The Book of Philip Jose Farmer Part 26

Trout's last known job was as an installer of aluminum combination storm windows and screens in Cohoes, New York. At this time (late 1972), Trout was living in a bas.e.m.e.nt. Because of his lack of charm and other social graces, Trout's employer had refused to use him as a salesman. His fellow employees had little to do with him and did not even know that he wrote science fiction. And then one day he received a letter. It was the harbinger of a new life, a prelude to recognition of a writer too long neglected.

Trout had an invitation to be a guest of honor at a festival of arts. This was to celebrate the opening of the Mildred Barry Memorial Center for Arts in Midway Center, Indiana. With the invitation was a check for a thousand dollars. Both the honor and the check were due to Eliot Rosewater. He had agreed to loan his El Greco for exhibit at the Center if Kilgore Trout, possibly the greatest living writer in the world, would be invited.

Overjoyed, though still suspicious, Trout went to New York City to buy some copies of his own books so he could read pa.s.sages from them at the festival. While there, he was mugged and picked up by the police on suspicion of robbery. He spent Veterans' Day in jail. On being released, he hitchhiked a ride with a truck driver and arrived in Midway Center. There, unfortunately, the joint of his right index finger was bitten off by a madman, and the festival was called off. This made Trout hope that he would never again have to touch, or be touched by, a human being.

Breakfast of Champions is, according to Vonnegut, the last word we'll get from him on Trout. I'm sorry to hear that, but I am also grateful to Mr. Vonnegut for having first brought Trout to the attention of the nonp.o.r.nography-reading public. I am also sorry that Mr. Vonnegut indulges in sheer fantasy in the last quarter of the book.

The first three parts are factual, but the last part might lead some to believe that Kilgore Trout is a fictional character. The serious reader and student of Trout will disregard the final quarter of Breakfast of Champions except to sift fact from fantasy.

Though the Midway Center Art Festival was aborted, Kilgore Trout is nevertheless on his way to fame. I've just received word that Mr. David Harris, an editor of Dell Publis.h.i.+ng Company, is negotiating for the reprinting of Venus on the Half-sh.e.l.l. If the arrangements are satisfactory to both parties, the general public will have, for the first time, a chance to read a novel by Kilgore Trout.

The folio wing is a list of the known t.i.tles of the one-hundred-seventeen novels and two thousand short stories written by Trout. It's a tragically short list, and it can only be lengthened if Troutophiles make a diligent search through secondhand bookstores and p.o.r.no shops for the missing works.

Novels The Gutless Wonder (1932) 2BR02B.

Venus on the Half-sh.e.l.l Oh Say Can You Smell?

The First District Court of Thankyou Pan-Galactic Three-Day Pa.s.s Maniacs in the Fourth Dimension (1948) The Gospel from Outer s.p.a.ce The Big Board Pan-Galactic Straw-boss (Mouth Crazy) Plague on Wheels Now It Can Be Told The Son of Jimmy Valentine How You Doin'?

The Smart Bunny The Pan-Galactic Memory Bank SHORT STORIES.

The Dancing Fool (April, 1962 issue of Black Garterbelt, a magazine published by World Cla.s.sics Library) This Means YouGilgongo!

Hail to the Chief The Baring-gaffner of Bagnialto or This Year's Masterpiece (Author's Note: Since this was first written, Mr. Vonnegut's novel Jailbird has come out. In this Mr. Vonnegut claims that it was not Trout but another man who wrote the works which Vonnegut hitherto had claimed to be Trout's. n.o.body believes this disclaimer, but the reasons for it have been the subject of much speculation.

Several people have wondered why the initial letter of the surname of the man Mr.

Vonnegut claims is the real Trout is also mine. Is Mr. Vonnegut obliquely pointing his finger at me?

I really don't know. In one of many senses, or perhaps two or three, I am Kilgore Trout. But then the same could be said of at least fifty science-fiction writers.) Thanks for the Feast This is the only item in this collection which I did not write. I was, however, responsible for its being written. I did not ask that it be written. I did not even know that it was being written until I got a long-distance call from Digby Diehl, editor of the Los Angeles Times Book Review section. He informed me that Leslie A. Fiedler, the distinguished critic and author (An End to Innocence, The Nude Croquet, Getting Busted, The Stranger in Shakespeare, Freaks, and others) was writing an article on me. Fiedler wanted me to send him some of my works which he lacked so that he could complete his critique.

I was surprised, because I had no idea that Fiedler was the least interested in science-fiction, let alone in me. I had the same reaction that Kilgore Trout did when he ran into Billy Pilgrim, the antihero of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.

