The Selected Stories of H.G. Wells

 I sought out this specific collection of H.G. Wells’s short stories because they were gathered, ordered, and edited by Ursula K. Le Guin.  I had read a few of Wells’s longer stories (War of the Worlds, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Time Machine), but I read them as entertainment, not as literature.  I don’t mean that with any kind of judgment. Wells writes entertainingly and to entertain, and to read a story to hear a good yarn is a perfectly legitimate enterprise.  I just mean that I hadn’t paid any attention to Wells as an artist, making artistic decisions.  Coming to these stories in this collection through the eyes of Le Guin is like taking a small course on Wells as a writer, or seeing his works through the eyes of friend.  It shaped the way I see and understand Wells’s writing.

 

Instead of presenting the 26 short stories, spanning 40 years of Wells’s life, in chronological order, from the first written to the last, Le Guin has grouped the stories by genre: “Because almost all Wells’s stories are genre stories and because I value them as such, I arranged them, not chronologically, but in sections by kind.  Each section has a brief introduction, discussing what kind of stories they are, where this kind of story came from and what it may have led to” (xii).  It is a clever way to group an artist’s work, and it makes you conscious of how each story relates to the other stories within its grouping, and of course, how blurry and artificial those lines are in the end.  Her first grouping is not by any larger-recognized genre that I’m familiar with: “In one way or another all the stories in this section have to do with what somebody sees” (italics in original, 3).  And while these first 7 stories are built around gifted vision, Le Guin uses the category to set the larger theme that she sees running through all of Wells’s work: his incredible ability to bring a scene, a landscape, a person, a world to life.  It was a joy to slow down and see how effectively and efficiently Wells could describe a thing, especially in a world that predates big cinema.  So often when I read 21^st century novels, I can feel the writer writing for the big screen, or even for the prestigious small screen.  Wells had no such experience with cinematic scenes of war or romantic lighting or catastrophic destruction, and yet his descriptions bring those very things to life.  Here’s a small taste, from “A Dream of Armageddon” (grouped by Le Guin in “Technological and Predictive Science Fiction”). In it, a man and woman are feeling a war-torn part of the world. They are resting for a moment when war planes fly over-head, firing indiscriminately (and this was written before World War I, even before the Wright Brothers had been to Kitty Hawk): “Overhead in the sky flashed something and burst, and all about us I heard the bullets making a noise like a handful of peas suddenly thrown. They chipped the stones about us, and whirled fragments from the bricks and passed . . .” (194).  You can hear and see it like it were on a screen before you, and yet it is all a part of his finely-tuned imagination.

 

I was struck by how modern Wells’s language felt, especially given that some pieces were nearly 125 years old.  Both the general sentences and the dialogue are vibrant and present, alive and human.  I realized that one of the reasons he reads so quickly and easily is that his language is unobtrusive.  His words give you the image, create the feeling, propel you forward, and then disappear.  The world is alive and the people understandable and the situations both human and intriguing.

 

There are a few stories that I found hard to stomach for their racism.  Le Guin tries to smooth over the issue by noting that “the writer’s sympathy is with the black man,” but that is an unfortunately facile way to apologize for the problems at its root.  She suggests that the problem with “The Lord of the Dynamos” is essentially the use of the N-word, but the problems are much deeper.  Even if Wells expresses sympathy for Azuma-zi, there is a world of racist assumptions and stereotypes propping Azuma-zi up.

 

I found “The Country of the Blind,” the story that concludes the collection, to be fascinating in that it seems to make an argument unintended by the author and unrecognized by the editor.  The story involves an isolated people in a small valley of the Ecuadorean Andes.  For whatever reason, the environment his led to all the inhabitants, for generation after generation, to become or be born blind.  One day, a mountain climber from Bogota accidentally finds himself stranded in the valley.  He initially thinks his gift of sight will make his superior to, and a natural leader of, the blind people, but he finds that the world and life they have built favors blindness and he is outmatched by them.  Because he talks of things they cannot comprehend, they consider him a lunatic, heretical, and an idiot.  He is dependent on them for survival, living entirely in their world, and he submits himself to their ways.  The story is supposed to be about how a visionary is stifled and dismissed among the ignorance of the masses who are unable to even understand the language of the visionary.  And to that end, the story is effective.  But Wells undercuts this idea by having the seeing man be such an arrogant fool.  First, Bogota (the name the blind people give him) is a rich mountain climber, indulging in his own abilities, not trying to improve the world in any way. Second, the near-immediate thought that Bogota has once he discovers where he is, is the refrain “In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”  And his expectation is not to serve or help anybody, but the rule over them.  He comes into the village like an empirical force, learning nothing of the local culture or their ways and assumes they are childish and ignorant and in need of his wisdom and experience.  My sympathies were entirely with the blind folk.  Wells showed that if the world were set up with differing abilities in mind, that there is no actual handicap to blindness, that in fact there are advantages and special gifts that come with it.  It is living in a seeing world that refuses to accommodate blindness that disadvantages the blind person.

