To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Philip José Farmer

Scattered is probably a fair way to describe what’s happening here. Two novellas build this book. And I think that split nature is a part of the problem: because the first novella deals with nudity, surprise, human savagery, and history, some of the more interesting aspects of the world as a whole are ignored or glossed over. These may lead to future stories, I see that there is a series following this book, yet when they come up in the second novella, they feel tacked on. While fixups are not inherently bad, Farmer puts the two novellas together poorly. The seeming lack of a shared theme further damages this book as a novel.

Know a man's faith, and you knew at least half the man. Know his wife, and you knew the other half.

The biggest problem lies in Farmer’s inability to clearly communicate conclusions to his themes. He’s dealing with some interesting issues: death, love, humanity as humanity, morality, religion, political science, history—Farmer brings up a ton of themes. Too many to adequately deal with all of the ideas he brings up. Scattered. And themes that would have been important to explain plot points—wanderlust, egalitarianism, warfare—are skipped over and implied instead of explored. That said, the theme of humanity as humanity is really well done, and I wish the rest of the book lived up to it. In short, Farmer states that humanity never really changes that much. From pre-homo sapiens to 21st century people, these resurrected characters are all given a second chance, and the first night is an orgy of rape and fear and murder. Humanity’s selfishness survives a second chance, in a way that reflects humanity as it seems to be.

The second biggest problem I see is that Farmer keeps talking in asides. Eventually plot points are dropped—Farmer spends pages dealing with the tension between Alice and Burton, but then they get together seemingly randomly, and the whole sub-plot is dropped from then on. The discussions of the characters create info-dumps, and their continuations are scattered throughout the novel. For instance, a 20th century Jew from America confronts Burton about a book he wrote that seems anti-semitic. They agree to discuss this later, but it’s a long time later when they finally do. And the weak payoff satisfies the buildup not at all. In short, the book rambles and trips over itself in the way the plot is paced and dialogue functions. Scattered.

The fortune of the man who sits also sits.

Farmer creates a couple of interesting characters, drawing heavily from historical figures. It’s uncomfortable, reading fictional representations of historical figures, as the archetype writes itself, and I’ve no idea how honest Farmer is being with these historical figures. I don’t need historical accuracy, but who is the intended audience? If it’s other Burton fanboys, then what does this book offer that I am missing, as a non-Burton fanboy? If it’s people who have never studied Burton, then a niggling question arises of who the historical figure was and how he is related to this fictional portrayal. There is an opportunity here, I think, but I’m not sure if Farmer’s method is the best or not. It works, because I don’t know Burton from Adam, but it’s a dangerous tactic.

The writing is pretty plain, but I want to lay the blame for that on the situation within the book. Namely, millions of people suddenly arise from the dead on a world constructed to observe their society and lives. Their newfound immortality and cosmopolitan situation—in both place and time—means that they have to teach each other to communicate, to get along. So, perhaps a plain language helps communicate this back-to-basics premise of the novel. Yet it doesn’t come off as strong wordplay.

Purgatory is hell with hope.

What can I take away from this novel, as a writer. First, the importance of some focus, some obstruction to the creative process, seems necessary to writing a better book than this. The scattered themes, conversations, and plots leave me unattached and largely uncaring. Second, the writing of plain language may be important to the premise, but the lack of beauty in the writing irks me. I wish Farmer had written better, while still retaining a plain diction—he pushed too far to one side in writing, and his writing ends up boring. Third, unnatural dialogue bores. These characters give five paragraph speeches like five paragraph college papers. No thanks—info-dumping substitutes for dialogue poorly. Fourth, the use of historical characters contains potential, but executing it requires great care. The redemption arc of Herman Goring plays as an aside to the main story, whatever that main story might be—and I’m not sure trying to redeem Herman Goring in the afterlife is the best move for any author. I will not be looking for other Riverworld books to read.

Conversation #1: Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

Introduction: This is a new thing on this blog: a conversation with a friend about a book we both read. Boru and I have spent thirteen years meeting once a week, every Tuesday night. We often discuss literature, or our other shared passions, over cigars. (By discuss, I mean shout at each other.) We also co-founded a monthly, structured, cigar and philosophy discussion group, TOOL, where a group of our friends does their homework on a film, album, or book chosen by a member of the group, then spends four hours talking about its ideas and craft. Tuesday Night and TOOL have both been beneficial in my own life, and I think in Boru’s as well.

This conversation is something new we’re trying. It may work, it may not. Here, we have both read a single novella for the first time, Binti by Nnedi Okorafor. We pre-agreed to have a written discussion about this novella, which promises to be quieter than our usual shouting. Here, as I write these first lines of the conversation, it is a Tuesday night, and our usual meeting has been cancelled this week because of Valentine’s Day. Since I do not observe this holiday, I get to begin the discussion.

