I came to Vonda McIntyre’s Dreamsnake via a review of
the book written by Ursula K. Le Guin and collected in her collection of essays
called Words Are My Matter. In
that lovingly written review, Le Guin bemoaned the fact that the book was out
of print, and concluded, “Dreamsnake is a classic, and should be cherished
as such.” So I went looking for a copy,
and finding that our library system only carried a e-print of the book, I found
one used on Ebay.
What a wonderful book! Le Guin sites it as an influence on
her, and I can see that immediately, although, I would have said that the influence
worked the other way, given what Le Guin had already written by 1978 when the
book was published, or even 1973 when McIntyre published the short story “Of
Mist, and Grass, and Sand,” which would become the first chapter of the
novel. There is a sincerity and warmth
to the characters and the world, an open honesty that never falls into tweeness
or cloying sweetness. Such a stance is all the more surprising when we consider
that the novel is a kind of post-apocalyptic work, set in a world devastated a
long time ago by nuclear war, though by this point recovering from that
damage. It is a hard world full of thoughtful
people who are well-conceived.
One of the things I loved about the book, and noticed immediately,
was the way that the conflicts originated from the dramatic situations rather
than from quarreling between characters.
Can Snake save young Stavin dying from a tumor? Can Jesse, paralyzed by a spinal injury, make
it to Center? The characters are dealing
with life and death and love, and emotions run high, but everyone treats
everyone else with respect and integrity.
There are a few notable and necessary exceptions, of course. I say
necessary because cruelty and selfishness exist in the world, and it would feel
unreal to have it absent from this one.
McIntyre keeps those traits limited to a few individuals, and gives them
their own set of reasons and motivations, understandable even if detestable. You
don’t have characters using their emotional duress to attack and misunderstand
each other. The emotional duress is
instead socially navigated and embraced and encountered head on. It was too me,
utterly refreshing, and beautifully moving.
The other thing that I loved and admired was McIntyre’s ease
in envisioning and presenting a social world so much more functional than ours
in many ways. The triadic relationships
are presented with ease and without explanation. Merideth’s genderless identity is handled so
deftly that I don’t know if I would have recognized it were it not for Le Guin’s
review. Sex and childbirth are decoupled effortlessly in a way that makes sex
this easy and beautiful act, a chance to connect and find comfort.
In her review, Le Guin made an observation that I think
captures the spirit of the book so well that it is better to quote her than to
steal her sentiment:
The writer Moe Bowstern gave me a slogan I cherish: ‘Subversion
Through Friendliness.’ It looks silly till you think about it. It bears
considerable thinking about. Subversion through terror, shock, pain is easy—instant
gratification, as it were. Subversion through friendliness is paradoxical, slow-acting,
and durable. And sneaky. A moral revolutionary, rewriting rules the rest of us
were still following, McIntyre subverted us so skillfully and with such lack of
self-promoting hoo-ha that we scarcely noticed. And thus she has seldom if ever
received the feminist honors she is due, the credit owed her by writers to whom
she showed the way.
I am not the kind of reader that always hopes for sequels. I
like a book to give me everything it has to give and then end beautifully. But I found myself wishing there was a whole
slew of books set in this world with these characters. I can’t think of higher
praise.
