For my birthday last year, which makes it 51 weeks ago, I received a giant tome titled Seven Novels by Jules Verne. In the year since, I have slogged through Five Weeks in a Balloon (1863), A Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864), From the Earth to the Moon (1865), Round the Moon (1870), Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1870), Around the World in Eighty Days (1873), and am about half way through The Mysterious Island (1874). Yes, the word I used was "slog," the reasons for which I will go into shortly.
Steampunks tend to look upon a handful of "classical" authors as the Fathers of our Genre, and from what I can tell, most of us place Verne at the top of the pantheon. Of course, Verne and the rest didn't consider themselves to be steampunks. That word didn't exist in their time. Verne, specifically, was a futurist in the vein of a Harlan Ellison. He looked at the world around him at the dawn of the industrial revolution and wrote stories about worlds he thought might come to pass. Consider that in the mid-1800s, much of that burgeoning technology was steam powered, and it's no surprise that those of us who inhabit those worlds-that-never-were view him as our founding father.
But what did he write, really? As a child in the 50s and early 60s, I was the benefactor of some spectacular movies based incredibly loosely on his books that were populated by exotic civilizations, sea monsters, and live dinosaurs, movies that couldn't have helped but serve as the foundations of the blockbusters we enjoy today. But were they Verne? Behold:
Steampunks tend to look upon a handful of "classical" authors as the Fathers of our Genre, and from what I can tell, most of us place Verne at the top of the pantheon. Of course, Verne and the rest didn't consider themselves to be steampunks. That word didn't exist in their time. Verne, specifically, was a futurist in the vein of a Harlan Ellison. He looked at the world around him at the dawn of the industrial revolution and wrote stories about worlds he thought might come to pass. Consider that in the mid-1800s, much of that burgeoning technology was steam powered, and it's no surprise that those of us who inhabit those worlds-that-never-were view him as our founding father.
But what did he write, really? As a child in the 50s and early 60s, I was the benefactor of some spectacular movies based incredibly loosely on his books that were populated by exotic civilizations, sea monsters, and live dinosaurs, movies that couldn't have helped but serve as the foundations of the blockbusters we enjoy today. But were they Verne? Behold:
Growing up, I was told, by both teachers and these movies, that Jules Verne wrote incredible adventures that would blow you out of your seat and into a rich world of imagination that could be experienced nowhere else. I believed it. What adventure could compare to a battle with a giant squid, or the attempt to sabotage and escape from a madman's machine of destruction?
Verne wrote in French, which I never learned (here in SoCal, we learn Spanglish), so my gateway to his work was through these movies, and some textbooks that were terribly abridged English translations that portrayed his stories as grand, sweeping epics rivaling Lord of the Rings in their magnificent adventures. You might imagine, then, the thrill that tickled my spine when I tore the wrappings off Seven Novels, which purports to be as literal a word-for-word translation into English as the mechanics of the two languages allow. The foreword, by *Mike Ashley, points out such details as the fact that the first English translation of 20,000 Leagues, published in England in 1872, correctly translated the title as Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas (plural). In A Journey to the Center of the Earth, there is a list of specialized instruments to be taken on the expedition, including:
Verne wrote in French, which I never learned (here in SoCal, we learn Spanglish), so my gateway to his work was through these movies, and some textbooks that were terribly abridged English translations that portrayed his stories as grand, sweeping epics rivaling Lord of the Rings in their magnificent adventures. You might imagine, then, the thrill that tickled my spine when I tore the wrappings off Seven Novels, which purports to be as literal a word-for-word translation into English as the mechanics of the two languages allow. The foreword, by *Mike Ashley, points out such details as the fact that the first English translation of 20,000 Leagues, published in England in 1872, correctly translated the title as Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas (plural). In A Journey to the Center of the Earth, there is a list of specialized instruments to be taken on the expedition, including:
2. An aneroid barometer, to indicate extreme pressures of the atmosphere. An ordinary barometer would not have answered the purpose, as the pressure would increase during our descent to a point which the mercurial barometer* would not measure.
The asterisk guides the reader to the following footnote:
In M. Verne's book a "manometer" is the instrument used, of which very little is known. In a complete list of philosophical instruments the translator cannot find the name. As he is assured by a first-rate instrument maker, Chadburn of Liverpool, than an aneroid can be constructed to measure any depth, he has thought it best to furnish the adventurous professor with this more familiar instrument. The "manometer" is generally known as a pressure gauge.
That is the level of detail the translator has gone to, contacting an expert, and offering that detailed explanation for the changing of a single word. I'm convinced. So, in his original plots and phrases, what has Verne written?
