The Critics’ Corner
Don Webb and...
Danielle L. Parker’s “Galen The Deathless”
It’s hard to surpass Mike Tyzuk’s encomium; I’ll just add that I enjoyed “Galen the Deathless,” too, mainly as an example of how prose can be carefully worked, compacted, even distilled and yet remain rich without making the reader chafe at apparently pointless detail. Suffice it to say what everyone knows by now: Danielle succeeds admirably in that style.
Discussing how a story works — rather than does not work — is a measure of its quality. I’ll begin by answering my own questions in Challenge 135:
Q. What makes the story partly science fiction?
A. The setting is realistic: the story takes place in the far future (cf. a reference to "Old Earth”) on a planet circling a blue-white star and orbited by three moons. The flora and fauna resemble that of Earth but are not terrestrial.
Q. What makes the story partly fantasy?
A. Two unanswered questions:
- The arena of ancient Rome is alluded to in a realistic style although it is not depicted in much detail. Such a monstrosity might well be reproduced some time, somewhere. But how could the names be Latin? They will never come again.
- The gladiators are recycled apparently by being resuscitated and patched up after being killed. Why, then, are their originals kept on ice? As museum pieces? As a source of DNA for organ regeneration?
Thus the story is mostly science fiction, but the anachronistic names and the unexplained nature of resuscitation make it fantasy.
Now, mixing genres is risky: the odds are that the result will only be clumsy; but when an unlikely combination does succeed, it can be quite striking. Does it succeed in “Galen the Deathless”? Why or why not?
Try this test: The hero must be a champion gladiator in an ancient Roman arena. He must also be world-weary. So far we have mainstream historical fiction. Now, the hero must also be recyclable: after being killed, he’s brought back to life with his memory only partly intact. Now we’re in science fiction.
At this point, the author could have chosen to stay with science fiction by imagining a parallel universe on Earth, where the ancient Romans somehow managed to resuscitate the dead. But that would have been laughable and tasteless. Rather, opt for a far-future setting where history repeats itself. The Latin-sounding names and the myterious, complex process of resuscitation make the story fantasy, but that’s a small price to pay. So, then, yes, the mixture of genres succeeds.
Two problems with the story:
- The author assumes the reader knows who the Penitents are, but the reader can conclude only that it doesn’t matter much: the Penitents appear to serve only as fodder for the wild beasts. But for what are they penitential? Is their name only a place-holder; that is, a name of convenience? The reader becomes aware of a “larger story” but has too little information to give it even a vague outline.
- Ambiguity is “happy” when it conveys multiple meanings that complement each other and make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. The ending could attain such bliss; let’s see how:
with all the might of my body and my will I hurl the sword high, high, in the air. As it rises the blade twists and spins like a glittering snake, until on its downward arc the blue lightning flashes upward from his throne to seize it and suspend it in the heaven. You are beneath its point, Caesar. Another shall see it fall.
- Is Galen making an assassination attempt or a symbolic gesture? He doesn’t seem to aim the sword; he just gives it a heave. Symbolism is more likely: judging by the snake simile, the sword is transformed into a caduceus in mid-flight, and at the end, Caesar is “beneath its point.” Does that mean that Caesar will be overthrown when all gladiators join their physician-herald Galen in a labor action, namely calling a drop-dead strike?
- “‘His’ throne”: the pronoun has no close antecedent. “Throne” allows us to assume that “his” refers to Caesar, as does Caesar’s name in the next to last sentence. The reader feels a bit like an usher demanding that the Imperator produce his ticket to the spectacle.
- “Heaven” is a mystical term; as a proper name it normally takes no article. On the other hand, “the heavens” is a poetic term for “sky.” Which is meant? It’s not grammatically possible to imply both at once.
- What is the “blue lightning”? Looking at the story as science fiction, is it a technological trick, like a tractor beam? Looking at the story as fantasy, is it magic, i.e. the same thing?
From another viewpoint, the lightning could also be a symbol: the sword is suspended at the apex of its arc because that’s when Galen sees it last, as he dies, and the lightning could come from the metaphorical throne of the blue-white sun.
Galen’s last thoughts are powerful, and his final gesture makes him a martyr in a transcendent cause. The prose of such a conclusion requires all the care of poetry; it cannot stand on unhappy ambiguities. As Mike Tyzuk says, what we have here is the beginning of an ending. It need not be much longer at all; but it needs the care of a physician such as Galen himself.
Don W.
P. S. The ancient physician has a couple of hypertext notes in our edition of Cyrano de Bergerac’s The Other World, episode 29: “Is There a Doctor in the House?” (cf. “our circulatory system” and “a third intellectual substance”).
The discussion may be continued and is open to all.
Please feel free to join in!