Modern Classics of Fantasy, edited by Gardner Dozois
654 pages
Published 1997
Read from September 28 to October 20
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
When
I finished my 125th read of the year, a neat round milestone, I spent
the rest of that morning reading the reviews I posted in January,
February, and March. I may say I don't like to read my own
writing, but it's easy enough for me to find myself sucked into it,
because at heart, beneath my critically low self-esteem, I am a complete
narcissist. But anyway. The point is, I realized it had been a while --
a long while -- since I had dug into an anthology of short fiction.
Since February, in fact, and the painfully '90s stylings of After the King.
I've checked out several anthologies since then, but each time I got
literary cold feet and returned them unread, rejecting them in favor of
more consistent and reliable reads.
But reading those reviews
from eight or nine months back swelled my nostalgia glands. Short story
compilations can be chores to read, what with the wildly varying quality
and the psychological hurdle of having to get invested in a fresh set
of characters and a new story universe every ten or twenty pages, but
they can also lead to the most wonderful and unexpected marvels of
setting and storytelling. I smile even now to remember Emma Bull's
"Silver and Gold," E. Lily Yu's "The Cartographer Wasps and the
Anarchist Bees," and Kelly Link's "The Summer People." Until I have the
money to subscribe to Fantasy & Science Fiction and suchlike,
these anthologies are my only ticket to the wonders of truly effective
short speculative fiction. With my nostalgia came a craving for more.
Fortuitously,
I stopped by a rival public library later that day, and amid their
depressingly bare and dilapidated shelves, I found this tome. I've
wanted to get my hands on it ever since the late '90s, when its massive
crocodile-dragon skull-mountain leering above a quaint village (in the
best James Gurney style) made for the most evocative cover
by far in the era's science fiction book club adverts. Seeing Gardner
Dozois' name on the cover, a fact that meant nothing to me in the '90s,
gives me high hopes for it now, as do many of the names on the contents
page. I've wanted a crash course in "classic" fantasy for a while, and
the bundle of pre-1970s stories in this anthology intrigues me. But
enough introduction. On to the stories.
At
first I rolled my eyes at Dozois' preface -- I don't think I'd ever seen
"didactic" used so many times on one page before, and I have a degree
in the humanities -- but before long he had me scrambling after his
effortless name-dropping, me going "Wait, what was that? Slow down, who
published what? What story is that? That sounds awesome, slow down!" I
want to get a copy of this book so I can pore through his introductory
material and reading recommendations inch by inch, piecing together my
own education in the history of my preferred genre.
"Trouble with
Water" by Horace L. Gold (1939). Dozois claims this is "one of the most
famous modern fantasies ever written"; clearly I have some homework to
do. I thought it was neat enough, in both main senses of the word: it
was a cute little story (aside from the broad "Long Island Jew"
stereotypes, which would not feel out of place in a network sitcom in
the late 1990s), but it wrapped up a little too neatly for my worldly,
cynical twenty-first century tastes. It felt a bit insubstantial for the
weight of its evident legacy -- although this might be a result of the
contemporary ubiquity of the "magical creatures from the Old Country
settle in America" convention in fantasy, making it harder for this
story (perhaps one of the progenitors of that very cliche) to stand out.
"The
Gnarly Man" by L. Sprague de Camp (1939). I like the cut of L. Sprague
de Camp's jib. This is only the second story of his that I've read, so
I'm sure he had some horrible poisonous opinions he didn't hesitate to
air in other venues. But for now, permit me the innocence of just liking
the guy because he loved writing about dinosaurs and 50,000 year old
Neandertal dudes working as sideshows in Coney Island. That last bit,
incidentally, is all this story amounts to: a lightweight, pulpy take on
what sounds like a prototypical Poe plot. Enjoyable, though ultimately
(I think) forgettable. (Poe would have made it far more grotesque and
gothic, I can tell you that.)
"The Golem" by Avram Davidson
(1955). Introducing this story, Dozois proclaims it "a near-perfect
little masterpiece." That's a heap of expectation to pile on the poor
thing. But I'll admit, it was a delightful little trifle, charming but,
again, a shade insubstantial.
"Walk Like a Mountain" by Manly
Wade Wellman (1955). I have mentioned, in my review of Kelly Link's "The
Summer People," my love for Old Weird Americana in fantasy fiction.
This story is an excellent example of that theme, or inspiration, or
esthetic, or milieu, whatever you want to call it. It's been a while
since I read "The Summer People"; I think I like that story better, if
only because I seem to recall its characters and conflicts having more
development than those here. One thing that's already beginning to
strike me as I read this anthology is how far back these themes (Old
Weird Americana, magical beings from the Old World coming to America,
ironic playfulness and genre awareness) go in the history of the genre.