 

Like all of us, Wells is blind to his own assumptions, and when they stick out so apparently to me as they do in these last two stories I describe, it is a little painful. But I have discussed only the two stories that are problematic, so please don’t let those two stories dissuade you from reading the other 24 presented in this collection.  In fact, I would definitely recommend “The Country of the Blind” because there is a lot of thought in it, and even when it has sour tastes, there is a lot to relish.

 

Wells has a lot of interesting approaches to interesting topics.  Some tales are like Twilight Zone episodes, and some are unlike anything I’ve read before, artful and contemplative and unexpected.  “Under the Knife” and “The Star” are two that come to mind.  H.G. Wells touches upon nearly everything that will be the stuff of science fiction throughout the 20^th century. Strange magic shops (“The Magic Shop”), body switching (“The Story of the Late Mr. Elvesham”), seeing through time and space (“The Crystal Eggs”), new technology making war more horrifying still (“The Land Ironclads”), oversized beasts (“The Valley of the Spiders”), underwater discoveries (“In the Abyss”), the nature of the soul and out of body experiences (“The Stolen Body”), and so much more.  All told from interesting, human perspective with thoughtful explorations of what these things mean for the world.

 

This collection is a delight, and having Le Guin’s guiding voice to move through them is a treat.

The Best of Richard Matheson - A Short Story Collection

I don’t remember what prompted me to check this book out of my local library.  I must have read a reference to Matheson’s short stories and went looking for it.  The only thing I had read of Matheson’s before this is the first volume of his collection of Twilight Zone scripts, which I thoroughly enjoyed.  I’ve enjoyed many movies adapted from his writing, but never his prose fiction directly.

This 400 page collection of 33 short stories is an interesting and fun read.  Matheson writes in a loose, relaxed prose style that feels simultaneously common and elevated.  He has several great turns of phrases and surprising descriptions that signals his great command of the English language.  Here’s a quick sample from his opening paragraphs of the “Witch War”: “Seven pretty little girls sitting in a row.  Outside, night, pouring rain—war weather. . . . Sky clearing its throat with thunder, picking and dropping lint lightning from immeasurable shoulders.”  Those poetic phrasings are sparsely made, but each one gives a great punch.  Otherwise, the stories consist of simple description and plenty of dialogue.  It is typical mid-20^th-century American literature in its presentation—one of my favorite periods for literature.

Many of the stories themselves have a taste of the supernatural, some leaning toward horror, others leaning toward science fiction, but all of them interesting page-turners.  I was surprised by how many stories were familiar to me, either because they were adapted for film or TV (such as “Prey,” “Death Ship,” “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet,” “Third from the Sun,” “Duel,” and “Button Button”), or because they seemed to be part of the zeitgeist of the 50s and 60s literature.  Most of the stories have a gimmick or a surprise ending, which you can feel from the start of the story.  An interesting situation or premise is introduced, and then you wait to have it explained to you, speculating along the way (or searching your memory if the story feels vaguely familiar).  The weakest stories have little more than resolution or explanation you are waiting for, such as “Third from the Sun.”  The best stories have a conflict rooted in human needs and emotions, such as “Button, Button,” “Dance of the Dead,” “Dying Room Only,” and “Duel.”

The other thing on display in this collection is Matheson’s ability to pace a story, to create movement and acts even within a seemingly straightforward story.  It does not surprise me that his stories are often picked up for film and television.  Not only is he a visual and sensory writer, but he has a gift for building tension through slowly escalating actions by the protagonist.  There is a lot to learn here about the way a short story is constructed.

As I read the collection, I kept comparing it to the collection of Roald Dahl stories I have (also called The Best of . . .).  The two share a lot of storytelling techniques and tastes.  Both are wonderful and dialogue, both are masters of pacing, and both construct sentences that appear effortlessly written.  I kept trying to pinpoint what it was about Dahl’s writing that I favored, and in the end I decided that it had little to do with the writing itself and everything to do with the type of stories he was interested in telling.  In Dahl’s short stories, the conflicts and tensions are rooted in two or more characters talking to each other, attempting to navigate the difficult terrain to get what they want.  In the end, Matheson’s characters’ interactions, while interesting, seldom make a difference to the story.  Take “Dance of the Dead,” for example, probably my favorite in the collection.  The kids pressuring our young heroine makes for great tension.  I worried for her for the whole length of the story.  But in the end, my worry was a red herring.  The story wasn’t interested in her treatment or mistreatment, only in an interesting way to tell the story of the LUPs.  The characters are props, parts of the scenery in the end.  The stories are still cool; they just don’t hang at the places I find most interesting as a reader.

I recommend this collection, because it is an enjoyable read throughout.  I’ll now be going back to read (and watch) Matheson’s Twilight Zone stories.  But will I go pick up one of his novels?  I’m not sure at this point.