Summa Risus: Collected Non-Fiction

by R. A. Lafferty

  What if we are the only species whose good-humor is being rusted and rotted away? What if, on the Day of Reunion, the other nine hundred and ninety-nine species will reject us because of our insufficient or tainted humor?

  The seven bad-humored and unfunny devils who eat ourselves and our narratives alive are Pretentiousness, Pomposity, Presumption, Pontificality, Pavoninity or Peacockery, Pornography, and Pride, these seven offenses to all life. They have oozed out from under the iron doors and then they have inflated themselves immeasurably.

  Of the writers of more-or-less modern Science Fiction, Verne had the endless depth of good-humor, Mark Twain had it, Poe had a lot of it (his queer effect is due to his going from pleasant humor to horror in an instant); Wells had it in his Science Fiction but not always in his Political Fiction. But A--- and a second A--- and B--- and C-- have not had it. Van Vogt and black-hearted Bester and Sturgeon and Sheckley have the good humor, but D--- and another D--- and still a third D--- have it not. Old Burroughs (what a hairy-ogre brain he did have!) was full of the juice, and Arthur C. Clarke has at least enough to save his soul. Even Heinlein (this is hard to believe, and yet you'll stumble over instances of it) has patches of good humor and near funniness that croak out in another voice than his regular one. But E--- and F--- and G--- lack the bright thing completely. There are a hundred who have it and ninety-nine who fail it. And the failures may destroy the rest, as they have done in so many other fields. There is now only one art on our earth that has not gone rigid and dead-ended, and that is Science Fiction. It is worth saving; and if it is saved, it may rekindle some of the other arts.

  There is one way to do it. Take all the code-named, insufficient, bad-humored, spawn of the seven devils, grind them up small, hammer them down, pulp them back under that iron door again. Pay no attention to their wails. They came from that fetid place, and they must go back there. And seal the iron door at its bottom with blow torches and welding torches this time. It was neglected to do this before.

  I offer this solution as illuminated and unsullied literary criticism and necessary and preventive mayhem. And the enforcing of this decision will give some liveliness and some noisy scenes. It will also give a whole new cycle of tales worth telling.

  Tell them funny, Og.

  June 19, 1980

  Rare Earths and Pig-Weeds

  Fat cattle were grazing in a fat field whose careful combination of alfalfa clover, timothy hay, sorghum cane, and hay-grazer had them buried shoulder-deep in green splendor. The field had been fertilized with crushed limestone and fancy phosphates just before its planting. It was surrounded by a tight, seven-stranded, barbed-wire fence. And a wide swathe outside of this had been plowed to keep vulgar grasses and meadow-weeds away. Nevertheless, a few pig-weeds, skinny but valiant, were growing in that plowed swathe.

  A few of the cows had gone down on their knees in their lush fields, had stretched their necks under the bottom strand of the barbed-wire, had stretched their tongues out to their full extent, and here and there were succeeding in eating some of the pig-weeds.

  “Why?

  “We give them several sorts of food supplements,” the farmer said, “but they still reach out to eat the pig-weeds. They even eat dirt sometimes. I think that they have a craving for the ‘rare earths’, the special minerals and chemicals, that the pig-weeds might give. Cattle are funny. So are pig-weeds. They don't grow by sunlight, you know. They grow only by moonlight.” I bet even the botanists don't know that about pig-weeds.

  Pulp magazine Science Fiction, especially in the 1920's, was a species of sorry-looking pig-weed growing on the outside of a lush and fat field. So were a number of other popular arts of that period, and a little before and after that period — curiously defective and skimpy arts.

  The Silent Movies were defective. The technique for the Talkies was available from the beginning. The ‘Silents’ were a temporary, cheap-jack substitute that preempted the field and refused to be dislodged for a long while. And eyeless radio had always been defective by its very charter.

  The ‘Silents’ that had no ears, and the Radio that had no eyes! Why were they cultish? Why were they loved? And at the same time there was Jazz and Rinky-dink, those musics without music. And there was pulpery.