The article was printed in the Times of April 23,1972. Ostensibly, it was a review of my Tarzan Alive but was, in actuality, a bird's-eye, or perhaps a worm's- eye, view of my career. It was accompanied by an ill.u.s.tration of a goofy-looking Tarzan riding astraddle a rocket, obviously a phallic symbol. Its t.i.tle was: "Getting into the Task of Now p.o.r.nography." I could take the ill.u.s.tration, but I did not care for the t.i.tle. I found out later that it was an editor's, not Fiedler's. The editor had also emasculated the text and inserted some mismating of t.i.tles and their publishers.

The work at hand is Fiedler's original article with the original t.i.tle. This was first printed in Moebius Trip; the quotations in double parentheses are the comments of the editor, Ed Connor, and one of my own.

Fiedler is a dyed-in-the-wool Freudian, but most of his a.n.a.lyses are valid -- from my viewpoint. There is also much that is Jungian and Reichian in my works, and these aspects are neglected in the article. Freudian, Jungian, Reichian, are terms I don't really like to use to apply to literary works. The term Farmerian should be good enough.

Some of my friends, on reading the Times article, commiserated with me.

They did not read it aright. I was pretty happy with it. It's by no means a denigration, though not all laudatory, and it's a h.e.l.l of a lot more insightful than anything most of the specialized science fiction critics have written about me.I hope there's no deep significance in the fact that Fiedler wrote this on April Fool's Day.

Notes on Philip Jose Farmer by Leslie A. Fiedler Philip Jose Farmer seems now to have reached the point of public recognition, and I for one am feeling a little dismayed. I don't suppose that publication in Esquire alone is enough to make an unfas.h.i.+onable writer a chic one, but it is a real, perhaps irrevocable, step in that direction. I liked it much better when a taste for Farmer's fiction could still seem a private, slightly shameful pleasure, or a perverse affectation on the part of a scholar, an eccentric vice. In those days, he belonged chiefly to readers who did not even suspect that the novel is dead -- to an audience which took him off the racks in drugstores or supermarkets or airports to allay boredom -- and with no sense certainly that they were approaching "literature." Beyond them, there were, of course, a few others, some themselves more highly touted writers of Science Fiction, who knew that he was something very special; but they wanted to keep it a secret.

To be sure, Farmer had won a Hugo Award or two, one for his earliest work and another a decade and a half later. And a third, in 1972, for the novel, To Your Scattered Bodies Go. But he was never the object of cult adoration, like Robert Heinlein, for instance, after the appearance of A Stranger in a Strange Land; nor was he regarded, like Kurt Vonnegut, by his group of the faithful, as a hidden "great writer." To tell the truth, Farmer does not behave much like an aspirant to "main- stream" greatness. With all the modesty of a hack, he inclines to throw even his best conceptions away -- writing hastily, sometimes downright sloppily; so that we are likely to be left with the disconcerting sense that his work, especially when it aspires to novel length, runs out rather than properly finishes. ("To preserve the Freudian tone of this article, I would have said 'peters out.' ") Nonetheless, he has an imagination capable of being kindled by the irredeemable mystery of the universe and of the soul, and in turn able to kindle the imagination of others -- readers who for a couple of generations have been turning to Science Fiction to keep wonder and ecstasy alive in times apparently uncongenial to those deep psychic experiences. That wonder and ecstasy, wherever it is found in Science Fiction, is ultimately rooted in our s.e.xuality; and the best writers of the genre during its period of flowering after World War II, appear to have realized instinctively that to succeed in their enterprise they had somehow to eroticize machines, gadgets, and the scientific enterprise itself -- or at least to exploit the preexistent erotic implications of the paraphernalia of a technological age.

Philip Farmer was, however, during the 50's, the only major writer of Science Fiction to deal explicitly with s.e.x. He const.i.tuted, therefore, a singular exception, an eccentric case -- in a genre whose leading authors created protagonists themselves apparently des.e.xed, though they and their adventures implicitly symbolized or projected s.e.xuality; since they const.i.tute, as it were, the communal dreams of a technological, urban civilization. And that civilization knows in its sleep, what it denies waking, that at this point, it must eroticize the Industrial Revolution or perish; just as it thinks it knows waking, what it denies in its sleep, that s.e.x must be reimagined as machine technology or rejected out of hand. The latter is the task of modern p.o.r.nography, even as the former is that of Science Fiction.

It was inevitable, therefore, from the start that Farmer would, at the climax of his career, produce two works at once fantasy and bald, explicit p.o.r.nography -- "hardcore p.o.r.nography," as the cant phrase has it: The Image of the Beast and A Feast Unknown. Both books were published by the same sub-respectable firm and distributed through channels ordinarily unsympathetic to any work not aimed exclusively and directly at simple-minded t.i.tillation, "j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. literature," in short.

