Posts Tagged ‘Jules Verne’

Dreamtime …

The bonfire burns, its light brilliant in the ebon night, brightening the sand to dazzling whiteness, revealing the hull of the nearly finished boat we’ve been helping build. The three of us have moved back from the flames and intense heat, laying on a bedroll tucked in to a depression on the side of a high dune. Up and down the visible length of the beach are more fires, small earth-bound suns on a starless night.

We lay there, in the sand, soft breeze washing over us, listening.

We can hear the crackle and roar of the fire.

We can hear the sounds of the waves washing the shore.

We can also hear the desperate cries of the people still alive out there in the darkness, trying to swim to shore, or clinging to wreckage or some barren rock.  There were fewer and fewer coming ashore as sunset approached.

Li’l blonde puppy found us a week ago. He’s decided his job is keeping the dark puppy company. Had no idea what he was in for’ He’s curled up in the crook of my arm now, sleeping, his slumber fitful, unhappy. Someone screams in the distance and he moans, flailing his paws. The other, the dark pup, lifts his head at the human sound, stares into the distant night, looking like he sees, like he actually sees whoever it is was screaming. Maybe he knew her; he acquainted himself with everyone on our segment of the beach. His eyebrows drop and he softly whines. A moment longer and then he lowers himself, resting his head my stomach, his snout pointed at me now. He blinks once and sighs through his nostrils, the sound long and resigned, then closes his eyes.

Ten ships set out.

There were still three left when their sails disappeared below the horizon. The dark pup watched it all, never making a sound. Ships crashing on rocks, swamped by rogue waves, it didn’t matter. He sat on his rock, li’l blonde puppy sitting beside him, wanting to leave … but he stayed. We all did. We couldn’t not watch.

The beach is all there is. No going back.

Going back was never an option …


“I am totally confident not that the world will get better, but that we should not give up the game before all the cards have been played. The metaphor is deliberate; life is a gamble. Not to play is to foreclose any chance of winning. To play, to act, is to create at least a possibility of changing the world.”

From The Optimism of Uncertainty, Howard Zinn


Dusting Memories

I recently had what I call a Tony Perkins moment. No, nothing involving motels, showers, chef knives, desiccated mommies or spurting chocolate syrup.

It’s like this: a few years back my former wife and I (she’s the sweet lady Reg stowed away with to get to Antarctica) were cleaning house one crisp Spring morning. Now, the apartment we lived in overflowed with books and electronics and art and knick-knacks and stuffed puppies and critters, making it a very warm, cluttery place, even on this cool day in the South Bay. And so, pausing in the middle of one task or another I happened to look up and around at all these things, all this stuff we’d accumulated, and for no particular reason I can recall, I was reminded of a movie, of a scene in a movie featuring Perkins and Donna Anderson. It was a simple, almost boring domestic scene as he makes tea for her and prepares to go to work. Anderson seems normal, nothing out of the ordinary, if a touch distracted, and Perkins seems similarly in place. But there is a look to him or, more specifically, there is a manner of the way Perkins seems to be looking at things that came back to my imperfect memory of the scene. Later on in the movie, of course, it becomes clear why he has this air about him, this way of taking things in. And then again, maybe I was projecting the subtext of his actions on him.

But it was the effect, the underlying sense of the impending, that impressed.

So on that fresh Spring morning, conjured by this scene in the theatre of my memory, I sort of felt the sense of how Perkins’ character saw things, understood that look at the world. This recognition channeled and inhabited my being, becoming something akin to the overused cliché regarding the sensation of someone walking on my grave, if you will.

More important, that was the moment I understood and, more important, accepted something that was becoming obvious, and inevitable.


I think I sorta had a sense of things early on. Maybe it was all those stories I read by Andre Norton about life after the end and survival after a collapse … or the prospect of no survival. Star Man’s Son, (retitled Daybreak, 2250 AD), The Stars Are Ours, the aforementioned Star Rangers (The Last Planet), Lord of Thunder, Galactic Derelict, Sea Siege, Dark Piper … all good, hard SciFi with a common element: the plot device of a failed or failing ancient civilization, or humans dealing with the prospect of the loss of modern civilization.

At 14, I picked up Nevil Shute’s On the Beach and pretty much read it over the course of a day.

After, I lay awake nights, thinking of endings.



I don’t know where the reading started, where it came from, not really. Probably the comic books, with wanting to know what the heroes were saying in the word balloons. But I always was a reader. From the age of 7 through 11, every Saturday, my father would drive into town with me, drop me off at the library,  run errands and then go hit a bar. Sometimes – when I was really lucky – he’d leave me there for until late afternoon.

Being in the cozy basement of that old, small-town library was like living in heaven. If I have one regret, it is that I do not have my daughter’s talent for reading books at breakneck speed. I had to take my time. But I read. I read and read and read. I read books about anything and everything, stories about ponies on Islands off the Carolina Coast, about surviving in the American wilderness in the dead of freezing winter during the time of the Revolution, murder mysteries in sunken gardens in South Africa, books about planes, trains and automobiles, short story collections of the macabre and horrific (Hitchcock’s Ghostly Gallery was my Bible – I read it over and over and over, never tiring of it).

And then there was war, a subject near and dear to most boys’ hearts. I read all I could find to read about war. Anything and everything. Toward the end of that magical time I inhaled Churchill’s history of the Second World War. I knew all there was to know about the American Navy up to and including World War II. I was thoroughly fascinated as only a pre-adolescent boy could be.

