Truth must necessarily be stranger than fiction, for fiction is the creation of the human mind and therefore congenial to it.
G. K. Chesterton
Friday, 1 October 2010
Quote of the day
The importance of routine
Discipline is a great help to the struggling writer. It can mean the difference between a relatively painless job and a drawn out frustration where your writing becomes a drudgery that never gets started, much less done. Full-time writers have a hard enough time sitting down at the keyboard. Since writing is such a cerebral occupation and thinking and research provide so many excuses for distraction, the writer has to work very hard at ignoring temptation and not wasting time. When the writer works at home and friends, neighbours, and relatives take this as meaning said writer is always available for some little errand. Get enough of those little errands together and you can lose an entire week. It's for this reason that the professional writer often acquires the reputation of an anal-retentive curmudgeon who answers the phone with a growl.
It's even worse for the beginning writer because he has to deal not only with all the problems of putting words on paper, but also the responsibility of family, friends, pets, and a paying job. If he doesn't, then he's in real trouble. Finding time to write at all can be like jamming a quart into a pint. You can start the day with the best intentions of writing 1500 words and end up going to bed promising to make it up tomorrow. Then tomorrow comes and it's the same story.
So, how to prevent this from happening? The answer is to make your writing a matter of routine. Set aside a particular place and a particular time every day and reserve it exclusively for writing. Preferably, this should be at a time when you have the most energy and in a place with the least distractions. I find the public library at about three o'clock in the afternoon is good, but if circumstances mean it's six AM in a McDonald's or propped in bed with a reading light at 11 PM while the significant other is sleeping, then that works, too. The important thing is that it is in a time and place that you know you can get to each day. It doesn't have to be a long time; two hours is great, but fifteen minutes does the job if that's all your day can spare. You won't get as much done, but you'll get something done. And look on the bright side; if you can't write all down tonight, you'll have something to start on tomorrow.
It's hard at first. For the first few weeks it will feel like a miserable chore, but soon this routine will become, well, routine. Eventually, it will be like running is for fitness nuts; you'll feel uncomfortable if you don't get your daily scribbling in.
That's all well and good, you say, but what if I can't come up with something to write at exactly that time of day? Maybe I can't get the muse to strike at 8:15 every night. Think so? Here's a secret I learned years ago: Muses are overrated. True, being struck by inspiration and getting on a role is great. It's an exhilarating rush like skiing over fine powder combined with the comfort of a cigar that's drawing nicely, but you don't need it in order to write.
I'll say it again. You. Don't. Need. It. I learned this when I was writing a comedy about twelve years ago and I was facing all sorts of deadlines. I was annoyed, I was miserable, I didn't feel at all in a joking mood, yet, to my astonishment, I discovered that I could be funny even when I didn't feel like it. I could turn the funny on at will. I could turn out ten pages of farce and wit, then turn to my dog and scream, "What the *&^% are YOU looking at?!?"
If you have something to say, it will come out during your writing time. You won't be able to stop it. If you don't, then work on something else. Blog, journal, compose e-mails, brainstorm, free associate, make outlines of your next book. It doesn't matter so long as you stick to your routine and keep writing. You'll get into the groove before you know it.
Final point: When's the best time to start a routine? Right now.
What are reading this for? Get going!
It's even worse for the beginning writer because he has to deal not only with all the problems of putting words on paper, but also the responsibility of family, friends, pets, and a paying job. If he doesn't, then he's in real trouble. Finding time to write at all can be like jamming a quart into a pint. You can start the day with the best intentions of writing 1500 words and end up going to bed promising to make it up tomorrow. Then tomorrow comes and it's the same story.
So, how to prevent this from happening? The answer is to make your writing a matter of routine. Set aside a particular place and a particular time every day and reserve it exclusively for writing. Preferably, this should be at a time when you have the most energy and in a place with the least distractions. I find the public library at about three o'clock in the afternoon is good, but if circumstances mean it's six AM in a McDonald's or propped in bed with a reading light at 11 PM while the significant other is sleeping, then that works, too. The important thing is that it is in a time and place that you know you can get to each day. It doesn't have to be a long time; two hours is great, but fifteen minutes does the job if that's all your day can spare. You won't get as much done, but you'll get something done. And look on the bright side; if you can't write all down tonight, you'll have something to start on tomorrow.