  Magazine production had then attained its high slickness, its striking and even stunning art, its real beauty, and all at a true cost so low that it could never happen again. Then came the unbeautiful pulp magazines, printed on wood splinters and badly digested rags, ugly of appearance and goofy of content, and with their garish covers that were ‘articles’ in several senses of the word. And it was an open secret that, in their earlier years, they were not enough cheaper than the beautiful ‘slicks’ to make any difference. Then why did this rank and weedy inferiority grow up just outside the fence from the glossy masterworks?

  It grew up because it was craved, because it was demanded, because it was a cultish and even religious growth. Neither persecution nor reason would stamp out any of these new weedy and grubby arts. They were crippled, they were deaf, they were blind, they had neither much taste nor much sanity. They did not grow by sunlight. They grew by moonlight only, and they carried the taste of ‘rare earths’, those trace minerals and chemicals.

  And within the fences there were lush renaissances going on in literature (including fantasy and wonder-story literature), in drama (European, American, World-wide), in music, in art. All the arts really were flourishing at the same time in a way they have not done a half-dozen times in all history: the public arts, the private arts, the narrow arts, the wide arts.

  There were several decades of elegance and excellence in city buildings; this hadn't been the case a little while before, and it wouldn't be the case a little while after. There was good municipal sculpture and good municipal music. It was an era of neighborhood brass bands and musical groups. There was good drama and musical comedy which reached even quite small communities with its road shows. There was vaudeville at its best, in perfect health and soon to die still in perfect health. There were excellent amateur theatricals.

  The literature of those years was superior and popular at the same time. There were not the divisions that had been before and would be afterwards. In all ways it was a fat field growing high and lush and pleasant.

  But the pig-weeds were all around it on the plowed swathes, and long tongues were reaching out to take them and feed on them. Some of the weeds were both inside and outside the fences, and clusters of them were found not to be weeds at all.

  The Silent Cinema, of course, was worthless, except for the great Comics and Comedies. But the Comics and Comedies were wonderful. Belatedly they were transplanted inside the lush field itself; and shortly after that they sickened, and most of them died. But it was both the coming of sound to the cinema and the rich, limed and fertilized field that killed them.

  Ragtime music died, or was murdered; and Jazz thrived: for the pig-weeds eat each other. But it was the wrong one that died. What happened to the rest of the weedy arts?

  What happened to radio? It was reported to be killed by television, but it wasn't. Only last week a child was born with a small portable radio, entirely of flesh, growing to its ear. The radio was playing. Indeed, the mother said that it had been playing for three months. It was playing loudly, and it was permanently tuned to the local, around-the-clock rock station.

  This is perhaps proof that acquired characteristics can be inherited, though evolutionists of recent decades have denied this. It is also proof that changes do not take thousands or millions of years, but come as instant mutations. There will likely be other children born with playing radios growing from their ears. Whether any of the ‘rare earths’ are transmitted in this way is not known.

  And whatever happened to the pulp magazines that included Science Fiction magazines? Among the pig-weeds of the sub-classifications of pulp magazines were: Adventure Stories, All-Story Magazine, Aviation Stories, Amazing Stories, Balloon Stories Monthly, Big Ga
me Hunter, Black Book Detective, Black Mask Magazine, Blue Book, Circus Stories, Captain Future, Detective Story Magazine, Daredevil Aces, Doc Savage, Famous Detective, Fantastic Adventures, Frontier Stories, G-8 and His Battle Aces, Horror Stories, Jungle Stories, Klondike Stories, Marvel Tales, The Nick Carter Weekly, The Phantom, Planet Stories, The Popular Magazine, Real Detective Tales, Real Western, Sea Stories, The Shadow, Smashing Detective, Spicy Adventure, Spicy Detective Stories, South Sea Stories, The Spider, Sport Stories, Startling Stories, Stories of Exploration, Submarine Stories, Super Science, Thrilling Wonder Stories, Terror Tales, Unknown Worlds, War Stories, Weird Tales, Western Story Magazine, Wild Animal Stories, Wild West Stories, Wings. And there were more than three hundred other pulp magazines.