The only way you could distinguish these 60-75 year old classics from
today's top-notch material is relative depth of character and complexity
of conflict. Most of these entries, so far, have been concept-based or
"punchline" stories: they hit a single beat, raise a single wrinkle, and
they're done. It's possible this is merely an artifact of Dozois'
selection criteria, but what little I've read of pre-1970s short genre
fiction seems to confirm this tendency. Characters tend to be props in
these old stories, useful merely to set up the parameters of the story,
with no real sense of a life before or after the tale, no sense why we
should care about them as characters. Silver John, the narrator here, is
a slight exception, but he's also the central figure in a large
sequence of stories, so maybe he doesn't count. Anyway, I liked this
story a lot, and I've added Wellman and Silver John to my reading
wishlist, but I think I'm accustomed to a bit more from my fantasy,
thanks to current styles and sensibilities.
"Extempore" by Damon
Knight (1956). Another "punchline" story in the late Golden Age vein --
the technicalities of time travel were a common motif in those days.
Worth a wry smile but otherwise not especially distinctive.
"Space-Time
for Springers" by Fritz Leiber (1958). According to Dozois' rambling
introduction to this story, "Springers" invented the subgenre of cat
fantasy. It's also the first story here that feels almost modern, a
character study at turns hilarious and strangely affecting. Very good
indeed.
"Scylla's Daughter" by Fritz Leiber (1961). Dozois cited
this story in his preface as an example of how fantasy stories skulked
their way into science fiction magazines of the time (fantasy was
considered a dead genre, lacking the "didactic" qualities that made
sci-fi seem socially acceptable) by adding a few elements to make them
look more science-fictiony. In the midst of a archetypal barbarian
swordsman and clever thief novella, a time traveler pops in riding a
dragon, and pops out again until required for the deus ex machina
ending. Aside from that, I found this story entertaining in a corny way,
kind of a middling fantasy effort, really. Maybe if I read this
listening to prog, it would have set the mood better. A pity; I'd been
looking forward to my first Fafhrd and Gray Mouser story. Not that I
disliked it by any means, I just wasn't blown away.
"The
Overworld" by Jack Vance (1965). Another adequately good but not
astounding story. As we move out of the first half of the century, we
seem to be leaving one-note "punchline" stories behind in exchange for
world-based stories, where the setting is the main character. I've been
curious to read The Dying Earth, and this did nothing to damp my
interest; I'm just glad I live in a time when character-based stories
are the norm. Sly heroes tackling quests for laughing sorcerers work
better as Harryhausen movies than stories, I think.
"The Signaller" by Keith Roberts (1966). Oh my gosh, I like this story way more than the in media res
opening led me to believe. It's another story where the setting is the
main character, a lovingly detailed alternate history where the Spanish
Armada conquered England and an elite guild of semaphorists communicates
across an otherwise backward twentieth century Europe. The main
character is of only secondary importance here, his life story merely a
framework for the story's real substance, an extended, leisurely
examination of the workings of the semaphore network and its system of
apprenticeship, an exercise in practically undiluted worldbuilding. I
dig it. I do wish that the technologically stunted world of guilds and
Mother Church had been better integrated into the stuff about Norse gods
and Fairies; as it is, it feels like two story universes shoved into an
awkward juncture, and then all of a sudden it ends. I understand that
this story was later subsumed into Roberts' novel Pavane, which of course I have to add to my to-read list.
"The
Manor of Roses" by Thomas Burnett Swann (1966). A lush, sentimentalist
medieval fantasy, seeming to prefigure Guy Gavriel Kay's Fionavar
Tapestry in general tone. Languorous and lovely, oddly modern, given its
publication date. Maybe a tad predictable, but I really enjoyed this
one.
"Death and the Executioner" by Roger Zelazny (1967).
"Far-future technology gives select men the power of gods" seemed a
bold, mind-blowing storyline when first I encountered it, in a novella
published in Asimov's Science Fiction sometime in the late '90s.
It degrades with repeated exposure, however. I realize now it reproduces
many of the set pieces and inherent limitations of the superhero genre,
and leads to battles of equally matched, equally invulnerable titans,
the victor being the one who successfully plots out every contingency
(and every decision of his enemy) ten thousand moves in advance. Here,
in a characteristically late '60s touch, our space-faring gods gained
power not through technological singularities but by way of some kind of
psionic superman flu. All of which sounds pretty dumb in retrospect,
but I have to admit, this was one of those rare times when a twist
revelation caught me entirely off-guard. So the first chunk of this
story was middling; the reveal was outstanding; the denouement was
unmistakably Zelazny. (Even Dozois admits the guy was a tad predictable
with his interchangeable, super-competent heroes.) I'm still unpacking
what the whole "Rild was an actual Buddha" thing meant, because his
entire story was a lot of buildup for what amounts to a "figure out what
it meant on your own" ending.