Never mind that A Feast Unknown begins with a quotation from May Swenson's poetry and ends with an apologetic Afterword by Theodore Sturgeon, in which he insists that this piece of sado-m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic p.o.r.n, whose hero can only have an o.r.g.a.s.m over the bleeding body of his victims, represents somehow "the very core of the healthy truth expressed in the slogan, 'Make love, not war.' "

A Feast Unknown is a hilarious parody of the pop literature of super-heroic adventure; but its essential characteristic is a shamelessness beyond all possible apology. To speak of the imagination which informs it and its predecessor (in whose key scene an extraterrestrial girl with sharp iron dentures goes down on an unwary cop) as "healthy" is an inadvertent error or a deliberate lie. They are about as healthy as the works of the "divine" Marquis de Sade himself; which is to say, they may function therapeutically, but only by releasing in us, or exploding out of us, fantasies in themselves sick. And they have, in fact, helped pave the way for a new brand of Science Fiction, which deals frankly with human pa.s.sion, "sick" and "healthy"; providing us with real phalluses and wombs, against which we can measure their symbolic projections in s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps and underground cities on unknown planets. The paperback periodical, Quark, for instance, in which Farmer himself has been published, has also printed the work of younger writers, his debtors and descendants -- in the form of candidly-worked-out genital fantasies, often by recently liberated women, eager to excel him in the candor of their language and the brutality of their images. But Farmer was there first.

I remember reading many years ago my first Farmer story, which was called "Mother," and being astonished and gratified (a little condescendingly, perhaps) to discover certain Freudian insights into the nature of family relations.h.i.+ps, ingeniously worked out and made flesh, as it were, in the world of inter-galactic travel and an endlessly receding future. My surprise and delight were not only cued by the prejudice which then possessed me utterly -- my conviction that pop fiction was necessarily immune to the insights of depth psychology; but arose also because the mythology of Freud was based on the belief that the neuroses were rooted in the past, and that, therefore, the revelation of s.e.xual secrets depended on retrospection. It needed a writer like Farmer, committed to the antic.i.p.ation of the future, to turn psychoa.n.a.lysis in the direction of prophecy. The concerns first explored in "Mother"

and the other tales later collected in a volume called Strange Relations have continued to obsess him, reaching their culmination in his Hugo Award winning story, "Riders of the Purple Wage." In that tale -- whose t.i.tle puns on Zane Grey, of course (as he is always punning on names out of earlier literature, popular or elitist), and whose not- so-secret motto is "the family that blows is the family that grows" -- he has taken advantage of the greater linguistic freedom of the past decade. And he has thus been able to render even more explicitly the vision of a cloying and destructive relations.h.i.+p between Mothers and Sons, with which he began nearly twenty years ago.

One of Farmer's major obsessive themes, as a matter of fact, is precisely the theme of Mother as a threat to freedom, a temptation to regression, a womb turned prison. And closely connected to it is the second of his major themes, the discovery of new religions in a new world; for those religions always turn out to be matriarchal and are presented as an overwhelming challenge to the patriarchal faith of Christianity. Yet it is a Roman Catholic padre, more son than father though he is called Father John Carmody, who in various short stories and the extraordinary novel, Night of Light, somehow comes to terms with those alien mythologies and rituals; or even manages to defend them and his own machismo simultaneously with gun and fist.

In any case, the Cults of the Great G.o.ddess have always obsessed Farmer; and, indeed, there seems something deep within him that yearns for a time, real or imagined, in which the male was not a Hero but a Servant of that great principle of fertility, as in the bawdiest of his subp.o.r.nographic novels, Flesh. Yet Farmer's third obsessive theme comes into direct (and perhaps irreconcilable) conflict with this fearful nostalgia for the matriarchal security each of us has known in infancy. And this is the myth of The Hero With a Thousand Faces, the lonely phallic ubermensch triumphing by his ability not to create but to kill. Farmer's favorite name for the extravagantly male super-Hero is "Tarzan"; a killer presumably suckled by a she-ape rather than a mere female woman; but really created out of his own head by a G.o.d or devil called Edgar Rice Burroughs, and endlessly recreated by a subsidiary deity or demon called Philip Jose Farmer.

In five major books at least, he has returned to that key figure -- who also flickers in and out of his other fictions, sometimes quite irrelevantly: in Lord Tyger, A Feast Unknown, Lord of the Trees, The Mad Goblin, and most recently in Tarzan Alive. The first of these deals with a boy brought up in the jungle by a mad scientist (a caricature of Farmer himself?) eager to save Burroughs' honor by proving that a Savage n.o.ble can indeed survive under the conditions described by Tarzan's original biographer. The second is a sado-p.o.r.nographic account of a struggle to the death between "Lord Grandrith" (the true Tarzan) and "Doc Caliban" (the true Doc Savage): a struggle which reaches an initial climax when the two super-heroes duel with erect phalluses on a knife-edge of stone bridging a chasm, and ends with both of them deballed. The third and fourth, issued as a double paperback -- this time without the warning, "ADULTS ONLY" -- represent, in Farmer's own words, "something unique. . . the only spinoff of 'clean books' from a 'dirty' book."

