15-I-2016.
Gardner Dozois keeps confusing the years, for whichever publishing reasons. There's no year in the title, it has only the ordinal number in it; then it says it's for 1984 but covers stuff published in 1983. Which forced me to write both years in my internal files on the subject, then repeat that when posting on burundi.
Here... and I won't turn back to the original to find out the correct spelling of names and titles. I'll take my best guess, just like the west does when trying to pronounce ours. There.
And so this guy, since 1984, publishes thickish anthologies of shorter forms (ie. from story to novella), 700-900 pages in weight (I bought a few there buut didn't bring them, there will be on kiosk), and though sometimes he's prone to heavily veer to a side, at least each year he hooks a few authors, or fresh stuff from known authors, for which the rest is forgiven. The one thing I don't forgive is the foreword, which sounds like the annual report of the local community of Amerište Lower, caught this much of fish, the commons barn lost to fire, postman's wife died etc. It really is a cross section of the year in the trade, and he really is a member of some american society, the members of which he publishes, but there's no mention of yoo ess of ay on the cover, it says so-and-so annual review of SF. As if only Amers write. He mentions which editor's wife died, but there's not a single letter when Lem or one of the Strugackis dies. I'm not even sure whether he published Egan, we'll see when I get to those years.
So here's the unload for 1984.
dozoa 1984------------------------
BRUS STERLING - The queen of ciccadas. He stuffed a lot into a text of this length; architecture and social relations and politics and business. Since he reveals everything as late as possible, sometimes one gets an impression that he invents things when he needs them, but it all actually sticks together firmly. Founded on Prigogin's levels of complexity, this edition of posthumanism impresses as stable and orderly and then it falls apart in quick turmoils - again, very fast, many events for this length, but then perhaps not for those third or fourth degree intellects. So the development of the main hero from apprentice to a master-of-arts maybe can take all of two days, which is still only partially plausible (because the others aren't any stupider and may comprehend systems of the same level of complexity - and then, ahem, the ongoing putsch doesn't seem so cunningly conceived). The fast ending makes it seem missing a few bits.
Džems Tiptri jr. - Dead reef. Ahem, a hunters' story, with lots of mexican colorite and what they think of Amers there. The axis of the story is somewhere between Godzila, hunting story, Solaris's ocean and twilight zone. Is it SF? Could be, for certain breadths of the definition.
Ijan Votson - Slow birds. Rather well led story, with two-three curves which couldn't be foreseen. At one spot he even steps on gas towards one of possible stupid and predictable endings, to then elegantly go somewhere else. What's wrong? That everything is more or less familiar, the five scottish villages where this goes on, the small fights between village bullies, the toy to cause crying, and... it doesn't matter that it's painted plausibly, it's plausible because we were there a hundred times. Additional positive counting for a good SF foundation with minimum of technoblabber.
Pol Anderson - Vulkan's smithshop. Excess technoblabla, which doesn't even make sense (perhaps in some special typography, where one could se who said what and in which font). The attempt to build in depth relationships between the three characters (the Mercury station chiefess, the old wolf tracking an asteroid caught in an orbit below Mercury's, and the artificial mind in his scouting boat for which everyone thinks is just a bit more experienced software) simply doesn't hit the mark, and it's hard for me to believe that the bad typography is so much in the way.
Hauard Voldrop - Man-hill Gentijan. Apart from it happening in Japan somewhere in 21st century, so we have electric vehicles, chinese fatigued middle class (which is quite an exact hit for 1984) and the only subject being use of mental skills in zen-sumo fights, this is not SF. The same story could have been told on some other background (which may have happened already). At least doesn't go overbord with koans (only one, which is the key to the resolution), and depicts Japan of day after tomorrow well. Interesting, not boring but neither engaging, doesn't drag me into its space.
Greg Ber - Martial. Or whatever the internal slang expression was supposed to mean, of which there's too much anyway, just like technoblab. Džon Varly managed to write „Ofijuči“ with all of seven clones of main characters, to keep switching the scene to each in turn and yet never confuse the reader. Ber, then, does that all the time with just two-three. As a rule I was unable to know whether I read the original's reminiscences, or her current reissue, or he fake reissue made by enemy, or the other mutated fake. Actually, by half I was still unaware of them being separate characters, time when things happen and what did poet really mean to say. The thing is so spread everywhere that it could have ended at five different moments and leave the same impression. Just like, when it actually ended, I didn't know why it ended when it did and where were we then.