  Were the stories in these pulp magazines very good? It is now the custom of nostalgists to cry “They were not good: they were great!”

  It wasn't true, of course. The stories were neither good nor great. But many people remember them, especially the old Science Fiction stories. Those pulpy magazines are collectors' items now, that's what happened to them.

  Is there not some better way to partake of the ‘rare earths’ that both the body and the soul need than to stretch our necks out under the fences and reach for them with our extended tongues? No. No better way has been found. Nibbling goat glands or swigging patent medicines will not do it. And those particular old pig-weeds aren't even there any more. We have an unsatisfied craving. Perhaps some Science Fiction person should invent a better way to obtain the rare earths and trace minerals of both the physical and metaphysical sorts. Science Fiction persons are supposed to be inventive.

  The ‘rare earths’ really are essential. Some time in life, and preferably in youth, a person must receive infusions of ‘rare earths’. He will not be a complete person if he does not.

  As a proof that the ‘rare earths’ are needed, we may consider what happened to the lush fields when they lacked sufficient of the grubby rarities. Disease and blight came and afflicted our lush field, and they still afflict it. There were deficiencies in it from the start, disguised for a while by the thick lushness. The rich field really did lack many of the rare earths, and it still lacks them. It isn't very lush now. It is somewhat scrawny. There will have to be a renewal.

  Even the pig-weeds have lost their old power, and how can that be? It has something to do with the proverb of the salt losing either its soul or its savor. Let some Science Fiction person invent a solution so that the things we need may grow again.

  And remember that they only grow by moonlight.

  July 15, 1980

  The Gathering Of The Tribes

  Science Fiction is, among other things, a Blood-Nation that is scattered worldwide into various tribes or clans. It gathers itself into many Conventions or Festivals or Celebrations every year in America and Europe and Australia, and lately in Japan. These are joyous things and are somewhat primitive in their overflowing spirit of largess and assembly.

  These meetings or festivals are attended by several dozens, or several hundreds, or several thousands of persons from eight to eighty years old, and a few of them even younger or older. Most of the persons who gather have a questing look about them. Almost all of them are friendly, and at the same time they are seeking friendship and more than friendship. They are really seeking magic and the place where it nests. All of them do find friendship, and many of them do find the magic.

  No other fiction, no other literature, no other activity of any sort has vast numbers of fans or devotees who gather at conclaves such as these. There is something very mystic about these conventions and celebrations, these tribal rites. And the greatest of these celebrations is the annual “World Science Fiction Convention”.

  I've just returned from the “38th Annual World Science Fiction Convention” at the Sheraton-Boston Hotel in Boston, Massachusetts. The convention also overflowed into five other large hotels, the Copley Plaza, the Copley Square, the Midtown, the Lenox, and the Boston Park Plaza. There were about seven thousand persons at the convention and it went on from August 28 through September 2.

  It was not a ‘World’ Convention in the same sense that last year's convention in Brighton, England was a ‘World’ Convention. The British Convention had about two thousand members from the European mainland. This year's convention had about two hundred of them. But they were an exuberant two hundred, people of the sort who make themselves known.

  There were more than two hundred book and magazine dealers who had their tables and booths set up in a huge hall that was like a giant treasure cave. There were tens of thousands of new books of Fantasy and Science Fiction. And there were hundreds of thousands of old books going back more than a century. But they were mostly of the last fifty or sixty years when Science Fiction had been a growing thing. There were seemingly billions of old magazines, pulps and slicks, shining garishly through their oldness. There was a high and adventurous spirit running through all the dealings. This was Discovery Land, and the discoveries were hailed with cries of joy. There were serious and monied collectors stalking their paper prey.

  This giant book dealers' cave was the heart of the Convention. It was for this that young people especially had calculated and saved their money. It was here that they spent their apportioned money, and their eating money also. There were things here that were worth going hungry for. Besides, one could always eat and drink free at the ‘parties’.

