But only as significant; not more so. S-f is a specialized way of writing about ideas. The development of techniques for the expression of new concepts—new modes in language, narrative, and structure—are an essential part of what (ever it is that) we mean by S-F.
All these factors, then, must be considered in weighing the (merely) very good stories against each other—and against the inclusion of two (or more) selections by a single author from the smaller group of outstanding stories. Ordinarily, they operate in favor of variety. This time—
As it happens, Ballard published only one new short story during 1965. “The Volcano Dances” appeared originally in Gollancz’s 1964 collection. Terminal Beach—which I did not see until the fall of 1965. “Giant” was the obvious “qualified” choice—but I could not get “Volcano” out of my mind, once I saw it, and it had never been published here at all, whereas “Giant” had been in Playboy, and was scheduled for SFWA’s Nebula Awards anthology as well—for excellent reason; leaving it out of a 1965 “best” collection was simply absurd. It kept going back and forth like that, until the new Ballard stories started appearing in early ‘66 issues of Impulse, New Worlds, and Ambit.
This is truly new work for the author as well as the field, it is experimental in style, controversial in content, provocative, evocative, and unforgettable. It establishes Ballard clearly as the significant author in the field today, in all the ways I try to consider. In all likelihood, it will also establish him as a storm-center of critical controversy—but that will be small change from last year.
Not everyone likes Ballard’s work; no one can ignore it, or ignore his impact (as writer and angry critic, both) on other Writers in the field. No serious critical consideration of s-f last year failed to make pointed reference to him (Amis in Holiday, Aldiss in SF Horizons, Butler in Spectator, etc.). His loudly pronounced notions on “inner space” were so widely echoed that he himself stopped using the phrase. He was compared by reviewers to Conrad, Kafka, Bradbury, and Burroughs (William).
It would be as easy, and as inapplicable, to compare him with Camus, or Poe, or Ionesco, or C. S. Lewis. What he has most in common with any of them is best stated in Aldiss’ summing up, in a lengthy comparative critique of three British writers: Other writers . . . are copying. Ballard is originating.
Certainly, he is s-f’s most-published author right now (bar the perennial re-re-re-issues of Asimov, Bradbury, and Clarke).
Doubleday last year reprinted his first two novels. The Drowned World and The Wind from Nowhere in a combined hardcover edition, at about the same time that the third one. The Drought, was published by Jonathan Cape in England, and (as The Burning World) in a Berkley paperback here—and the first three chapters appeared in Ambit, a highly regarded British literary magazine. Berkley reissued an early collection, and Gollancz reissued their Terminal Beach (slightly different in contents from the Berkley edition), while the title story (an obscure, difficult, demanding piece which violated almost every convention of s-f writing) was widely reprinted (including in the 10th Annual).
As I write, Ballard’s newest novel. The Crystal World, is about to appear in both countries (Cape and Farrar), and Berkley has just released a new collection. The Impossible Man, and other Stories. Another collection is forthcoming from Cape, and Doubleday is planning the first American hardcover collection.
Meantime, reviews and critical writings by the author have been appearing in The Guardian and Ambit, as well as in New Worlds. Perhaps the best clue to Ballard the writer is to be found in Ballard the critic, who asked impatiently about one book:
. . . one seriously wonders whether the author has any idea of the real nature of his subject matter. What is the point of this book? Does it have any relevance to anything except itself?
From the critic too, presumably, came the tearsheets of George MacBeth’s poem, which I would otherwise never have seen.
CIRCE UNDERSEA OR A CRY FROM THE DEPTHS
N.B. This tape found floating in an antimagnetic metal capsule by the first Venusian astronauts, 2020 A.D., was forwarded from the future to us by:
GEORGE MACBETH
The note about George MacBeth from the editor of Ambit said in hasty script: . . . like many Scots, has lived most of his life in England. He is a BBC producer for the Third Programme . . . Much of his poetry is about the violence associated with fascism. He also has a major interest in experimental writing, and has written one poem in the form of a card game and another in the form of an encyclopedia. He is tall, dresses very correctly in dark-blue English suits with white collar. Sports a small ginger mustache, likes cats and women, etc.
Almost on the heels of that note came another, telling me MacBeth was on his way to the States. (Turned out he was here on a cultural-exchange thing, on the invitation of the Council on Leaders and Specialists of the Experiment in International Living: State Dept.)
We had a fast-talking lunch, and I acquired some further vital statistics. He was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, in 1932; is married to a geneticist. Two volumes of his own poetry in print: The Broken Places and The Doomsday Book (Scorpion Press, London, 1963 and 1965). Also edited two anthologies for Penguin: Sick Verse (1963) and Animal Verse (1965). In 1964, he wrote, produced, financed, and acted in [I transcribe here from table-napkin notes] “The Doomsday Show”—-a post-nuclear poetry cabaret show at the Establishment Club in London—See poetry and s-f as sharing a common imagination—Admire “calamity fiction” of John Christopher (particularly The Death of Grass) and see Jules Verne as one of the greatest of Victorian writers—Think poetry can take over the plots and imagery of s-f and give it new emotional depth—and it can offer new techniques (e.g. Ballard’s short-paragraph, cut-up sequence pieces which go back ultimately to the American poet Brion Gysin, who influenced Burroughs)—Best s-f poet so far is the English writer D. M. Thomas, author of (as yet on published) Launching Pad.
I understand a copy of launching Pad is on its way to me; in return, some recommendations for Mr. MacBeth—high grade “calamity fiction” from last year’s New Worlds: Charles Platt’s “Lone Zone,” James Colvin’s “The Mountain,” and Colin R. Fry’s “The Night of the Gyul.” And Gerald Kersh, coming up—
SOMEWHERE NOT FAR FROM HERE
GERALD KERSH
When i say that where I come from is neither here nor there, I mean exactly that, for my family’s place is dust and ashes. And there are thirty-two winds. As the Dumb Ox once said, “Neither here nor there is everywhere. You are a citizen of the world, young Martin. Cheer up!”