The Rediscovery of Man
By Cordwainer Smith
Reviewed by Ted Gioia
Few science fiction writers present us with a bigger puzzle than
Cordwainer Smith (1913-1966), an eccentric figure from the golden
age of sci-fi who retains a small but devoted cult following today. Was
Smith a brilliant thinker or mentally ill?
Was he an artist or an ideologue? Was his
body of work a unified vision or a disparate
jumble? Above all, did he see himself as
a writer of fictional stories or could it be
that he believed that his fanciful narratives
were, in some sense, true accounts based
on his personal experiences?
The strangest piece of information about
Cordwainer Smith—a pseudonym, one of
many employed by Paul Linebarger—comes
from a psychological case study published
in 1955, which described the “psychosis”
of a patient who experienced vivid visions
of life in outer space, incidents that the
individual believed were real, not imaginary.
The preponderance of evidence suggests
that our sci-fi author served as the basis for this case study, which was
included by Dr. Robert Lindner in his book The Fifty-Minute Hour.
Although final confirmation eludes us, the idea that Smith believed
himself capable of out-of-body experience beyond the Earth may
provide us with insights into the peculiarly intense nature of this writer’
s fictional works.
Indeed, many of the stories in The Rediscovery of Man—which
collects virtually all of Smith’s shorter science fiction in a volume of
almost 700 pages—are pushed ahead by events that happen inside
people’s heads. In several stories, he develops the concept of
characters who don’t exist in their own right, but are the projection of
other characters' minds. In the tale “Nancy” he even holds nuptials
between a spaceship captain and a woman who is merely an
embodiment of his ideas about the opposite sex—and, yes, it is a very
happy union…at least until the spaceship gets back home. In a series
of novellas about Casher O’Neill, who
plots a revolution on his home planet,
the hero learns how to project different
facets of his inner life as individual allies
who can assist him in battle. In other
cases, the mental leaps do not result in
concrete manifestations—as in the many
stories here in which telepathy and mind-
reading play a key role—but the locus of
action still remains in the mental sphere.
At this point, I should probably mention
that Linebarger’s most influential work
was not necessarily any he wrote under
the name Cordwainer Smith, but may have been his study
Psychological Warfare—a book that boasts its own cult following.
Even a used paperback copy of this work can bring in hundreds of
dollars on the web. And for good reason. Linebarger’s career involved
him in behind-the-scenes Cold War operations; by one account, his
efforts in Korea led to the surrender of thousands of enemy
combatants—seasoned troops whose training and values made them
unlikely to wave the white flag. In his book, Linebarger suggested that
famous short story, “Scanners Live in Vain,” Smith describes a guild of
space pilots who are required to cut off much of their neural
hardwiring—rendering them deaf-mutes—in order to withstand the
“Great Pain of Space.” The story is strange and deeply unsettling on
many levels, yet clearly demonstrates the extravagant inventiveness
of Smith’s conceptual fictions. Even so, I am not surprised that, when
Smith submitted it to John W. Campbell, Jr., who presided over the
magazine Astounding Science Fiction, the editor replied that is was
“too extreme” to publish.
But the imaginative excesses of the plots cannot hide the deep
metaphysical constructs at the heart of Cordwainer Smith’s work. A
recurring philosophical and moral issue constantly takes center stage
here: namely, what it means to be a person. In Smith’s universe—a
sociopolitical construct that he describes as the Instrumentality of
Mankind—this concept of personhood cannot be taken for granted.
The main characters are sometimes “real persons,” with similar DNA
to you and me. But just as often, they are “underpersons”—a generic
term for modified animals. Many of these have become almost
indistinguishable from humans, and in some instances they
demonstrate superior intellectual, moral and physical qualities to the
human characters; yet they are denied the basic rights and respect
accorded to people. In still other instances, we encounter humans who
have been genetically altered to meet the exigencies of different
planets…or robots of humanoid appearance…or mixtures of animal
parts with mechanical and electronic technology.
This may sound like the bar scene in Star Wars, but in fact Smith is
acutely sensitive to the ethical and sociological issues presented by a
blurring of the concept of personhood. Time and time again in his
stories, he focuses on the struggle of one or another group to achieve
the perks and prerogatives that are denied them because of how
society classifies their state of being. Sometimes these accounts
reflect political issues of Smith’s time (and our own)—and one can
interpret these tales in terms of civil rights movements, apartheid and
other headline stories of the day. In other instances, he reaches for
religious symbolism in describing these social movements, and many
have noted the Christian overtones of some of his work—yet this is not
the Christianity of the modern-day, but more the underground
movement of the early Roman empire, hidden in catacombs and
potentially subversive.
