in Then Will The Great Ocean, the recovery of the film ‘bucket’ augurs global war. Not only the Cold War, but a very hot one, looms over all of the Apollo Quartet novellas published so far.

In Gravity, it is the debris from a Russian spy satellite – incompletely  destroyed by the Russians themselves – that precipitates the ‘Kessler syndrome’ (or ‘ablation cascade’ of runaway collisions that create an orbiting field of debris) which causes the disastrous loss of several spacecraft and Ryan Stone’s attempts to survive and get back home. In Gravity and in Sales’ novellas, the dreams of ascension to the plane of sublimity, to be in a wondrous free-fall, are fragile indeed, hemmed in as they are by militarism, and are as fragile as the technology that propels the (male and female) astronauts out of the Earth’s atmosphere and protects them from cold, hard vacuum. Gravity’s astonishing transitions from inside to outside, from outside to inside of spacecraft and environment suits emphasise that technological fragility at the same time as the 3D CGI provides an intense technological sublime. In the case of Then Will The Great Ocean’s Jerrie Cobb, as in the case of Ryan Stone, and for all Sales’ hard-SF terminology, these space fictions assume a kind of spiritual outlook, emphasising a coming to terms with the universe. Cobb and Stone do not attempt to ‘conquer’ the void nor simply look out of the porthole. The necessity is to encounter space, in all its terrifying and wondrous sublimity.