It's hard at first. For the first few weeks it will feel like a miserable chore, but soon this routine will become, well, routine. Eventually, it will be like running is for fitness nuts; you'll feel uncomfortable if you don't get your daily scribbling in.
That's all well and good, you say, but what if I can't come up with something to write at exactly that time of day? Maybe I can't get the muse to strike at 8:15 every night. Think so? Here's a secret I learned years ago: Muses are overrated. True, being struck by inspiration and getting on a role is great. It's an exhilarating rush like skiing over fine powder combined with the comfort of a cigar that's drawing nicely, but you don't need it in order to write.
I'll say it again. You. Don't. Need. It. I learned this when I was writing a comedy about twelve years ago and I was facing all sorts of deadlines. I was annoyed, I was miserable, I didn't feel at all in a joking mood, yet, to my astonishment, I discovered that I could be funny even when I didn't feel like it. I could turn the funny on at will. I could turn out ten pages of farce and wit, then turn to my dog and scream, "What the *&^% are YOU looking at?!?"
If you have something to say, it will come out during your writing time. You won't be able to stop it. If you don't, then work on something else. Blog, journal, compose e-mails, brainstorm, free associate, make outlines of your next book. It doesn't matter so long as you stick to your routine and keep writing. You'll get into the groove before you know it.
Final point: When's the best time to start a routine? Right now.
What are reading this for? Get going!
Thursday, 30 September 2010
You are your own best source
There's a maxim in writing that you should write about what you know. Perhaps a better way to put it is that you shouldn't write about what you don't know. That is, it's more important in writing to avoid showing off your ignorance rather than bragging about your knowledge. The reader expects you to know your subject. You don't have to be the world's greatest expert, but you are expected to do your homework about the bit you're writing about. If you set your story in Tuscany, you should know what Tuscany is like. If it comes across like the Napa Valley with Chianti bottles, you're in trouble. If you're writing an article that opens with a description of someone shaping a bowl on a wood lathe, then you need to know how that's done.
It's simple and obvious advice, but it's amazing how many writers ignore it as they pen scripts set in Bangkok that read suspiciously like atmosphere gleaned from a Thai restaurant in Birmingham.
This idea of writing about what you know is very important because there is one source of knowledge and inspiration that so many writers ignore and that is the source which you (no matter who you are) are most familiar with: Yourself.
I'm not being trite here. The fact of the matter is that the most dramatic, intense, and fascinating stories are ones about the most mundane and everyday experiences. Each of us, if we could see it, lead lives of tremendous drama. I don't mean in the way of some blood-and-thunder adventure or over-egged soap opera. I mean in that if we could see our lives from the outside and if we had the right talent for describing it, our lives would make Hamlet look like a work of limp fan fiction. In fact, if you examine your own life, the people you've met, and the experiences you've had, odds are that if you used them as the starting off point for your writing you'd probably have to tone them down rather than jazz them up. Fiction is much easier to roll out because fiction must be believable.
I'm not arguing here for autobiography, but I am arguing that if you want your writing to really work you should, no matter how fantastic or epic the subject matter, look at it from the human dimension because that it where the real drama is played out. The trick is to be able to describe it properly. Look at the best stories, the ones that really work, and you'll find that it's what happens at that level that makes them work. The funniest comedies often revolve around someone trying to ride out a moment of embarrassment. The most intense suspense is two men in a train compartment; one of whom knows a secret. The most poignant love affairs are the ones where nothing happens. And the greatest struggle is the one we all face as we go through our daily lies toward an future wrapped in fog. It is in the intimate and the personal that the best stories occur.
I think that's one of the reasons why television dramas, especially in Britain, have fallen so badly in the past twenty years. In the old days, the primitive nature of technology and the low budgets of the producers meant that television scripts had to work under tight restrictions. Programmes had to be shot quickly, in the studio, often with video cameras, little or no editing, and not much in the way of effects. That meant that the stories had to be intimate, almost claustrophobic ones that dealt with realistic characters and plots carried along by dialogue. Today? The effects and flashy editing is all very nice, but it means that the programmes are carried along by images and music while the stories revolve around emotionally stunted creatures who wouldn't last five minutes in real life.
But that is a topic that I'll deal with properly another day.
It's simple and obvious advice, but it's amazing how many writers ignore it as they pen scripts set in Bangkok that read suspiciously like atmosphere gleaned from a Thai restaurant in Birmingham.
