Russian and East European Science Fiction
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
Swarthmore College Works Russian Faculty Works Russian 2011 Russian And East European Science Fiction Sibelan E. S. Forrester Swarthmore College, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://works.swarthmore.edu/fac-russian Part of the Slavic Languages and Societies Commons Let us know how access to these works benefits ouy Recommended Citation Sibelan E. S. Forrester. (2011). "Russian And East European Science Fiction". Sense Of Wonder: A Century Of Science Fiction. 107-109. https://works.swarthmore.edu/fac-russian/163 This work is brought to you for free by Swarthmore College Libraries' Works. It has been accepted for inclusion in Russian Faculty Works by an authorized administrator of Works. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Early Science Fiction ( -1926) 107 vanisl1C'd. My eyes, a thousand eyes, gazed upwards, at the neighbor, bent over a book, his lumps, his bald spot and RUSSIAN AND Machine. There-the third, iron gesture of that inhuman his forehead, shaping an enormous, yellow parabola. I ag hand. Shaking in an unsrrn wind, the criminal makes his onized; after everything with her, how could I want 0? EAST EUROPEAN way, slowly, up thr steps, one step, another, and with that And to the right I could feel his eyes on me, I could see SCIENCE FICTION step, the last of his life, throws his face back to the sky, to distinctly the wrinkles on his forehead, ranks of yellow, Sibelan Forrester the blue. Standing on his final resting place. illegible scratches. And for some reason it appears that Severe and immovable as destiny, the Benrfactor these scratches were all about me. Although Anglo-American science fiction is better passed around the Machine in a circle, laid an enormous At a quarter to 22 she camr to my room, a joyful pink known throughout the world, not to mention (natu hand on the lever. There was not a whisper of breath: whirlwind, a firm squeeze of pink arms around me. And rally) in North America, Russian and East European every eye was on the hand. Thr hand gripped the fiery then I felt that squeeze slowly getting weaker, her arms re science fiction has played a significant role in the de vortex, the instrument, with its force of hundreds of leasing me, until her hands lowered and she said: velopment of SF for more than a century. Russian thousands of volts. What a magnificent charge! "You aren't the same, you aren't like before, you aren't and East European SF differ enough to be treated An immeasurable second. The hand, crackling with mine!" separately here, but they have been closely interre current, lowers. An unbearably sharp, cutting beam What a wild term, "mine"! I was never ... but I hesi lated thanks to mutual translation as well as geo flashes-like a shiver, a just audible crackle in the tubes of tated. Earlier I wasn't, not reliably, but now, you see, I don't graphical proximity, especially in the socialist era the machine-. The prostrate body is bathed in a luminous live in our rational world, but in a second, nonsensical 0917-1991 for the USSR and roughly 1947-1991 hazr; dissolving, dissolving, with a terrible spred brfore world. The world of the square root of negative one. for most of the rest of Eastern Europe). our eyrs. And then nothing: only a puddle of pure, clean The blinds fell. To the right, my neighbor dropped For many reasons, SF has long been a popular watrr, whrre a moment beforr a scarlrt heart beat vio his book from the table to the floor, and in the last, in genre in Eastern Europe and Russia. Many early SF lendv ... stantaneous, narrow crevice between the blinds and the works were acceptable even to socialist censorship, This process was simple, and familiar to rach of us: floor, I saw a yellow hand snatch up the book. And in my because the future or interplanetary societies they yes, dissociated matter, yes, the splitting of the body's heart, I would have used all my strength if I could have depicted were essentially socialist; many authors ( H. atoms. But nonetheless, every time it was like a miracle, a grasped that hand. G. Wells and others) were Fabians or some other va sign of the inhuman power of the Brnefactor. "I thought ... I hoped to see you on my walk today. I riety of leftist. Jules Verne and Wei Is were translated Before Him flared the faces of a dozen female ciphers, need you, I need you so much ... " frequently, so their works were easily available and womrn with lips half-open from agitation, their flowrrs Poor, pretty O! Her