More Than Human by Theodore Sturgeon

First published in 1953

More Than Human explores what it means to be human, a question made relevant by the evolution of an entity that Theodore Sturgeon calls Homo Gestalt, a group of individuals who reach completeness only by functioning together as a single being. The 1953 novel is written in three parts. The middle (and weakest) section first appeared as a novella in Galaxy magazine. Sturgeon, whose writing career focused on short stories, turned the novella into a novel by adding the first and third sections. Of the few novels he produced, More Than Human is by far the best.

The first section introduces most of the principle characters. Lone is feeble-minded but has the ability to control the minds of others. Jane can move objects with her mind. Mute twins named Bonnie and Beanie can teleport. While appearing to be developmentally disabled, Baby has the intellectual capacity of a supercomputer. The characters can barely survive as individuals; linked together they constitute a superior form of humanity.

In the first section, Sturgeon uses lush and riveting prose to remind the reader, primarily through the character of Lone, what it means to be human: to know the joy of anticipation and the pain of reality; to accept the necessity of loss as a condition of growth; to be loved and reviled; to lose friends and connect with strangers; to experience the awakening of compassion and empathy after years of comfortable numbness. There are deeper and more profound lessons in this novel than in any ten self-help books. One of my favorites has to do with the continuing struggle for self-realization: "So it was that Lone came to know himself; and like the handful of people who have done so before him he found, at this pinnacle, the rugged foot of a mountain."

The second section takes place several years later. It introduces Gerry Thompson, a disturbed sociopath with an impaired memory. Thompson, like Lone, has the ability to control minds, but it is not an ability that has served him (or humanity) well. He becomes involved with the Gestalt in a less than positive way, losing much of his identity in the process. This section begins and ends with Thompson in the office of a psychiatrist who is trying to help him recover his memory.

Section three takes place after the passage of another several years. It focuses on Hip Barrows, an Air Force engineer who (like Thompson) has lost his memory. Barrows is in jail and likely to be insitutionalized when he meets Jane. With Jane's assistance, Barrows begins to remember the events that led to his incarceration, and ultimately the event that triggered his memory loss -- an event that relates back to something Lone and the Gestalt did in part one. Barrows and Thompson come into conflict when Thompson decides that the Gestalt's behavior need not be governed by human standards.

The third section gives Sturgeon an opportunity to explore questions of ethics. He posits that traditional laws of morality cannot apply to a vastly superior entity, any more than human morals apply to ants, while new concepts of morality cannot arise to govern Homo Gestalt when only one such entity exists. Yet how can Homo Gestalt be complete without a conscience? Sturgeon steers the characters on a path toward self-awareness, much like a Brahmin might act as a spiritual guide to the ways of the universe. There is, in fact, something of a Buddhist or New Age philosophy at work in More Than Human, or at least one that is deeply humanistic (an ironic term, perhaps, to apply to an evolved entity that is more than human).

In many respects, More Than Human is nearly perfect: the dialog is particularly strong, the prose is some of the finest that science fiction has produced, and the message is inspiring. The supporting characters are drawn in finely detailed strokes: a farmer who endures despite losing everything that gave his life meaning; a innocent woman who has been sheltered from life by her deranged, ultra-religious father; a psychiatrist who exemplifies the caring empathy that should characterize his profession.

More Than Human reflects an optimism about the future of humanity that was a common trait of 1950s science fiction, before the genre succumbed to postmodern bleakness. Sturgeon envisioned a destiny for mankind that is not "guided by an awesome Watcher in the sky ... suffused with the pale odor of sanctity," but one that humanity achieves as the inevitable result of progress. Perhaps twenty-first century readers, awash in novels that envision the "posthuman" as a mechanical blend of brain and technology, are too jaded to consider humanity "sainted by the touch of its own great destiny." Jaded or not, the ideas that Sturgeon develops in More Than Human deserve a twenty-first century audience.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

Fobbit by David Abrams

Published by Grove Press/Black Cat on September 4, 2012 

All wars are fought, in significant part, on the propaganda front. As warfare has become more sophisticated, so has news management. Fobbit (the term infantry grunts apply to soldiers who never leave the relative safety of the Forward Operating Base in Baghdad) ably captures the military's attempt to manage the news during the American occupation of Iraq.

Assigned to Public Affairs, Staff Sergeant Chance Gooding Jr. is doing his best to spin the war, a task made more difficult by officers like Capt. Abe Shrinkle, who blows up an American military fuel tanker with a hand grenade, killing a civilian Iraqi bystander in the process. As Gooding tries to prepare timely press releases, he is consistently beaten to the punch by CNN reporters who manage to compile a more accurate and complete story while Gooding's meddlesome superiors insert phrases like "enemies of democracy," debate the merits of referring to insurgents as "terrorists," and fret over the placement of favored adjectives like "heinous" and "brave." There is no bad news to report (at least according to the memos Gooding receives), a distortion of reality that challenges Gooding to recast disaster as triumph.

