'Serious' Fiction in the Science-Fiction Writing of John Wyndham

MASARYK UNIVERSITY FACULTY OF ARTS

Department of English and American Studies

English Language and Literature

Robert Krátký The Progression from ‘Popular’ to ‘Serious’ Fiction in the Science-Fiction Writing of John Wyndham

BACHELOR’S DIPLOMA THESIS

Supervisor: Stephen Paul Hardy, Ph.D. 2015 I declare that I have worked on this thesis independently, using only the primary and secondary sources listed in the Works Cited section.

...... Robert Krátký

ii I would like to thank my supervisor, Mr. Stephen Paul Hardy, Ph.D., for his no-nonsense guidance and razor-sharp wit with which he both dismissed rubbish and praised the occasional bright spots. I would also like to thank the staff of the entire department for all the support and help they offered throughout my bachelor studies whenever a hammer was needed where a key should have sufﬁced.

iii Table of Contents

1 Introduction ...... 1 2 Science Fiction ...... 6 2.1 Origins of Science Fiction ...... 10 2.2 Science-Fiction Magazines ...... 14 2.3 New Wave in Science Fiction ...... 19 2.4 John Wyndham and Science Fiction ...... 22 3 The Works of John Wyndham ...... 26 3.1 Pre-War Pulp ...... 27 3.2 Post-War Cosy Catastrophes ...... 30 3.3 The Serious Wyndham ...... 36 4 Conclusion ...... 48 Works Cited ...... 52 Works Consulted but not Cited ...... 54

iv 1 Introduction

John Wyndham was one of the most popularly known, though not the most pro- lific, British authors of science fiction in the 20th century. His works, a number of which were adopted for film, television, and radio, have retained their appeal today, and the majority of them has remained in print since they were first published. Several of his best known novels can be said to have had foreshadowed the emergence of what later became known as the New Wave in the genre of science fiction, and his style has influenced many science-fiction writers. Despite the commercial success of Wyndham’s work, or—as is investi- gated later in this paper—perhaps because of it, some of his books have attracted the disparaging label of ‘cosy catastrophe’, meaning that they allegedly shirked challenging themes and contained only formulaic stories crafted for the greatest possible popular allure. In this thesis, I attempt to describe and analyse John Wyndham’s works, scrutinize the author’s motivations, and argue that when considered as a whole, the focus of Wyndham’s work gradually shifted from well- executed writings that relied on ‘cosy catastrophe’ tropes in order to maximize their best-selling potential to thought-provoking pieces that explored controversial topics while still providing for entertaining reading. The main focus of this thesis is the study and analysis of the development of John Wyndham’s work, its popular appeal, and its critical reception within the science-fiction genre. In order to provide a context for these topics, the thesis in- cludes an introductory chapter (chapter no. 2), which describes the science-fiction literary genre in the English-speaking world and identifies Wyndham’s position in this field. Since a significant portion of this thesis deals with the way literary critics viewed Wyndham’s works, the introductory chapter also examines the origins and specifics of literary criticism of science fiction. In this regard, it covers

1 1 INTRODUCTION some of the associated particularities of the science-fiction genre that contributed to the shaping of this style, namely the continuing appeal of magazine publication, the related influence that magazine editors have had on the development of science-fiction writing, and the profusion of anthologies that themselves have often come to be viewed by fans and critics alike as parts of the science-fiction canon and thus classics of the genre. The third chapter talks about the different stages of Wyndham’s literary career and explains how social and historical circumstances influenced his writing, both in the choice of topics and in his literary style. In addition to that, the chapter provides an overview of Wyndham’s work, thus setting the stage for a more thorough analysis of selected novels. I chose to title this thesis ‘the progression of John Wyndham’s work’ to reflect the fact that the thesis is more concerned with the development of Wyndham’s writing than with the import of individual works and their standalone qualities. To that end, the main chapter of the thesis (chapter no. 3) considers the body of Wyndham’s work with regard to the author’s choice of themes, investigates external influences that led to writing de- cisions, and reviews critical reactions the works elicited. In this chapter, I compare Wyndham’s earlier novels with his later output, examine the social and intellectual depth of his themes, and take into account the opinions of contemporary critics, as well as the reflections of scholars who appraised Wyndham’s work in the years following his death. Pertaining to the critical reception of Wyndham’s work, the chapter mostly examines the claim that some of Wyndham’s novels were ‘cosy catastrophes’—the origins of the term are explained and its justifiability in relation to Wyndham’s work is discussed. Finally, the chapter presents an argument that interprets the shift in Wyndham’s writing from what has been called the cosy catastrophes to works with far greater social, intellectual, and literary ambitions.

2 1 INTRODUCTION

To support my assertions and to offer a broad range of opinions about the subject of this thesis, I draw on the following secondary sources (among others): Aldiss, Brian W., and David Wingrove. Trillion Year Spree: The History of Science Fiction. Trillion Year Spree is a seminal volume in science-fiction critique. It is an expanded and improved successor to Aldiss’ first attempt at mapping the science-fiction genre, Billion Year Spree: The History of Science Fiction, which was first published in 1973. In these books, Brian Aldiss has managed to compile a wealth of information, along with poignant and educated critique, about the most important works of science fiction by authors on both sides of the Atlantic. In Billion/Trillion Year Spree, Brian Aldiss coined the term ‘cosy catastrophe’ and applied it rather brusquely to describe and sum up certain works of John Wynd- ham. This thesis refers to the ‘cosy catastrophe’ term in its basic argument that Wyndham’s works have evolved over time from the shallow cosy catastrophes, which worked so well on the popular readership but perhaps lacked grit, to more serious books that explored various important and socially relevant topics. In order to provide context for this thesis’ examination of John Wyndham’s novels from the perspective of science-fiction critics and scholars, I tap the information provided by multiple encyclopædias and literary companions or intro- ductions to the genre, of which the most prominent is The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. Eds. John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls, and Graham Sleight. John Clute’s The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction is considered the ultimate source of up-to-date information about science fiction. It has been converted from a printed form into an on-line web resource, and as such it is continuously updated with new information as it becomes available. The thesis draws on the encyclopædia’s articles on John Wyndham and his works or works inspired by his writing. In particular, I consider the evaluation of Wyndham’s literary career presented in the biographical entry about his person, and I also use the assessment of Wyndham’s

3 1 INTRODUCTION works and of the adaptations based on his works provided in the respective en- tries about The Day of the Triffids, The Chrysalids, and other works. In addition to that, the encyclopædia provides a useful source of authoritative reference about science fiction-related topics that are mentioned in the thesis but not explored in great depth. To support my argument about the reasons that led to Wyndham’s publishing novels that earned the ‘cosy catastrophe’ label, I consider the article “Race in SF and John Wyndham’s Color-Schemed Future” by David Ketterer. David Ketterer is a renowned science-fiction scholar who has recently turned his attention to John Wyndham and is working on the author’s biography. This short but sharp article raises and analyses the issue of dealing with race, racism, and racial prejudice in science-fiction works. Ketterer examines several works by different authors but focuses mostly on John Wyndham’s forgotten short story called “The Living Lies”, in which the author considers aspects of skin colour and how societies develop and react to stereotypes. This article is important for the argument made in my thesis because it investigates ideas explored by Wyndham in his early writing. The story is one of the early examples of Wyndham’s later orientation on difficult, uneasy topics. For the purpose of offering a brief introduction into the area of science- fiction criticism and into the ways its rapid development took place on the outside of what is normally recognized as ‘proper’ literature, I employ the help of a series of articles published in the Science Fiction Studies journal about this topic. The most relevant to the subject of this paper is Gary Westfahl’s second instalment in the series, “The Popular Tradition of Science Fiction Criticism 1926–1980”. Gary Westfahl’s essay offers a balanced and thorough introduction to the history and development of literary criticism of the science-fiction genre. In order to be able to fully examine the beginnings and later stages of science-fiction critique, Westfahl

4 1 INTRODUCTION provides a basic description of the genre itself, its roots, and the various cultural influences that helped to shape the works created within the confines of the genre, as well as the critique that accompanied them. To summarize, this thesis largely deals with the critical reception of John Wyndham’s novels and short stories. It presents and comments on several notable examples of prominent critics’ reactions to Wyndham’s works, starting, most notably, with Brian Aldiss’ disparaging assertion that some of Wyndham’s novels are examples of the ‘cosy catastrophe’ subgenre. In the thesis, I endeavour to provide a basic background with regards to the criticism of science-fiction works and how Wyndham’s works fit into the context of the British science-fiction scene and the critical environment. In this respect, Westfahl’s article provides a valuable resource for research into the ways science-fiction criticism developed over time. Having discussed the basic aims, content, and resources of the thesis as a whole, we can now move to the second chapter, which introduces science fiction as a specific field of literature, investigates the many attempts to define it as a category and a genre, and describes the major stages of development that the genre went through, along with the historical, societal, and critical influences that shaped its growth. The chapter also offers some background information with regard to English-language science fiction in general, the evolution and critical directions within the genre in Wyndham’s time, and Wyndham’s forays into the various subgenres of science fiction at different points of his writing career.

5 2 Science Fiction

The aim of the entire thesis is to offer an overview of John Wyndham’s work, sur- vey its critical reception, and explore the way it changed over the course of the author’s writing career. In order to be able to examine the fashion in which Wynd- ham’s work was viewed by critics, the various influences that had contributed to the shaping of the style and themes of his fiction, and the author’s position among other science-fiction writers, the second chapter provides an introductory outline of the science-fiction genre. To that effect, the following paragraphs seek to cull various sources, mainly encyclopædias and literary companions, to offer a con- cise yet usable definition of science fiction. Upon establishing the boundaries of the genre, the paper proceeds to present a synopsis of some of science fiction’s peculiarities that set it apart from other literary categories, namely the magazine- publishing tradition and the institution of anthologies, which have both wielded a considerable influence on the direction the genre has taken—thereby directly stimulating its authors. Finally, the chapter concludes by considering the so- called New Wave in science fiction, and how John Wyndham’s body of work fits into the picture. Science fiction holds a unique position among literary genres in that it does not lend itself to a straightforward categorization. In The History of Science Fiction, Adam Roberts succinctly observes: “Many critics have offered definitions of SF, and the resulting critical discourse is a divergent and contested field.” (1). The following pages draw on some of these attempted definitions and put them into perspective by contrasting them with other methods that have been variously employed to characterize the genre. The intended effect is to paint a picture of the way this matter has been approached and to establish a framework of reference for the rest of this paper.