In a wildly inventive short novel from 1964, “The Dead Lady of Clown
Town,” the catacomb metaphor is powerfully realized. Smith amplifies
on his key philosophical themes, and here again the author stands out
for his extreme effects. He takes more than sixty pages to tell the
story of a revolution that “lasted six minutes and covered one hundred
and twelve meters.” From one angle, Smith—who in his day-to-day
life was an expert on Chinese affairs, and had Sun Yat-Sen as a
godfather—seemed to be anticipating the Tiananmen Square protests
of 1989 in this story. Yet the symbolic resonance of this story, one of
the finest science fiction works of the 20th century, goes beyond any
purely political interpretation.
Unlike the vast majority of science fiction stories, “The Dead Lady of
Clown Town” is not just filled with provocative concepts, but is
daringly experimental in its appropriation of unconventional narrative
techniques. Some of the action is told in a straightforward manner, yet
key scenes might be relayed in the lyrics of a song, the description of a
snippet of film, testimonies taken down years after the events, and
other indirect ways. Here, as elsewhere in his oeuvre, Smith is
especially fond of starting his stories at the end and working
backward—he is even willing to slip in “spoiler” details in his opening
pages, trusting in his ability to maintain suspense in other ways.
Needless to say, this focus on the metaphysical and psychological
made Smith an atypical personality in the world of science fiction. In a
surviving letter, from 1948, which accompanied his submission of
“Scanners Live in Vain” to Fantasy Book, he felt compelled to
apologize for the story: “This is more ‘literary’ fiction than pulp fiction
but I have hopes that your magazine, being off-trail, might be
interested in using it.” To sweeten his submission, Smith included a
check for $3.00 for a subscription and a stamped, self-addressed
envelope for response, before closing with a request that the magazine
publish more works by A.E. van Vogt.
But the real issue here is not that Smith’s story is ‘literary.’ That is
hardly the word that comes to mind upon reading his work. Rather his
imaginative universe is so unconventional, and at times so austere—his
fascination with the coldness and emptiness of remote space almost
borders on an obsession—that it seems like a realization of some quasi-
monastic worldview rather than a springboard for fiction of any kind.
Other authors have dealt with the conquest of space, perhaps as well or
better than Smith; but none has done a better job of conveying the
psychic aspects of the renunciation of the home planet that is the flip
of side of this same story. After you strip away the action and
conflicts on the surface level of these tales, an ascetic tendency can be
seen to run through this author’s entire oeuvre.
After reading through this lengthy collection of stories, you will be
struck by the apparent unity of vision in Smith’s work. Even an early
story, such as “Scanners” seems to anticipate elements that would
appear in other stories written fifteen years later. By the same token,
any reader trying to come to grips with Smith’s one full-length novel,
Norstrilia—the only major sci-fi work of his not included in this
volume—will hardly understand its nuances without having spent time
with these shorter fictions. One can’t help wondering on the overall
connections between these stories. Did Smith work out all of the
details of his imaginary universe at the start of his writing career? Or,
even stranger to consider, did he experience them in some out-of-body
way?
On the other hand, very little repetition takes place in these stories.
Very rarely does a key character from one story play a major role in
another one—although minor characters do reappear with regularity.
Even the recurring themes take on new dimensions as Smith’s work
evolved from the 1940s to the 1960s. And the unity of Smith’s vision
seemed to coexist comfortably with the abundance of creative
ingredients, fresh new angles, and surprising shifts of scene, century
and galaxy—each calling cards of his style. It is that very quality—the
endless ingenuity of our author as he piles up strange element upon
strange element—that stands out as the most salient trademark of this
author. If in fact, he did feel as if he had lived these stories, at second-
hand or even first-hand, then one can only marvel at the richness of
such an interior life—and be thankful that these stories survive as
testimony.
By Cordwainer Smith
Reviewed by Ted Gioia
Few science fiction writers present us with a bigger puzzle than
Cordwainer Smith (1913-1966), an eccentric figure from the golden
age of sci-fi who retains a small but devoted cult following today. Was
Smith a brilliant thinker or mentally ill?
Was he an artist or an ideologue? Was his
body of work a unified vision or a disparate
jumble? Above all, did he see himself as
a writer of fictional stories or could it be
that he believed that his fanciful narratives
were, in some sense, true accounts based
on his personal experiences?