"The Configuration of the North
Shore" by R. A. Lafferty (1969). Concept-based or "punchline" stories
never entirely went away; you may find them in quantity in most SF
magazines to this day, a continuing staple of genre fiction. Here we
have a mildly interesting little number with a terrific
fourth-wall-breaking ending. Pretty good.
"Two Sadnesses" by
George Alec Effinger (1973). The first sadness: Ashdown Forest getting
carpet-bombed and flamethrowered into desolation around an obliviously
optimistic Winnie the Pooh. The second sadness: Rat and Mole, of The Wind in the Willows,
getting on in years, return from an adventure to find their homes paved
and destroyed for a factory, their friends dead, the river polluted.
They drift downstream into a Cuyahoga River-style conflagration. Welp.
The '70s sure were a cheerful decade, weren't they? (Good thing we're
all done with warmongering, and no one stands a chance of abolishing all
those environmental protection laws, I gotta tell ya.) This kind of
dark, gritty, "real world issues" revisionism of innocent literature is
so ubiquitous nowadays that it's hard to remember the trend actually
began somewhere, and could actually pack a punch at one point. A total
downer. Not my favorite story, but worth a read.
"The Tale of
Hauk" by Poul Anderson (1977). Unremarkable, non-essential bit of
supernatural Nordic fluffery, disappointing after everything that's come
before. Possibly the first story in the collection I don't care for --
in itself a remarkable achievement, given how mixed these products tend
to be. It felt more suited for that After the King anthology; here it seems worse for the contrast.
"Manatee
Girl Ain't You Coming Out Tonight" by Avram Davidson (1977). Here we
go, this is more like what I've grown to expect from this book. A
memorable meander through a forgotten, ramshackle rum and cane-shack
paradise, rich with deft description and immediately vivid characters.
And were-manatees. Not a perfect story -- the plot is flimsy; the
characters, though vivid, are simple stereotypes; worst of all we never see the goddamn were-manatees -- but it was right up my alley.
"The
Troll" by T. H. White (1978). This story feels more suited to the late
nineteenth or early twentieth century: a man identified only as Mr. Marx
tells us (presumably in a warm study after a sumptuous and correct
dinner party) the tale of his father meeting a troll in a Swedish hotel.
Not just the quaint framing device, but the whole English gentleman
abroad feel of the piece, Daddy Marx ambling the Arctic countryside to
clear his brain, the abrupt and accidental denouement resulting from no
deliberate action of the protagonist -- it feels like a lost Wells
creature feature. Enjoyable, if terribly dated.
"The Sleep of
Trees" by Jane Yolen (1980). Hey, we're in the '80s! You know how we can
tell? There's the overt lesbian eroticism, there's the tinge of
atheism/questioning the rightness of the gods, there's the cardboard
cliche of a Hollywood Actor (who also gets his comeuppance), and it
isn't very good. Okay, that last item doesn't date this definitively to
the '80s (much '80s SF was quite excellent, in fact), but this story is a
disappointment.
"God's Hooks!" by Howard Waldrop (1982). Izaak Walton (that
Izaak Walton) forges fishhooks from meteoric iron to fish for Leviathan
in a demon-haunted slough. I don't think anything I could add would be a
more rousing endorsement for this story. Holy shit, this is great.
"The
Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule" by Lucius Shepard (1984). Oh my god
yes! The cover story! See, as I mentioned before, teenage me found the
cover art absolutely mindblowing, and every time I saw the ad I was
consumed with curiosity and conjectures about what the story it depicted
would be like. In recent years I've figured out that cover art for
anthologies and pro magazines is often bought in bulk, well in advance,
and only rarely ties in with a particular story. I had assumed that
would be the case here, but nope! I really do get to read about the 6000
foot long dragon dwarfing the city that has grown in its shadow. And
what a story it is. I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm almost dizzy
with how good it is. I have to blink myself back to reality. Just...
goddamn, that was good. I don't keep a list of my all-time favorite
short stories, but if I did, this one would be high up. These last two
stories are building up a critical mass of awesome.
"A Cabin on
the Coast" by Gene Wolfe (1981). Another "punchline" story, a little
one-note for my tastes, but the antagonist is nicely creepy, and the
story is quite adequate overall.
"Paper Dragons" by James P.
Blaylock (1985). This reads like it could have been published last year.
A thing of haunting, mist-shrouded beauty, dank with unseen life,
mechanical creatures that never quite quicken, San Francisco fogs and
diaphanous ecologies of cloud just at the edge of sight. Gorgeous.
