Alec Nevala-Lee

Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.

Posts Tagged ‘Grappling With the Futures

The multiverse theory

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Yesterday, I flew back from the Grappling with the Futures symposium, which was held over the course of two days at Harvard and Boston University. I’d heard about the conference from my friend Emanuelle Burton, a scholar at the University of Illinois at Chicago, whom I met two years ago through the academic track at the World Science Fiction Convention in Kansas City. Mandy proposed that we collaborate on a presentation at this event, which was centered on the discipline of futures studies, a subject about which I knew nothing. For reasons of my own, though, I was interested in making the trip, and we put together a talk titled Fictional Futures, which included a short history of the concept of psychohistory. The session went fine, even if we ended up with more material than we could reasonably cover in twenty minutes. But I was equally interested in studying the people around me, who were uniformly smart, intense, quirky, and a little mysterious. Futures studies is an established academic field that draws on many of the tools and concepts of science fiction, but it uses a markedly different vocabulary. (One of the scheduled keynote speakers has written and published a climate change novella, just like me, except that she describes it as a “non-numerical simulation model.”) It left me with the sense of a closed world that evolved in response to the same problems and pressures that shaped science fiction, but along divergent lines, and I still wonder what might come of a closer relationship between the two communities.

As it happened, I had to duck out after the first day, because I had something else to do in Boston. Ever since I started work on Astounding, I’ve been meaning to pay a visit to the Isaac Asimov collection at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University, which houses the majority of Asimov’s surviving papers, but which can only be viewed in person. Since I was going to be in town anyway, I left the symposium early and headed over to the library, where I spent five hours yesterday going through what I could. When you arrive at the reading room, you sign in, check your bag and cell phone, and are handed a massive finding aid, an inventory of the Asimov collection that runs to more than three hundred pages. (The entire archive, which consists mostly of work that dates from after the early sixties, fills four hundred boxes.) After marking off the items that you want, you’re rewarded with a cart loaded with archival cartons and a pair of white gloves. At the back of my mind, I wasn’t expecting to find much—I’ve been gathering material for this book for years. As it turned out, there were well over a hundred letters between Asimov, Campbell, and Heinlein alone that I hadn’t seen before. You aren’t allowed to take pictures or make photocopies, so I typed up as many notes as I could before I had to run to catch my plane. For the most part, they fill out parts of the story that I already have, and they won’t fundamentally change the book. But in an age of digital research, I was struck by the fact that all this paper, of which I just scratched the surface, is only accessible to scholars who can physically set foot in the reading room at the Mugar Library.

After two frantic days, I finally made it home, where my wife and I watched last night’s premiere of James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction on AMC. At first glance, this series might seem like the opposite of my experiences in Boston. Instead of being set apart from the wider world, it’s an ambitious attempt to appeal to the largest audience possible, with interviews with the likes of Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan and discussions of such works as Close Encounters and Alien. I’ve been looking forward to this show for a long time, not least because I was hoping that it would lead to a spike in interest in science fiction that would benefit my book, and the results were more or less what I expected. In the opening sequence, you briefly glimpse Heinlein and Asimov, and there’s even a nod to The Thing From Another World, although no mention of John W. Campbell himself. For the most part, though, the series treats the literary side as a precursor to its incarnations in the movies and television, which is absolutely the right call. You want to tell this story as much as possible through images, and the medium lends itself better to H.R. Geiger than to H.P. Lovecraft. But when I saw a brief clip of archival footage of Ray Bradbury, in his role in the late seventies as an ambassador for the genre, I found myself thinking of the Bradbury whom I know best—the eager, unpublished teenager in the Great Depression who wrote fan letters to the pulps, clung to the edges of the Heinlein circle, and never quite managed to break into Astounding. It’s a story that this series can’t tell, and I can’t blame it, because I didn’t really do it justice, either.

