THE STARS MY DESTINATION, BY ALFRED BESTER

Yet another supposed “classic” scifi novel, recommended to me by another scifi person. I’m currently more than halfway through it and sadly unimpressed with the writing and the tawdry sex and violence. More later.

Done

Actually I was done a while ago. This book is pure pulp, which, if you’ll excused this tired little device, my dictionary defines as “a soft, wet, shapeless mass of material.” I imagine there are those who like to read soft, wet, shapeless masses of material, and I assume from his introduction that Neil Gaiman is among them. He writes that this book remains as fresh today as it was upon its publication in 1956 because beyond all the futuristic technical hoohah that bogs down so much SF, it deals with the moral development of an everyman. Bollocks, I say. Fresh, steaming piles of crap from 50 years ago don’t smell any better than fresh , steaming piles of crap today. This book is poorly written, features a largely uninspired future with characters cut inexpertly from a worn, limp piece of cardboard. Cut, I might add, with a butter knife. Did I mention one of said characters is named Jiz? It is short of Jisbella. I figured given the recommendation from my friend (”You have to read this!”) and an intro from the author of one of my favorite works of fiction (Sandman) that Bester would be on par with Heinlein, or Huxley, or at least Dick. Not so.