Letter 1
I chose this book because it won the Hugo for novella (17,500 to 40,000 words), so it was on my list to read. I know it’s out of your usual reading radar, being science fiction, but it doesn’t appear that apologies are in order—it isn’t a mess. Thank you for reading it with me. After reading it, I do want to discuss this with somebody. Having gone in blind, I'm pretty happy about that good fortune. But it’s also not the greatest book I’ve ever read. I’ve got a few things that I want to talk about.

First, I’d like to tackle a big question. Why science fiction? Not why in general, but why here specifically. A question I often pose to things I read is why they are in the genre that they are in—be it science fiction, literary fiction, historical fiction, fantasy, romance, comics, or whatever. It seems to me like the genre can both help and hinder a book. For instance, my typical example presumes that somebody wanting to write about the dangers of fanatical monotheism would lose half of their intended audience if they wrote about Christian Fundamentalism or Islamic Fundamentalism; writing about a made-up religion’s Fundamentalists through the lens of science fiction or fantasy would help the author not lose half of their intended audience. On the other hand, the marketing materials and covers of typical fantasy and science fiction novels certainly chase away potential readers—but in any genre, books that are more about the genre than the characters are typically bad. (Sorry, gathering my thoughts by typing.)

So, here in Binti, for what purpose is it a science fiction story? On one hand, there could be a genre-specific reason: science fiction rarely features people racist against other groups of humans. Science fiction is often optimistic—the Cyberpunk era being the only contrast I can think of right now. In Binti, Okorafor questions that inherent optimism, pointing out that magic spaceships aren’t necessarily going to solve humanity’s problems with getting along. It’s a well-made point, and one that revolves around her technology discussion, which is on a more applicable scale. She discusses different sources of technology: the earth-based Otjize and the unknown-based Edan. Both are equally miracle workers, one is ancient as dirt, one is frighteningly futuristic. I think she’s trying to make an argument I already agree with: technology is just technology. High-tech and low-tech are the same thing. Traditional methods and technological methods differ not at all. In other words, magic shrimp space ships aren’t going to squash human hatred, they’re just going to allow it to spread across the skies. But they will change, or modify some human problems: humans aren’t the big fish in Binti's galactic pond anymore, they’re just five percent and it’s not even the strongest or smartest or most powerful five percent. And I think that’s a potential reason for couching this story in science fiction: what better genre to discuss the ineffectualness of potential future technology than that? And while she's there, she'll just point out this massive oversight within the genre too—racism. However, I realize that this is a dense book filled with tightly inter-related ideas. Boru, you don't read as much science fiction so your head is probably clearer here. You tell me—if you would like—why is she writing this story as science fiction? What would have been uncomfortable for other genres?

Letter 2
I, Boru, am happy to be a part of this. I have found Tuesday night, and TOOL, very beneficial to my mental health. It will be interesting to translate those stimulating conversations into something less ephemeral.

I enjoyed Binti as well. And it isn’t my favorite book of all time. I think I might know why it’s science fiction, though.

The sci-fi element allows Okorafor to do a few things. It helps the oppression/redemption story to seem new. We’ve seen this in many mediums over the last 50+ years: slave narratives; apartheid stories; tales of the Civil Rights struggles of the 60’s; and so on. Although this tale has been told in science fiction as well (Enemy Mine comes to mind), the future setting allows for some details that might let it seem somewhat fresh. And, it allows the author to show bigotry and redemption across several arcs. She creates several groups that get to show their bigotry and then overcome (mostly). The Koush are prejudiced against the Namib, and shed this prejudice after Binti shows exceptional ability. The Meduse are prejudiced against the Koush, whom they see as representative of all humans. Again, through her exceptional abilities, Binti wins them over. And, the faculty at Oozma show colonial instincts toward the Meduse. When given evidence that they have transgressed, they return the Meduse chief’s stinger. Okorafor shows these different levels because she gets to create them. This structure would be harder to pull off with existing earth-bound groups. She also gets to externalize, and complicate, the effects of assimilation through the transformation of Binti’s hair. A more realistic fiction would be forced to either explicate this effect through bald exposition, or through lengthy character building. The first would be ham-fisted at best. The second doesn’t fit well with the idea of a novella.