Džo Haldeman - Manifest destiny. The title phrase has a load of political meaning, it was used to justify the whole colonialism, and even here the plot unwinds on the mexican border of early XIX century. Not a trace of SF here, unless we count some tarot cards. Don't know why was it here.
Robert Silverberg - Multiple. I asked myself for quite a long time why in psychiatry, or at least in the genre of psycho movies, the split personality is always some Džekil/Hajd or worse, always clashing and fighting for power. If these are all aspects of the same personality, the tennants in the same mind, couldn't they cooperate or at least be good neighbors to each other? Silverberg goes a step further here - he not only considers it possible, he creates a whole subculture of multiples with clubs, customs, habits, almost their own language. In San Francisko, of course. Very interesting, picturesque and, as far as it could be done without a deus ex machina, finely resolved in the end.
Džek MekDivit - Encoded. A jesuit priest heads one of the observatories which once served the SETI project; finds diskettes stashed by the previous director. America goes into three mothers'*, and probably many other aspects of the civilization as we know it, and his predecessor left him some clues to dig through - why was this stashed. It turns out to be what SETI was made for. The signal is a cypher, and originates from two places quite far apart... so there's a war going on above or at least they spy on each other. Tossed a dressing of considering the fall of Rome and west in general. Good, likable, finely developed piece of wit.
Koni Vilis - Sidon in a mirror. Something about gas miners on an almost extinct star and some explosive animals (a sidon from the title) which can be found around mine shafts, and about a guy who genetically takes after any person he hooks to, he is the mirror. It mostly happens in a bar where they gather, speaking some barely readable dialect akin to malformed scots, mostly I skipped a lot because I didn't feel like reading through. The end is predictable... what's this doing here.
R.A. Laferti - Golden gate. A wwibiiwb** tale of a fairy bar with a theatre, it's not just not SF, it would barely get into twilight Zone. Apart from the mocking, exaggerated style of banter, there's a whole one element (a guy killed the villain from the piece because he believed that the guy was evil offstage too, and then they went to a different bar together) which would be considered not-quite-realism, and for that one there is no explanation given, neither scientific nor magical.
Džek Den - Šemi blindly. Gambling one's organs, with telepathic contact. Realistical (ha!), deeply sy-kick and in the end just like that piece by Koni Vilis, with all the psychoanaliticalistic explanation and a mnyah ending. Not really bad at all, pulls in, it's even among better attempts to describe what's going on in the heads of fighting telepaths (which they aren't, but they have a machine for it during the game), but ends in no more than a weak trick.
Pet Marfi - On the islands (should be Merfi, but Marfi is the law). One diver returns to the island where some kid once saved his life, came by just when a shark was about to punish his lack of observation. The kid is a mix, from an island woman and underwater alien father, has fin skin between his fingers and toes growing and... that's about all. The kid goes to live with his father, this guy is sad, end, there's no more. And eh, yes, touching descriptions of nature.
Tanit Li - Nunc dimitis. What, „now, mate?“. Some vampires, the main one called Vasjelu, supposed to be a russian name. Skipped, didn't read. What's it doing here?
Greg Ber - Music of blood. The biochips became more and more biological, and les silicone, grow intelligent and the experiment escapes control and spreads from the mad lab technician's body. Almost convincing, too bad Kronenberg was busy.
Li Kenedi - Her fuzzy face. Not „Flowers for Aldžernon“ but same themed, except the orangutan girl attracts her educator, while his wife fails to understand why he loves his job more than her. He fucks the monkey, eh, lost it in the heat of the moment, everyone disowns him, another monkey took pictures, he's a goner, ciao adio, and even the fuzzy girl doesn't understand him.
Rend B. Li - Knight of the shallows. Of all the parallel worlds, the main character has the trouble that one of him is jumping the worlds and killing his doppelgängers. Interesting, pulls in, exciting in places, idea well expounded, the jumps betwixt the worlds announced and closed neatly, there's no confusion nor dilemma, the reader always know where we are. And a really good ending.
Džin Volf - Cat. Loads of british gentry, invisible cat, numerous noble titles and other trinkets from that box, skipped.
Džordž R. R. Martin - Monkey treatment. From the „mysterious vanishing shop“ subgenre, could apply for twilight Zone.