  Friday night was the designated night for the great regional parties, the Texas Party, the Louisiana-and-South Party, the San Francisco Bay Area Party, the two New York Parties, the Australia-and-Friends Party (the ‘Australia in '83’ Bid Party), the France-and-French-Speaking Party, the Chicago Area Party, the New England Party, and twenty more. But there were big parties every night. The Scandinavian Party (which was the ‘Copenhagen in '83’ Bidding Party) was late on Saturday night and was very large and lively. Many people who had not previously drunk Aquavit became quite drunk on it.

  The conventioneers seemed to be more night people than day people. The Convention Suite itself was open only at night (8:30 PM to 7:30 AM or from 20:30 to 7:30). It had one bathtub always filled with cans of beer iced down, and another bathtub always filled with cans of soft drinks: and youngish helpers always kept them stocked. The tables were loaded with cheese, fritos, chips, and all sorts of junk food. And twenty different groups always had twenty different conversations (all interesting) going on. There was no excuse for anybody being hungry, thirsty, or lonesome at the Convention at night.

  The Discussion Panels, Lectures, and various Readings were another heart of the Convention. If the old Dinosaurs had one brain in their small heads and another brain at the base of their tails, the Convention outdid them, but in hearts rather than brains; this Composite Modern Monster had one beating heart in its tail, one in its head, one in its breast, and smaller hearts everywhere.

  Everybody's favorite (and unfavorite) authors and fans and personages were on the discussion panels which took various themes and examined them from different angles. And the question-and-answer periods were the best parts of most of the panels. Anybody present could participate in these periods. In addition to the scientists and pseudo-scientists of Science Fiction, there were great scientists from nearby Harvard and Massachusetts Tech and other institutions to give their information and views. But it wasn't so much straight science as slanted science that the gathered tribes wanted, not so much sober theory as enraptured theory.

  There were eighty-five of these discussion panels that averaged about an hour long. Anybody who wanted to attend all of them would have been very busy, and in some few cases he would have to have the power of bi-location. Among the best-attended presentations were: ‘Artificial Intelligence’, ‘Altered States’, ‘Fans Across the Sea’, ‘Time Binding’ (there were five one-hour sessions of this scattered through four days), ‘Sword and Sorcery’, ‘Japanese Science Fiction’, ‘The Hard Core of Fantasy’, and ‘The Uncertain Edge of Reality
’ (these two were presented by Damon Knight and his wife Kate Wilhelm who were the two guests of honor at the Convention), ‘Things That Go Chomp in the Night—Vampires in SF and Fantasy’, ‘Living in Someone Else's Dreamworld’, ‘Life on a Neutron Star’ (by Doctor Robert Forward), ‘The Dead Cat in History’ (some of the titles were catchy enough to fill a large room with auditors), ‘The Futurians’, ‘Out of the Petri Dish—Building Cultures’, ‘Concepts of Interstellar Flight Systems’, ‘The Clarion Call’, ‘Post-Holocaust Themes in Feminist SF’, ‘Technology for Androgynous Futures’, ‘The Hard Stuff—World Building’, ‘Guest Editorial—Fandom Considered as Mythology’, ‘The Realities of Fantasy’, ‘Alternate Universes’, ‘Does SF Have to be Bad?’, ‘The Case for a Lunar Colony’ (James Baen, Jerry Pournelle, and Charles Sheffield were the panelists for this one). Most of the panels were good. And a person who likes to ask questions could really let himself go on almost any of them.

  “You can always tell a fan from Little Rock, Arkansas.”

  “How can you always tell a fan from Little Rock, Arkansas?”

  “She's always named Margaret Middleton.”

  Margaret is a red-haired housewife, Science Fiction Fan, book-dealer, and folk-singer. (Folk Singing is called Filk Singing by many of the SF people: the reason for this isn't known, not by themselves anyhow.) This Folk Singing of Margaret's and other groups at the Convention was very good, and Folk Singing has about broken the hold that Hard Rock Music once seemed to be getting over SF and SF conventions. One of the Norwegians said that it sounded almost exactly like the Folk Music of Norway; and several of the people from Scotland said that of course such Folk Singing was Scottish in origin.