In a single word, a disappointment. I have spent over six decades of life viewing Jules Verne as the father of the modern adventure story (Daniel Defoe, a particular hero of his, would have to be the grandfather), and imagining Vernsian worlds populated with everything from dinosaurs to sea monsters to mad scientists. In a year of reading, however, I have yet to sight a dinosaur, even out on the horizon. I suppose a squid of sufficient size to menace a submarine would qualify as a sea monster, but the mad scientists I've met thus far seem more sane than the soldiers and politicians they rail against. The seven books in this collection read like the product of some clandestine affair between a science text and a travelogue. Consider this passage from 20,000 Leagues:
In a single word, a disappointment. I have spent over six decades of life viewing Jules Verne as the father of the modern adventure story (Daniel Defoe, a particular hero of his, would have to be the grandfather), and imagining Vernsian worlds populated with everything from dinosaurs to sea monsters to mad scientists. In a year of reading, however, I have yet to sight a dinosaur, even out on the horizon. I suppose a squid of sufficient size to menace a submarine would qualify as a sea monster, but the mad scientists I've met thus far seem more sane than the soldiers and politicians they rail against. The seven books in this collection read like the product of some clandestine affair between a science text and a travelogue. Consider this passage from 20,000 Leagues:
As to the fish, they always provoked our admiration when we surprised the secrets of their aquatic life through the open panels. I saw many kinds which I never before had a chance of observing.
I shall notice chiefly ostracions peculiar to the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, and that part which washes the coast of tropical America. These fishes, like the tortoise, the armadillo, the sea hedgehog, and the crustacea, are protected by a breastplate which is neither chalky nor stony, but real bone. In some it takes the form of a solid triangle, in others of a solid quadrangle. Among the triangular I saw some an inch and a half in length, with wholesome flesh and a delicious flavor; they are brown at the tail and yellow at the fins, and I recommend their introduction into fresh water, to which a certain number of sea-fish easily accustom themselves. I would also mention quadrangular ostracions, having on the back four large tubercles; some dotted over with white spots on the lower part of the body, and which may be tamed like birds; trigons provided with spikes formed by the lengthening of their bony shell, and which from their strange gruntings are called "sea-pigs"; also dromedaries with large humps in the shape of a cone, whose flesh is very tough and leathery.
I now borrow from the daily notes of Master Conseil. "Certain fish of the genus petrodon peculiar to those seas, with red backs and white chests, which are distinguished by three rows of longitudinal filaments...
I could go on for another two closely-typewritten pages of him quoting his own secondary source material, but it isn't my purpose to drive you away. 20,000 Leagues is packed with this, probably more than half of the text, and while his 19th century readers probably found the concept of traveling the world under water to be adventure in and of itself, it doesn't cut it in the 21st. True, gripping adventure exists in the battle with the giant squid, and that's it! The other books are similar, and The Mysterious Island, the last of the seven works chosen for this anthology, is the greatest offender of them all, suggesting that his powers were diminishing with practice. Bear with me for one more passage, this one from that work of 1874:
The next day, the 5th of June, in rather uncertain weather, they set out for the islet. They had to profit by the low tide to cross the channel, and it was agreed that they would construct, for this purpose, as well as they could, a boat which would render communication so much easier, and would also permit them to ascend the Mercy [a river near their encampment], at the time of their grand exploration of the south-west of the island, which was put off till the first fine days.
The seals were numerous, and the hunters, armed with their iron-tipped spears, easily killed half-a-dozen. Neb and Pencroft skinned them, and only brought back to Granite House their fat and skin, this skin being intended for the manufacture of boots.
The result of this hunt was this: nearly three hundred pounds of fat, all to be employed in the fabrication of candles.
The operation was extremely simple, and if it did not yield absolutely perfect results, they were at least very useful. Cyrus Harding would only have had at his disposal sulphuric acid, but by heating this acid with the neutral fatty bodies, he could separate the glycerine; then from this new combination, he easily separated the olein, the margarin, and the stearin, by employing boiling water. But to simplify the operation, he preferred to saponify the fat by means of lime. By this he obtained a calcareous soap, easy to decompose by sulphuric acid, which precipitated the lime into the state of sulphate, and liberated the fatty acids.
From these three acids -- oleic, margaric, and stearic -- the first, being liquid, was driven out by a sufficient pressure. As to the two others, they formed the very substance of which the candles were to be molded.
This operation did not last more than four and twenty hours. The wicks, after several trials, were made of vegetable fibers, and dipped in the liquefied substance, they formed regular stearic candles, moulded by the hand, which only wanted whiteness and polish. They would not doubtless have the advantages of wicks which are impregnated with boracic acid, and which vitrify as they burn and are entirely consumed, but Cyrus Harding having manufactured a beautiful pair of snuffers, these candles would be greatly appreciated during the long evenings in Granite House.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! What the frack am I reading here? I kept looking at the cover to see whether I had grabbed a high school chemistry book from the shelf by accident, but no, this really is the work of one of the founding fathers of modern science fiction. He goes on, two paragraphs after this, to describe the forging of a saw, its use to cut lumber, the use of the lumber to build furniture, then a bridge, and... Christ on a bicycle, people, where is the freaking story here?? What it looks like to me is that Mr. Verne had some ideas for some engaging short stories, and determined to build them into novels. There is more padding here than there is in my overstuffed couch, and to less purpose besides. The modern comparison that comes to mind is Peter Jackson's feeble attempt to squeeze three more epic movies out of a small children's book. Yeah, I'm looking at you, Bilbo...
