Bruce Sterling, interviewed by Slashdot's readers in 1999, says that what we think of as community in meatspace is actually a collection of complex infrastructure, and we tend to understimate how vital that stuff is:

Q: It seems that many modern science fiction authors see the future as a time when society gives up on "physical" community in favor of technology. (i.e ruined govt, city states, corporate martial powers, etc..) Do you see this as an amplification of the state of community in today's world, or is it simply a convenient literary device?

A: I think the physical community was a "technology." Irrigation canals, harbors, army barracks, police stations, cathedrals, factories, clocks, forks, running water, that's all "technology."

There are a lot more ruined governments right now than there are sound ones. That's not a literary device. Go try living under a ruined government. Moscow right now — it's about the most William-Gibsonian landscape you are ever likely to see.

And more recently in 2006, BLDGBLOG talked to Jeff VanderMeer about the biggest mistake that science-fiction writers tend to make in thinking about cities and their infrastructure:

BLDGBLOG: How do you achieve – or hope to achieve – believability in an urban setting, giving readers something that (they think) might actually exist?

VanderMeer: As a novelist who is uninterested in replicating "reality" but who is interested in plausibility and verisimilitude, I look for the organizing principles of real cities and for the kinds of bizarre juxtapositions that occur within them. Then I take what I need to be consistent with whatever fantastical city I'm creating. For example, there is a layering effect in many great cities. You don't just see one style or period of architecture. You might also see planning in one section of a city and utter chaos in another. The lesson behind seeing a modern skyscraper next to a 17th-century cathedral is one that many fabulists do not internalize and, as a result, their settings are too homogenous.

Somehow these two quotes, juxtaposed, feel like fruitful ground for some urban world-building. Don't understimate the weight of the past — and don't forget just how much complex technology has gone into building a physical community. Any city, especially a future one, will be littered with the debris of past community-building, and will most likely be broken in some fascinating ways. In other words: don't make your fictional cities too tidy, or you'll be left with a sterile planned community.

Moscow decay image via Seriykotik1970 on Flickr.

Writer Chris Nakashima-Brown just got back from a three-day colloquium on "parallel worlds" in Mexico, with Bruce Sterling, Linda Nagata, Mark Dery, Christopher Priest and M. John Harrison. Nakashima-Brown posted a tantalizing collection of soundbites about the Singularity, the economy and our posthuman future.

Among the choicest are Christopher Priest's claim that only speculative fiction novels really put the individual's choices at the center of the story: "Only in the modern speculative novel is responsibility the core, the argument, the message."

Bruce Sterling argues that celebrities, athletes and models will be the leading edge of posthumanism, but then he also says, "In the future, the poor will not be able to avoid becoming posthuman, because they just can't afford it."

And M. John Harrison says culture may already have collapsed, "and we may already be on the other side of it." Now, our personalities are being mediated through mass media. And the job of science fiction is to show how we're "compiling our personalities from moment to moment." The writer's task, says Harrison, is to "write about individuals who are constantly being mediated and re-mediated. Not alienated, but pureed." (Which sounds sort of Dickian to me.)

Nakashima-Brown's unreconstructed notes are a bit frustrating to read, but it sounds like it was a fascinating discussion, and just the bits you can read are thought-provoking.

Posthuman image from Anders Raytracing Page. [No Fear Of The Future]

I was there at Sterling's speech, which was both intriguing and confrontational. Here are some highlights.

Web 2.0 Is a Ponzi Scheme

Sterling began his talk by poking fun at Web 2.0*, calling it mostly a social network of investors and developers. He complained that it's not an ideology or set of aesthetic tenants; it's just a little network - "a little network for the network." He talked about how Web 2.0 uses the Web as a "platform" for services, and then dismissed that as an "utter violation of common sense" based on the kind of thinking, translated into the financial realm, that caused the current global financial crisis, where mortgages are aggregated together and turned into a kind of Ponzi scheme platform.

Sterling acknowledged that of course Web 2.0 is not the same thing as the financial system, "but that frail and problematic system was what funded Web 2.0. After all, Web 2.0 is supposed to be business."

* What exactly is Web 2.0, you might ask? Well, it's a term invented by techie publisher Tim O'Reilly to describe applications like Google and Facebook that are packed with user-generated data - all the debris accumulated during the Web's baby days in the 1990s and its teenhood in the 2000s. Essentially, Web 2.0 is any nifty website or service that's based on organizing a whole bunch of information (think Flickr) - or linking together a whole bunch of disparate ideas (again, think Google, which trawls the whole damn Web).

You Can't Fix Big Problems with Javascript

So what does Sterling want to see happen to the Web in the future? Mostly he wants to explode the fantasies of web hackers who believe you can stick anything to anything, create "a platform in a floor wax." He thinks Web 2.0 is glorious and dangerous, but that developers aren't thinking about how Web 2.0 might just give out the way the global banking system did. "How reliant are we on things like Javascript?" he asked. "Javascript won't bail you out if a trawler cuts the internet cable to New Zealand."