Despite its inevitable comparison to Catch-22, Fobbit isn't as split-a-gut funny, nor does it illustrate the folly of war as well as Heller's novel. David Abrams is a capable writer but his humor is often forced and he lacks Heller's literary flair. Abrams tips his hat to Heller when Gooding, reading Catch-22 on R&R, describes Heller's novel as "an owner's manual for this war." Shirkle, on the other hand, believes (in accordance with the views of his West Point professor) that Catch-22 is unpatriotic because Yossarian spends much of his time trying not to die for his country.

Unlike Catch-22, I sometimes felt that Fobbit consisted of a collection of characters in search of a plot. As a penetrating examination of the military's attempt to manage the news during the occupation of Iraq, Fobbit is a success. As cohesive comedy, Fobbit is far from perfect. The humor largely derives from two harmonic notes: the illusory attempt to control the news and the uniform incompetence of commissioned officers. When Abrams strays from those themes -- when, for instance, an officer sends self-aggrandizing emails to his mother -- the humor feels strained. While Abrams sets credible scenes within the Forward Operating Base and on occasional forays into Baghdad and Qatar, Fobbit rarely creates a visceral sense of men at war. Images of death and destruction lack power. Shirkle's transformation from flag-waving patriot to anti-military slacker is unconvincing. The novel's ending is more of a fade-out than a decisive conclusion, although I suppose that also describes the war itself.

Fobbit is an enjoyable novel despite its flaws. Abrams has a talent for spotting fools and for replicating their foolishness in his characters. He has a unique take on the war and on the public affairs writers charged with concealing the truth. When the novel focuses on propaganda management, it works well. Fobbit is worth reading for those golden moments.

RECOMMENDED

The Dangers of Proximal Alphabets by Kathleen Alcott

Published by Other Press on September 11, 2012

Jackson and James are brothers. Jackson is only a year older but he seems determined to be middle-aged well before he enters his teens. A freakishly obsessive kid, Jackson memorizes all the bones in the human body "in order to understand and own how they carried him." Ida is Jackson's inseparable friend from infancy and his lover from adolescence. Jackson and James virtually become part of Ida's family; Ida's father treats them as if they were his own children. As they get older, Jackson starts having nightmares that lead to nocturnal violence; sometimes his somnambulism produces art, other times mayhem. Meanwhile James becomes a mentally ill, suicidal drug addict.

Ida and Jackson are no longer together when the novel begins. Their paths depart about halfway through Ida's recollection of her life. As she tells her story, seemingly random incidents loom large in Ida's young life: her exploration of Jackson's body when she is seven and he is eight; Ida's shameful response to the kidnapping of a neighborhood child; the meanness Ida directs to a preacher's daughter who wants to befriend her. During too much of this short novel, as Ida reflects upon her life, I found myself asking "Why is she telling me this?" Kathleen Alcott provides no clear answer. On other occasions, Ida recalls seminal occurrences from her adolescence that are just too contrived to resonate as formative events in a young life.

None of the events in this short novel are eventful; none of the drama is dramatic. The motivation for Jackson's decision to leave Ida is ludicrous. The characters are tedious, as are Ida's mutating relationships with Jackson and James and her father and an art gallery owner named Paul. Ida's lifelong obsession with Jackson is inexplicable, particularly given that she spurned him before he spurned her. Ida writes: "Since childhood I've spent my heart and words and a catalog of tiny, insignificant moments trying to merge with a bloodstream not mine." I wanted to yell, "Get over yourself!"

Ida's actions and reactions are too often unexplained. I don't need authors to spell things out for me but I do like things to make sense. Ida's thoughts and deeds rarely do. When a character is as pathetic as Ida, I want to know how she came to be that way, but Alcott offers no insight into Ida's psyche. At bottom, I didn't believe the characters were real and I didn't believe the story that Ida narrates.

Alcott's writing is strong but it often amounts to flash without substance. She strives for (and sometimes achieves) an eloquence that overshadows the story she's trying to tell. At other times (as in the title), she's just pretentious. Clever phrasing and surprising word choices do not a novel make. How does a reader evaluate a novel that has nothing to say when the nothing is said beautifully? If I could rate them separately, I would recommend the prose but not the content.  Since they are inseparable, however, I have to say ...

NOT RECOMMENDED

A Fistful of Collars by Spencer Quinn

Published by Atria Books on September 11, 2012 

If you’re looking for a light, amusing detective story, it’s hard to beat Chester Quinn’s novels about the two partners in the Little Detective Agency:  Bernie Little and his loyal dog Chet.  Even when the plot is weak, Chet is always good for a laugh.  Fortunately for fans of the series, this is one of Quinn’s better books.