pink mouth was a half moon widely enjoyed. Readers of SF in Russia and East fluttering in the wind.1 with the horns pointing downwards. But I couldn't tell Europe today are much more familiar with the best According to the old custom, ten women adorned the her why, what I had done; it would have made her an ac western SF -from classics to the present day-than uniform of the Benefactor, which was still damp from the complice to my crimes, and I knew that she didn't have the Western readers are with Russian and East Euro spray, with flowers. With the magnificrnt steps of a high strength to go the Bureau of Guardians, so conse pean SF. priest He slowly descended, slowly moved through the ,1uently ... Tribunal, and after him the tender white branches of 0 lay down. I slowly kissed her, kissing the sweet, RUSSIAN AND SOVIET SF womrn's arms, and a storm of cries from the unified mil plump crease in her wrist. Her blue eyes were closed, and Russian SF sprang from a utopian chapter of Niko lions. And then crirs in honor of the Guardians, invisibly that pink half moon slowly blossomed, melting, as I lai Chernyshevsky's 1863 novel What Is To Be present, somewhere in our rows. Who knows: maybe the kissed her everywhere. Done? ("Vera Pavlovna's Dream") and from Fyo Guardians wrre foreseen in the fantasies of the ancient Suddenly I felt clearly how empty and devastated I dor Dostoevsky's story "Dream of a Ridiculous people, in creating their tender-terrible "guardian angels" was, how I had been cast of£ I couldn't-it wasn't possi Man" and "Legend of the Grand Inquisitor" (a that were placed beside each individual at birth. ble. I must, but I couldn't. My lips froze. chapter from the 1880 novel The Karamazov Broth Yes, something from the ancient religions, something The pink half moon trembled, faded, convulsed. 0 ers) as much as from the perpetual favorites Jules purifying, like a thunderstorm, was present in the whole threw the cover over herself, cocooned in the bed, her face Verne or H. G. Wei Is. The stories of rocketry pioneer crkbration. You, whose task it is to read this-do you buried in the pillow. Konstantin Tsiolkovsky (1857-1935) and Old Bol know moments like these? I feel sorry for you, if you do I sat on the floor near the bed, the cold, despairing shevik Alexander Bogdanov's 1908 novel Red Star, not. .. floor. I sat in silence. Agonizing cold came from below; among others, founded the genre. Tsiolkovsky was everything was over. This was, it seemed to me, the same, strongly influenced by philosopher Nikolai Fyodorov 1 From the Botanical Museum, of course. I personally have silent cold, found in the mute, black space between planets. (1827-1903), who felt it was mankind's duty to pur never seen any beauty in flowers-like everything else be "You must understand, I didn't want ... " I mumbled. sue science until we could resurrect "the fathers" longing to the savage, ancient world, everything that was ex "I tried, with all my strength ... " (our dead ancestors); he urged development of iled beyond the Green Wall. The only beauty is reasonable It was true; I really didn't want to. And everything else, and useful: machines, boots, formulas, food, etc. space travel as a way to find new planets, so al I every word I said to her. But how to explain to her, that those reincorporated human beings would have iron doesn't want to, but the law, inevitable and precise ... room to live. Bogdanov's Red Star posits a more ad Record Fourteen. 0 raised her face from the pillow and, without open vanced utopian society on Mars (the conveniently "Mine." I can't. The cold floor. ing her eyes, said "Go away;' but through her tears it red planet); the novel's earthling hero marvels at the Yet more about yesterday. The personal hour before sounded like "goway;' and for some reason that absurd, economic and social achievements of the highly de sleep ended, and thus I could not write. All of this has childish trifle broke my heart. veloped civilization there, though troubled by his been carved into me, engraved forever, especially this un My whole being was freezing, pierced with the cold. lover's sexual past. Bogdanov 0873-1928) was one bearably cold floor. .. I left, walking out into the corridor. Through the glass I of many Marxist SF authors who depicted aliens as Yes,terday evening it was time for O's visit-it was her could see a light, barely perceptible wisp of smoke. At humanoid; according to scientific Marxism, human day. I went down to the attendant to obtain a certifica night, the smoke would descend, attaching to everything.