Books to Look For
Fantasy & Science Fiction December 1989
By Orson Scott Card
Tourists, Lisa Goldstein (Simon & Schuster, cloth 239 pp, $17.95)
The Parmenters are not an ordinary family to begin with. Father is an
anthropologist who has lost touch with his family; Mother is a quiet drunk whose
whole family conspires not to mention the fact that she can't cope without
alcohol flowing through her veins.
But the daughters are at the heart of the book. As children, Casey and
Angie created a pair of imaginary kingdoms, much as J.R.R. Tolkien did and, a
century before, the Bronte children. Casey has grown out of that phase,
however, and now engages the world head on -- precociously, if you like her,
outrageously, if you don't. Angie, though, remains immersed in the imaginary
kingdoms and hardly notices the world around her. Particularly she refuses to
notice the way boys look at her annoyingly attractive body.
She doesn't even notice when the family trades houses with a professor
from the Moslem land of Amaz so that her father can conduct research on an
ancient document. But like it or not, the entire family gets involved in an
ancient struggle that has dominated the land of Amaz so pervasively that the
evidence of the conflict is formed into the very fabric of the city -- and yet is
completely invisible.
Alongside the fascinating American family, Goldstein has also created, in
the heart of the city of Amaz, an odd little street of shopkeepers whose
hierarchies and squabbles intertwine themselves with the family in ways that are
completely unexpected -- and yet exactly right.
Lisa Goldstein's greatest talent -- among many -- is the way she can blend
the surreal and the ordinary so seamlessly together that magic seems reasonable
and rational behavior seems laden with portent. There's action and danger
enough to keep you awake all night reading it, and truth and beauty enough that
you'll think, as I did, that it was well worth the loss of sleep.
When I was finished, I was in awe of the artist -- but while I read, I had
no thought of "art" at all. I fell in love with both the characters and the
narrative voice; I forgot to read as a critic and instead reveled in the pleasures of
the tale. Nobody in American is writing novels more true and beautiful than
those of Lisa Goldstein.
The Boy Who Couldn't Stop Washing, Judith L. Rapoport, M.D. (Dutton, cloth,
260 pp, $18.95)
First with schizophrenia and now with obsessive-compulsive disorder
(OCD), psychologists are finally discovering the bio-chemical roots of many
mental illnesses. Rapoport's career began before OCD was named, back when
compulsive hand-washing was blamed on domineering parents and obsessive
checking (Is the iron on? Am I sure I didn't just run over somebody with my
car?) was blamed on bad toilet training or a distorted religious upbringing. Now,
though, what was once blamed on parents has been found to have its source in
brain dysfunctions, and people who would have been subjected to years of
meaningless analysis can often be helped by taking a rather unpleasant pill. In
short, psychology is finally becoming a science instead of a religion; today we
follow the data instead of the utterances of prophets like Freud, Jung, or Skinner.
But that isn't the primary value of this book. Rapoport, instead of writing
bare case studies, has included several accounts by patients themselves, and their
stories are as moving as any fiction I've ever read. They describe mental
processes that are often disturbingly familiar, as if all of us lived on the edge of
these obsessions. Indeed, some of their compulsions seem to grow out of the very
capacities that make civilization possible -- our innate sense of responsibility or
duty.
Here's another reason you should read The Boy Who Couldn't Stop
Washing. There is cause to believe that one in seventy-five people suffers from
this problem. That means if you don't yourself suffer from OCD, you probably
know someone who does. Since most OCD sufferers do a damn good job of
keeping their "craziness" secret, they often think they're alone. Simply knowing
the stories of the people in this book could be an exquisite unburdening.
Eva, Peter Dickinson (Delacorte, cloth, 219 pp, $14.95)
A few years ago, Pat Murphy's novelet "Rachel in Love" used the same
subject matter as Peter Dickinson's new novel: a human girl whose mind is
overlaid on the brain of a chimpanzee, who then has to reconcile her human and
animal natures.
Now here is Peter Dickinson moving into the same territory with a young
adult novel that proves that just because one author has done brilliantly with a
theme doesn't mean that its possibilities have been exhausted.
Like Rachel, Eva is the daughter of a scientist who does research with
chimps, and so she has grown up with them and already knows much about their
lives; like Rachel, she is implanted in a chimp's body when her natural human
body dies. Unlike Rachel, though, Eva's parents are still with her, with all their
foibles and virtues. Her father loves his work more than anything -- loves her, it
seems, more as an experiment than as a daughter. Her mother, whose affection
had been unbounding, tries heroically to accept this clever ape as her daughter,
but never quite succeeds -- a hug from that hairy arm gives no comfort, but only
reminds her of what she has lost.
Eva finds her closest relationship with Kelly, the chimp whose body she's
using. From the start, she has been aware of Kelly's dream of trees -- a dream
that survives only at the limbic level, for the forests of Earth are gone, except for
postage-stamp scraps here and there. It is the Kellyness of Eva that responds
most to an unforgettable fellow named Grog, who comes up with an quixotic
scheme to reestablish the chimps, if not in the wild, at least among trees, for
Grog believes that the human race is doomed and hopes Eva can prepare the
chimps to inherit the Earth.
It is perhaps too easy to say that this is a natural young adult novel, since
it deals metaphorically with exactly the crises of adolescence -- the replacement
of a small smooth body with a large hairy one, the loss of parental affection and
the discovery of parental weakness; leaving the known world and striking out
into the wild. Eva, as with all Peter Dickinson's work, is far more complex than
the simple structure and gemlike clarity of voice suggest.
It's enough for me to say that whether you compare it to Dickinson's
previous work or to Murphy's "Rachel in Love," Eva measures up. I suspect that
the only reason Dickinson doesn't have a giant reputation in the field of science
fiction is because his writing has all been marketed for children. That's our loss,
their gain.
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