Over the last few days, I’ve been left with a greater sense than ever before of the vast scope and apparently irreconcilable aspects of science fiction, which consists of many worlds that only occasionally intersect. It’s a realization, or a recollection, that might seem to come at a particularly inopportune time. The day before I left for the symposium, I received the page proofs for Astounding, which normally marks the point at which a book can truly be said to be finished. I still have time to make a few corrections and additions, and I plan to fix as much of it as I can without driving my publisher up the wall. (There are a few misplaced commas that have been haunting my dreams.) I’m proud of the result, but when I look at the proofs, which present the text as an elegant and self-contained unit, it seems like an optical illusion. Even if I don’t take into account what I learned when it was too late, I’m keenly aware of everything and everyone that this book had to omit. I’d love to talk more about futures studies, or the letters that I dug up in the Asimov archives, or the practical effects in John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing, but there just wasn’t room or time. As it stands, the book tries to strike a balance between speaking to obsessive fans and appealing to a wide audience, which meant excluding a lot of fascinating material that might have survived if it were being published by a university press. It can’t possibly do everything, and the events of the weekend have only reminded me that there are worlds that I’ve barely even explored. But if that isn’t the whole point of science fiction—well, what is?

The Worlds of If

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As I prepare for my upcoming presentation this weekend at the Grappling With the Futures conference, I’ve been thinking a lot about the evolution of psychohistory, the fictional science that figures prominently in Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series. When it comes to describing how psychohistory is actually supposed to work in practice, however, the original stories aren’t much help. At first, the definition of the field might seem clear enough. If you initially encountered the trilogy in book form, it’s right there in the text, in an entry from the Encyclopedia Galactica:

Psychohistory: …Gal Dornick, using nonmathematical concepts, has defined psychohistory to be that branch of mathematics which deals with the reactions of human conglomerates to fixed social and economic stimuli…Implicit in all these definitions is the assumption that the human conglomerate being dealt with is sufficiently large for valid statistical treatment.

This seems fairly straightforward. But it wasn’t added to the series until the hardcover edition published by Gnome Press in 1951, for which Asimov wrote a new opening chapter called “The Psychohistorians.” When the novelette “Foundation” originally appeared in the May 1942 issue of Astounding, the word “psychohistory” was used only once. We’re informed that Hari Seldon is “the greatest psychologist of all time,” and that he has the ability “to unravel human emotions sufficiently to be able to predict broadly the historical sweep of the future” using “simple psychological technique.” But we aren’t told how—just what. Psychohistory isn’t a method here, but a claim about results.

It’s also possible that Asimov himself had only a vague idea about it. As I’ve noted elsewhere, psychohistory seems to have been largely the brainchild of John W. Campbell, who was more interested in what it could do than in how it would work. The year before, in the nonfiction article “The Science of Whithering,” L. Sprague de Camp had written in the magazine:

If there were such a science, what would it be like? It would have a body of observable facts, and would overlap with history, anthropology, sociology, economics, vital statistics, and perhaps one or two other sciences. Students of the science should be able to observe uniformities among these facts, deduce laws from these uniformities, and from the laws make predictions that are later borne out by observation.

And the method didn’t even need to be scientific. At the time, Campbell was also editing the fantasy magazine Unknown, and on May 6, 1942, he told one of his most valued contributors, Anthony Boucher, that he was considering a standalone issue devoted to prophecy: “The philosophy of prophecy, the record, through the past, of the various classes of prophecy, and the problems of the prophet.” He continued:

Second, there would be the main section consisting of prophecy. This would be devoted to several different types of prophecy concerning the present world situation and, specifically, the war. Who’ll win (and if the prophets have the sense God gave little green apples, the answer to that one’s going to be easy for them to figure out) and, more important, how, by what route, by licking who first, and when. When will Japan be knocked out? When will Italy fold? When’s Hitler going down to defeat?

This last statement is remarkably revealing. What Campbell wanted were predictions, specifically ones related to the war. As Hitler rewrote the map of Europe, the anxiety to knew what would come next—which is one to which I think we can all relate these days—became overwhelming, and the source didn’t matter, as long as it was “borne out by observation.” At this moment of global crisis, Campbell was willing to seek answers from astrology, numerology, and the prophecies of Nostradamus. (The prophecy issue, notably, never appeared, thanks largely to what Campbell characterized as an inability to find “competent fanatics”: “Nobody with any reputation or ability in the fields I wanted was willing to name names and date dates.” The italics are mine.) Psychohistory was simply a way to express these impulses in language that would feel at home in a science fiction magazine. Even Asimov, who never seems to have been altogether comfortable with Campbell’s ideas, was driven by much the same motivation. Decades later, he had a revealing exchange about the origins of the Foundation series in an interview with James Gunn:

