A World of Possibilities (Snow Crash – Neal Stephenson)

Near-future science fiction writers have a difficult task. They have to make their worlds different enough to be interesting but similar enough to be believable. It’s fine for Star Trek to talk about dilithium crystals and tricorders in the 23^rd century, but something a little more credible is needed for 2020. At the same time, a world where cell phones are slightly smaller and TVs are slightly bigger would scarcely make for compelling reading.

Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash succeeds at this difficult task better than any comparable book I can remember reading. The plot is hard to describe without ruining it, and I won’t even try. Suffice it to say it’s intelligent, engrossing, and preoccupied with the role information plays in civilization. The real joy is the way Stephenson creates bizarre things that still have an unmistakable feel of “rightness” to them.

The Mafia are still in their original business, but they’ve also developed an especially ruthless pizza delivery arm. The idea is preposterous at first, but on further reflection it starts to seem like a conceivable extension of the early-nineties obsession with the thirty-minute delivery. Likewise, the federal government has evolved into a bureaucratic, paranoid software development company that controls its employees with mountains of regulation and monitors them with regular polygraph tests. The freshness and feel of Snow Crash are even more remarkable considering the book was first published in 1992. The book’s Internet-based “Metaverse,” for example, is a perfect anticipation of a modern multiplayer online role-playing game.

Science fiction revolves around possibilities. Stories must be logically coherent and technically plausible. Snow Crash takes it a step further and makes its world culturally possible, even (especially?) when it’s at its most far-fetched. The result is both thought-provoking and delightful.

A Fable About Writing Overambitious Fables (The Alchemist – Paolo Coehlo)

[Sorry about the long break since my last post. With finals, graduation, moving, and getting set up in Cleveland, I've been a bit too busy to write. But now I've got almost nothing to do except read books and screw around on the Internet, so I'll try to make up for it.]

There’s a reason the fable is no longer an important form of literature. It is a simplistic genre that is best suited for conveying basic moral ideas or maybe some sharp satire. Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist: A Fable About Following Your Dream tries to use the form to convey inspirational philosophy, and it fails miserably.

The plot is simple enough. A shepherd boy has a dream. A gypsy and a mysterious man claiming to be a king convince him that this dream means that his destiny is to find a buried treasure near the Pyramids. With no further prompting, he’s off to face the predictable sequence of adversity, perseverance, self-discovery, and success. Oh yes, and of course true love.

The Alchemist would be nothing more than a trite, boring children’s story if not for Coelho’s unnerving sincerity. The inescapable impression is that Coelho believes he is conveying deep philosophical insights. That makes for an awkward reading experience when all the reader can see is the stale leftovers of a mediocre inspirational speaker.

Fantasy elements have a rich history in literature, particularly in Latin America. But where other authors have used the supernatural to make the world seem richer, Coelho makes it shallower. His mythology centers around the idea that everyone has a “Personal Legend,” a particular destiny of his very own, which the universe conspires to help people achieve. Coelho seems to think the concept is an empowering one, but I can’t imagine why. The author’s vision of life as a sort of cosmic scavenger hunt might offer some hope to the alienated and disaffected, but I find the idea of a benevolent fate planning out everyone’s destiny to be simply depressing.

At least Coelho deploys some solid technique in his misguided philosophical quest. I was particularly struck by the way he manipulated the time setting of the book. At some points, I would have sworn the story took place in the fourteenth century. At other times, it seemed to be no more than a hundred years ago. Even now I’m not really sure when it was. Coelho aims to produce a timeless, vague setting, and he succeeds.

Neat authorial tricks aside, The Alchemist remains a deeply disappointing book. The plot is unexciting and the philosophy vapid. I sincerely hope that your Personal Legend does not include reading this book.