This idea of writing about what you know is very important because there is one source of knowledge and inspiration that so many writers ignore and that is the source which you (no matter who you are) are most familiar with: Yourself.
I'm not being trite here. The fact of the matter is that the most dramatic, intense, and fascinating stories are ones about the most mundane and everyday experiences. Each of us, if we could see it, lead lives of tremendous drama. I don't mean in the way of some blood-and-thunder adventure or over-egged soap opera. I mean in that if we could see our lives from the outside and if we had the right talent for describing it, our lives would make Hamlet look like a work of limp fan fiction. In fact, if you examine your own life, the people you've met, and the experiences you've had, odds are that if you used them as the starting off point for your writing you'd probably have to tone them down rather than jazz them up. Fiction is much easier to roll out because fiction must be believable.
I'm not arguing here for autobiography, but I am arguing that if you want your writing to really work you should, no matter how fantastic or epic the subject matter, look at it from the human dimension because that it where the real drama is played out. The trick is to be able to describe it properly. Look at the best stories, the ones that really work, and you'll find that it's what happens at that level that makes them work. The funniest comedies often revolve around someone trying to ride out a moment of embarrassment. The most intense suspense is two men in a train compartment; one of whom knows a secret. The most poignant love affairs are the ones where nothing happens. And the greatest struggle is the one we all face as we go through our daily lies toward an future wrapped in fog. It is in the intimate and the personal that the best stories occur.
I think that's one of the reasons why television dramas, especially in Britain, have fallen so badly in the past twenty years. In the old days, the primitive nature of technology and the low budgets of the producers meant that television scripts had to work under tight restrictions. Programmes had to be shot quickly, in the studio, often with video cameras, little or no editing, and not much in the way of effects. That meant that the stories had to be intimate, almost claustrophobic ones that dealt with realistic characters and plots carried along by dialogue. Today? The effects and flashy editing is all very nice, but it means that the programmes are carried along by images and music while the stories revolve around emotionally stunted creatures who wouldn't last five minutes in real life.
But that is a topic that I'll deal with properly another day.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
The critic's dilemma
Whether it's books,plays, film, or television, writing reviews is great fun. Not only do you have an ironclad excuse to put your feet with a novel, you get share your opinions about it with others in a way that doesn't involve cornering hapless victims If you're lucky, you might even find a market for your critiques and actually get paid for gassing on about how wretched Michael Bay's editing is. If you're really lucky you'll become an influential critic who guides public tastes. Then with mere taps of the keyboard you'll be able to destroy careers, blacken reputations, plight lives, and drive honest struggling artists into the arms poverty, despair and suicide.
Yeah, I'm tellin' ya. Good times.
But reviewing isn't all comps and free advance copies. There are pitfalls as well and not all of them involve being on the lookout for infuriated authors brandishing horsewhips. The main one is when the critic's strength becomes a weakness.
In order to review competently, the critic must be familiar with his subject. This is because reviewing is more than conveying the critic's impressions of a work. The reviewer goes a step further by bringing to the table an expert knowledge of what he's discussing. He hasn't seen a few movies, he's seen thousands. He hasn't read a couple of novels in a particular genre, he's swept the shelves. And that viewing and reading wasn't passive. It was done with an informed eye that understands the medium, the genre, the topics, the technique, and the business so that he has an intimate understanding of what works and what doesn't and why.
Here's where the paradox comes in. All this knowledge and experience provides the critic with a privileged insight into the work in question. Unfortunately, it can also act as a barrier. Reviewers who have read everything under sun regarding a particular genre might be experts on it, but they also run the risk of becoming jaded experts. They may forget the innocent pleasure of killing a rainy afternoon by popping in a video or curling up with a good book. They may not be able to appreciate that the average audience member may not have seen every single variation of a romantic comedy and have not become blasé about them. It's the sort of mindset that begins to crave novelty for its own sake and if you aren't careful you'll end up becoming the sort of reviewer who gives two thumbs up to turgid, unwatchable arthouse pictures because they're "different" or praises "Poona the **** Dog" because it has an obscene title.
Another danger of the over-informed critic is that the reviewer may become obsessed with theory or technique and everything else is lost to view. It's easy to forget that the mechanics of putting a story together are a means to an end rather than an end in themselves. A film or novel or teleplay that exists solely as a showcase of technique belong in a classroom, not running about loose among the general public. A review that bangs on about stunning technique in a boring story would commend a toolbox for its tools.