In all of them, however, "clean" or "dirty," Farmer insists not only on Tarzan's virtual immortality, but -- even more strongly -- on his extraordinary s.e.xual endowment: his superiority in this respect to his primate pals and his Black neighbors (though he argues heatedly that Tarzan is no "racist") -- as well as, one presumes, to his author and his readers. The same themes obsess him still in the fifth, to be published April 28 -- but already excerpted in Esquire. It is in all respects the cul- mination of the others: a delightfully monomaniac attempt to " 'prove' through the use of quasi-scholarly tools. . ." that Tarzan is (a) "a close relative of such modern heroes as Professor Challenger, Holmes and Wolfe, Lord John Roxton, Denis Nayland Smith, Bulldog Drummond, Lord Peter Wimsey, Raffles, Leopold Bloom, and Richard Wentworth (who is not only the Spider but was once G-8 and is at the same time the Shadow). . ." and (b) "that Tarzan is the last of the Heroes of the Golden Age, Nature's final expression. . ."

But Tarzan, for all his encyclopedic comprehensiveness, represents only a small part of Farmer's larger attempt (at once absurd and beautiful, foredoomed to failure but, once conceived, already a success) to subsume in his own works all of the books in the world that have touched or moved him. For him, the traditions of Science Fiction provide a warrant for constructing Universes of his Own: worlds whose place names turn out inevitably to demand as many footnotes as T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land -- Dante's Joy, Baudelaire, Ozagen (Oz again!); and which are inhabited not only by new species but old friends, fictional or real -- Hiawatha, Alice in Wonderland, Sir Richard Burton, Ishmael (Melville's), and Herman Goering.

Particularly in his "pocket universes" series and in his more recent Riverworld Books, To Your Scattered Bodies Go and The Fabulous Riverboat, all that seemed to have died here on Earth (everywhere at least except in the head of one voracious reader) is resurrected -- or at least reconstructed in quasi-immortal form by omniscient computers in Worlds Out There. Obviously, it is the deepest level of childhood response which Farmer has reached in this pair of novels, in the first of which Sir Richard Burton pursues amorously Lewis Carroll's chastely loved Alice Lidell; while in the second, Mark Twain searches with equal pa.s.sion for his lost wife, Livy, and for iron ore deposits rich enough to make possible the building of a paddlewheel steamer. The primary images seem erotic, even genital; but in the Riverworld there turns out to be more detailed description of eating than of s.e.x. And, indeed, the most important gadget in its extraterrestrial technology is the "Grail," a kind of portable short-order kitchen provided by the invisible masters of a warmed- over universe.

But this is fair enough; since throughout Farmer's work he demonstrates himself to be the most oral of men -- his heroes being more typically blown than laid; his image of ultimate horror a bitten-off p.e.n.i.s; and his vision of Utopian bliss a kind of not-quite-kiss, in which the partners (functionally neither totally male nor female) move their lips ecstatically around a pale snakelike organ which wriggles out of the mouth of one into that of the other. In this light, it seems appropriate to describe Farmer's cultural imperialism as a gargantuan l.u.s.t to swallow down the whole cosmos, past, present, and to come, and to spew it out again.

Farmer wants even to eat and regurgitate himself; the industrious hack who writes his books, plus that hack's fantasies of what he secretly is or might be. And in the end, he does manage to mingle almost unnoticed among super-heroes and mutants and monsters, as if the character Philip Jose Farmer were as real as any fiction: the writer without real fans, who, for twenty-five ((five is correct)) years, tried to make it in Southern California, baffled by apartment house living among Jewish neighbors, improbably married for the whole time to the same wife -- and fleeing at last back to Peoria, Illinois, where he was born ((correct place of birth: North Terre Haute, Indiana)). Usually his self-portraits are betrayed by the initials, P.J.F., as he himself points out: "Kickaha (Paul Ja.n.u.s Finnegan) is me as I would like to be. Peter Jairus Frigate (To Your Scattered Bodies Go) is me as I (more or less) really am."

Finally, I suppose, Farmer must dream of swallowing down his readers, too, or at least of "taking them in," as the telltale phrase has it, with jokes and hoaxes and "scholarly" proofs. And there is something satisfactory, after all, about imagining ourselves, complete with wives, kids, and worldly possessions, disappearing into an utterly fictional world along with Alice and Tarzan and Kilgore Trout, the Scarlet Pimpernel and Jack the Ripper and Samuel Clemens. But not before we have man- aged to say, as I am trying to say here: Thanks for the feast.

Leslie A. Fiedler Buffalo, New York 1 April 1972.