And then I found Welles and Verne. I read The War of the Worlds, The Time Machine,  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and was utterly captivated by the adventure … and then I read The Mysterious Island, a story that was to me at the time the grandest adventure imaginable, and remember being stunned and amazed to learn that Captain Nemo was alive, and was responsible for the existence of the island. (The concept of a character living on past the conclusion of one story to unexpectedly reappear in a second in such a fashion stuck me as incredible!)

Again, though, more endings. Nemo apparently perished and his story ended, a dream of the future lost to the uncaring whims of fate and nature, and I was, in a sense, deeply saddened. Verne’s submariner had come to represent so many things to me that I didn’t have the words or concepts at the time to articulate: the potential of science for man; the mystery of human existence; the deep longing for what is good as a counterpoint to the inevitable darkness of mankind’s nature.

Dad was in the Air Force, in SAC – Strategic Air Command – and during my so-called formative years were planted the memory of military alerts broadcast on TV and radio, of seeing him get in uniform and report for duty. The Cuban Missile Crisis: we had no real idea of what was happening, but there was no escaping something huge and potentially dangerous to everything alive was occurring.

And then, in 1968, at 14, I read On the Beach.

“… what makes On the Beach nevertheless one of the most compelling accounts of nuclear war ever written is its almost unique insistence that everyone–without exception–is going to die. Shute directly addresses the most primal fears of the human race, which has spent most of its history denying or compensating for the fact of personal death … For once, there are no distractions: no invading aliens, no super-fallout shelters to protect the protagonists, no struggle back from a dreadful but exciting postwar barbarism. There are simply a man and a woman reaching the agonizing decision to kill their only child in its crib and commit suicide as the rest of the human race expires around them.
Nuclear Holocausts: Atomic War in Fiction, Paul Brians

At 14, given what I’d already lived through, I was no stranger to imagined endings. At the same time, fed by my science fiction reading, I had a strong sense of the value of the world, the potential for what we could be … and then this book sort of brought it all together for me.

But life goes on and eventually the effect of Shute’s novel faded. I joined the Army when I turned 18. While there, I ended up aiming nuclear weapons at the Soviets. You might say I was in my element, though you would miss the irony of the situation if you did. Dunno what I was targeting, but I was in Germany and I could guess … and I soon realized it really didn’t matter; I knew what would happen if the decision were made to use those missiles. My mates used to laugh about how we were such an obvious and easy target that, if a war ever started, we were high on the list of people who would disappear in the first minutes.

To myself I would sometimes think “And we’d be only the first.”

Years came and went and in the fiction I continued to read endings played out: Lucifer’s Hammer, Swan Song, The Stand … all were enthralling, high-octane reads – all apocalyptic fiction. But they never had the effect of On the Beach for me. Maybe I was jaded by my experiences, adulthood, blah, blah, blah. Maybe having lived in the modern world for so long with the concept of the apocalyptic immediacy of nuclear war burned my generation out to the idea. It was all so much of the same, the lingering aspect of annihilation, year after year … and I had a life to live.

But in 1990, I read David Brin’s Earth* and something sparked and I started thinking about endings again. I had a baby daughter, and as I was pushing the threshold of 40, the future was less of an abstract to me.


Quick Fails

We think in terms of quick fails.

In ancient times a city falls, its men are put to the sword, goods snatched, women raped and sold into slavery. The final drama plays out over a few days or weeks (in John Norwich’ History of Byzantium, he notes during all the religious wars that marked the evolution of the Western and Eastern churches there was the quaint custom that once a city falls, there followed a 72-hour period of sacking, including the requisite raping and pillaging, after which the survivors were more or less allowed to pick up the pieces). Of course, in modern times we are more concerned about plagues, atomic devices, 3-day wars, rogue superpowers rolling over countries they don’t like … that sort of thing …

But what we really need to look at here, really discuss, is the history. The history that gets us to that point where a trigger gets pulled and the shit hits the fan. Earlier, for example, I noted the last century’s wars started in 1914 and lasted 75 years. Of course, we were taught there were two big wars and a bunch of little ones. But this is wrong, because  what we’re really dealing with is a series of connected events and decisions that perpetuated the global conflict. Moreover, it could be argued this war started earlier, perhaps when the HMS Dreadnought, an entirely new weapons system – the modern, big gun battleship – came into being in 1906, triggering the arms race that led to the war. Or you could go back further, identifying events, conflicts, brush wars dating back to Napoleon … or the conflict between the European powers over the new world … and when you think about it, you can trace events back to before the transcribing of the Old Testament or the writing of the Athenian Constitution.

The point (an obvious one, of course) is that 1) everything we do was affected by what came before and 2) it takes a long time for these events to unfold – which, in turn, makes them extremely difficult to impossible to stop once everything is set in motion.

In history, everything is connected. A city is sacked, yes, but only after a torturous series of events, many offering the potential for the city to remain unharmed, having played out over months and years and decades and centuries. Actions taken influence actions to come. The true bookends to historical events are more likely akin to the Dreadnaught example I cited above, which tipped a balance of power that in turn moved the world closer and closer to what would become an inevitable, near century-long war that saw different powers emerge and fall, finishing with the fall of the Berlin Wall, which in turn marked the end of one era while heralding this new one we find ourselves in.

Another example, perhaps a tad less defined in terms of starting points, is the Industrial Revolution.

Which brings us full circle to endings.

… and physics …

Next: A Dark Puppy explains Dark Matters.

* It should be noted that in Earth Brin made predictions of the planet’s future for the 50 years that followed publication, many of which that have panned out with unsettling accuracy…


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