In the same vein as the first question, I am stuck wondering why this was a novella. As you know, Anonymous The Younger (ATY), I’m down with a good short story. I don’t mind having some questions left unanswered. I’m a Carver fan, for heaven’s sake! Part of my mild dissatisfaction with Binti is that Okorafor left so much unsaid. We read much about the fears of assimilation–the warnings of Binti’s parents, the Meduse calling the edan “the shame”–and the physical effects, but we are shorted on how those affected process these. The story itself made me think that I would get some insight into this, but it never follows through. I know there are more Binti books, so perhaps the author decided to honor her commitment to novella and address this topic later, but it left this reader unhappy. I’m not asking for a 600 page revision (although that might be fun), just a little more of a glimpse into how Binti, and Okwu, deal with becoming part of a different community. What say you, ATY? Should this have been a novel?

Letter 3
I'm glad you brought up that comment about enslavement by Binti's mother. That was very prominently placed there at the beginning. But, no, this should not have been a novel. Mostly because the most awe-inspiring thing about this novella is its density. Most novellas try and make a single point, or at the most three. Here, Okorafor uses these interrelated themes that every action and scene exhumes further. More characters, scenes, and exposition would probably have bogged it down and dulled this razor-focus the novella has. Listing the four biggest themes I saw, it’s easy to see how mixed together they are:

—On one hand, it’s about Binti being physically violated without her consent, being used by others: the Khoush touch her hair at the spaceport; the Meduse sting her before replacing her hair with their own tentacles, okuoko, without consent. And both of these change Binti fundamentally, so they're not sensationalist lit.

—Another theme is the role of technology and nature: the Edan and the otjize are both wonders, one technological, the other traditional dirt. The Third Fish in a giant, spacefaring shrimp used as a ship, and made in a lab/shipyard. It's probably the central metaphor for this theme, though more time is spent on the other two examples.

—Another theme is home and uniqueness. At home, we are not unique, but in the larger world, we are all unique. This is more Binti's personal journey, as much as she's allowed to have one by the circumstances.

—But I think the most prominent theme, and the one most affecting to Binti as a character, comes from her mother’s prophetic words at the beginning about the university leading her into slavery. It’s the idea of colonization, empire, and its effects on one person. I would argue against your thought that this isn't drawn out enough, and say that by being written the way she wrote it, the inevitability of assimilation is shown effectively. And that's the point that Okorafor makes: thoughts and people are equally enslavers. As you know, while I was laid up in the hospital a few months ago, I read Sandman by Neil Gaiman. The basic premise is exhumed by Alan Moore like this:

I suggest that if reality were genuinely a simple matter of forensics, ballistics, and gross physical mechanics, we’d all have things a fucking sight easier. The distressing or glorious truth is rather that our fantasies are real things. They exist, albeit in an immaterial realm beyond the reach of science or empirical investigation. They influence our behaviour and thus influence the material world, for better or worse. In effect, fantasy is a massive component of reality and cannot really be discussed as a separate entity in itself.

(Of course, this is also what Moore is getting at in From Hell, but that's strictly an aside.) Where Okorafor goes with this premise is multifaceted. On one hand, the Edan and the the otijze both react to Binti's dreams in ways that explicitly affect reality. But more importantly, Binti is enslaved as equally by the circumstances to friendship with Okwu as she is by the thought patterns of her tribe, by being a scholarship student as she is by the school's intellectualism itself, by the Medusae changing her hair as she is by her father's artistry. She has so many competing ideas and ideals that a novel would have a hard time focusing. Okorafor explores these themes to a satisfactory conclusion, and something longer runs the risk of being as repetitive as Ayn Rand. So an intriguing balance between density and length is superbly achieved here, to me. It leaves enough mystery up to the reader’s extrapolation, but gives enough facts to guide that extrapolation.

Now, I'm not saying that the point is that this is strictly defined enslavement, but that the benefit for Binti is when she manages to meld the inner and the outer enslavements to accomplish great things, things that haven't been done in years. She uses the obstacles—because of both dreams and physical necessities—to find a path that fits her. From what we know of the loosely sketched other characters in this world, only Binti could travel this path. I take this conclusion that thoughts and physics are both reality as Okorafor's main argument in the book. But is this just a case of osmosis? Is this insight only because Gaiman's earlier work is on my mind since I just read it? Is this too much of a stretch for this text?

Letter 4
I see your point about the length of the piece—a deeper exploration of all the themes of the book would have been difficult to pull off. Okorafor, by hinting at each, gives the reader many points of departure for exploration of the topics without pushing said reader in any particular direction. I can appreciate that.

And I think your Moore-colored glasses make for an interesting frame for a deeper exploration. Okorafor is dealing with some heady stuff here, it seems. Why not structure a reading around a heady premise? This works as well a some approaches, and better than most. A less secular reading of Moore's idea would lead one to see a synthesis of faith (in the broadest definition) and fact.