Theory can be an equally sticky trap. Literary or film theory has its place, but if a reviewer gets to obsessed with theory, it becomes a masonic handshake; a way of separating the bourgeois outsiders from the in-the-know club members. "You find this piece incomprehensible? Then clearly you aren't au fait with Gendensky's post-modern modernism of the subjective ironic" isn't a review, it's a membership card. Theory should be used to illuminate a work, not act as a secret decoder ring to make it comprehensible to the select.
Finally, there is the danger of familiarity breeding contempt or worse, having just the contempt in the first place. The worst reviews possible are those written by someone who hates the genre under discussion. This could be codified as the Critic's First Law: Never review a genre that you have no liking for. There was once a Seattle-based theatre critic who despised Shakespeare and every time he had to review a production of the bard his copy was 75 percent sullen grumbling about how much he hated the playwright and all his works. Needless to say, his reviews were never helpful nor interesting.
I don't except myself from this rule. I, for example, cannot abide modern vampire stories and I only bought a secondhand copy of the Twilight DVD because I love how well the Rifftrax boys eviscerated it in one word (Llllllllllllllllllladies!). For that reason, I'd be a very poor person to review the genre. Subject it to vitriolic rants, yes; reviews, no.
However, don't get the idea that I'm saying that you shouldn't review works you hate. I'm referring to genres or mediums, not individual titles. If you loathe a particular book or television series, go to town on it; draw blood, take no prisoners. If you can save one person from wasting the price of a ticket or an evening's reading time, then it's all worth it.
Yeah, I'm tellin' ya. Good times.
But reviewing isn't all comps and free advance copies. There are pitfalls as well and not all of them involve being on the lookout for infuriated authors brandishing horsewhips. The main one is when the critic's strength becomes a weakness.
In order to review competently, the critic must be familiar with his subject. This is because reviewing is more than conveying the critic's impressions of a work. The reviewer goes a step further by bringing to the table an expert knowledge of what he's discussing. He hasn't seen a few movies, he's seen thousands. He hasn't read a couple of novels in a particular genre, he's swept the shelves. And that viewing and reading wasn't passive. It was done with an informed eye that understands the medium, the genre, the topics, the technique, and the business so that he has an intimate understanding of what works and what doesn't and why.
Here's where the paradox comes in. All this knowledge and experience provides the critic with a privileged insight into the work in question. Unfortunately, it can also act as a barrier. Reviewers who have read everything under sun regarding a particular genre might be experts on it, but they also run the risk of becoming jaded experts. They may forget the innocent pleasure of killing a rainy afternoon by popping in a video or curling up with a good book. They may not be able to appreciate that the average audience member may not have seen every single variation of a romantic comedy and have not become blasé about them. It's the sort of mindset that begins to crave novelty for its own sake and if you aren't careful you'll end up becoming the sort of reviewer who gives two thumbs up to turgid, unwatchable arthouse pictures because they're "different" or praises "Poona the **** Dog" because it has an obscene title.
Another danger of the over-informed critic is that the reviewer may become obsessed with theory or technique and everything else is lost to view. It's easy to forget that the mechanics of putting a story together are a means to an end rather than an end in themselves. A film or novel or teleplay that exists solely as a showcase of technique belong in a classroom, not running about loose among the general public. A review that bangs on about stunning technique in a boring story would commend a toolbox for its tools.
Theory can be an equally sticky trap. Literary or film theory has its place, but if a reviewer gets to obsessed with theory, it becomes a masonic handshake; a way of separating the bourgeois outsiders from the in-the-know club members. "You find this piece incomprehensible? Then clearly you aren't au fait with Gendensky's post-modern modernism of the subjective ironic" isn't a review, it's a membership card. Theory should be used to illuminate a work, not act as a secret decoder ring to make it comprehensible to the select.
Finally, there is the danger of familiarity breeding contempt or worse, having just the contempt in the first place. The worst reviews possible are those written by someone who hates the genre under discussion. This could be codified as the Critic's First Law: Never review a genre that you have no liking for. There was once a Seattle-based theatre critic who despised Shakespeare and every time he had to review a production of the bard his copy was 75 percent sullen grumbling about how much he hated the playwright and all his works. Needless to say, his reviews were never helpful nor interesting.