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It is difficult to delineate the genre both in terms of its history and the range of the topics and styles its authors have cultivated and operated with. Science fiction owes this confusion to the fact that it has developed in a very self-aware manner—its writers, readers, and critics have always been involved in a struggle not only to assert the genre’s position in literature but also to grasp its scope. The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction acknowledges this continuous internal di- alectic by proposing that “Science fiction is less a genre—a body of writing from which one can expect certain plot elements and specific tropes—than an ongoing discussion.” (1). It is a discussion that mostly revolves around science fiction’s ever-lasting strive to designate what and in what manner it should present, so that it can be a serious contender in the field of literary genres. This self-conscious aspect of science fiction is revisited later in this chapter in the part about science- fiction magazines and their editors. In Science Fiction: A Very Short Introduction, David Seed recognizes this prevailing trend in science fiction and asserts that “its repeated attempts to redefine or redescribe itself are integral to SF as it progres- sively tries to situate itself in the literary market place.” (117). Having had to contend with the fact that a significant portion of its tradition has roots in various pulp efforts, science fiction managed to mature in an environment that left it largely to itself. The Cambridge Companion notes that science fiction is “a mode of writing which has seemed to exist at variance from the standards and demands of both the literary establishment and the mass market” (1), which is essentially a polite way of saying that it was long before science fiction could pride itself on having achieved some universally-accepted literary qualities and became an actor in the world of anything other than niche corners of literature. Indeed, some commentators have argued that science fiction is not a proper genre at all. Seed rejected the ‘genre’ moniker altogether and called science fiction “a mode or field where different genres and subgenres intersect”

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(Very Short Introduction 1). This is mainly in reaction to the multitude of forms that science-fiction works appear in; according to this proviso, it is impossible to single out one defining characteristic that could serve as a reliable indicator of science fiction. Seed reflects that many science-fiction works have a “hybrid nature” (Very Short Introduction 1). In other words, it is easy to assign the science-fiction label to works that could otherwise be thought of as representing various other genres as well. This aspect of science fiction is especially evident in the way publishers and vendors treat this label: almost any kind of fiction can be marketed as science fiction, provided it is deemed beneficial to the promotional purposes for that particular book. By extension, we could just assume that science fiction is everything that ends up on the ‘Science Fiction’ shelf in book stores or libraries. Given this turmoil within the field itself, it is not surprising that a comprehensive definition has been consistently eluding science fiction—or, conversely, that the genre has had to be content with being labelled anew (and then relabelled again and again) every time an anthology or an encyclopædia came out that took it upon itself to classify its subject of study. With this dilemma in mind, some authors have taken to admitting that attempts to pigeonhole science fiction may be a futile—and ultimately useless— exercise. Instead, they tried to characterize the genre by pointing out its strengths, which distinguish it from other literary endeavours that may share the same topics or narrative styles but approach their subjects from a different perspective. Seed offers the following tentative description of his take on the genre’s foremost virtues: “It is helpful to think of an SF narrative as an embodied thought experiment whereby aspects of our familiar reality are transformed or suspended.” (Very Short Introduction 2). This pragmatic method has proven to be effective because helped science fiction to stake out its territory among other genres and also established a

8 2 SCIENCE FICTION point of reference for readers, authors, and critics. By identifying specific qualities that have been found to be perfected in various science-fiction works, a scale could be constructed, albeit with differing degrees—depending on personal preferences—which reviewers could use to easily compare and anthologists to pick their favourites. In the Trillion Year Spree: The History of Science Fiction, Brian Aldiss opted for a rather vague characterization of the genre’s strong points: “The greatest suc- cesses of science fiction are those which deal with man in relation to his changing surroundings and abilities: what might loosely be called environmental fiction.” (34). Nevertheless, it placed emphasis on change, which is a theme that is often mentioned with regard to typical features of science-fiction narratives. Many critics subscribe to the theory that it is this change, or abnormality, that makes science fiction what it is. This change manifests itself in many different forms, such as inventions or technological innovations, environmental disasters, radical ideas, alien invasions, etc.; the ‘changes’ are examined, and their impact on individuals or societies is gauged. Adam Roberts helpfully mentions Darko Suvin’s term ‘novum’: “the fictional device, artefact or premise that focuses the difference between the world the reader inhabits and the fictional world of the SF text” (History of Science Fiction 1). This novum, or ‘point of difference’, is what distinguishes science fiction from other genres of imaginative fiction. While that may be useful when considering fiction (or even ‘imaginative fiction’) in general, it does not offer much help to those who seek to discern between science fiction and fantasy—a genre that is often regarded as similar or almost identical to science fiction. Fantasy, like science fiction, does not shy away from introducing ‘nova’, operates with fictional worlds and creatures, and frequently posits unsuspecting protagonists against these ‘nova’ to chronicle their reactions and reflect on the results. Brian Aldiss

9 2 SCIENCE FICTION went as far as conceding that it might not be possible at all to separate the two genres, though not without shifting the blame to fantasy: “we have to admit de- feat in distinguishing between SF and fantasy. Fantasy’s eel-like versatility as a descriptive term is well-known” (32). Clearly, this creates a situation that calls for an even more precise specification, and George Mann rose to the challenge by dealing with this ambiguity rather elegantly in The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Sci- ence Fiction: “SF emphasizes its difference from fantasy by attempting to construct a rational framework for anything that it describes.” (5). The rationality that Mann refers to is indeed a prominent feature of vir- tually all science-fiction works. However, one should not make the mistake of confusing rational explanations with real-world, functional explanations—science- fiction authors are seldom capable of supplying hard scientific data to support the theories or ‘rational frameworks’ they use in their effort to substantiate the ‘nova’ in their fiction. But they do make the effort to offer those explanations, no matter how otherworldly or implausible they may seem—in contrast to fantasy works, which tend not to be concerned with the ‘how’ and prefer to postulate their ‘nova’ as granted (e.g. magical or otherwise supernatural phenomena, which usually just are and their existence need not be analysed). The motif of a rationalized change, as discussed and subsequently established as a distinctive feature of science-fiction narratives in the preceding paragraphs, brings us directly to the origins of the genre itself.

2.1 Origins of Science Fiction

All the definition-seeking activity that is debated in the first part of this chapter has only commenced after science fiction as such had begun to take shape. That is, when authors started to identify their works as belonging to a standalone,

10 2 SCIENCE FICTION distinctive genre. This period is closely tied to (or perhaps coincides with) what many critics consider to be the starting point from which the genre of science fiction emerged as we know and recognize it today. That is, the late 19th and early 20th century. Not that this would not be a contentious issue; a number of fans and critics tried to pin the beginnings of science fiction to much earlier times. The really earnest ones contend that even old Greek legends about flying gods should be counted as science fiction, and while they are at it, they hasten to add that the same goes for Cicero, Diogenes, the first part of the Book of Genesis, or Lucian of Samosata and his A True Story (2nd century AD) (as recounted in Aldiss 33, Bould, Butler, Roberts, and Vint xix, Seed 2, and others). The rapacious appetites these authors had for enriching the fledgling genre with solitary pieces of more or less ancient classical literary works can probably be dismissed as interesting but lacking any contributory value with regard to the debate concerning the materialization of a substantial body of literature under the umbrella of ‘science fiction’. In fact, most 20th century and contemporary authors brush aside these suggestions as being rather laughable. And none so eloquently as Aldiss who summarily rejects these efforts with the following condescending jibe: “the Epic of Gilgamesh, with the world destroyed by flood, the Hindu mythology, the Odyssey, Beowulf, the Bible—and practically everything down to Mickey Mouse Weekly—have been claimed at one time or another by science fiction fans with colonialist ambitions” (32) and then goes on to drive the point home by twisting the knife in the wound: “Trawls for illustrious ancestors are understandable, in critics as in impoverished families.” (33). However amusing we may find these attempts (and the subsequent ridicule with which they are met), they serve to remind us that the ideas of science fiction were not entirely new at the turn of the 20th century, and that the notion of new technologies, scientific experiments, and even interplanetary travel cannot be laid claim to by the

11 2 SCIENCE FICTION eager writers of pulp-magazine stories in the 1930s. (Some of their more notable contributions are discussed later in this chapter.) Having dispensed with the overly greedy claims of the early “potted histo- ries” (Aldiss 33), most modern critics go on to acknowledge one or two examples of authors and pieces that can still be classified as very old. Thus Thomas More’s Utopia, Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis, or Francis Godwin’s The Man in the Moone are usually cited (all three were published in the 16th or 17th centuries). A size- able number of authors then proceed to pronounce Mary Shelley (Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, 1818), Jules Verne (e.g. Journey to the Centre of the Earth, 1864), or H. G. Wells (The War of the Worlds, 1898) as the real pioneers of the genre (Aldiss 35, Bould, Butler, Roberts, and Vint xix, Mann 8, and others). Especially the influential Brian Aldiss is determined to promote Shelley as “the first writer of science fiction” (45) when he devotes several pages of his Trillion Year Spree to a thorough analysis of Shelley’s life and work, of which the Frankenstein story is, understandably, dissected in the greatest detail. Together with Mann and his Mammoth Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Aldiss explains that Frankenstein rep- resents the rationality (as mentioned above), which is so important for science fiction. As opposed to earlier Gothic stories, in which all horrors were created by gods, sorcery, or other inexplicable means, in Frankenstein, the wheels are set in motion by science and human thirst for knowledge. Mann sums it up by saying that “The monster is no longer a devilish entity that simply exists—it is created, bit by bit, by a human being, and literally shocked into existence with electricity.” (8) whereas Aldiss quips: “Science has taken charge.” (49). In other words, Shelley’s Frankenstein is widely seen as the work that ushered in the era of fiction that adopted science and technological discoveries for its own purposes. The imminent advent of the industrial revolution only served to reinforce this trend, and, by the end of the 19th century, science fiction, yet to be so named,

12 2 SCIENCE FICTION had a strong foothold. It should be noted at this point that Frankenstein is considered by many critics to be very poorly written, thus foreshadowing the lack of literary qualities in many other early works of science fiction. Writing in Sci- ence Fiction (published as a volume of The New Critical Idiom series of guides), Adam Roberts does not mince words when he calls Frankenstein “amateurishly constructed” (58), and Patrick Parrinder, in Science Fiction: A Critical Guide, scoffs at it being “an immature work”, but goes on to admit, albeit somewhat grudg- ingly, that it is a book that “nevertheless has been enormously influential” (11). The scene has been set for the coming of pulp science fiction. This brings us to the beginning of the 20th century when the pulp-magazine culture really started to flourish, and the science-fiction genre accounted for a massive part of the pulp output. It was then that writers started to identify with the new genre and—more importantly—started to write for the new genre. Read- ers had come to expect a certain amount of recognizable characteristics, and a set of tropes was gradually formed that laid the foundations of our modern science- fiction tradition. The body of work that was the result of this new direction di- verged significantly from the majority of the early examples discussed above. As much as the books that had been written before constituted the basis on which the writers in the early 20th century built, they were few in number and could not be said to fit within the confines of what was fast becoming a whole new trade. Roberts comments that the old works “were specific and sometimes one- off examples of imaginative fiction. It was not until the 1920s that these sorts of writing became identified as belonging to a family of literature, Science Fiction.” (Idiom 3). This new ‘family of literature’ received its name from Hugo Gernsback in 1929, but its direct precursor can be traced as far back as 1984 when G. W. Pope published his Journey to Mars (which, incidentally, influenced not only

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Gernsback’s title-seeking but also the writing of the much more famous Edgar Rice Burroughs (Westfahl “Gernsback, Hugo”)). Pope provided the book with an introduction in which he attempted to classify his novel and came up with the term ‘scientific novel’ (quoted in Seed, Very Short Introduction 117). In relation to this, David Seed concludes that “it is a sign of science fiction taking on an iden- tity of its own that [Pope] should introduce his first novel with a discussion of nomenclature” (117). We now have a workable definition of science fiction, and the origins of the genre have been established. The following sections briefly describe what constitutes science-fiction tradition, including a discussion of science-fiction criticism, its roots, and the way it contributed to the shaping of the tradition.

