MORE THAN HUMAN
Sturgeon’s novel is the most classically SF work on the McCaffery 100, and it helped explain why the commentary I read about him stress the short fiction. This book is actually a fix-up, common during the 50s, and the transition from pulp to book-length publishing, with short pieces getting anthologized into “novels.” MTH is made of three novellas, “The Fabulous Idiot,” “Baby is Three,” and “Morality,” and the form fits the theme: the novel is bearing witness to a gestalt, multiple human bodies comprising a single organism, the next stage in our evolution.
Homo gestaltus arises in the country side, with children and adults developing ESP, teleportation, and telekinesis — strikingly, it includes two little black girls with the rest of the white children, striking given that it was written in the eaerly 50s. The issues of integration are baked into the book’s structure, but I figure it caught the eye of McCaffery because it resonates so much with early 20th century theories, namely phenomenology and psychoanalysis.
The idiot lived in a black and gray world, punctuated by the white lightning of hunger and the flickering of fear. His clothes were old and many-windowed. Here peeped a shinbone, sharp as a cold chisel, and there in the torn coat were ribs like the fingers of a fist. He was tall and flat. His eyes were calm and his face was dead. (1)
These great opening lines introduce Lone, a mute. “many-windowed” is an elegant way to de-familiarize clothes with holes, voids that expose and reveal but also admit light and with it perception.
The narrator is descriptive but struggles to articulate the “thing” inside Lone:
All around it, to its special senses, was a murmur, a sending. It soaked itself in the murmur, absorbed it as it came, all of it. Perhaps it matched and classified, or perhaps it simply fed, taking what it needed and discarding the rest in some intangible way. The idiot was unaware. The thing inside. …
Without words: Warm when the wet comes for a little but not enough for long enough. (Sadly): Never dark again. A feeling of pleasure. A Sense of subtle crushing and Take away the pink, the scratchy. Wait, wait, you can go back, yes, you can go back. Different, but almost as good. (Sleep feelings): Yes, that’s it! That’s the — oh! (Alarm): You’ve gone too far, come back, come back, come — (A twisting, a sudden cessation; and one less “voice.”)… It all rushes up, faster, faster, carrying me. (Answer): No, no. Nothing rushes. It’s still; something pulls you down on to it, that’s all. (Fury): They don’t here us, stupid, stupid…they do…They don’t, only crying, only noises.
Without words, though. Impression, depression, dialogue. Radiations of fear, tense fields of awareness, discontent. (3)
Lone does not yet understand that he can read minds, and is picking up the infantile psychic utterances of the children of the gestalt. The first novella is a bracing string of micro scenes with space breaks — more narrative/thematic dis-integration, and the novel racing to set up all the dominoes which fall across the next two, leisurely paced sections.
I like how the text dives headfirst into the question of thinking and language, stating that psychic thoughts arrive “without words” then immediately proceeding to put them into words. If I could send a message directly to the mind, it seems too easy to imagine a verbal utterance in one’s head, like when a movie puts reverb on an actor’s line. Would it be an incomprehensible mush of abstract feelings and organic sensations? To me the novel argues that however telepathy works here, it operates as a linguistic code, which can be represented with words and tampered with via psychoanalysis and recovery of the repressed.
After an important contact with Alicia Kew, who grew up under an unltra-repressive father, Lone, mauled and nearly unconscious, is taken in by a kind farmer couple named the Prodds. And indeed they prod him into speech, and raise him as a surrogate son. He leaves them when he can read that they want him gone, but still visits. After breakfast one day:
When he was finished they all sat around the table and for a time nobody said anything. Lone looked into Prodd’s eyes and found He’s a good boy but not the kind to set around and visit. He couldn’t understand the visit image, a vague and happy blur of conversation — sounds and laughter. He recognized this as one of the many lacks he was aware of in himself — lacks, rather than inadequacies; things he could not do and would never be able to o. So he just asked Prodd for the ax and went out. (41)
Brazenly, the word “visit” is categorized as an “image.” If that seems too easy, I think it’s in the service of lucid but not too conventional narration: it highlights the formal sound patterns embedded in language like a structuralist would, as well as the signifying nature of “visions” from the unconscious, as a psychoanalyst would.
Delany has a sophisticated, semiotic distinction between SF and so-called literature, but for simplicity I’ll just say that SF as a genre (genre itself being a bundle of historical assumptions constantly being undermined) is preoccupied with questions of technology. Like I said about Butler’s “Speech Sounds”, language can be related to as a technology in SF. Paul de Man described language as both the material and the tool; it’s embedded in the world as we perceive it, yet fundamentally different from reality. And despite reading and writing being solitary and silent activities, language is fundamentally a social tool.
We shall welcome the gestalt (and the anti-gravity engine, but that’s a McGuffin) as the purest expression of this aporia that has conditioned our existence. It may be clear why SF fans stick with the short stories, but it’s also clear why Delany, in his Paris Review interview, included Sturgeon with Bester, Zelazny, Russ, and Disch as science fiction’s high brow crew.