I don't except myself from this rule. I, for example, cannot abide modern vampire stories and I only bought a secondhand copy of the Twilight DVD because I love how well the Rifftrax boys eviscerated it in one word (Llllllllllllllllllladies!). For that reason, I'd be a very poor person to review the genre. Subject it to vitriolic rants, yes; reviews, no.
However, don't get the idea that I'm saying that you shouldn't review works you hate. I'm referring to genres or mediums, not individual titles. If you loathe a particular book or television series, go to town on it; draw blood, take no prisoners. If you can save one person from wasting the price of a ticket or an evening's reading time, then it's all worth it.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Quote of the day
There are two motives for reading a book: one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it.
Bertrand Russell
Monday, 27 September 2010
Spelling is importent
If I mention spelling to aspiring writers, they're likely to look at me as if I'm telling them to go back to grammar school. Odds are, I probably am, but that doesn't change the fact the spelling is one of those skills that a writer must master to avoid being dismissed after the first sentence. There are a lot of rules that you can break as a writer, You can be ungrammatical, dispense with linear narrative, make up your own personal quotation marks, fire commas at a page as if from a shotgun, and write like J K Rowling and get away with it, but if you can't spell, you might as well switch to playing the bassoon.
But surely in this digital age needing to spell is a bit like needing to know how to skin a bear with a pen knife. True, things like spell check and grammar check can make writing and editing easier. You can just whiz along; pounding out words on the screen without having to keep glancing at a cheat sheet loaded with cautions about I before E or the proper use of the pluperfect subjunctive. If you're a good citizen of Oceania and don't want to inadvertently commit thoughtcrime, you can even set your word processing software to flag any un-PC words, so all your output will be in doubleplus good Newspeak. However, these editing tools are just that; tools. There purpose is to help make the job of proofing your text easier. They're no substitute for a keen eye and solid judgment.
One problem to look out for is homonyms. Spell check can catch a word that isn't in its dictionary, but it has a problem with words that sound the same but are spelled differently. Threw and through, to and too, bough and bow; each of these get by the machine, but they shouldn't get past the eye. It's an error that is particularly telling because its so common, which I should have spelled as "it's so common". A slip of the keyboard and "quiet" becomes "quite"; so easy to do, yet impossible for the machine to catch.
Then there's malapropisms, which are words that sound enough like the correct one that it slips by both the writer and the computer, such as,
I thought it was bad enough that their cars were built the wrong way 'round.
One final point, don't think that just because you're writing a very short piece that you don't need to worry about spelling. Even the shortest bit of text needs proofing, as the example below proves:
But surely in this digital age needing to spell is a bit like needing to know how to skin a bear with a pen knife. True, things like spell check and grammar check can make writing and editing easier. You can just whiz along; pounding out words on the screen without having to keep glancing at a cheat sheet loaded with cautions about I before E or the proper use of the pluperfect subjunctive. If you're a good citizen of Oceania and don't want to inadvertently commit thoughtcrime, you can even set your word processing software to flag any un-PC words, so all your output will be in doubleplus good Newspeak. However, these editing tools are just that; tools. There purpose is to help make the job of proofing your text easier. They're no substitute for a keen eye and solid judgment.
One problem to look out for is homonyms. Spell check can catch a word that isn't in its dictionary, but it has a problem with words that sound the same but are spelled differently. Threw and through, to and too, bough and bow; each of these get by the machine, but they shouldn't get past the eye. It's an error that is particularly telling because its so common, which I should have spelled as "it's so common". A slip of the keyboard and "quiet" becomes "quite"; so easy to do, yet impossible for the machine to catch.
Then there's malapropisms, which are words that sound enough like the correct one that it slips by both the writer and the computer, such as,
We heard the ocean is infatuated with sharksFinally, there are differences in spellings between dialects. Americans, it's well known, have a notorious problem with spelling, what with "color" for "colour" and "recognize" for "recognise" and, unfortunately, many spell check software packages are written by Americans, so a writer in Britain and other parts of the civilised world must spellcheck the spell check.
I thought it was bad enough that their cars were built the wrong way 'round.
One final point, don't think that just because you're writing a very short piece that you don't need to worry about spelling. Even the shortest bit of text needs proofing, as the example below proves:
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Quote of the day
By a curious confusion, many modern critics have passed from the proposition that a masterpiece may be unpopular to the other proposition that unless it is unpopular it cannot be a masterpiece.