2.2 Science-Fiction Magazines

With the advent of cheap printing techniques and, even more importantly, cheap material to print on, the turn of the 20th century saw the emergence of numerous publication ventures that catered to the masses who just wanted a cheap, quick, and undemanding form of entertainment. Christened after the material on which it was distributed, the pulp magazine has become synonymous with crudely written stories for various more or less niche markets: love stories, west- erns, crime and detective fiction, and also science fiction. In this particular genre, pulp magazines have enjoyed a very special position. Not only did the magazines of the pulp era largely influence the development of the genre but they also en- dured, and their popular following today is, quite astonishingly, comparable to what it was during the period at the beginning of the 20th century. Seed summarizes this by saying: “The science fiction magazine has played a unique role in the development of this fiction, functioning partly as a medium for publication

14 2 SCIENCE FICTION and partly as a forum for ongoing debate about the nature of this fiction.” (120). Indeed, science-fiction magazines took on the role of shepherding the genre from its very beginnings, and their influential editors have wielded a far greater power over the direction the genre was taking than in any other field. Hugo Gernsback, who immigrated to the United States from Luxembourg in 1903, is widely considered to be the “Father of Science Fiction” (he has been called that by a number of authors and even received a honorary version of the prestigious Science Fiction Achievement Award1 as “The Father of Magazine Sci- ence Fiction” in 1960). Gernsback had a keen interest in all things technical, me- chanical, and above all electrical (he even held a number of patents for various electronic devices). Pursuant to this obsession with electricity and newly invented electrical devices, Gernsback founded several mostly unprofitable and generally unsuccessful business ventures, one of which was the Modern Electrics magazine (founded in 1911). It was in this magazine, which served a mixture of educational and fictional content, that Gernsback published the first of his two novels, Ralph 124C 41+: A Romance of the Year 2660. This was to become a muster against which Gernsback judged the educational worthiness of stories he would later consider for his first truly science-fiction magazine, Amazing Stories (founded in 1926). Gernsback used the first issue of Amazing Stories to formulate his idea about ‘scientifiction’: “By ‘scientifiction’ I mean the Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and Edgar- Allan Poe type of story—a charming romance intermingled with scientific fact and prophetic vision” (quoted in Westfahl, “Popular Tradition” 189). Gernsback’s preference was scientific, educational content. He considered the magazine, and, by extension, the entire field of science-fiction literature, to have an important

1 The Science Fiction Achievement Award has long been known as the ‘Hugo Award’, which, of course, is an honourable reference to Hugo Gernsback himself; it was ofﬁcially renamed to Hugo Award in 1993.

15 2 SCIENCE FICTION role in the society. By popularizing scientific advancements and discoveries, he hoped to contribute to a brighter future for mankind. He had this to say about the subject in an editorial in Science Fiction Week from 1930: “Not only is science fiction an idea of tremendous import, but it is to be an important factor in making the world a better place to live in, through educating the public to the possibilities of science and the influence of science on life...” (Gernsback). The trouble with Gernsback’s approach and the consequent impact on science fiction was the fact that his literary prowess was not up to par with standards commonly associated with shapers of literary genres. In fact, Gernsback’s novel (Ralph 124C 41+), which—as has been mentioned above—exemplified the type of writing that was appearing in Amazing Stories and other similarly orientated pulp magazines, was so badly written that some critics have no patience with it at all. Adam Roberts, writing in The History of Science Fiction, feels so strongly about the author’s literary ineptness that he gets carried away and delivers the following adverb- and adjective-rich condemnation: “It is a deeply clumsy novel, poorly structured with a limply unengaging narrative clogged with examples of what would later be called ‘infodumps’” (176). While nobody disputes the fact that Gernsback had tremendous influence on the way science fiction developed, a considerable number of critics are quite certain that his influence was very detrimental to the healthy development of the genre. Some argue in his defence that science fiction was able to take off the ground under his guidance (Ashley, summarized in Nicholls), but others main- tain that his meddling caused a great amount of harm that took years to undo. Brian Aldiss is likely the most vocal proponent of the theory that faults Gerns- back for science fiction’s long struggle to present its audiences with more than cheaply bought and thoughtlessly consumed pulp. Aldiss vents his disgust in

16 2 SCIENCE FICTION the Billion/Trillion Year Spree using the following vitriolic accusation: “It is easy to argue that Hugo Gernsback (1894–1967) was one of the worst disasters ever to hit the science fiction field.” (251) and continues to explain: “Gernsback’s segregation of what he liked to call ‘scientifiction’ into magazines designed to contain nothing else, ghetto-fashion, guar- anteed the setting up of various narrow orthodoxies inimical to any thriving literature.” (251). While we should acknowledge that Aldiss liked to cause a stir, and nothing was surer to incite a heated debate among critics and fans of science fiction than an uncompromising attack at one of its most prominent figures, it is true that the majority of pulp-era science fiction was by no means quality literature. In the rather scathingly titled essay, “The Embarrassment of Science Fiction”, Thomas M. Disch concedes that “By far the greater part of all pulp science fiction from the time of Wells till now was written to provide a semi-literate audience with com- pensatory fantasies.” (9). Nevertheless, science fiction attracted many readers, built a tradition and awareness that other genres never attained, and spawned hugely successful spin-offs in other media, including radio, television, and film. However, there was a long way to go from science fiction’s humble beginnings, which were characterized by pioneering attempts to establish the genre as an educational platform and also by poor writing. The fact that science fiction actually managed to overcome its own infancy (burgeoning with talent but tainted with mediocrity) can be, to a great degree, credited to John W. Campbell who took the baton of magazine editorship in 1937 (in Astounding Science Fiction). Campbell shared, to a certain extent, Gernsback’s desire to educate through science fiction, but he also placed emphasis on formal aspects of writing. Roberts puts forth Campbell’s belief that science fiction “should be grounded in science and the celebration of science” (Idiom 68), but explains that, unlike Gernsback,

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Campbell paid attention to the quality of the writing itself: “Campbell insisted of all his contributors that the science should be properly integrated into the story” (Idiom 68). This insistence paid off because, for the first time in its history, science fiction started to be perceived as a field where serious literary ambitions could be realized while still writing about scientific breakthroughs or interplanetary travel. Under Campbell’s guidance, a new generation of writers came to the fore, some of whom later went on to become icons of science fiction and achieved universal recognition even outside of the genre. These included Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and others. Seed also attributes this rebirth and the relatively sharp in- crease in the quality of science-fiction output to Campbell’s efforts, particularly to “his [...] insistence on careful plotting, coherence of expression, and many other points” and summarizes by saying that “he was trying to inject a new profession- alism into the writing of science fiction” (Very Short Introduction 121). It speaks volumes that Campbell retained the job of the editor of Astounding Science Fiction (renamed to Analog Science Fiction in 1961) until his death in 1971—he stayed at the helm for 33 years during which he continued to shape the genre. The way science fiction reinvented itself during the late 1930s, 1940s, and in the post-war period made it more accessible (and also acceptable) to a broader readership. Among science-fiction aficionados, this period of new success is often called the Golden Age of the genre. That name is mostly linked to the so-called ‘hard science fiction’, which was constituted by ‘space operas’ (stories of space exploration, intergalactic struggles, and similar motifs). The growing popular appeal of science fiction led to the publication of the first anthologies, science fiction started to appear in hardback, and, as Aldiss glosses, “The way was open for SF to take itself more seriously.” (287). Raymond Healy and J. Francis McComas com- piled one of the first anthologies of science-fiction stories in Adventures in Time

18 2 SCIENCE FICTION and Space (published in 1946), and other successful efforts followed. While the in- clusion of a story in an anthology has always been one of the ways to measure the quality of the magazine it first appeared in, a very distinct form of anthologies also developed in the field of science fiction: original anthologies. These volumes consist of material that has not been published before, and, like the regular anthologies, they are an important channel through which their compilers have been influencing the development of the genre. Following the described Golden Age of science fiction, during which the genre emerged from the confines of pulp and entered the big stage, a new era of development arrived in the beginning of the 1960s—a new trend, which was called the New Wave.

2.3 New Wave in Science Fiction

Despite the fact that ‘New Wave science fiction’ is now widely recognized as a particular period with its distinct characteristics, it is difficult to view it as such. Firstly, considering that the movement was supposed to amount to a revolt against the established orders of the genre, it is understandable that those associated with it resisted any sort of categorization—breaking free from constraints cannot be accomplished by accepting new shackles. Secondly, many writers continued to produce ‘classical’ science fiction, and many readers continued to enjoy it—the new trend was loud, interesting, and, in many ways, ground-breaking, but it was not universal. In The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction, Damien Broderick writes that New Wave was “never quite formalized and often repudiated by its major exemplars” (49). This movement made it its goal to deconstruct many of the foundations of the genre and push it towards embracing a great many topics and forms that,

19 2 SCIENCE FICTION until then, would hardly be considered as having anything to do with science fiction at all. Taking its name from the field of film criticism,2 the New Wave is defined by Broderick as “a reaction against genre exhaustion” (49). Two main differences can be identified between the hard science fiction of the Golden Age and the soft science fiction of the New Wave. The more prominent of the two lies in the choice of topics: while the older, traditional science fiction almost always involved astronomy, interplanetary travel, cybernetics, futuristic weaponry, and the like, the new direction was content with what Earth and the humanity could offer; it concentrated on social topics and human emotions, eschewed overly scientific themes and often did not involve any science at all—unless humanities, such as theology, philosophy, or social sciences were counted. Instead, it talked about politics, ecology, sex, drugs, or other taboos. It bears mentioning that taboos and especially sex were topics that had been conspicuously absent from the majority of science-fiction works even at times when other pulp genres churned out a plenitude of very immodest texts. Also, New Wave writers did not hesitate to dabble in psychology and rely on careful character development. Which leads to the other difference, and that is the New Wave’s revived effort to elevate science fiction to ‘proper’ literature, to have it accepted as a serious genre—science fiction was not to be just inventive or entertaining; it was to assume the qualities of well-crafted works of literature. In other words, the New Wave tried, yet again and with a renewed vigour, to persuade authors of science fiction to accept the fact that ideas were no longer enough—form was important, too. Some writers took this challenge to heart more than others, and an all-new trend emerged that was marked by (the traditional science-fiction) form being abused in very inventive ways. Experimental works by J.G. Ballard, Brian Aldiss,

2 More speciﬁcally, the name New Wave was adopted from the French term ‘nouvelle vague’ as applied to the experimental works of Jean-Luc Goddard and others.

