GOOD MORROW TO OUR WAKING SOULS
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James Morrow is best known for his science-fictional fantasies, in particular the audacious ÒGodhead TrilogyÓ which clothes the existential dilemma of the modern age, the Death of God (or of belief), in quotidian rags by providing the dear departed Deity with a corpus delecti, complete with gigantic nose hairs, parasites, and BO, to be disposed of and mourned by bereaved humanity.
The title itself, Towing Jehovah, is a deliberate and audacious mix of high and low, as if the Mother Church had subcontracted its funeral services to AAA.
RIP.
Heady, hilarious, horrific, headlong stuff.
Typical Morrow.
Towing Jehovah (GodHead #2) won a number of laurels, among them a World Fantasy Award nomination. The novel gave rise to an interesting discussion among the jurors (this writer among them), some of whom argued that MorrowÕs work, though clearly award-worthy, was just as clearly science fiction, not fantasy.
Huh? responded others. The central and (by a long shot) largest figure in the book was neither alien nor android but a Deity, the Deity, for ChristÕs sake (so to speak). The very nemesis, the archenemy of science: God, the Father, Himself, or at least his prodigiopus and venerable corpse! Hello?
As religion is manifestly fantasy, this eminently sensible position won. As did Jim, as did Towing Jehovah (World Fantasy Award, 1991). But the jurorsÕ concerns were far from fanciful. For in fact the difference between SF and Fantasy, so often debated at dead dog parties as rockets vs. elves, more often comes down to a difference in style and tone rather than subject matter. Art direction, if you will. And MorrowÕs furniture, and therefore his tone, is almost always that of SF. The real world of tankers and tow-ropes, cereal boxes and oil slicks is always front and center. Moonlight and magic are at a minimum. Jerkins and goblets are there none.
So it is with the stories in this collection.
MorrowÕs short stories are as acclaimed as his novels, and show the same predilections and techniques, though in more compressed and often more vivid form. Short stories rely on voice rather than plot, and Morrow delights in assuming a professorial tone to describe the most outrageous events, thus becoming his own straight men. He astonishes the reader by refusing to be astonished, even when pint-sized aliens battle in Central Park, deserving infants are drowned in Holy Water, or newlyweds awaken to find their brains preserved in jars.
The tales in this volume are narrated for the most part with a repertory of Victorian flourishes and cadences. MorrowÕs tone is authentically (if deceptively) high, even as his adventures partake mightily of the low. Who else can speak of the Òdespairing throngÓ and at the same time let us know that they piss, they eat bran flakes, they communicate with Mars via harpsichords and dry cell batteries.
Dry indeed.
The drollery is as Victorian as the sensibility is modern, even post-modern. Morrow is after the biggest of Big Game, and for all their seemingly casual hilarity (and for the most part, they are funny as hell) these tales deal with the eternal, unanswered questions. They will rock your world. Sometimes slyly, sometimes directly.
ÒWar of the WorldviewsÓ is perhaps the wildest, most original take ever on the oldest trope of SF, alien invasion; while for those with darker tastes, there is ÒAuspicious Eggs,Ó set in the bleakest post-holocaust universe since Walter MillerÕs.
For every laugh there is an inhalation of brimstone. So be warned.
Who else among modern SF writers (and Morrow, to his great credit, refuses to refuse the label) has worked so hard to sharpen the swords of satire? And had such fun doing it? His is a hard act to follow. Most of us are content with smaller targets than God and Man (not to mention Woman).
He is our Voltaire, casting a cold eye on both the follies of the day and the fashions of philosophy. He is our Swift, skewering his enemies with a smile.
He would be our Twain, except that we already have one. He is in fact our Morrow.
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