Sunday, 22 January 2006

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The Stoning of Adam Roberts, Part 1 [The first installment of the stoning of Adam Roberts comes from frequent commenter Rich Puchalsky.] 1 Dear stone, I’ve been told that talking to you may help in getting me out of here. Of course, I assume that someone else is listening (“commenters”, perhaps?) so it’s not like I’m really communicating with an inanimate object, though sometimes it seems that way. Who am I? Call me Ab, after the first two letters of the English language. There’s an AI implanted in my head, or perhaps a transmitter, that says I’ll be released if I kill off 60 thousand words of Adam Roberts’ novel Stone. It’s really more than that number of words, but who’s counting? At any rate, I can leave the general background of the book still there, as long as I bash enough of my particular targets. SF books will be my rocks to fling. 2 Stone, I thought I’d start by talking to you about the framing device of having me talk to you. It’s a solution to the classic “As you know, Bob” problem in SF, right? The problem is that SF writers have all this background that they have to tell the reader somehow, everything about their world and its history and its pseudoscience, which isn’t a problem for writers of general fiction because readers can be assumed to know all that. Many early SF books would have one character tell another all this material. But this is implausible, because people don’t go around telling each other how an internal combustion engine works and about the basics of WW II. So having a character talk to an inanimate object – a stone -- as a sort of therapy-confession, with the character having the conceit that everything must be explained to the stone, is superficially more plausible. Plausible, perhaps, but there still is the inherent problem of dullness. These infodumps make up a large chunk of Stone. Fortunately, the situation is redeemed by what at first appears to be a flash of authorial self-mockery. There is one scene where the narrative character is describing how her implanted AI keeps talking inside her head, going on about the currents inside a star; the character says that “there was something off-putting in the lecturing tone it was now adopting” and starts amusing herself by saying “Really” and then repeating it with different intonations: “Really. Re-ally. Raly. Ruly. Rrreally.” And it dawns on you (or at least on me); all this infodumping communicates that the person telling everything to the stone is an unsympathetic, sociopathic narrator, a solipsistic mass murderer who probably enjoys being off-putting to her captors. Unsympathetic and uncharismatic narrators are a risky device, unfortunately, at least when they do not also involve the kind of over-the-top comedy of Nabokov's Pale Fire. Look at Michael Moorcock’s Colonel Pyat novels (the first of which is called Byzantium Endures); a brilliant concept, perhaps even brilliant execution, but has anyone ever read all three of them? But here I think...

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