I cannot imagine how this dreck got published. I realize that times change and audiences become more sophisticated. Edgar Rice Burroughs was able to write about great civilizations on Mars, Venus, and inside a hollow Earth, and it would be pretty hard to slip a story like that past an editor today, but for God's sake, who was Verne writing for? People whose idea of entertainment was learning to classify fish, or make candles in their back yards? This stuff is horrible! I am seriously restraining myself from throwing F-Bombs around, because normal, polite language simply cannot convey how bad this stuff is. The only condition I can envision which would cause work of this caliber to be published is that no one else on earth was writing books at the time.
I have long been known for my disdain of the classics. Dickens, Austen, the Bronte Sisters, and all of their contemporaries put me to sleep almost immediately. I have no fear of insomnia, for Dearly Beloved has The Collected Works of Charles Dickens on her shelf, and a couple of pages of that is all I need to go out like I've been kicked in the head by Ronda Rousey. I have always recognized a few exceptions: H.G. Wells, H. Rider Haggard, Edgar Allan Poe, and up until now, Jules Verne. No longer. I believe he has replaced Charles Dickens as the worst writer it has ever been my misfortune to waste time reading. Sorry, Jules. This is not what I wanted to find out. I was hoping to discover that he was better than I had even imagined. Now I can't imagine being more disappointed.
Lessons to be learned? Well, I am an author who has had some modest success writing short stories. I come with a single theme, deliver the goods, and move aside. Now I am trying my hand at a novel. The lesson here is to watch carefully with a critical eye, and make sure I'm not just padding out a short story, because I now have a pretty good idea of what the final effect of doing that is, and that is absolutely not a product I want to be known for. I am blessed with some good friends who are reading my work in progress, and who I trust to point it out if I become a textbook in disguise, but at the end of the day, it's on me to guard against that form of laziness. Armed with this example, I don't anticipate any problems!
Finally, if anyone would care to watch my novel take shape, pieces are being posted in a rather leisurely fashion at http://www.thesteampunkempire.com/group/scribblers-den/forum. Look for the entries titled "Stingaree;" they'll make more sense if you read them in order. Note that, while these are free to read, you can only comment if you're a member. If you have an interest in steampunk literature, as a producer or consumer, consider joining us; it's beyond comparison the friendliest site on the web!
I'll see you guys in a couple of weeks. Until then, read well, and write better!
I cannot imagine how this dreck got published. I realize that times change and audiences become more sophisticated. Edgar Rice Burroughs was able to write about great civilizations on Mars, Venus, and inside a hollow Earth, and it would be pretty hard to slip a story like that past an editor today, but for God's sake, who was Verne writing for? People whose idea of entertainment was learning to classify fish, or make candles in their back yards? This stuff is horrible! I am seriously restraining myself from throwing F-Bombs around, because normal, polite language simply cannot convey how bad this stuff is. The only condition I can envision which would cause work of this caliber to be published is that no one else on earth was writing books at the time.
I have long been known for my disdain of the classics. Dickens, Austen, the Bronte Sisters, and all of their contemporaries put me to sleep almost immediately. I have no fear of insomnia, for Dearly Beloved has The Collected Works of Charles Dickens on her shelf, and a couple of pages of that is all I need to go out like I've been kicked in the head by Ronda Rousey. I have always recognized a few exceptions: H.G. Wells, H. Rider Haggard, Edgar Allan Poe, and up until now, Jules Verne. No longer. I believe he has replaced Charles Dickens as the worst writer it has ever been my misfortune to waste time reading. Sorry, Jules. This is not what I wanted to find out. I was hoping to discover that he was better than I had even imagined. Now I can't imagine being more disappointed.
Lessons to be learned? Well, I am an author who has had some modest success writing short stories. I come with a single theme, deliver the goods, and move aside. Now I am trying my hand at a novel. The lesson here is to watch carefully with a critical eye, and make sure I'm not just padding out a short story, because I now have a pretty good idea of what the final effect of doing that is, and that is absolutely not a product I want to be known for. I am blessed with some good friends who are reading my work in progress, and who I trust to point it out if I become a textbook in disguise, but at the end of the day, it's on me to guard against that form of laziness. Armed with this example, I don't anticipate any problems!
Finally, if anyone would care to watch my novel take shape, pieces are being posted in a rather leisurely fashion at http://www.thesteampunkempire.com/group/scribblers-den/forum. Look for the entries titled "Stingaree;" they'll make more sense if you read them in order. Note that, while these are free to read, you can only comment if you're a member. If you have an interest in steampunk literature, as a producer or consumer, consider joining us; it's beyond comparison the friendliest site on the web!
I'll see you guys in a couple of weeks. Until then, read well, and write better!
* Mike Ashley is one of the world's foremost scholars of science fiction. His more than sixty books include the definitive biography Starlight Man: The Extraordinary Life of Algernon Blackwood, the four-volume History of the Science Fiction Magazine, and The Gernsback Days: The Evolution of Modern Science Fiction from 1911-1937. He has also compiled more than twenty-five anthologies of fiction, including The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures.