I recently
bought a box of pulp SF from eBay - most dating from the 50s and 60s.
Lantern-jawed, pipe-smoking men save the world while their gorgeous female
assistants are prone to outbursts of come-hither hero worshiping and swooning -
especially when kissed fiercely and unexpectedly by the lantern-jawed men. The
latest one was about a worldwide plague where the lantern-jawed hero is a
journalist trying to uncover governmental secrecy while trying to decide
whether to go to his mistress - young, beautiful, free loving and rich - or
whether to return to his ex-wife - a dour and buttoned-up biologist - who has
an in on a secret survival bunker. (He's a selfish and cold-hearted bastard, so
my bet is on him going with the ex-wife and claiming to have loved only her all
along.) “The Collapsing Empire” belongs to this book category.
A few years ago,
I tried reading his “Old Man's War”. I still remember thinking: “Gosh! If this the SF that’s been written
nowadays I’ll never read another single line of it.” Every character
sounded like the last one. That is, like a Syfy channel quickie. That’s why it
was with some trepidation that I started the last one from Scalzi.
Most writers
have a massively over-inflated sense of self-worth. Most books have no
inspirational content whatsoever. Many are drivel. Some people take their
inspiration from other things. Reading is a pastime for most. Writers are
entertainers no more. A dime a dozen, forgotten if ever noticed. Even those
lauded are often just in the right clique of reviewers. Lots of writers seem to
think Shakespeare was a professorial type, rather than a jobbing actor. Most of
the output of the publishing industry is pulp. Some gems emerge, but I would
challenge anyone to name an author who has produced nothing but the highly
readable and valuable. Listen to all the recordings of The Beatles. They did
change the world in their own way, and some of the songs are wonderful. There
is also “Oobla Dee Oobla Dah". “The collapsing Empire” belongs to the
“Oobla Dee Oobla Dah” category: not really that good but still quite hummable. ´
I’m not sure why
but every time I read one of Scalzi’s novels, James T. Kirk comes to mind,
teaching a sexy alien about love: "We have this *thing* on Earth we call
love... You don't know about love... Let me teach you..." Now THAT's good
SF. Ahem. Ahh Kirk. Hard not to love him, smooth talking intergalactic slut
that he was (Was his shirt torn away in that scene? bet it was).
The books I
bought on eBay were cringe-making, but also quite diverting and entertaining.
Could I ask for more Scalzi-wise? Yes, I could. But I won’t. This is Scalzi at his absolute
best. He can’t write any better than this.
SF = Speculative
Fiction.