Binti's faith in the beliefs of her community of origin could be seen as what gives the otijze it's healing properties. Her desperate need for survival leads her to "pray" to the Edan, and it comes to life. The use of math to put one in a trance that allows for a stronger connection to universal forces would be the best example of this.

I think this might be the bigger theme. How does a person use the tools of enslavement (using your broad view of the term), faith, and fact, to forge a relatively autonomous and authentic self? To examine the tools and make them his/her own? We see Binti accepting and rejecting these tools in her struggle to be her own person, and to survive. Accept the otijze, reject the isolation. Accept the academic quest for knowledge, reject the ivory tower patronization. Accept the desire to survive, reject the drive to destroy. If we accept all outside influence, we are enslaved. If we reject all outside influences, we are a slave to our opposition. We can't escape enslavement, but we can be aware of how it affects us and how we react. I almost wonder if Okorafor is trying to show a path out of colonial influence.

Letter 5
That's a great insight into the treeing Binti does, Boru. The treeing crosses the line between faith and fact in an intriguing way that initially had me quite confused. I think your conclusion is spot on, that Okorafor is forging a path out of colonialism. But... but the path she presents is one of Binti being useful to the potential colonizers in a way that doesn't betray herself. This contrasts with being a curiosity to them, as she was in the spaceport. This usefulness seems better than being a freak show exhibit. But having to prove your worth before being accepted as who you are is an unfortunate pill to have to swallow. Maybe that's just part of what being human is all about though, for everybody.

In a way, Binti goes through the typical path of the colonized through this novel: marginalized and used as a natural resource for luxury and practical items; a remarkably intelligent colonized person then rises up and accepts an invitation to be educated and trained, accepting because of personal reasons; then is enslaved as a freak by the Khoush, Medusae, and University; then proves a innate and unique usefulness that cannot be ignored; then trying to take on the best aspects of multiple cultures to actually forge a path out of colonial influence. Again, assimilation is inevitable seems to be the point. (Or "resistance is futile," I suppose.) In this way, Okorafor seems to suggest that the colonization cannot be reversed or ignored by either the colonized or the colonizers. But because the colonization happened, the path out isn't a path back or a path in—just returning home or becoming the Khoushest Himba wouldn't be honest to the experiences and would limit future potentials in life extensively.

Letter 6
Is it possible that Okorafor might also be giving us a glimpse into the mind of The Magical Negro? Your discussion of exceptionalism struck a chord with me.

From Mammy in Gone With The Wind to Bagger in The Legend of Bagger Vance, we've seen examples of the colonized bringing spiritual enlightenment to the colonizer. Always exceptional in some way, they transcend the bonds of servitude and patronization to bring growth and awareness to their "superiors." We see the story through the colonizer's eyes, so we see their growth and the influence The Magical Negro has on them, but we rarely get insight into the mind of the "noble" colonized. Baldwin and Wright, among others, have given us modern day glimpses of the internal lives of the oppressed, but their protagonists aren't "making things better" for their oppressors. In Binti, we have a savior of not just one, not just a community, but an entire galaxy of colonizers. She shows everybody the way to peace. And we get to see what she is thinking while she does it. We get her inner monologue, not the filtered view of those she saves.

Perhaps, by subverting this trope, Okorafor shows that the "exceptional" is more like us than exceptional? Maybe she's using something familiar to further humanize "the other?"

As you know, I love it when an artist turns a cliché on it's head. Am I reading too much into this?

Letter 7
Ah, this seems to be a referential piece that I was missing. Thanks for filling it in for me. Binti has the same effect as the magic pixie dream girl on those around her, but through hyper-rationalization and accident, rather than unthinking enthusiasm. She shows a better way, even though sometimes she may not want to.

I think that we are agreed on the themes, except that I still believe the theme of thoughts as reality is in here and emphasized, and you think that's a stretch.

So, one last point specific to her writing and storytelling, the reveal in this story seems to ape China Mieville’s typical tactic—though he didn’t originate it, he has popularised it, at least for me—in that it appears about third of the way through the story. But that’s where the similarities seem to end for me. As you wrote a while ago, here on this blog, his twists reveals the fantasticness of a situation that seemed mundane up until then. In Binti, the reveal rockets the story off in a new direction. And I don’t know if it works as well. Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate reading new things and I hate writing rules, but a new thing has to be effective.

