I've decided to write the occasional post about obscure, or at least neglected, books that I am rather fond of. First up...
...two of the most interesting science-fictions novels. They are both short, overlooked works by two of the 19th centuries most successful writers: Trollope's The Fixed Period (1882) and Bulwer-Lytton's The Coming Race (1871). Granted, almost no-one reads Bulwer-Lytton anymore, and while I think this is a just fate for many of his novels, if any reader wants to find an evocative and engrossing novel set in Ancient Rome, you could do a lot worse than The Last Days of Pompeii; and if you want a thoughtful and surprisingly amusing science-fiction novel, I would heartily recommend The Coming Race.
Both The Fixed Period and The Coming Race have the virtue of being short books: my copy of the former comes in at 150 pages, the latter 115. The Fixed Period has an unusually dark (for Trollope) premise: a breakaway British colony named Britannula, in the early years of its newly-established republic, votes with an overwhelming majority to euthanise anyone over the age of 67 -- 'the fixed period'. At 67, the unfortunate person would be sent to 'The College' -- a supposedly idyllic place for them to spend their final year -- then when they turned 68 they would be killed, euphemistically referred to as the 'departure'. In an age like ours of democratic excess, which has made mainstream such fanaticism, and such absurd ideas; where euthanasia is becoming less and less a dirty word; where a policy like the China's one-child (now two-child) restriction is much less controversial than it ought to be; where abortion for convenience is becoming more acceptable; in such an era The Fixed Period, for all its amusing Victorian fancy, does not seem as ridiculous as it should. President John Neverbend is a fanatic struggling with private doubts and a nagging conscience, but adamant to pursue what he has reasoned himself into believing is right. One of the things most frightening about him is his unrelenting earnestness. I find him a believable character, and often notice his type.
The Coming Race, though the shorter of the two novels, is the more challenging read. The Fixed Period actually moves rather swiftly, whereas in The Coming Race there is an entire chapter on the Vril-ya language, which includes passages like, 'As the inflectional stage prevailed over the agglutinative, it is surprising to see...' (I bet you're eager to know how that sentence ends), and even includes a table demonstrating the declension of nouns in the Vril-ya language. Most chapters, however, are very short -- some only a page long. The chapter on the Vril-ya language is only five pages, and one could skip it and not have missed anything vital. Indeed, the novel does not really have a plot to speak of. A nameless narrator discovers an underground race of telepathic superhuman called Vril-ya, and he is invited to explore their technologically-advanced society. Eventually he has to escape after falling in love with his tour-guide (for want of a better term), Zee, and he then warns mankind of the dangers faced by the Vril-ya, who, through the mysterious substance vril, possess incredible powers of healing, metamorphosis and most of all destruction. The apparent utopia which the Vril-ya have created is entirely dependent on this terrifying power.
The novel is fascinating for readers like myself more interested in place and ideas than plot and incident. For many, however, what is most interesting about the novel is its legacy. It was spectacularly popular and the word 'vril' quickly entered common use. Bovril, for example, takes its name from bovine and, of course, vril. The idea of vril has also had a strange life in neo-nazi movements, the history of which can be readily found online. Indeed, a lot of conspiracy theorists and occultists seem to have taken up the idea of vril.
Though I can't say that vril, or the more science-fiction aspects of the novel, was what captured my interest. I enjoyed its conservatism, and was hooked from its first paragraph, which contains this bit of anti-democratic satire:
My family ... enjoyed a somewhat high social position in right of birth; and being also opulent, they were considered disqualified for the public service. My father once ran for Congress, but was signally defeated by his tailor.
It is a pleasure (though of a dark sort) to read a conservative dystopian novel. David A. Cowan wrote, a few years back, an
excellent article at
The American Conservative about the novel:
Egalitarian doctrine is embodied in the Vril-ya. Their society enjoys absolute equality of class and between sexes. Theirs appears to be a utopia in which crime, disease, and conflict do not exist. Leftist writers have conceived of such places in science fiction for decades, with Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek being the most prominent example of recent times. This progressive spirit has been elevated to theological heights by the Vril-ya, who base their religion on the “conviction of a future state, more felicitous and more perfect than the present.” But the narrator soon discovers that this serene paradise is in fact one of the most civilized hellscapes to grace science fiction.
The narrator soon discovers that this serene paradise is in fact one of the most civilized hellscapes to grace science fiction. The society produced by absolute equality of outcome is ultimately sterile and monotonous, as it has traded away individuality for the common good. There is no state coercion of any kind; instead, convention and custom govern the lives of the Vril-ya thanks to their ability to self-discipline their behavior through the aid of Vril. All the Vril-ya put the common good before all other considerations, thus producing an authoritarian order in which a single magistrate rules, albeit with no formal coercive power, and citizens abide by the motto "No happiness without order, no order without authority, no authority without unity." Language such as this calls to mind the totalitarian dystopias of George Orwell’s 1984 or Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta. Individuality and the unequal distinctions that arise from it are actively repudiated by the Vril-ya, rooted in the belief that greed for status, privilege, and fame could only lead to conflict and poverty.
Having once admired utilitarian social reformers in the 1830s, Bulwer-Lytton was aware of the many utopian arguments that claimed the state could change people’s habits, and thus their character, through measures such as public education or teetotalism. The Vril-ya represent this approach in excelsis. With Vril supplying all needs, no one indulges in alcoholic intoxication, adulterous love, devouring meat, hunting animals, or rude language. The Vril-ya’s rational morality is utterly divorced from human emotion or animal instincts—at the cost of all artistic endeavor and spiritual expression. Blandness and mediocrity define their way of life. Without competition, there is no opportunity for greatness to emerge. Bulwer-Lytton’s narrator even goes so far as to say that if you took the finest human beings from Western civilization and placed them among the Vril-ya, “in less than a year they would either die of ennui, or attempt some revolution.” Egalitarianism is portrayed as a doctrine that can only destroy all the particularities, idiosyncrasies, and joyfulness of human existence.