G. K. Chesterton
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Friday, 24 September 2010
Quote of the day
At the present rate of progress, it is almost impossible to imagine any technical feat that cannot be achieved - if it can be achieved at all - within the next few hundred years.
Sir Arthur C. Clarke
Review: Solaris
We think of the world as an ordered place that operates according to immutable laws. By studying the world, we believe that we can discover these laws and through them understand exactly how the world works, its history, and its future. This is based, in part, on the assumption that our reason maps onto the order of the universe. We assume that our logic, our mathematics, or models, our categories, and all the other things that we use to make sense of what we observe is reflected in objective reality. If it doesn't, then it merely means that we've made an error that will eventually be corrected.That is one of the reasons we believe that if we ever encounter an extraterrestrial civilisation we'll be able to communicate it because our reason and theirs must meet in objective reality.
But what would happen if man encountered something totally alien; something with which we share no common ground and appears to violate the laws of nature as a matter of course? That's the question posed by Stanislaw Lem's 1961 science fiction novel Solaris.
Solaris is the name of both a planet circling a pair of binary stars in the constellation of Aquarius and the planet's sole inhabitant. The confusion is understandable because the inhabitant is a living ocean that covers most of the planet's surface. For about a century, Earthmen have been studying Solaris and in all that time have learned almost nothing definite about it. It violates every law of physics, chemistry, and logic. It doesn't even possess an atomic structure and is composed of some new form of matter that is alien right down to the subatomic level. Solaris is definitely alive, but whether it is intelligent or not is unknown because after decades of intense effort all attempts to communicate with the creature have failed completely.
The base of operations for the study of Solaris is a station that floats via anti-gravity above the ever-changing surface of Solaris. Kris Kelvin, a psychologist, arrives on the station and discovers that the place is a shambles; that one of the three crewmen has committed suicide and the other two have locked themselves in their quarters and refuse to come out. Kelvin finds that after an attempt to provoke a reaction in Solaris by blasting it with radiation the living ocean has responded by sending "visitors" to the station that are driving the crew insane. The crew refuse to explain what is going on, but Kelvin soon learns for himself when his wife Rhyea, who killed herself ten years ago, appears out of nowhere. However, this Rhyea never eats, can smash her way through steel doors, come back to life after drinking liquid oxygen, and when she's accidentally blown off the station in a shuttle capsule to certain death she returns in a few hours as if nothing had happened.
Is this an attack? An attempt to communicate? Or are Kelvin and the others just going mad?
Adapted for the screen in the USSR in 1972 and again by Hollywood in 2002, Solaris is best known today by art house crowds who flocked to the "Soviet 2001" and stayed away in droves from the remake. If you've seen either of these, however, you've not seen Solaris because Lem despised both versions as missing the point of the book. Both film versions concentrated on the tragic love story of Kelvin and Rhyea and expanded it until Solaris itself is relegated to an easily forgotten off-screen presence.
However, in the novel the romance is merely a subplot to humanise the much more important story of mankind's increasing frustration with trying to understand and contact this hopelessly alien creature. For Lem, Solaris is a story of ideas and atmosphere revolving about this unsolvable enigma that throws down the gauntlet to modern, secular man's greatest conceit; that his science can know all. The Earthmen are faced with an impossible crisis: Try to contact an alien intelligence (if it is intelligent) with which they can have no common ground or accept defeat by admitting that the universe is a chaotic place beyond human understanding, our science is merely a child's comforting delusion, and that the only god possible is a frustrated, unfinished one.
Much of Solaris has a powerful poetic feel to it as Lem describes in detail the bizarre phenomena exhibited by the creature as it creates weird abstract shapes the size of mountains one moment and then what look like giant plaster gardens complete with tools the next. He counterpoises these often beautiful descriptive passages with long discourses on the various theories and attempts by scientists to explain what is happening and failing utterly. Though effective, sometimes these passages go on a bit too far, which is very easy when the author himself admits that what he's relating is the inexplicable and the pointless. However, unlike the films, the novel moves along at a brisk pace and has none of the indulgences of the cinematic incarnations, such as a drive into the city that takes what seems like a week or trying to turn a science fiction story into a cut-rate M. Night Shyamalan shaggy dog story.
Neither Campellian adventure story nor pretentious new wave rubbish, Solaris demonstrates how intelligent, adult science fiction can be written and why Stanislaw Lem counts as among the best of the Eastern European Sci Fi writers of the Cold War era.
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