The strangest piece of information about
Cordwainer Smith—a pseudonym, one of
many employed by Paul Linebarger—comes
from a psychological case study published
in 1955, which described the “psychosis”
of a patient who experienced vivid visions
of life in outer space, incidents that the
individual believed were real, not imaginary.
The preponderance of evidence suggests
that our sci-fi author served as the basis for this case study, which was
included by Dr. Robert Lindner in his book The Fifty-Minute Hour.
Although final confirmation eludes us, the idea that Smith believed
himself capable of out-of-body experience beyond the Earth may
provide us with insights into the peculiarly intense nature of this writer’
s fictional works.
Indeed, many of the stories in The Rediscovery of Man—which
collects virtually all of Smith’s shorter science fiction in a volume of
almost 700 pages—are pushed ahead by events that happen inside
people’s heads. In several stories, he develops the concept of
characters who don’t exist in their own right, but are the projection of
other characters' minds. In the tale “Nancy” he even holds nuptials
between a spaceship captain and a woman who is merely an
embodiment of his ideas about the opposite sex—and, yes, it is a very
happy union…at least until the spaceship gets back home. In a series
of novellas about Casher O’Neill, who
plots a revolution on his home planet,
the hero learns how to project different
facets of his inner life as individual allies
who can assist him in battle. In other
cases, the mental leaps do not result in
concrete manifestations—as in the many
stories here in which telepathy and mind-
reading play a key role—but the locus of
action still remains in the mental sphere.
At this point, I should probably mention
that Linebarger’s most influential work
was not necessarily any he wrote under
the name Cordwainer Smith, but may have been his study
Psychological Warfare—a book that boasts its own cult following.
Even a used paperback copy of this work can bring in hundreds of
dollars on the web. And for good reason. Linebarger’s career involved
him in behind-the-scenes Cold War operations; by one account, his
efforts in Korea led to the surrender of thousands of enemy
combatants—seasoned troops whose training and values made them
unlikely to wave the white flag. In his book, Linebarger suggested that
famous short story, “Scanners Live in Vain,” Smith describes a guild of
space pilots who are required to cut off much of their neural
hardwiring—rendering them deaf-mutes—in order to withstand the
“Great Pain of Space.” The story is strange and deeply unsettling on
many levels, yet clearly demonstrates the extravagant inventiveness
of Smith’s conceptual fictions. Even so, I am not surprised that, when
Smith submitted it to John W. Campbell, Jr., who presided over the
magazine Astounding Science Fiction, the editor replied that is was
“too extreme” to publish.
But the imaginative excesses of the plots cannot hide the deep
metaphysical constructs at the heart of Cordwainer Smith’s work. A
recurring philosophical and moral issue constantly takes center stage
here: namely, what it means to be a person. In Smith’s universe—a
sociopolitical construct that he describes as the Instrumentality of
Mankind—this concept of personhood cannot be taken for granted.
The main characters are sometimes “real persons,” with similar DNA
to you and me. But just as often, they are “underpersons”—a generic
term for modified animals. Many of these have become almost
indistinguishable from humans, and in some instances they
demonstrate superior intellectual, moral and physical qualities to the
human characters; yet they are denied the basic rights and respect
accorded to people. In still other instances, we encounter humans who
have been genetically altered to meet the exigencies of different
planets…or robots of humanoid appearance…or mixtures of animal
parts with mechanical and electronic technology.
This may sound like the bar scene in Star Wars, but in fact Smith is
acutely sensitive to the ethical and sociological issues presented by a
blurring of the concept of personhood. Time and time again in his
stories, he focuses on the struggle of one or another group to achieve
the perks and prerogatives that are denied them because of how
society classifies their state of being. Sometimes these accounts
reflect political issues of Smith’s time (and our own)—and one can
interpret these tales in terms of civil rights movements, apartheid and
other headline stories of the day. In other instances, he reaches for
religious symbolism in describing these social movements, and many
have noted the Christian overtones of some of his work—yet this is not
the Christianity of the modern-day, but more the underground
movement of the early Roman empire, hidden in catacombs and
potentially subversive.