A movie is shooting on location in the Valley.  The mayor (prompted by the city’s insurance company) hires Bernie to keep an eye on the star.  Thad Perry has a taste for drugs and a knack for getting into trouble.  If the three weeks of filming pass without incident, the town will attract more filmmakers -- or so the mayor believes -- and the city’s insurer won’t have to pay any claims. Yet once filming begins, trouble of an unexpected nature ensues:  murder.  In the end, three murders come to light (albeit considerably separated in time) and it’s up to Bernie and Chet to determine how they are related. Bernie is in charge of deduction; Chet (as he frequently reminds the reader) brings other things to the table.

The mystery is a good one, much better than the plot that drove the previous novel in the series.  Still, the story exists largely as an excuse to give Chet something to talk about.  Chet is the narrator and, as you might expect of a dog, he has trouble staying focused.  Chet’s thoughts tend to meander (often in the direction of his next meal) but they always end up in a happy place.  Chet might ponder a profound question for a few moments -- If Bernie has a word on the tip his tongue, why can’t Chet see it? How can Bernie’s bark be worse than his bite when Bernie doesn’t bark? -- but Chet doesn’t sweat the small stuff.  His running commentary on life (“a fluffy white towel can be fun to drag around”) is hilarious.

Like all dogs, Chet enjoys eating (ribs are a favorite), napping, and riding in cars.  He has some impulse control issues, particularly when cats are around, but the beauty of Quinn’s writing lies in his illumination of the canine mind.  Bernie might think Chet is misbehaving, but Chet’s behavior is perfectly natural ... to Chet.  Whether he’s shredding the leather seats in Bernie’s new Porsche or making an uninvited leap into someone’s swimming pool, Chet’s actions always make perfect sense … to Chet.

A Fistful of Collars moves at a steady pace and features enough action and detection to satisfy mystery and light thriller fans, but the story is clearly geared to dog lovers.  This is neither a hardcore thriller nor a complex mystery.  The writing is breezy, the language is clean, and humor (invariably generated by Chet’s antics and commentary) is the animating force.  New readers can enjoy the story even if they haven’t read the earlier installments, but series fans will appreciate the mild intrigue surrounding Bernie’s changing relationship with his girlfriend.  Chet doesn't quite understand what that's all about, while readers will have to wait for the next book to learn how Bernie's romantic life will unfold.  Until then, Bernie at least has Chet at his side.

RECOMMENDED

Quarantine by John Smolens

Published by Pegasus on September 5, 2012 

In the summer of 1796, Newburyport's harbormaster recruits Giles Wiggins to perform a medical inspection of the Miranda, newly arrived from France. Wiggins discovers that most members of the crew are dead or dying. Although the doctor quarantines the ship, several crewmen row into Newburyport. Soon the fever spreads through the town. Since Newburyport's doctors have no clue as to the cause of the disease and no effective means to treat it, it becomes necessary to quarantine the town.

Although the plot involves drugs that have been stolen from the town's apothecaries -- drugs that cannot be used to treat the ill unless town leaders pay an extortionate price to reclaim them -- the story revolves around a prominent Newburyport family, one that has replaced family spirit with murderous intent. Enoch Sumner owns the Miranda, a ship he named after his matriarchal mother, who is also the mother of Giles Wiggins, Enoch's half-brother. Enoch's son, Samuel, is a ne'er-do-well spendthrift who, returning from France on the Miranda, joined the crew members who escaped from the ship in a rowboat. Marie de Monpellier, a French girl who was a passenger on the Miranda before she swam ashore, becomes a guest of the family after Leander Hatch saves her from drowning. Leander eventually joins the family's staff as a stable hand, although (unlike the reader) Leander won't understand his true relationship to the family until the novel's end.

Quarantine often has the flavor of a melodrama as characters and storylines intersect in coincidental and improbable ways. At times I was reminded of Dickens, particularly when a character named Uriah entered the mix. There is, however, considerably more sex in Quarantine than you'll find in Dickens, making this, I suppose, a modern form of melodrama. As is typically true of melodrama, the story is far from subtle. Quarantine is often more interesting for its background details -- the belief that the fever sweeping the town is retribution for the town's sinful ways, the arguments about appropriate medical care, the role played by privateers who made their fortunes seizing British ships during the war -- than for the family drama that occupies the foreground.

Despite being melodramatic and a bit scattered, Quarantine is engaging. John Smolens' prose is lively and his characters have enough personality to make up for their lack of depth. The period and place are convincing. I had difficulty believing Miranda's motivation to engage in certain nefarious behavior that is central to the story, and I was less than enthralled by the uninspired love stories (Giles is the focus of one, Leander of the other). Given the emphasis that melodrama places on emotion, the love stories -- particularly Leander's -- seem surprisingly hollow. For the most part, however, Quarantine is entertaining and, like any good melodrama, it leads to a satisfying conclusion.

RECOMMENDED