Asimov: Mind you, this was also a time when I’d been living through the Hitler era in the 1930s, where no matter what anyone did, Hitler kept winning victories, and the only way that I could possibly find life bearable at the time was to convince myself that no matter what he did, he was doomed to defeat in the end. That he couldn’t win.
Gunn: Psychohistory is against it.
Asimov: That’s right…I suppose that was my literary response to my own feelings, which have no basis, I suppose, except that it made me feel better.

It was a longing that expressed itself equally well as psychohistory or prophecy, and it was about to assume its most convincing form. Not surprisingly, the science fiction magazines of the period often published stories that presented alternative outcomes for the war, including some that ended with victory for the Axis. Anthony Boucher justified this in a letter to Campbell that was published in Astounding in June 1943:

We are not, thank God, prophets. We don’t write what we feel sure is going to happen, but what, under certain circumstances, might happen…Now we aren’t expecting an Axis victory, any more than we are expecting worldwide tidal waves or planetary collisions or the invasion of little green men from Alpha Centauri. These disasters are all, with varying probabilities, present in one or more of the possible Worlds-of-If. And the more we write about ingenious ruses by which the Axis secures victory…the less apt those ruses are to succeed, and the more certain we can be that my sons and your daughter will inherit, in deepest truth, the best of all Possible Worlds.

Science fiction, in other words, was a way of generating models of potential outcomes and working through their implications. The real psychohistorians were the science fiction writers and fans, and psychohistory was a veiled way for the genre to talk about itself and its claims for foreseeing the future. Campbell might have been content to leave it there—but he was unable to leave well enough alone. In 1950, the year before the Foundation series appeared in hardcover, another author wrote: “The social organisms which we call states and nations behave and react in every respect as though they were individual organisms…The social organism behaves in a manner which can be graphed on the tone scale.” It was L. Ron Hubbard, who called the concept “political dianetics.” And he and Campbell were about to start a foundation of their own.

Changing the future

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Astounding: John W. Campbell, Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, L. Ron Hubbard, and the Golden Age of Science Fiction is now scheduled to be released on October 23, 2018. It was originally slated for August 14, but my publisher recently raised the possibility of pushing it back, and we agreed on the new date earlier this week. Why the change? Well, it’s a good thing. This is a big book—by one estimate, we’re looking at close to five hundred pages, including endnotes, back matter, and index—and it needs time to be edited, typeset, and put into production. We could also use the extra nine weeks to get it into bookstores and into the hands of reviewers, and rescheduling it for the fall puts us in a better position. The one downside, at least from my point of view, is that now we’ll be coming out in a corridor that is always packed with major releases, and it’s going to be challenging for us to stand out. (It’s also just two weeks before the midterm elections, and I’m worried about how much bandwidth readers will have to think about anything else.) But everybody involved seems to think that we can handle it, and I have no reason to doubt their enthusiasm or expertise.

In short, if you’ve been looking forward to reading Astounding, you’ll have to wait two months longer. (Apart from an upcoming round of minor edits, by the way, the book is basically finished.) In the meantime, at the end of this month, I’m attending the academic conference “Grappling With the Futures” at Harvard and Boston University, where I’ll be delivering a presentation on the evolution of psychohistory alongside the scholar Emmanuelle Burton. The July/August issue of Analog will feature “The Campbell Machine,” a modified excerpt from the book, including a lot of material that won’t appear anywhere else, about one of the most significant incidents in John W. Campbell’s life—the tragic death of his stepson, which encouraged his interest in psionics and culminated in his support of the Hieronymus Machine. And I’m hopeful that a piece about Campbell’s role in the development of dianetics will appear elsewhere in the fall. I’ve also confirmed that I’ll be a program participant at the upcoming World Science Fiction Convention in San Jose, which runs from August 16 to 20. At one point, I’d planned to have the book in stores by then, which isn’t quite how it worked out. But if you run into me there, ask me for a copy. If I have one handy, it’s yours.

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