20 2 SCIENCE FICTION and others elevated the breaking of form to levels that many found hard to follow and swallow. In part, this was a manifestation of the New Wave’s conscious and determined push to do away with the ‘cosiness’ of the 1950s disaster and post- apocalyptic fiction, of which John Wyndham was the most successful producer. In this spirit, J.G. Ballard wrote three (post-)apocalyptic novels (with largely self- explanatory titles: The Drowned World (1962), The Burning World (1964), and Crys- tal World (1966)), which treat the topic of catastrophes in a radically different manner than earlier works, including those of John Wyndham, which are discussed below. The chief difference in approach was that Ballard and other writers of the New Wave no longer felt the urge to make sense of things, to guide their characters towards practical conclusions, and to offer their readers a voice of hope that would help them get to grips with the catastrophes that seemed imminent in the real world (this direction is described in more detail below in the section devoted to Wyndham’s post-war works and the societal factors that influenced them). In- stead, New Wave writers were quite content to present scenarios with bleak or vague outcomes, and their characters often behaved erratically, failed to act upon their self-preservation instincts, and in lieu of thinking about saving the lives of their loved ones and, by extension, the lives of their countrymen, they struggled with and frequently succumbed to their own demons. The narrative was heavily affected by extra-sensory perceptions, hallucinations, and disturbing psycholog- ical phenomena. All of these characteristics of the New Wave movement were on exhibit in the three novels by Ballard mentioned above, but come the 1970s, even more deviations from the established genre patterns appeared. To borrow from Ballard again, his highly-controversial novel Crash (1973) (about a group of people seeking sexual arousal through staging and participating in car crashes) could probably be considered the pinnacle of the modern science-fiction revolt

21 2 SCIENCE FICTION against the obstinate (and thus desperate) optimism delivered in Wyndham’s deliberately yet implausibly cosy catastrophes.

2.4 John Wyndham and Science Fiction

In attempting to grasp John Wyndham’s influence on the science-fiction genre, and especially on his contribution to what would later become known as the New Wave of (British) science fiction, it is important to note that Wyndham himself was opposed to his (post-war) works being marketed under the science- fiction handle, preferring instead his own term: ‘logical fantasy’. The reason for this insistence was that he wanted to distinguish his prose from the bulk of science-fiction works, which he described as “the adventures of galactic gang- sters” (“John Wyndham” Guardian). These ‘classic’ works of science fiction were often produced with the clear goal of appealing to an established base of fan readership. By virtue of being categorized as science fiction, the classics of the genre, for the most part, managed to fly under the radar of the general audience. In addition, they employed language and motifs that only the dedicated fan base could appreciate and, indeed, make sense of. In his essay on John Wyndham in A Com- panion to Science Fiction published as a part of the Blackwell series of literary companions, David Ketterer calls this hard-line science fiction “Gernsbackian” (375) which provides a further clue as to the reason why Wyndham was reluctant to publish his new works under the science-fiction label. Firstly, as has been pointed out earlier in this chapter, an association of one’s name or work with the name and legacy of Hugo Gernsback was not entirely desirable if one wanted to as- pire to higher echelons of the literary world. Secondly, for an author who wanted to speak to a broader audience than the flock of die-hard fans that the science- fiction magazines catered to, a clear separation from science fiction was needed.

22 2 SCIENCE FICTION

To help this process, Wyndham adopted the ‘John Wyndham’ pen name to cut himself from his own ‘Gernsbackian’ past, during which he often published hard science-fiction stories using the names John Harris or John Benyon. In a 1950 letter to Frederik Pohl,3 Wyndham explains his decision to release the The Day of the Triffids under a different pen name as follows: “The original idea of John Wyndham was that I was using it for a different style of stuff... not cluttered up with memories of early Wonder Stories... So if you are agreeable, we will adopt John Wynd- ham, and stick to it” (Wyndham quoted by Ketterer in the Blackwell Companion 375). The motivation to distance himself from his earlier science-fiction work seems very clear. Since the beginning of the 1950s (and owing to the success of The Day of the Triffids), ‘John Wyndham’ has become the name we now use to refer to this author and person—despite the fact that in his personal life, the name of choice was John B. Harris. Regardless of what category Wyndham aimed for and what category popular consensus assigned to him, Wyndham’s post-war writing would most likely fall under what is now called ‘speculative fiction’, but, as is explained below, it also formed the stepping stone from which the New Wave era took off. Also, despite Wyndham’s aforementioned efforts to present his works (from the 1950s forward) as not belonging to the science-fiction genre, he and his books have remained firmly associated with it, and for readers in the second half of the 20th century, this association has not detracted from their appeal. In this regard, Wynd- ham can be credited with being one of the first writers of science fiction who started to bring the genre into the mainstream. This development coincided with

3 Frederik Pohl was a science-ﬁction author and magazine editor from the United States who also acted as Wyndham’s agent in North America.

23 2 SCIENCE FICTION a growing popularity of science fiction made for radio, TV, or film. The substantial commercial success of Wyndham’s post-war output led to a number of more or less well-done (and received) adaptations of Wyndham’s novels. It is interesting to note that the adaptations of The Day of the Triffids, which have been the most numerous among the works based on Wyndham’s material, have been not only improving over time but also growing out their ‘cosy catastrophe’ shell. The first film adaptation from 1963, which strays quite far from the original story, is appallingly bad—a view shared by most critics; for example, in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Brosnan and Nicholls dispel any doubts as to the suspense the film might be offering by saying: “The Triffids are more ab- surd than frightening.”. But the subsequent attempts are entertaining pieces that contribute refreshing new perspectives while maintaining enough of the original novel’s spirit. However, as mentioned above, the newer the adaptation, the less noticeable is the ‘guilty pleasure’ element (this theme is elaborated on in greater detail in the third chapter). The latest (2009) BBC One miniseries again differs quite significantly from the original story, but it makes up for it by presenting a modern, enjoyable production with smart dialogues and a lively flow of action sequences that actually advance a witty plot. No traces of a cosy catastrophe any- where in sight. The only downside is that the screenwriter (Patrick Harbinson) failed to come up with a better contemporary justification for the farming of triffids than the over-clichéd, fits-all ‘global warming’ reason. The groundwork for a more thorough investigation of some of Wynd- ham’s key novels has been laid. This chapter chronicled the development of the science-fiction genre and the accompanying attempts to formalize it as a standalone style, introduced some of its defining characteristics, and placed John Wyndham within the context of the genre. Let us now look at his work more closely. The third chapter outlines the three most distinctive stages of Wyndham’s

24 2 SCIENCE FICTION writing career and provides examples of representative works from each of those periods. Selected novels are brieﬂy introduced, their topic and style characterized, and their critical reception mentioned. The focal point of the chapter is the discussion of the development of themes from ‘popular’ to ‘serious’, which is identiﬁed and analysed (with the help of secondary sources) on the basis of ex- cerpts from a succession of novels.

25 3 The Works of John Wyndham

John Wyndham’s literary career had started far earlier than when he first achieved any significant degree of popularity. Also, it had started in the United States of America rather than in the United Kingdom where he lived his whole life. Born John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris, the author used various combinations of his names to form multiple pen names throughout his writing career. His first attempts were published as early as the beginning of the 1930s in American science-fiction magazines (including in Hugo Gernsback’s Wonder Stories) under the pen names John Benyon Harris, Johnson Harris, John Benyon, Lucas Parkes, and several others (Clute). These were mostly short stories (including detective ones), but there were also three novels: Foul Play Suspected (crime), The Secret People, and Stowaway to Mars, of which The Secret People could be considered a precursor to Wyndham’s later ‘soft’ science-fiction style. Unlike many of his contemporaries in the field of science fiction, Wynd- ham did not limit his output to just one sub-type of the genre. Even though Wynd- ham produced most of his works during a period that overlapped the end of the magazine era, the Golden Age, and the New Wave of science fiction, the themes of his novels were never quite conforming to the fashion of the times. And so it was that when the majority of science-fiction authors in the 1930s wrote what has since come to be identified as hard (or hardcore) science fiction (Nicholls), Wynd- ham published The Secret People (1935)—a novel that foreshadowed his later ventures into both the post-apocalyptic and dystopian subgenres of science fiction. Similarly, Wyndham went ‘against character’ to write The Outward Urge (1959), a traditional space opera, at a time when the name of John Wyndham has already been established as one of the most popular authors of modern ‘soft science fiction’, and the science-fiction genre itself was on the verge of the New Wave.