Pet Kadigan - Almost deceased. Amazingly, no vampirozombology, but one of those about entering other's mind, a fresh body would do if the solution can keep the brain churning. This time it's about a bit more copyrightable material, whatever can be grabbed out of the dead artist's mind (which he permitted by testament). Of course, the same trap as in the other story above - what if you enter a mind which wants to posess you, infect you with something? If not too original, not bad enough either.
Džon Kesel - Hearts don't shine into eyes. Selective memory erasure instead of divorce - let's forget why we split and start from scratch. A melodrama from a to žnj, and the punchline is just in that russian joke about the mužik who gave count a ride from A to B at -25 and rolled into a ditch halfway: „didn't you say you ride here for 20 years regularly?“ „yes, your primacy, and I roll into the same ditch each time“. There's their chance to make the same mistakes, if they manage. Except it's not quite the same, which the writer duly noticed. The ending is mildly original, though cheaply symbolic.
Den Simons - Carrion comfort. Something like the „Highlander“ except there are three immortals and they don't slaughter each other, but rather lead their victims telepathically to commit murder, suicide or whatever, which rejuvenates them. They seem like they had enough of this, one (first person teller) is already giving up, one is fatigued, and the third one wants to remove them both. Then there's twenty pages of bloodhed and outsmarting. My opinion of Simons and his love of slaughter has not changed. The ending is as expected. SF this is not.
Vernor Vindži - Precious stone. I read ths before, so I skipped some. A girlie on vacation at stiff and scruffy old woman, who keeps around the house various mementos of her deceased husband's expedition to south pole (well almost, they reached some warmer valley on the edges, and being wounded he missed the next expedition with Skot), among other things a telepathic stone. Thieves come to ransack hag's treasure, house burns, hag burns, and the stone stops shining out sorrow because it's finally warm. Finely elaborated bit of wit, and just a hint of what Vindži will be doing later with weird minds.
Kim Stenli Robinson - Black air. No SF at all, but an interesting exercise in observing a group of people in screwy circumstances, which he will need for Mars, and even more for „Years of rice and salt“. Here he follows the portuguese armada in some jihad (or crusade, whatever) to England, where they are defeated a lot, because hundred things were done wrong - the ships were equipped too fast, the morale of the crew is too low, the English are screwier than expected, and they go around Scotland and Ireland because there's no chance to go through the Channel on return. An inner group experiences a rite of mystical enlightment at some secret rite for the souls of those killed, but Robinson doesn't find that important. Their guru drowns because he belted the golden chains from some church around himself, and the main character survives because he is like invisile, but hid and played dead just in case. Him seeing air in colors and being visited by grandmother of Jesus during most of the plot turns out to be (or can be taken but doesn't have to be taken) of no influence on the plot.
All in all 15 SF (more or less), and 9 which don't fit here at all. By quality, two-three good ones, two-three mediocre and a heap of those who got misdirected to here or were just plain weak. Still, knowing the content of future installments (there were real gems in the nineties), I'm moving on to 1985.
The next day we went to Toza's shop and bought a cell phone for her, as she gave her old nokla to dad. He somehow managed to kill another one, which is near impossible, but he knows the trick. Just in case he can't get out of the bathtub, he brings the phone to the bathroom. After this he brought it in a plastic box, so it wouldn't get wet again, third time's the charm. And guess what, he did have such an accident, probably went to have a bath to sober up and miscalculated, didn't quite sober up enough and spent the night in the bathtub. Didn't want to call me in the middle of the night, called me around 6:30. And I came with the wrong set of keys, the gate key being okay but the main door not, so I had to drive back to get another set. On top of the whole night, ten minutes more didn't hurt.
This new phone is... dunno, some chinese knockoff (it says „country of origin: CHLNA“ on the box), but with all the engrbian that the Gugao can deliver. She installed skype on it too, and it kept nagging her for not using it enough (!). It became more boring than usable really soon. I think it survived in her hands about half a year, and then she just gave it to Arpi, and I got her a new nokla, with Symbian on it and the simple 20 keys. Should have gone for the slightly better model, this one has only a VGA camera.
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* ...cunts, i.e. goes to hell, but I couldn't say that - as an unbeliever, I don't believe in hell either, and using such a word in a public forum would be inappropriate for me
** šbbkbb - šta bi bilo kad bi bilo, translated as „what would it be if it would be“
Mentions: Arpad Gunaroši (Arpi), burundi, engrbian, Gugao, nokla, Svetozar Sirilov (Toza), in serbian
18-XI-2021 - 31-X-2025