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A little while ago I mentioned Simon Ings' new novel, The Weight of Numbers. I also linked to this Guardian review, which seemed to do a pretty good job of putting the book in context. Now I notice all the reviews on Ings' webpage, and in particular this review from The Independent, which is on a whole other level:
Science fiction: which way to the exit? The history of SF over the past half-century has been a balancing act. On one side is its adolescent drive to create slam-bang adventure stories set against the most exotic backdrops; on the other, its adult imperative to extrapolate the impact of social change and new technology on culture, politics and the wider society.

Plenty of authors still guard the hardcore turf, but many others have made common cause with literary fiction. Novels like David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas make the Man Booker shortlist despite occupying territory which would have been indisputably considered SF even a short while ago.
Discuss.

It's also weird--in a good way--to see a review that recognises and engages with the context of the book appear in the pages of The Independent rather than, say, Foundation. Though I wish Murray had gone into more detail (or had had the space to go into more detail) about why he thought it didn't work. "The plot works but the story doesn't" is an interestingly loaded turn of phrase.

(I would like to see lots of discussion of this book, so everyone should go and read it now, please. And as it happens, a review of the book by Abigail Nussbaum will be appearing at Strange Horizons next week.)

In a not-entirely-dissimilar vein, this discussion of reactions to Never Let Me Go may be of interest to some.
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Aside from this glowing review (key references, Ballard, Stephenson, DeLillo; key phrase, "reinvention of the past as though it were science fiction"; review titled 'Pattern Recognition'), on Simon Ings' website we find this disclosure:
And finally. Weight's mysterious, slightly farcical philosophical society exists: it’s called the Science Fiction Foundation, and it was founded by George Hay, a friend of Arthur Clarke, Fred Hoyle and Solly Zuckerman. I don’t think it’s too much to say that Hay – long dead, alas – was the last of a grand line of Fabian eccentrics, the greatest of whom, I suppose, was Zuckerman’s wartime collaborator J D Bernal (the model for Weight's J D Arven). Hay wanted to create an organisation along the lines of Isaac Asimov’s fictional ‘Foundation’ – a shadowy elite with a hotline to government, providing it with the sort of thought experiments and long-term technical and sociological perspectives that the best science fiction could provide. To this end, he allotted me – his last and least protege (Mike Moorcock and Christopher Priest had preceded me), a number of more or less absurd tasks. I set up a dial-a-poem service. I typed up a previously unpublished soft-porn novel by a renowned science fiction author who really should have known better.

Funnily enough, a couple of years ago the Whitehall Foresight team invited a bunch of science fiction writers and myself to a hotel in St Pancras to perform for them (I seem to remember their theme was ‘The Future of Crime’ – their ideas were much better than ours were) – so obviously either Hay has had his influence, or – incredibly – he knew what he was talking about.

Today, Foundation survives only as a library at the University of Liverpool, picked over by a handful of dubious PhDs. A pity.
In other news, somewhere in this flat is my mobile phone. It's just that I can't find it and it's switched off. Nobody expect a quick response to any text messages today.

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