26 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

3.1 Pre-War Pulp

Considering that in the science-fiction pond, the 1930s were dominated by space operas and stories of slimy extra-terrestrials wielding death rays, we can see how ahead of his time was Wyndham with The Secret People, published in 1935 as the author’s first full-length novel. It explored an ancient clash between two cultures, along with motives of racism, xenophobia, intolerance, and a looming extinction of an intelligent species pushed to the fringes of the world. The narrative, which centres around a human couple captured by a race of mysterious pygmies who live in subterranean caverns beneath the Sahara desert, is rather simplistic, but that does not detract from the overall theme, which explores the notions of subor- dination based on racial differences. The novel was first published, to a rather significant acclaim, in a serialized form by the British Passing Show magazine. That in itself constituted a departure from Wyndham’s earlier science-fiction magazine efforts because the Passing Show was a decidedly more mainstream publication— a weekly tabloid with comics, short stories, and, most importantly, serialized novels. Given the medium of publication, it is not hugely surprising that the text is built using a lot of clichés and somewhat clumsy, unrealistic dialogues. Consider, for example, the following covert conference between two captives: “‘Except you? Yes, that is so. But I was able to do them a good turn. [...]’ ‘And what was that?’ ‘Oh, just to give them some information.’ He uttered the last answer with an air of finality which discouraged further questions.” (The Secret People 147). The reader is left to ponder who would be capable of saying ‘Yes, that is so.’ when talking to a potential fellow conspirator, and what exactly are the signs of ‘an air of finality’. The book, conforming to the pulp quality of its publisher, is

27 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM written in this tone in its entirety. That said, it needs to be noted that Wyndham’s writing technique improved considerably after the Second World War, and, above all, The Secret People should be remembered not for its dubious literary qualities but for the choice of topics it explored. The prose of the novel may very well be “juvenile”, as John Clute puts it in his entry on John Wyndham in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, and the idea of a lost civilization living in some secluded corner of Earth (or, as in this case, below the ground) was not original either,4 but this paper is far more interested in the uneasy topics of racial strife, the destruction of a habitat, and with its the end of an intelligent, non-violent species. An interesting point to note in this regard is the novel’s suggestion (not explored in great detail) that the pygmies who end up being on the wrong end of mankind’s technological progress, are the descendants of an ancient race of humans. This closes the door to an interpretation that would paint the pygmies as ‘out of this world’ enemies and, instead, forces the reader to contemplate the disturbing notion of an eradication of a fellow race of humans. Wyndham would later revisit these themes in his other works—and it would be in a much more competent manner. This particular confrontation, that is, an old(-fashioned) and, to a degree, degenerated race of humans pitted against a superior breed can be easily detected in The Chrysalids, which is examined in more detail later in this chapter. The success of The Secret People was followed in 1936 by Planet Plane (later editions were published using the title Stowaway to Mars), which was a return to the traditional science ﬁction of space travel, with Martian machines bossing hapless Earthlings included. The novel reads a lot smoother than The Secret Peo- ple, even though it, too, employs its fair share of stereotypes (including, from today’s point of view, gender ones), and, on occasion, it still suffers from stale

4 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World comes to mind, followed by a number of spin offs and copycats.

28 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM expressions and clichés. An example could be the perennial champion of all bad descriptions, the mythical ‘resolute chin’, which, in this case, is applied to the main heroine when we first make her acquaintance: “a chin suggesting resolution without stubbornness” (Stowaway to Mars 56). On the other hand, the text does offer some interesting ideas, including rather novel and thoughtful reflections on the relationship between humans (Martians) and machines. The main Martian character, Vaygan, explains the reasoning behind the Martians’ lack of resolve to halt the advance of machines, which are gradually supplanting them as the inhabitants of the planet, by saying: “They are our future—all the future we have. Did I not tell you that they are the children of our brains? They are the final extension of ourselves, so that we have every reason to be proud, not jealous of them.” (Stowaway to Mars 171).5 All in all, the novel it does not stand out from the crowd of other accounts of interplanetary expeditions and encounters with Martians. The only exception is the fact that Stowaway to Mars actually implies a sex act between a Martian over- lord and a human female (the titular stowaway), which, considering the rather puritanical aspect of science-fiction writing in the pulp era, can be viewed as a novelty. John Clute’s Encyclopedia is content with passing it off as “modestly daring” (“John Wyndham”)—probably because the promising theme of a mis- cegenate little Martian-human offspring is not further developed, and—to make sure that people do not get any ideas—the mother dies in childbirth. A follow up story is hinted at, but it was never written.

5 Similar deliberations about human-machines relationships were to become Isaac Asimov’s most famous contributions to the science-ﬁction lore when he, along with John W. Campbell, created the ‘Three Laws of Robotics’ around 1940.

29 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

The publication of Stowaway to Mars concluded Wyndham’s pre-war literary career. He next emerged after the war as a very different writer and went on to achieve a remarkable success.

3.2 Post-War Cosy Catastrophes

Following a prolonged writing hiatus caused in part by the Second World War, during which he worked for the Civil Service as a censor at the Ministry of In- formation and served as a corporal in the Royal Corps of Signals (and took part, as a non-combatant, in the Normandy landings), John Wyndham started to write fiction again, encouraged by the success of his younger brother, Vivian Benyon Harris, who had four novels published between 1948 and 1951. By the beginning of the 1950s, Britain was just emerging from the worst throes of post-war financial problems. While the economy started to pick itself up after being on the verge of a collapse, and the Age of Austerity was coming to an end (though rationing of some foodstuffs prevailed until 1954), it was still a period of a somber mood—the war had been won, but there was not much to show for it. Britain had to accept that it was no longer a global superpower. It had to let go of its empire, and al- though it took part in the Korean War and (unbeknownst to the general public) started to develop its own nuclear weapons, it could not keep the pace with the United States and the Soviet Union. The fear of communist aggression grew after the events of the Berlin Blockade in 1948–49, and the public was becoming disen- chanted with (some of) the socialist policies of the post-war Labour governments. In this social and political climate, which could be felt on both the na- tional and international levels, even the genre of science fiction began to reflect the general gloom. Gone were the days of gung-ho action space operas in which macho heroes with scantily-clad female sidekicks saved galaxies from tentacled

30 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM invaders and legions of flesh-eating robots. Their place was frequently taken by middle-class protagonists who were very reluctant to become involved in anything, had no ambitions to become conquerors of other planets, and their main concern was trying to make sense of the world around them, which was threatened by some sinister power whose origin often remained a mystery.6 To a great degree, this mirrored the British feelings of that period—in The History of Science Fiction, Adam Roberts says of the comparability of apprehensions experienced by these new, non-hero science-fiction characters of that time: “a number of significant novels were written in which middle- class Britons faced disaster or apocalypse; just as real-life middle- class Britons faced the Alice-like shrinkage of the UK from a world power into a caterpillar-sized nation” (210). Similarly, but with a direct reference to the works of John Wyndham, Mann explains: “Wyndham’s writing reflects the desire of an exhausted nation for re- stored order and sanity after the chaos and destruction of total war.” (322). Hav- ing established the context for Wyndham’s new literary beginning in the post-war period, let us examine the writing itself. Wyndham’s first post-war novel, The Day of the Triffids, published in 1951, turned out to be his most famous and most successful one (though not the best one as many critics agree). It was also the first work published under the John Wyndham pen name, which, as has been touched upon at the end of the second chapter, was deliberately chosen to sever any ties with Wyndham’s literary output in the pre-war period. The change of name was accompanied by a markedly different style of writing and choice of topics, and it was most likely

6 This aspect of the period science-ﬁction writings by British authors (the unwitting protagonist who would be content to stay out of the limelight if circumstances allowed) was later bril- liantly satirized by Douglas Adams’ series, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

31 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM also a calculated marketing move—Triffids could be introduced as the work of a new writer. Nonetheless, the resulting success was unexpected, and the popularity of the book far eclipsed anything that Wyndham had written before. In fact, the word ‘triffid’ caught on so well that it has become a part of the English language. In The Trillion Year Spree, Brian Aldiss relates an anecdote about Wynd- ham’s incredulity when he overheard two farmers at a pub saying: “There’s one by my tool shed—a great monster. I reckon it’s a triffid!” (315). The Day of the Triffids tells the story of a biologist who specializes in genetically engineered, venomous, carnivorous plants—triffids—which are capable of ‘walking’ (or rather shuffling) and communicating among themselves. The plants are kept at secure farms, and a special oil is harvested from them. Following a collapse of the civilization, which results from the population going blind after a night of watching a spectacular light show in the sky (it is described as a me- teor shower but later suggested that it might have been the result of explosions of man-made orbital weaponry), the triffids escape from their farms and start prey- ing on the now defenceless people. The biologist, whose sight is spared because his eyes were bandaged after receiving treatment for the triffid venom, must contend with anarchy in the streets of London where the majority of people are blind and dependant on those few who can see. Eventually, groups of sighted people start establishing colonies planned for long-term survival and protection from the now rampant triffids. After some altercations with various bands of survivors that exhibit different social, religious, and political attitudes, the main protagonist and his group arrive at the Isle of Wight where they hope to find a way to destroy the triffids and reclaim the planet. The novel definitely describes a catastrophe, but is it cosy? The term ‘cosy catastrophe’ was first used by Brian Aldiss in his primary work on the history of science fiction, The Billion Year Spree: The History of Science

32 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

Fiction, (later expanded and brought up-to-date as The Trillion Year Spree: The His- tory of Science Fiction, written with David Wingrove). Aldiss defines the label as follows: “The essence of cosy catastrophe is that the hero should have a pretty good time (a girl, free suites at the Savoy, automobiles for the taking) while everyone else is dying off.” (316). Wyndham’s post-war works are the main target of Aldiss’s ire; of the author himself, Aldiss writes that he is the “master of the cosy catastrophe” (315), and of his two (commercially) most successful books (The Day of the Triffids and The Kraken Wakes) he has this to say: “Both novels were totally de- void of ideas but read smoothly, and thus reached a maximum audience, who enjoyed cosy disasters.” (315). As has been Aldiss’ custom with critiquing works he finds sub-par, even the outline of the plot he provides is full of derision—for example, unlike other authors who describe triffids as ‘mobile venomous plants’ or something to that effect, Aldiss scornfully observes that the novel is about “per- ambulating vegetables” (315). These assertions seem rather harsh, but it needs to be noted that Wyndham may have felt the need to work with benign themes that would likely appeal to regular consumers of post-war literature. After all, Wynd- ham had prior experience with rejections of material that might had been judged too contentious. Let us consider, for example, the largely forgotten short story called “The Living Lies”, which delves deep into the question of how various societal characteristics and differing circumstances, in which the members of a given society develop, influence human perception of race. In the story, a certain percentage of babies on Venus, which is inhabited by descendants of human colonists and aboriginal Venusians, are artificially coloured shortly after birth to tinges of black, red, and green to ensure that the white majority can continue to benefit from racial conflicts between the minorities. “The Living Lies” story was written prior to the Second World War, but it was only published, following several unsuccessful

33 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM attempts, after the end of the war, and then it never achieved much acclaim, having been left out of science-fiction anthologies. Writing in the Science Fiction Stud- ies journal, David Ketterer calls the story “an ingenious postcolonial, satiric attack on skin-color prejudice.” (527). “The Living Lies” is one of the early examples of Wyndham’s later orientation at difficult, uneasy topics. It appears reasonable to assume that Wyndham’s cosy-catastrophe works were at least partly conforming to social attitudes of the era, as evidenced by the publishers’ reluctance to accept a story that criticized racism. In other words, Wyndham was presumably well aware of the popular, non-confrontational aspect of his early post-war novels, which would make Ald- iss’s disparaging remarks justified. This perspective allows us to perceive that while factually correct, the remarks, nevertheless, totally miss the point. Addi- tionally, it can be argued that, in being the product of a deliberate reasoning on the part of the author, these derided aspects of the novels in question are no more than an evidence of a fine craftsmanship. Should we assume that this really was Wyndham’s plan, it needs to be noted that it was well executed. Wyndham’s writing had come a long way since the pulp novels of his pre-war career, and if he wanted to play the ‘guilty pleasure’ card, which is the crux of any best-selling catastrophe story, he knew how to go about it with undeniable charm. Bill Mason, the first-person narrator in the Triffids, treats us to many scenes like the following in the first part of the novel: “I decided to revive myself and clear my head at the Regent Palace Hotel. [...] I think it was while I was sitting there comfortably with a brandy in front of me and a cigarette in my hand that I at last began to admit that what I had seen was all real—and decisive. There would be no going back—ever. It was finish to all I had known...” (Triffids 30).