"Collective Intelligence" and Why Google Is Important

Sterling had some choice words for the idea of "collective intelligence," a business buzzphrase for Web services that supposedly use "the wisdom of crowds" to solve problems. He thinks Google's ability to harness collective intelligence is actually important, and that it can't be dismissed. So Google is one of the aspects of Web 2.0 he approves of. Google is the "sacred spirit demon that haunts Mountain View and knows everything." It's an actual phenomenon vs. an off-the-wall metaphor. But he was suspicious of the idea that Google's search algorithm known as PageRank is a kind of "intelligence."

Sterling added, "Google is not a hive mind. It doesn't even have a being. Plus the users aren't a community or collective - they aren't aware of each other's existence and have no influence on what Google chooses to do with their clicks." Again, this was an interesting point - the idea that these so-called wise crowds are being used by companies for their data but that these same crowds rarely create communities with each other. The wise crowd is also a lonely crowd.

Sterling concluded by saying:

The original sin of geekdom is to think that just because you can think algorithmically and impose it on a machine that this is disembodied intelligence. That is just rules-based machine behavior. Just code being executed. Sure it's an art and science. Calling it intelligence is dehumanizing. It makes you look delusional, sad and pathetic. It's like being an old woman whose only friends are cats. Also, collective intelligence is not your friend. Just as markets aren't your friend. They'll jerk you around.

I'd like to see some better jargon for collective intelligence. A little less metaphysical. Maybe something like "primeval meme ooze." Or "semi-autonomous data propagation." Or "neo-biological out of control emergent architectures," Kevin Kelly style.

Sterling Imagines His Own Future

I cornered Sterling afterward and asked him what his hopes are for the future of the Web, since he's not predicting a bright tomorrow for the current set of services we use today. He'd mentioned the "internet of things," or ubiquitous computing, in his talk and I asked if that might be his idea of the future of the Web - people using smart phones, GPS devices, wearable computers, shoes with RFIDs in them. Objects that network with each other and the internet, rather than computers that do it. He said he advocates for that future, partly because "there's a tangibility to it." And he mentioned that he deals with this idea a lot in his new novel (out this week!) The Caryatids.

Sterling said, with his trademark half-sarcastic, half-genuine grin:

I imagine myself as a completely senile old man wandering around saying, "Do I need to water this plant? Uhh, where are my keys?" And my plant tells me when to water it, and the house tells me where my keys are and I think, "Gee this isn't so bad! I'm really happy."

Leave it to Sterling to remind you that the happy future depends on senility.

Image via Webstock.

Often grouped with J.G. Ballard and Michael Moorcock, Bayley was the less-recognized member of the triumvirate. Barry's writing did contain a few elements of pulp, a quality that eventually became outdated in the New Worlds clique. To give some idea of how disrespected Barry Bayley felt, one of the endorsement blurbs on the front page of his website reads, "Seriously underestimated."

As writer Charles Platt noted in an interview:

I think he never got sufficient admiration and respect because it had that [pulp] quality. You know when your first training is in a particular field of writing, it kind of imprints you in various ways. It's like if you're a musician and you first learn one instrument - if you try to play other instruments after that you still have the same kind of patterns you learn. And Barry's first training was writing these adventure comics which are very, very restrictive in what you can and cannot do and how you develop a story.

Inspired by theorist J.W. Dunne, Bayley's writing had elevated ideas in an accessible format, a dynamic mix that won him plenty of admirers among other writers. When you can't measure the import of a writer by popularity, it starts to matter more which minds are affected. Legends like Bruce Sterling and William Gibson were fans. Longtime friend Moorcock also thought Bayley was a writer's writer:

Did you know William Burroughs loved the Star Virus and wrote to tell me he'd used it as inspiration? The idea of people as a virus very much appealed to Burroughs, who enjoyed at least some of Barry's work, though I don't know how much he read. Burroughs definitely recognised the originality of mind.

If you find his glorious covers intriguing and want to learn more, begin with what most consider Bayley's finest novel, Collision with Chronos. Between time travel and neo-Nazis there's a lot to take in, but if you get tired of something, he's already onto the next concept. The Star Virus also holds up well; there's a reason Burroughs read it. Bayley's short stories are full of inventiveness to the point where even if it doesn't entirely pay off, you're amused by the idea. The Knights of the Limits, re-released in 2001, is a useful starting point for that form.

Barry J. Bayley, RIP.

The Astounding World of Barrington J. Bayley [Oivas.com]

The stories in Flurb #6 are generally pretty awesome. I especially love Madeline Ashby's "Fitting A New Suit," set in a future dystopian Japan that's at war with Korea, where thousands of people choose to stay in their tiny homes all the time, exercising on special machines to generate electricity for their neighbors. And Michael Blumlein's "The Big One" is a wonderfully poetic and unsettling look at male-bonding in the wilderness that goes somewhat askew when some unexpected wildlife shows up. There's also Bruce Sterling's wonderfully weird and postmodern look ahead, "Computer Entertainment 35 Years From Today."