So, what does Okorafor actually do? First, she sets up the relationship between the Himba and Binti herself—Binti is a minority within the Himba culture, the one who seeks the stars rather than “preferring to explore the universe by travelling inwards”. Then she sets up the Himba-Khoush antipathy: the Himba are a minority group in human affairs that are at least regionally run by the Khoush. The Khoush differ extensively from the Himba, acting as a sort of aristocracy. Then comes the minor role humans play in greater galactic culture: only five percent of the prestigious university is composed of humans. So Binti is a minority within a minority group within a larger minority group. Perhaps I'm drawing too much on Martin Heidegger with these nesting worlds, but it seems to me that this layering is a difference between the way Okorafor and Mieville deal with their reveals. While they do similar things, the setups are so different that the end-result is different. Binti takes a left turn into destiny, Mieville's characters continue on the same path but with the reader having a new understanding of the context. On my second read, the bit before the reveal seemed less altered by the reveal than in Mieville. The first part was just reading along, understanding from revisiting those words rather than from knowing the end, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. In other words, Okorafor's reveal feels more like an injection into the story to switch its tracks into a new direction, where Mieville allows his pre-reveal language to give greater context to the same story.

Ringworld's Children by Larry Niven

What keeps bringing me back to these Larry Niven books? I think it’s the connections I miss in his sparse writing style that he then spins into future stories. For instance, the deus ex machina of the floating building in the first book comes back to help define some of the world building in the second and third books, even the sensationalist sex is expanded upon in later books (but not in enough depth to mean that expansion escapes sensationalism). It’s an awareness of every little detail, and a building off of it. With this super-sparse, jump-cutting writing style, every word matters. And Niven builds on single words in ways that mystery authors would be proud to have done—though mysteries often obscure important facts through wordiness instead of sparseness. In other words, it’s these logical connections between the world building and the storyline that I appreciate. It’s a believable world, for the most part; but that doesn’t matter as much as the way Niven presents it. These jump cuts leave me no time to contemplate: I read, Niven solves the problem, I keep reading. Yet if I put the book down, I too can apply my mind to this logical puzzle of a story and world Niven has created. And this fourth book scratches that itch—surprising as the third failed at that. This mystery is the flipside of his sparse writing.

Then he saw his own droud sitting on a table.[...]
So, a replacement. Bait for Louis Wu, the current addict, the wirehead. Louis's hand crept into the hair at the back of his head, under the queue. Plug in the droud, let it trickle electric current down into the pleasure center... where was the socket?
Louis laughed wildly. It wasn't there! The autodoc's nano machines had rebuilt his skull without a socket for the droud!
Louis thought it over. Then he took the droud. When confused, send a confusing message.

The same still cannot be said for the characters: these hyper-rationalist characters still come off flat and uninteresting. I understand that culturally top-down speculative fiction like Star Wars exists for solid reasons: the most at stake, ease of worldbuilding, being in the action, etc. But after four books where Louis Wu just happens to be kidnapped, tricked, or forced into being the savior, the mantle still doesn’t fit. He’s not nearly as smart as a Pak Protector, yet we’ve had Protector after Protector turn to him for advice. It fits awkwardly: here at least Niven notices this awkwardness and initially only brings Louis into the inner circle as a consultant on the Fringe War, but then his typical storytelling gets the better of Niven and Louis is planned to be part of a triumvirate of Protector rulers. It doesn’t fit what Niven has given us of his characters, as little as that is, so I still believe Niven writes characters poorly.

[T]he Hindmost [mourned]. "All gone. I lost my place as Hindmost chasing the Ringworld's wealth of knowledge. And those you spoke of, those you love, Louis, what of them?"
"I'll never find them. Hindmost, that's the point. Now let's fix that autodoc before something intimate tears loose inside me."

In closing, Niven writes interesting ideas, then doesn’t know what to do with them. He admits in this book that these plot ideas are partially taken from fan forum theories. It’s an interesting idea for an author to engage with his fans in such a way, but Niven may rely upon those fan theories too much. It makes sense to be inspired there, but to ignore building characters for four books makes no sense. I am surprised I read all four of these, but they were not challenging reading, they did not burn my brain. Pulp fiction. The worldbuilding ideas are interesting, but Niven takes them so far, that there is little mystery left to the reader at the end, and the books are not great. At least one review mentions that this novel seems more phoned-in paycheck collection than an inspired continuation of the story, and I’m not sure I could argue against that.

A number of Web sites have sprung up (well, at least two) whose topic is Larry Niven's fiction. In September 1999, tipped off by my lovely agent, Eleanor Wood, I logged onto larryniven-1@bucknell.edu. They were arguing about whether you can clone a protector, and whether Seeker and Teela Brown might have left a child behind. If they'd been right I wouldn't have seen a story, but they were off on the wrong foot, and I could fix it. After a few months of following these discussions, rarely interrupting, I had enough material for Ringworld's Children.