In a wildly inventive short novel from 1964, “The Dead Lady of Clown
Town,” the catacomb metaphor is powerfully realized. Smith amplifies
on his key philosophical themes, and here again the author stands out
for his extreme effects. He takes more than sixty pages to tell the
story of a revolution that “lasted six minutes and covered one hundred
and twelve meters.” From one angle, Smith—who in his day-to-day
life was an expert on Chinese affairs, and had Sun Yat-Sen as a
godfather—seemed to be anticipating the Tiananmen Square protests
of 1989 in this story. Yet the symbolic resonance of this story, one of
the finest science fiction works of the 20th century, goes beyond any
purely political interpretation.
Unlike the vast majority of science fiction stories, “The Dead Lady of
Clown Town” is not just filled with provocative concepts, but is
daringly experimental in its appropriation of unconventional narrative
techniques. Some of the action is told in a straightforward manner, yet
key scenes might be relayed in the lyrics of a song, the description of a
snippet of film, testimonies taken down years after the events, and
other indirect ways. Here, as elsewhere in his oeuvre, Smith is
especially fond of starting his stories at the end and working
backward—he is even willing to slip in “spoiler” details in his opening
pages, trusting in his ability to maintain suspense in other ways.
Needless to say, this focus on the metaphysical and psychological
made Smith an atypical personality in the world of science fiction. In a
surviving letter, from 1948, which accompanied his submission of
“Scanners Live in Vain” to Fantasy Book, he felt compelled to
apologize for the story: “This is more ‘literary’ fiction than pulp fiction
but I have hopes that your magazine, being off-trail, might be
interested in using it.” To sweeten his submission, Smith included a
check for $3.00 for a subscription and a stamped, self-addressed
envelope for response, before closing with a request that the magazine
publish more works by A.E. van Vogt.
But the real issue here is not that Smith’s story is ‘literary.’ That is
hardly the word that comes to mind upon reading his work. Rather his
imaginative universe is so unconventional, and at times so austere—his
fascination with the coldness and emptiness of remote space almost
borders on an obsession—that it seems like a realization of some quasi-
monastic worldview rather than a springboard for fiction of any kind.
Other authors have dealt with the conquest of space, perhaps as well or
better than Smith; but none has done a better job of conveying the
psychic aspects of the renunciation of the home planet that is the flip
of side of this same story. After you strip away the action and
conflicts on the surface level of these tales, an ascetic tendency can be
seen to run through this author’s entire oeuvre.
After reading through this lengthy collection of stories, you will be
struck by the apparent unity of vision in Smith’s work. Even an early
story, such as “Scanners” seems to anticipate elements that would
appear in other stories written fifteen years later. By the same token,
any reader trying to come to grips with Smith’s one full-length novel,
Norstrilia—the only major sci-fi work of his not included in this
volume—will hardly understand its nuances without having spent time
with these shorter fictions. One can’t help wondering on the overall
connections between these stories. Did Smith work out all of the
details of his imaginary universe at the start of his writing career? Or,
even stranger to consider, did he experience them in some out-of-body
way?
On the other hand, very little repetition takes place in these stories.
Very rarely does a key character from one story play a major role in
another one—although minor characters do reappear with regularity.
Even the recurring themes take on new dimensions as Smith’s work
evolved from the 1940s to the 1960s. And the unity of Smith’s vision
seemed to coexist comfortably with the abundance of creative
ingredients, fresh new angles, and surprising shifts of scene, century
and galaxy—each calling cards of his style. It is that very quality—the
endless ingenuity of our author as he piles up strange element upon
strange element—that stands out as the most salient trademark of this
author. If in fact, he did feel as if he had lived these stories, at second-
hand or even first-hand, then one can only marvel at the richness of
such an interior life—and be thankful that these stories survive as
testimony.
| conceptual fiction |
a country’s superiority versus hostile parties
could be based on an ability to “out-trick them,
out-talk them, and out-maneuver them.” Can
we be surprised, then, that Smith’s sci-fi work
espouses a similar belief that the most significant
battlefront is often one drawn inside our psyches?
By the same token, Smith employs a range of
writing techniques—sometimes arcane narrative
structures or, at other points, peculiar plot devices—
that similarly aim at restricting or eliminating the
flow of empirical data that serves as the constitu-
tive element for most works of fiction. In his most
could be based on an ability to “out-trick them,
out-talk them, and out-maneuver them.” Can
we be surprised, then, that Smith’s sci-fi work
espouses a similar belief that the most significant
battlefront is often one drawn inside our psyches?
By the same token, Smith employs a range of
writing techniques—sometimes arcane narrative
structures or, at other points, peculiar plot devices—
that similarly aim at restricting or eliminating the
flow of empirical data that serves as the constitu-
tive element for most works of fiction. In his most