34 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

One has to admit that Wyndham paints the end of the world in rather pleasant colours. But this pattern is not evident only in the spoils represented by free booze, which plays to everyone’s secret desire to be able to take whatever they wish without paying. It is also, more subtly and with an even greater portion of hidden guilt, shown in the thinly veiled self-satisfaction brought on by the superiority that the narrator enjoys over the blind masses: “I began to become uneasy. Fighting with my civilized urge to be of some help to these people was an instinct that told me to keep clear. They were already fast losing ordinary restraints. I felt, too, an irrational sense of guilt at being able to see while they could not.” (Triffids 31). Given this style of narration, it is possible to understand why some critics were quick to dismiss the novel as being somewhat shallow. Of course, not everybody agrees with Aldiss’ criticism, and a number of authors support the same interpretation of motivations I outlined above. For example, in Science Fic- tion: A Very Short Introduction, David Seed reasons that Aldiss’ ‘cosy catastrophe’ accusation is an unfair portrayal: “[the cosy catastrophe] charge does no justice to Wyndham’s understated method, no doubt partly aimed at avoiding the melo- dramatics of space opera narratives.” (34). The fact remains, however, that a notable difference exists between the Triffids or The Kraken Wakes and, for example, The Chrysalids or The Midwich Cuckoos. Even if we were to disregard any potential intent on the part of the author, the novels would still lend themselves to tellingly divergent areas and depths of interpretations. The Triffids can be understood as a metaphor for post-war Britain’s yearn- ing for normalcy amidst inner struggles and outside threats epitomized by apprehensions stemming from economic hardships and the crumbling of the empire, which together dispossessed the British of their global superpower status.

35 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

It could also be seen as a reaction to the rapidly deteriorating east-west relations, which Christopher Daley identifies in his dissertation on British science fiction and the Cold War, 1945–1969:“The Day of the Triffids (1951) and The Kraken Wakes (1953), in particular, ostensibly display recognisable Cold War anxieties and trep- idations” (57). A psychoanalytical interpretation could even chalk the venom- spitting triffids to Wyndham’s fear of female sexuality and females in general, as suggested by the most prominent Wyndham scholar, David Ketterer, in the Blackwell Companion to Science Fiction: “It is clear that the natural force in Triffids is female sexuality when Bill recalls his seeing, for the first time, ‘the curious, funnel-like formation at the top of the [triffid’s] stem’ and ‘the tightly-wrapped whorl within’” (378). As diverse as these different directions of interpretations may seem, they still only allow for considering either the socio-political situation or the author’s own problems. Whereas in the case of The Chrysalids and The Midwich Cuckoos, the implications are far more sinister, and the ways these novels can be interpreted require the reader to contemplate much harder and, more importantly, timeless questions. Later in Wyndham’s career, when he had already managed to carve for himself a comfortable niche on the market with his breakthrough, albeit shallow, novels, he was free to turn his attentions to less popular and more demanding themes.

3.3 The Serious Wyndham

Wyndham returned to the themes of social responsibility, race, religion, and fear of the unknown, which he brieﬂy touched upon in his ﬁrst pre-war novel, The Secret People, with The Crysalids, The Midwich Cuckoos, and The Trouble with Lichen

36 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM in the second half the 1950s. This move constituted a noteworthy deviation from the ‘cosy catastrophe’ path outlined by the Triffids and Kraken, and it is this direction that is the chief concern of this thesis. Despite the fact that the New Wave era is generally considered to have started in the 1960s,7 Wyndham’s writing clearly falls into the same category and can be viewed as the first examples of the new direction. In fact, when Wyndham wrote The Outward Urge, which was a classic work of hard science fiction (an example of the so-called ‘space opera’) that fea- tured nuclear wars and space exploration, it was published, in 1959, as written by John Wyndham and Lucas Parkes—both, of course, pen names of a single author. The reasoning of the publishers was that the name John Wyndham was so strongly associated with a different style that it would be better, for promotional purposes, to ‘dilute’ the Wyndham trademark by adding another author. Accord- ing to a letter to Wyndham from his American agent, Scott Meredith, the Ballan- tine publishing house felt that The Outward Urge was not “your usual Wyndham style” (Meredith). This anecdote serves to highlight the fact that by the mid-1950s, Wyndham’s writing was so strongly associated with the cosy-catastrophe tropes that nobody expected him to turn his attention to the classical world of science- fiction space travel. With The Chrysalids, published in 1955, which many consider Wyndham’s best novel (Aldiss 315), the author offers a radically different theme. No longer is it the trials of middle-class non-heroes who struggle to come to terms with a world thrown into chaos by a powerful outside force (while inviting the reader to grasp at the chance to not only feel better about the future of post-war Britain but also allowing them to relish the guilty pleasure of fantasizing about the spoils that a world void of authority offers—as embodied by the cosy catastrophe).

7 Speciﬁcally, the start of the New Wave period in science ﬁction is often said to fall to 1964 when Michael Moorcock took over the editorship of the New Worlds magazine (Higgins).

37 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

Instead, The Chrysalids presents a story where the main danger comes from the people themselves—cruel and bigoted, living in a society warped by religious zealotry, corruption, and universal distrust. In this novel, Wyndham turns to exploring fanaticism, xenophobia, and human malice, which marked a dramatic change from his previous best-sellers. In The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, George Mann characterizes this shift in Wyndham’s writing by stating: “The novel marked, for Wyndham, a move away from the ‘comfortable’ [...] to the bleaker and more intractable threat posed by humanity to itself.” (323). The Chrysalids is set in post-apocalyptic (most likely following a global nuclear war) Labrador where the remnants of mankind survive in conditions resemblant to the 18th century, sustained by agriculture (Labrador is shown to have a mild climate in the future). The state religion is centred around attempts to eradicate mutations (anything that does not conform to ‘God’s true image’), which occur frequently in all forms of life, including humans. Mutant crops are burned, mutant livestock put down, and mutant humans sterilized and banished or killed. The story revolves around a group of youths in a rural community whose mutation is the gift of telepathy. The mutation is eventually discovered by the authorities, and the group is forced to ﬂee for the so-called Fringes where other mutant people live in depraved poverty. The story ends with (some of) the telepathic kids being rescued by members of a technologically advanced society of telepaths from New Zealand. The text is quite engaging, and provides for an entertaining read even if one chooses not think too deeply about the many unsettling topics it explores. However, the novel does probe a number of themes that reach well beyond the fare offered by Wyndham’s earlier novels, and as such it is worth examining in greater detail. There is an overarching theme that the characters reﬂect on at various

38 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM stages of the story: intolerance and xenophobia. Wyndham presents two intrinsi- cally different views of this issue, which, by the end, are shown to paradoxically have a lot in common. The reader is first subjected to the cruel and dogmatic line represented by the Amish-like society in Labrador. The depressingly bigoted establishment and its tyrannical treatment of its own people echoes Orwell’s 1984, but the focus is on the plight of the people, not on the totalitarian machinery. The main protagonist’s father is an unyielding religious fanatic who (in his patriarchal role within the community) shows no mercy to anything that offends his zealous observance of the official faith—including members of his own family. Even the slightest infractions are severely punished, and all mutations, no matter how tiny or harmless, are viciously expunged. In his early childhood, the main character (David) is castigated by his father for an innocent remark (saying that he could have bandaged his own bleeding finger had he had another hand) as follows: “‘You — my own son — were calling upon the Devil to give you another hand!’ he accused me. ‘But I wasn’t. I only —’ ‘Be quiet, boy. Everyone in this room heard you. You’ll certainly make it no better by lying.’ ‘But —’ ‘Were you, or were you not, expressing dissatisfaction with the form of the body God gave you — the form in His own image?’ ‘I just said if I —’ ‘You blasphemed, boy. You found fault with the Norm. Everybody here heard you. What have you to say to that?’” (Chrysalids 27). Wyndham goes to some lengths to describe the brutality (and absur- dity) that accompanies the religious fundamentalism. The ritual of ‘Purification’, which consists in a ceremonial killing of ‘Blasphemies’ (mutant animals) is a gory

39 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM affair, but it is even worse when it comes to human babies. These need to be examined upon birth by a designated inspector and issued a certiﬁcate of purity. Babies that do not pass the scrutiny are discarded, and mothers that ‘fail’ in three consecutive attempts are repudiated by their husbands for ‘mocking the Maker’. David’s mother is only capable of producing a baby girl compliant with ‘the Norm’ on the third attempt, but this is how she reacts to her sister’s pleading for help in saving her ‘aberrant’ child:“‘Nothing much!’ snapped my mother. ‘You have the effrontery to bring your monster into my house, and tell me it’s nothing much!’” (Chrysalids 70). Sister or no sister, no help is forthcoming. The second perspective from which the theme of intolerance and xenophobia is viewed is that of the affected people: David’s aunt, who was refused help by her ‘proper’ sister, the mutants themselves (mostly the telepathic kids), and, most importantly, David’s uncle Axel who acts as the voice of reason. Also, at the very end of the story, members of the advanced civilization, who interfere to extract the telepaths and take them away from Labrador, weigh in on the issue. The condemnation that David’s aunt delivers upon being turned down by her own family and told to repent in the face of her baby being taken away to be disposed of is especially powerful. It serves as an adequate counterbalance to the brainwashed religious droning of David’s father: “‘You have much to pray for. Not only have you blasphemed by producing a false image, but in your arrogance you have set your- self against the law, and sinned in intent.’ [...] ‘I shall pray,’ she said. ‘Yes, I shall pray.’ She paused, then she went on, her voice steady and harder: ‘I shall pray God to send charity into this hideous world, and sympathy for the weak, and love for the unhappy and unfortunate. I shall ask Him if it is indeed His

