The Joy of Lists (Part 2)

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The video above was a commercial for Banco Sabadell and, given that it's been seen over eight and a half million times on Youtube, it's entirely possible that you're already familiar with it.  But what the heck.  Beethoven never grows old.

And . . .

Marianne pointed out that "The Dog Said Hello" made it onto Locus Online's shortlist of the best stories of the Twenty-First Century.  Which, given that the century is only thirteen years old, was easier to make it onto than the Twentieth Century shortlist.  Just check out its first ten stories:

1. Arthur C. Clarke, “The Nine Billion Names of God” (1953)
2. Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” (1973)
3. Harlan Ellison, “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ said the Ticktockman” (1965)
4. Harlan Ellison, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” (1967)
5. Arthur C. Clarke, “The Star” (1955)
6. Ray Bradbury, “A Sound of Thunder” (1952)
7. Robert A. Heinlein, “All You Zombies— ”(1959)
8. William Gibson, “Johnny Mnemonic” (1981)
9. James, Jr. Tiptree, “The Screwfly Solution” (1977)
10. Shirley Jackson, “The Lottery” (1948)

That's a terrific lineup.   Personally, I'd substitute "Burning Chrome" for "Johnny Mnemonic," but that might just be because the movie version was so brain-searingly bad that it's left me traumatized. 

Here's the Twenty-First Century shortlist, courtesy of Tor.com.  The original posting had me tied with Ursula K. Le Guin.  Me!  Le Guin!  Dead even!  I bet you can imagine how elated that makes me feel.

1. Ted Chiang, “Exhalation” (2008)
2. Margo Lanagan, “Singing My Sister Down” (2004)
3. Neil Gaiman, “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” (2006)
4. Peter Watts, “The Things” (2010)
5. Michael Swanwick, “The Dog Said Bow-Wow” (2001)
6. Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Bones of the Earth” (2001)
7. Kij Johnson, “26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss”
8. Daniel Abraham, “The Cambist and Lord Iron” (2007)
9. Kij Johnson, “Spar” (2009)
10. Alastair Reynolds, “Zima Blue” (2005)

The list can be found here.

The very, very, very long list, for those who really want to wonk out, can be found here.

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Ranking the Unrankable

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Over at Locus Online, they had a poll to decide the fifty best science fiction novels and fifty best fantasy novels of the Twentieth Century, and I managed to squeak on -- just barely.  The Iron Dragon's Daughter placed 46th on the fantasy list.

Which is very pleasant for me because it gives me the opportunity to explore the inherent flaw in such (admittedly fun to read, argue with, and/or have a book on) lists.

Let's start with my own work.  Is it really better than Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, which ranked 49th?  It's go more words, certainly, and more ideas.  But it's a safe bet that my book has had a lesser effect on world culture.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, is probably longer than my novel, and has become a part of the Canon, insofar as we have one anymore, and it was only 48th.

Up at the top of the list, nobody could argue against The Lord of Rings, which essentially created the fantasy genre, placing first.  And I certainly have no problem with George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones in number two place.  But The Hobbit at number three?  Even Tolkien himself had a few harsh words for its and-what-do-you-think-Bilbo-did-then? style.  (He said his children hated it.)

As for newly-minted Grand Master Gene Wolfe's masterpiece The Book of the New Sun placing eighteenth on the fantasy list . . .  The work is science fiction, as witness its also placing twenty-fourth (still criminally low) on the SF list.

But when you except those few books which belong somewhere near the absolute top of any such list, what you're left with is a terrific demonstration of the impossibility of ranking books as if they were Olympic runners or apple pies in the county fair.  Is Anne McCaffrey's Dragonflight (41 and, once again, science fiction) just a smidge better than George Orwell's Animal Farm, ranked 42?  Or are we comparing lemurs and monkey wrenches?  Jack Vance's The Dying Earth (19 and yet another science fiction novel) is of vast importance to both science fiction and fantasy.  But is it really better than the book in twentieth place, Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita?  Having walked in Woland's footprints in Moscow, I'm perhaps too much of a partisan to say.

It's all neon donuts and Western waterways, hawks and heartbreaks, movies and meatballs -- how can you measure such disparate works against each other?

You can't.  But it's a lot of fun to try.

So I applaud Locus Online for this enterprise.  And if you want to have even more fun, try this:  Make up a list of ten excluded books that should have made each list.  You'll find it's harder than it sounds to narrow your list down to such a small number.

You can see the lists (and methodology) here.

Above:  Detail from the brilliant wraparound cover Geoff Taylor did for the Millenium edition of my book.  Not only a great cover but an independent work of fantasy.  If only I could have peered into the future and seen it, I would have incorporated a couple of details into the text.