But my favorite story in the new Flurb is probably Rucker's own "Qlone," about a man who's stuck in gloomy Rochester, New York. Zach-5 is the fourth quantum-duplicate, or "Qlone," of the original Zach, and the Zach-qlones are in demand as CEOs and business leaders. Unfortunately, Zach-5 gets the short end of the stick and has to run a startup called Qodoq, which markets "real-world search engines" via quantum computing, so you never lose your car keys or cellphone again. It's sort of the way objects get tagged in Rucker's brilliant novel Postsingular. It just gets weirder and weirder, as Rucker spins out more bizarre inventions and business ideas.

I feel like I should add an obligatory disclaimer: Rucker has published a few of my own stories in past issues of Flurb, which may influence my judgement. But I don't think so. [Flurb]

Here's a perfect example of a needless and annoying "grimly," from Bruce Sterling's story "Maneki Neko" (from The Locus Awards: Thirty Years Of The Best In Science Fiction And Fantasy):

Louise frowned grimly. "That's right, wise guy. Make jokes about it. You're involved in a malicious software attack on a legal officer of the United States. You'll see."

It's almost too obvious to point out, but "frowned grimly?" You don't think "frowned" might have worked on its own? And even "frowned" seems like surplus here.

And here's a more run-of-the-mill use, from David Weber's 2004 novel The Stars At War:

"Send it Priority One," Hausman said grimly, and settled back in his chair as the light-speed burst transmission sped across the vacuum.

The reason I highlight Weber's use of "grimly" is because it's so typical: it's often used in a military/action context. It shows us that the situation is serious, and it also shows us that Hausman is a serious guy who means business. If this were a TV show, the dramatic music would swell as Hausman settles back in his chair, but there's no music in a book. So "grimly" has to serve as Weber's orchestral sting.

At it's worst, a "grimly" overdose looks something like this passage from Wilbur Smith's historical novel The Sound Of Thunder:

"You're drunk!" She accused grimly.
"Oh foul libel! Oh monstrous untruth." Saul backed hurriedly out of range.
"All right, Sergeant." She turned grimly on Sean. "Where is it?"

You'll be shocked to learn that Mercedes Lackey is addicted to "grimly." And so are a bunch of other fantasy authors. Isaac Asimov liked him some "grimly" as well, and most collections of "classic" science fiction of the 1930s through 1960s contain a fair number of grimlys. (Grimlies?) But once you start looking for it, you find "grimly" in a lot of recent stuff as well.

Douglas Adams satirizes this style of writing in Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency:

"Get it moved," he repeated grimly, and bustled grimly back through the door grimly hauling up his trousers and coat in preparation for the grim ascent.

It gives you a sort of, I don't know... a grim feeling, doesn't it?

To be fair, there's an issue of changing tastes here. According to Google books, D.H. Lawrence loved to have people speaking "grimly" and someone takes some news "grimly" in a Joseph Conrad book. And they're generally regarded as pretty good authors.

The real problem with words like "grimly," of course, is that they're a substitute for real characterization. Here's Martin Amis, discussing the wealth (ha) of character development in Michael Crichton's The Lost World:

The job of characterization has been delegated to two or three thrashed and downtrodden adverbs. ‘Dodgson shook his head irritably’; ‘ “Handle what?” Dodgson said irritably.’ So Dodgson is irritable. But ‘ “I tell you it’s fine,” Levine said irritably.’ ‘Levine got up irritably.’ So Levine is irritable too. ‘Malcome stared forward gloomily.’ ‘ “We shouldn’t have the kids here,” said Malcolm gloomily.’ Malcolm seems to own ‘gloomily’; but then you irritably notice that Rossiter is behaving ‘gloomily’ too, and gloomily discover that Malcolm is behaving ‘irritably.’ Forget about ‘tensely’ and ‘grimly’ for now. And don’t get me started on ‘thoughtfully.’

I definitely think "grimly" isn't quite as ubiquitous in science fiction as it used to be, but it still turns up way, way too often. And part of the problem is that today's SF writers grew up seeing it everywhere. So it's part of their familiar vocabulary, cozy and soft like an old sweater. And it is a quick and dirty (so, so dirty) shorthand for character and action, and a certain suspenseful mood.

Plus it's sort of a "space adventurer" sort of word — it's emotional but stoic. You can have any emotion grimly, and it becomes more serious and muted, yet also more important, than a regular emotion. It's got the power of grimly!

Here's a list of fairly recent SF writers who have used "grimly" pretty recently:

• Charles Stross (although mostly in his fantasy writing),
• John Scalzi (in Old Man's War and The Last Colony),
• Richard K. Morgan (in Altered Carbon),
• Greg Bear (in many many works),
• David Brin (including the great sentence "'That wasn't me,' Beta assured grimly."),
• Cory Doctorow (including a "smiled grimly"),
• John Shirley (including "Satan chuckled grimly" in his Constantine novelization),
• John Varley (but not since 1983's Millenium),
• Connie Willis (a lot),
• Orson Scott Card ("laughed grimly," "smiled grimly," and the phrase "grimly determined" appears in two different books.)