40 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

will that a child should suffer and its soul be damned for a little blemish of the body... And I shall pray Him, too, that the hearts of the self-righteous may be broken...’” (Chrysalids 73) Uncle Axel, the voice of reason, provides David with some early doses of common sense and eventually aids the group of threatened telepaths to escape. In the narrative, the uncle is described as a former sailor who has seen faraway lands, was in contact with strange foreigners, and, as a result, harbours a healthy measure of scepticism towards the ofﬁcially sanctioned religious teach- ings. Within the framework of the story, the uncle delivers information and background pertaining to things that the narrator, i.e. little David, cannot explain. Wyndham uses the character to regulate the amount of detail about the novel’s ﬁctional world that the reader can glimpse, including the nature of the apocalypse that resulted in the omnipresent mutations. Upon discovering David’s telepathic abilities, the uncle teaches him respect for himself and also encourages him to question the dogma: “‘Remember what I told you. They think they are the true image — but they can’t know for sure. And even if the Old People were the same kind as I am and they are, what of it? [...] There’s a lot of nonsense mixed up in what they say about them, but even if there’s a lot of truth, too, what’s the good of trying so hard to keep in their tracks? Where are they and their wonderful world now?’” (Chrysalids 78). The end of the story is, unfortunately, a little too abrupt, and the resolution of the plot has a deux-ex-machina quality, which lessens its appeal: the surviving telepaths, who have been pursued by a posse of vindictive upholders of purity all the way to the ‘Fringes’ region where other mutants live, are contacted by a representative of a civilization of telepaths. Using their superior technology,

41 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM the foreigners kill all the pursuers along with the ‘Fringes people’, rescuing the telepaths in the process, and fly away with them to live in their modern, enlight- ened society. Just before the end of the book, the foreigners explain their reasoning with regard to their indiscriminate killing of the ‘Old People’. David and his friends are perturbed by the killings, but the foreigner is unmoved: “there was no callousness in her mind, nor any great concern either: just a slight distaste, as if for an unavoidable, but unexceptional, necessity”. Patiently, she embarks on a lengthy apologia: “‘It is not pleasant to kill any creature,’ she agreed, ‘but to pre- tend that one can live without doing so is self-deception.’”. It is all very pragmatic and unsentimental: “The unhappy Fringes people were condemned through no act of their own to a life of squalor and misery — there could be no future for them. As for those who condemned them — well, that, too, is the way of it. [...] When the time came for them to be superseded they had to pass away.” Wyndham presents the conflict of civilizations (or species) as a matter of business-like Darwinism: “In loyalty to their kind, they cannot tolerate our rise; in loyalty to our kind, we cannot tolerate their obstruction.”. It really is about the survival of the fittest: “For ours is a superior variant, and we are only just beginning.” (all preceding quotes on this page from Chrysalids 195–6). This final string of proclamations seems to be at odds with the tolerance advocated earlier in the book. The killing of enemies (pursuers) is described as a necessity, and the killing of ‘invalids’ (Fringes people) is described as mercy. It needs to be viewed in the larger context of Wyndham’s investigation of morality and the justifiability of actions taken to advance one’s interests at the expense of evil adversaries. Wyndham is asking: can a species be justified in summarily disposing of some other species that threatened its existence? What is the extent

42 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM of the threat that would vindicate such actions? Is it possible to justify hastening the demise of an inferior species? Similar questions are explored in The Midwich Cuckoos (discussed below). Throughout the first half of The Chrysalids, Wyndham manages to lighten the mood of the narrative by exploiting the discrepancy between the first person narrator’s age in the story and at the time the story is related (it is told by an adult through the eyes of a small, and later young, boy). By cleverly juxtaposing the reader’s expectations and the actual tone of the narration—David, the young ob- server, uses expressions unsuitable for his age and station—Wyndham achieves a subdued comical effect that does not harm the flow of the story but delivers a welcome respite from the onslaught of human vile. The reader is treated to little gems like the following (the words of a ten-year-old): “At any rate, I decided, for the moment, not to run away from home. The practical difficulties looked formidable.” (Chrysalids 65). In the second half of the book, similar breathers are provided courtesy of David’s baby sister whose telepathic capabilities, of which she is initially unaware, are unusually strong. Her occasional telepathic outbursts, unchecked and childish, cause the other telepaths some distress at various inop- portune moments. This serves not only to entertain the reader but also to rid the ‘mutation’ of its air of oddness—Wyndham succeeds in presenting it as a per- fectly acceptable fact of life; it may be curious, but it is not sinister—on the contrary, it is amusing and, at times—not always, helpful. Telepathy plays a substantial role in the The Midwich Cuckoos as well, only this time, the parts are swapped because the narrator is a member of the ‘normal’ group. The premise remains the same though: the telepathic children represent danger, and the ‘regular’ people, who are faced with admitting their own inferiority, seek to destroy them. In The Midwich Cuckoos (1957), Wyndham presents a situation opposite to the one in The Chrysalids: children with special powers need to be eliminated for

43 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM the greater good of the humanity. This unfashionable proposition is made (somewhat) acceptable by the fact that the children are likely of extra-terrestrial origin, having been born by human mothers who were artificially impregnated against their will. The concept of xenogenesis used in science fiction as a means for an alien race to gain a foothold on Earth was hardly original, but Wyndham managed to approach it in a way that raised a number of very provocative and disturbing questions. The issues of morality, justifiability, and limits thereof form an even stronger motif in Cuckoos than in The Chrysalids. The plot of The Midwich Cuckoos is rather simple and straightforward: following a day of inexplicable unconsciousness, inhabitants of an English vil- lage wake up to (gradually) find out that all women capable of bearing a child are pregnant. In nine months’ time, the women all give birth to rather strange- looking children—they appear human but have golden eyes and pale, silvery skin. The children (referred to as ‘the Children’ in the text) grow twice as fast as normal kids, have telepathic abilities, and are extremely intelligent. They can make other people to do their bidding through telepathy, which they use to pro- tect themselves from outside threats to the point of causing the deaths of several villagers. Meanwhile, it becomes known that similar groups of children were born in other parts of the world and all were rather violently eliminated either by the communities in which they lived or by the local government. When the Children learn that the Russians dealt with ‘their’ Children by nuclear explosion, the Children restrict the movement of the villagers to keep them as hostages and issue a demand for transport to an unspecified location where they would be safe from potential harm. In reaction to that, a local intellectual, who works as a teacher for the Children and has their trust, decides that a radical solution is called for and kills all the children and himself by exploding a big bomb while showing them an educational film.

44 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

As is the case with The Chrysalids, the book is well written and provides enough entertainment even without considering the deeper theme it explores, that is, the (im)morality of killing five dozen children because they are different, because they seem to pose a threat, or because they may not be human. Wyndham needed a suitable vehicle for delivering the various arguments about the matter, and for this he used the character of Gordon Zellaby, the teacher who ends up murdering the children. His frequent philosophical observations and lengthy dis- courses allow Wyndham to contemplate various aspects of the developments as they unfold and to elaborate on the different options presented to the characters and, by abstracting the problem, to humanity. The most crucial of these reflections is, of course, presented at the very end of the novel when Zellaby explains his reasoning behind the decision to kill the children: “We are presented with a moral dilemma of some niceness. On the one hand, it is our duty to our race and culture to liquidate the Chil- dren, for it is clear that if we do not we shall, at best, be completely dominated by them, and their culture, whatever it may turn out to be, will extinguish ours.” (Cuckoos 119). The choice of vocabulary is particularly interesting—Zellaby talks about ‘duty’, which has the connotation of honour and necessity, thus precluding any argument to the contrary. In arguing that The Midwich Cuckoos can be “read as an early example of the genre of holocaust fiction” (History of Science Fiction 211), Adam Roberts points out Wyndham’s use of euphemisms, such as ‘liquidate’ or ‘neutralise’, which “are painfully familiar” (212) when considered in the context of Nazi ideology. We are manœuvred not only into acknowledging that it is necessary to kill (‘liquidate’) the children but also into believing that it is a desirable, humane thing to do. Roberts offers a powerful comparison to a death- camp guard in suggesting that the novel: “interpellates us as a camp guard:

45 3 THE WORKSOF JOHN WYNDHAM

‘here, you must not only kill these children’ [...] ‘but believe that you are doing good’” (212). Zellaby continues by voicing the second side of the dilemma: “On the other hand, it is our culture that gives us scruples about the ruthless liquidation of unarmed minorities, not to mention the practical obstacles to such a solution.” (Cuckoos 119). The obvious imbalance of the argument is exemplified by positing the negative undertone of ‘scruples’ against the aforementioned positivity of ‘duty’—in addition to the mildness of the expression: we are not be horrified, appalled, or shocked by this ‘duty’, we are just musing over some ‘scruples’. This exquisite lexical equilibristics is grimly complemented by calling a ‘ruthless liquidation’ a ‘solution’ and immediately abandoning the ruthlessness aspect to mull—in the same sentence—over ‘practical obstacles’. It is clear that there was no dilemma to begin with, and the half-hearted counter argument was put forward just for the sake of appearances. It is now the time to properly vali- date the decision to commit the murder because if we fail to do it, who would? Zellaby continues in a rhetorical manner: “how difficult — on the third hand, to enable the Children to shift the problem they represent to the territory of a people even more ill equipped to deal with it is a form of evasive procrastination which lacks any moral courage at all” (Cuckoos 119). Now that that we have dismissed the ‘scruples’, we are making sure that there really is a sense of ‘duty’: failure to carry out the killing would be ‘evasive procrastination’, and it would ‘lack moral courage’. Our ‘moral dilemma’ is satisfactorily resolved: we must murder the children—it would be immoral not to. Zellaby confirms, already thinking about the practicality of the method: “Ergo, the Children ought to be eliminated at the least possible cost, with the least possible delay.” (Cuckoos 119). In The Midwich Cuckoos, Wyndham has created an excellent denunciation of the ‘God is on our side’ attitude of ‘modern’ societies.

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It is intelligent, relentless, and merciless. Together with The Chrysalids, The Mid- wich Cuckoos is an example of popular literature that is capable of carrying and delivering a powerful message that resonates far beyond the incidental entertainment offered to a casual reader. Roberts concludes that “Wyndham’s satire on the western ideology of ‘civilisation’ and ‘race’ still has contemporary bite.” (History of Science Fiction 212). Wyndham continued to probe social and societal norms in The Trouble with Lichen (1960) which, in spite of its title, is one of only a few of Wyndham’s works that do not subject its protagonists to some form of immediate danger. Instead, The Trouble with Lichen considers and pounces on social stereotypes that lead people into situations that expose the ways in which their perception of basic values is disproportionately skewed by human greed and envy. All three of these books, that is, The Chrysalids, The Midwich Cuckoos, and The Trouble with Lichen, though markedly different in style and topic, constitute Wyndham’s boldest forays into areas and themes that would later come to characterize the New Wave movement. The novels are also the most outstanding examples of Wyndham’s development as a writer and of his focus on ‘serious’ themes.