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A West Philadelphia Christmas Carol

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Last night I went to a friend's house in West Philadelphia to see Josh Hitchens put on his one-man performance of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol in a Victorian-era living room, before a gas fire in the hearth.

That's luxury.

Hitchens did a bang-up job with a lively and convincing performance.  And of course the source material is bulletproof.  I've seen it performed by any number of actors, animate and inanimate, including the Muppets and Mr. Magoo, and it always (to a greater or lesser degree) works.  That's an amazing accomplishment.

My own traditional Christmas story is far less known.  But it has the advantage of being true.  I call it...

The Parable of the Creche

When first I came to Roxborough, a third of a century ago, the creche was already a tradition of long standing.  Every year it appeared in Gorgas Park during the Christmas season.  It wasn't all that big -- maybe seven feet at its tip -- and it wasn't very fancy.  The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ Child, and the animals were a couple of feet high at best, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden construction to keep people from walking off with them.  But it was loved.

It was a common sight to see people standing in front of the creche, admiring it.  Sometimes they'd brought their small children to see it for the first time.  It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.

Alas, Gorgas Park was publicly owned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of the separation of church and state.  When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put into storage.

People were upset of course.  Nobody liked seeing a beloved tradition disappear.  There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement.

So the kind people of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in.  They adopted the creche and put it up on the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen by all.

But did this make us happy?  It did not.   The creche was just not the same, located in front of a church.  It seemed lessened, in a strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians.

I was in a local tappie, shortly after the adoption, and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:

"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas!"


And while I'm on the subject . . .

Merry Christmas to all and on Earth peace to those of good will!  For those who celebrate other holidays (or none at all), my very best wishes.  Happiness for everybody, as the Strugatskys put it, free, and no exceptions!


Above:  This photo is actually of Josh Hitchens performing his one-man version of Dracula. But theater is theater and I'm rapidly becoming a fan of Hitchens.

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Social Notes from All Over

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It's been a busy weekend.  Saturday morning, Marianne and I went to Chinatown have dim sum with  friends -- father, mother, son, and grandson.  Then it was off to Brooklyn for a Christmas party.  Today, we spent tidying up in preparation for unanticipated Christmas gifts.  Then, in an hour or so, we're off to West Philly for a one-man production of A Christmas Carol, presented in the living room of friends.

Pictured above:  Marianne and superstar editor Ellen Datlow in Brooklyn.

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Playing Hookey Again

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I should have spent the day writing and I should have posted a blog hours ago and I should have been a good boy . . .  But I wasn't.  I lured Marianne to the Philadelphia Museum of Art (interior of the Great Hall above) where we once again were knocked out by Joseph Cornell's art.  Then we went down to the Oyster House on Sansom  Street for fresh shucked oysters accompanied by a glass of white wine (Marianne) and a martini (me).  Then it was off to the Pen & Pencil club for conversation with Tom Purdom, Jamie O'Boyle and other wits and dignitaries.

So you guys get short shrift today, and I apologize for that.  But, damn!, do I live a great life or what?

And I wish the same for you.

Immediately above:  Marianne and I toast your good health in the Oyster House, while in the background far to the left, all unnoticed, a patron waves frantically for help as he is eaten by lobsters.

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The War on Krampus

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Here you go, proof positive that there's a war on Christmas -- and it's being fought by Christians.  How else to explain the shameful sanitizing of the ancient Solstice season by removing pretty much all reference to Santa's dark Other -- Krampus?  Particularly when there appears to be not one but hundreds of him?

Seriously, though, a Krampus parade would be a fine addition to the winter holidays.

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This Glittercomixatti Life . . .

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On Sunday, I went to the first Locust Moon Comics Festival at the Rotunda in West Philly.  It was everything such a small, regional indie event should be:  a little seedy, a little needy, a lot aspirational.  I don't have a lot of comix cred to my name but I've hung out some with graphic artists, have the mandatory box or three of undergrounds in the attic crawlspace, and will admit to being influenced by the old B&W monthlies, Eerie and Creepy.  So I like to check in on the scene every now and again, just to see if I can learn something.

Now that I'm beginning to grow Old, I can't help but feel protective toward all these talented (and semi-talented and in some cases hemi-demi-semi-talented) young people.  I wanted to warn them about what a difficult road they were on, and how hard the artistic life can be, even for those who succeed at it.  But then I reflected on how utterly without talent I appeared to be when I was their age, and how a good,  Dutch Uncle-ish lecture could have prevented me from ever becoming a a writer.  So I stayed my tongue.

God bless 'em all. They were to a man and woman (a surprising and heartening percentage of the introverted young artists were female), brave and noble.  I bought a few comics, which I later read with pleasure, and I look forward to dropping by the event again next year.

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