"Into
Gold" by Tanith Lee (1987). A generation after Rome relinquished
contact with its frontier legions, as the son of the former commander
adopts the role of hereditary warlord prince, an Orientalist caricature
of an esoteric/alchemic witch in touch with dark powers shows up and
seemingly bewitches him, and his loyal friend and lieutenant thinks he
must do anything he can to thwart her. Like Poul Anderson's Nordic
reanimation fantasy earlier in this volume, I found this story to be
kind of a yawn, even though I love the idea of lost legions going native after the collapse of Roman authority. Not an awful story, it just fell flat for me.
"Flowers
of Edo" by Bruce Sterling (1987). Meiji noir. That's the most apt
description I can divine for this. Well, maybe not noir, exactly, but
it's an urban tale of drink and dark alleyways, brawls and fires and
electric demons in the wires. Very good.
"Buffalo Gals, Won't You
Come Out Tonight" by Ursula K. Le Guin (1987). "'You fell out of the
sky,' the coyote said." I love blunt, evocative opening lines like that.
This is my first exposure to Le Guin's short fiction, and I like it. A
tiny bit heavy-handed with the moralizing, but whatever. It's the best
story involving talking turds that I've ever read.
"A Gift of the
People" by Robert Sampson (1988). This one exquisitely captures the
ingrained primate horror of the dark, the shadow shapes that follow you
beyond the corners of your eyes, the silence you feel tingling between
your shoulderblades. Reading it at night made my skin crawl. Pretty
good.
"Missolonghi 1824" by John Crowley (1990). Lord Byron tells
a Greek servant boy about the time he freed a captured satyr from
villagers bent on violence. A brief, bare-bones, mostly unremarkable
the-gods-of-folklore-are-real tale.
"Bears Discover Fire" by
Terry Bisson (1990). I've been looking forward to this one since I first
glanced over the contents page. It does not disappoint. I'm amazed how
much can be packed into just nine pages -- people who feel real, heart
and personality, a different sense of the world. And of course bears
discovering fire.
"Blunderbore" by Esther M. Friesner (1990). '90s humor ceased tickling me, well, sometime after the late '90s. The stray Seinfeld
episode since then has contributed to the evidence of those "hilarious"
stories and novels from that decade: none of it makes me chuckle
anymore. Even classic Simpsons episodes barely managed to raise a
smile, when I rented some from Netflix a couple months back. Above all,
fantasy set-dressings do not pair nicely with jokes about corporate
speak and jogging, oat bran and designer heels. This story wasn't as
annoying and spastic as The Good Fairies of New York, but it failed to do anything for me. Woefully dated.
"Death and the Lady" by Judith Tarr (1992). Oh hey, I remember this one. It was originally published in the After the King
anthology. Already read, already reviewed. Apparently I called it
"quite good" in February, and that's good enough for me. Moving on.
"The
Changeling's Tale" by Michael Swanwick (1994). Swanwick is one of my
all-time favorite authors, based on a sample of two novels and several
reliably mindblowing short stories. Stories like "The Edge of the
World," "Riding the Giganatosaur," and "Scherzo with Tyrannosaur" made a
huge impact on me when I was a teen. This was not long after I realized
that my own stories up to that point were childish scribbledegook,
devoid of character or effective plotting or anything to recommend them
beyond a certain innocent enthusiasm. "Scherzo with Tyrannosaur," in
fact, appeared in Asimov's at roughly the same time I had submitted what amounted to Raptor Red
fan-fiction to the magazine. Swanwick's stories hit me so hard I
wondered why I even bothered. And then I produced or at least formulated
my own blatant imitations of those three stories. As an adult I read a
couple more of his stories, "The Very Pulse of the Machine" and
"Midnight Express," which reaffirmed my impression that Swanwick
operates on a level of storytelling I simply cannot comprehend. This
turns out to be not my favorite Swanwick story, but then, that bar is
prohibitively high; it's a standard post-Tolkien elf story, so it lacks
the conceptual whatthefuckery I associate with Swanwick, but it's a
solid example of its type.
"Professor Gottesman and the Indian
Rhinoceros" by Peter S. Beagle (1995). This guy's obsessed with
unicorns, ain't he? No matter. This is a sweet, charming delight,
disarming and funny and beautifully melancholy.
"Beauty and the
Opéra or the Phantom Beast" by Suzy McKee Charnas (1996). A pretty good
eroticized revisionist-reimagining sort of story. Knowing nothing more
than the sketchiest teaser trailer outline of the source material, I
don't know how evocative it is as a retelling, but as a story it's
perfectly adequate.
It feels odd to be done with this book. It's
only been about three weeks, but it feels like I've been absorbed in it
forever. Short story anthologies, even good ones (and this is the best
one I've read so far), can be exhausting to read. Bad anthologies
exhaust with the mediocrity of their selections; good ones exhaust the
emotions, acquainting you with new people and new worlds just long
enough to break your heart with them, then shoving you into the next
wringer before you can recover. Still, this was a terrific experience,
and now I crave more of these books.
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