47 4 Conclusion

John Wyndham’s novels, some of which have been accused of being shallow and presenting only ‘cosy catastrophes’, have evolved over time from popularly appealing to more intellectually stimulating. While experts established in the area of British science-fiction critique have offered insights into Wyndham’s writing style, a thorough examination of his inspirations and motivations can reveal the pragmatic reasons behind the gradual change of focus in the works of this author. The evolution of Wyndham’s writing from the likeable yet schematic formula of his earlier novels to the themes of social responsibility, equality, justice, and tolerance that were explored in later works can be ascribed to the author’s carefully controlled progression from popular themes to more serious topics. Wyndham’s writing career spanned almost four decades, starting in the 1920s and continuing, with a significant interlude caused by the Second World War, until his death in 1969. Before the war, Wyndham wrote mostly ‘anonymous’ (using one of his many pen names) science fiction for American pulp magazines, but he did publish a successful novel called The Secret People, which can be seen as presaging his later ‘serious’ works. Even though the text lacked the literary qualities of Wyndham’s post-war novels, its ambitious probing of difficult themes made it an important piece in the puzzle that together constitutes the body of Wyndham’s work. Nonetheless, this paper is mainly concerned with the period following the Second World War when Wyndham returned to writing after a lengthy pause. It was then that he produced his most successful works—using a different pen name, focusing on different topics, and distancing himself from the classical science fiction, which had been the genre of choice for him before the war. The first novel Wyndham wrote and published after the war turned out to be the most

48 4 CONCLUSION successful one: The Day of the Triffids. The novel’s tone deliberately avoided the boisterousness of earlier ‘hardcore’ science-fiction writings and instead reflected the atmosphere in the post-war British society by having a non-hero character contend with sinister outside forces that threatened the very existence of civilization on the British Isles and elsewhere. The text can be interpreted as mirroring the anxieties shared by common people with regard to economic hardships, political changes, and uncertainty stemming from global instability or fear of the Cold War. The characters are not out to save the world in a spectacular fashion—they only want to make sense of what is happening and how to pull through without having to abandon all their values. Some critics felt, with Brian Aldiss, the influential science-fiction author and editor, being the most vocal one, that the way Wyndham’s post-war novels presented their topics was unrealistic and bland, with no real urgency. Aldiss called this style the ‘cosy catastrophe’, and the term has since become widely used for describing works in which the protagonists are allowed to lead a relatively enjoyable existence while the world around them is crumbling to dust. This paper does not dispute Aldiss’ assertion but argues that Wyndham was well aware of this aspect of his writing and that he chose to approach his subjects in that way on purpose. A follow up apocalypse novel to The Day of the Triffids was the The Kraken Wakes, and in it, Wyndham was again not only making sense of the changing world but also targeting a larger audience than he could possibly hope to achieve were he to stick to the ‘gritty’ style of the science-fiction genre. However, in later works, having already established himself as a successful author, Wyndham went on to explore much more serious and difficult topics, the majority of which has not lost any of its importance even today. Starting with The Chrysalids in 1955, Wyndham turned to writing about uncomfortable questions that included xenophobia, racism, and genocide. In The Chrysalids, a

49 4 CONCLUSION genetically declining society sanctions religious fanaticism and fundamentalism, which are targeted against minorities with physical anomalies (or disabilities). These depravities are contrasted with notions of social Darwinism and ‘mercy’ killings of inferior species by an ‘advanced’ civilization. The novel is provocative, it examines disturbing issues, and it asks questions that cannot be dismissed as ‘cosy’—to borrow the term used to describe Wyndham’s earlier writing. In the next novel, The Midwich Cuckoos, Wyndham continues to scrutinize commonly accepted views by discussing morality and the justifiability of crimes in the name of greater good. The Midwich Cuckoos is, to an even greater degree than The Chrysalids, a novel that presses the reader to consider the implications of actions that, while presented as unavoidable and commendable, are also inherently violent and, at their core, malevolent. Wyndham asks whether there can ever arise a situation that would absolve members of a society from condoning such acts. Both of these novels, along with other writing, including short stories and later books, show Wyndham embracing intricate, challenging themes and can be viewed as a big step from the safe betting that characterized his early post-war output. The gradual change in Wyndham’s writing style, which progressed from simple, feel-good topics to serious themes made Wyndham a forerunner to the writers of the so-called New Wave in science fiction, who started, beginning in the 1960s, to utilize experimental writing techniques, ignored taboos about sexuality or drug use, and turned the science-fiction genre into a vehicle for exploring dark corners of the human mind. Wyndham’s later works, including The Chrysalids and The Midwich Cuckoos, did not only shed any traces of attributes that could be associated with the ‘cosy catastrophe’ moniker, which had been applied rather aptly to The Day of the Triffids and The Kraken Wakes, but also opened new directions in as yet untravelled areas of the new, ‘soft’, science-fiction genre and charted the

50 4 CONCLUSION course for many New Wave authors who came to the fore at the turn of the 1960s. Wyndham’s progression from ‘popular’ to ‘serious’ science fiction is ex- citing for readers to follow and rewarding for critics to analyse. This thesis gives an overview of the science-fiction genre with the aim of establishing a context in which Wyndham’s works can be situated and discusses Wyndham’s own views with regard to genre classification. However, the thesis was not written with the expectation of charting John Wyndham’s literary career or of providing a thorough description of the developments that can be detected in Wyndham’s writing. Instead, the thesis attempts to present an argument that offers an explanation of Wyndham’s motivations pertaining to his choice of topics—in particular, the ‘popular’ and the ‘serious’ themes. At the same time, the paper points out some of the most manifest patterns that can be seen as epitomizing these themes in selected works. This way, the thesis hopes to have contributed to the body of work that investigates Wyndham’s writings and their impact on science fiction and literature in general.

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Mann, George. The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. London: Robinson, 2001. 1st ed. PDF. Meredith, Scott. Letter to John Wyndham. 29 Sep. 1958. The John Wyndham Archive, 1930-2001. Ed. Joan Revill. Liverpool: U of Liverpool, Special Collections and Archives, n.d. Web. 16 Jan. 2015. Nicholls, Peter, and John Clute. “Ashley, Mike.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. Eds. John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls, and Graham Sleight. Gol- lancz, 25 Oct. 2014. Web. 16 Jan. 2015. Nicholls, Peter. “Hard SF.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. Eds. John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls and Graham Sleight. Gollancz, 28 Feb. 2013. Web. 16 Jan. 2015. Roberts, Adam. The History of Science Fiction. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. PDF. Parrinder, Patrick, ed. Science Fiction: A Critical Guide. Oxon: Routledge, 2014. PDF. Seed, David. Science Fiction: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2011. PDF. Westfahl, Gary. “Gernsback, Hugo.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. Eds. John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls, and Graham Sleight. Gollancz, 25 Oct. 2014. Web. 16 Jan. 2015. Westfahl, Gary. “The Popular Tradition of Science Fiction Criticism 1926–1980.” Science Fiction Studies 26.2 (1999): 187-212. JSTOR. Web. 20 July 2014. Wyndham, John. Stowaway to Mars. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2008. PDF. Wyndham, John. The Chrysalids. London: Penguin Books Ltd., n.d. Print. Wyndham, John. The Day of the Trifﬁds. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2008. PDF. Wyndham, John. The Midwich Cuckoos. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2008. PDF. Wyndham, John. The Secret People. London: Coronet Books, 1978. Print.

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Wyndham, John. Chocky. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2010. PDF. Wyndham, John. Consider Her Ways and Others. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2014. ePub. Wyndham, John. The Kraken Wakes. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2008. PDF. Wyndham, John. Trouble with Lichen. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2008. ePub. Wyndham, John. The Outward Urge. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2010. ePub. Wyndham, John. The Seeds of Time. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2014. ePub. Wyndham, John. Web. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2012. ePub.

54 Shrnutí

Dílo Johna Wyndhama, oblíbeného a vlivného autora sci-fi v období tˇesnˇepˇred pˇríchodemtzv. Nové vlny v britské sci-fi, již ˇradulet rozdˇelujekritiky v rámci tohoto žánru na dva tábory. Zatímco nˇekteˇríjej považují za zásadní souˇcástbrit- ské sci-fi tradice, jiní je nazývají ‘pohodlné katastrofy’ (angl. ‘cosy catastrophes’), ˇcímžmíní, že se vyhýbají nároˇcnýmtémat ˚um.Tato práce pˇredkládáúvod do žánru sci-fi, rozebírá Wyndhamovu pozici v rámci tohoto žánru a zkoumá Wynd- hamovo dílo s ohledem na jeho obecnou oblíbenost a intelektuální podnˇety, které nabízí. Práce rovnˇežbere v úvahu termín ‘pohodlná katastrofa’ (který definoval a použil Brian Aldiss) a jeho uplatnitelnost ve vztahu k Wyndhamovu dílu. Za tím úˇcelemvyužívá tato práce jak p ˚uvodnívýzkum, tak názory odborník ˚una oblast britské sci-fi, aby mohla poskytnout náhled na Wyndham ˚uvstyl psaní a na inspirace a motivace, které dohromady ovlivˇnovalytematické zamˇeˇreníjeho dˇel.Práce dokumentuje vývoj Wyndhamova psaní od líbivého, ale schematic- kého vzorce dˇrívˇejšíchromán ˚uk témat ˚umspoleˇcenskéodpovˇednosti,xenofobie a spravedlnosti, které Wyndham zaˇclenildo svých pozdˇejšíchdˇel.Tento posun lze popsat jako postup Wyndhamova díla od oblíbených román ˚u,jež byly vy- tvoˇrenyza úˇcelemoslovení široké obce ˇctenáˇr˚u,a proto byly oznaˇcoványjako ‘pohodlné katastrofy’, k pozdˇejšímvíce vážným díl ˚um,jež zkoumala podnˇetná témata a pˇredznamenalapˇríchodNové vlny ve sci-fi.

55 Abstract

The works of John Wyndham, a popular and influential author of science fiction in the period just before the advent of the British New Wave of science fiction, have been dividing critics of the genre. While some consider them the defining pieces of the British science-fiction canon, others label them ‘cosy catastrophes’, implying that they shy away from challenging themes. This thesis introduces the genre of science fiction, discusses John Wyndham’s position within that genre, and examines Wyndham’s works with regard to their popular appeal and the intellectual stimuli they offer. The paper also considers the term ‘cosy catastrophe’ (as coined and used by Brian Aldiss), and how it applies to Wyndham’s work. To that end, the thesis uses both original research and opinions of experts established in the area of British science-fiction critique to offer insights into Wyndham’s writing style and into inspirations and motivations that together influenced the focus of his works. The paper documents the evolution of Wyndham’s writing from the likeable yet schematic formula of the earlier novels to the themes of social responsibility, xenophobia, and justice explored in later works. This shift can be described as a progression of Wyndham’s work from popular novels, which were crafted to appeal to broad audiences and were consequently labelled cosy catastrophes, to more serious later works, which explored challenging themes and foreshadowed the emergence of the New Wave movement in science fiction.