Doris Piserchia Weblog


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The following posts include (1) "footnotes" for The Doris Piserchia Website (link at left), (2) texts-in-process that will eventually appear there, (3) texts from other websites, and (we hope) (4) stimulating discussion threads. The picture to the left is the back cover of The Spinner (book club edition), depicting a citizen of Eastland "hanging out" while Ekler the cop and Rune the idiot-superman look on.


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I, Zombie, 1982

It is supremely ironic that Doris Piserchia closed out her career the way many sci fi writers begin theirs, writing a zombie novel under a pseudonym. But what a zombie novel it is. I, Zombie (DAW, 1982), as written by Curt Selby, puts a modernist economic/political twist on the wheezing tale of the Undead among the living. A future spacefaring society has developed wetware that can be installed in the heads of the recently Dead, allowing them to be used as slave laborers in the hellholes of extraterrestrial colonization. And not just any of the Dead, but the formerly insane, the suicides, the trash that no one cares for or about. This is cast as an economic decision, as a cost saving alternative to expensive robot labor. I, Zombie is one of those books that seems to be screaming with hidden agendas, its story a thinly disguised metaphor for any of a number of societal criticisms. But this is a Piserchia book, and the reader is tempted to accept that the perceived metaphor is merely a lush setting from the author's wild imagination. This is one of the most maddening things about Piserchia's books. There are so many "almosts" in them; almost great writing, almost unique conceptualizations, almost "message" stories. It is hard to tell what exactly is going on. I, Zombie's slave laborers are mostly female, which, if it were any other book of the early 1980s, would raise an immediate red flag of feminist agenda. But this doesn't seem to be the case. Nor does the obvious political question of the institution of slavery, or the class issues of using the shells of the cast off and unprotected as human construction equipment. Piserchia seems to have used a thoroughly loaded concept in an unloaded way, as story element rather than flagpole.

But the hint of meaningful metaphor is still there, so maddeningly close to conceptualization that the reader keeps waiting for the expositive narration that will Explain All. It never comes. In a way, I, Zombie is a twist on the Robot morality story. The question of the ethics of producing a sentient laboring machine is sharply drawn, using the gimmick of not using metal and processers to produce a robot, but the cold flesh of human corpses. The ultimate twist is that the narrator, a zombie worker, is, through an incompetent accident at the Zombie factory, still alive. Not a reactivated cadaver, but a barely alive person trapped in the zombie lifestyle. This is a reflection of the primary point of robot stories stretching back to Gernsbeck and Asimov, that the Robot is redeemed and set free by the tiny flash of Humaness bestowed by intelligence. This anthropomorphic and cockeyed idea of Humanity being something that evolves at a high order of intelligence and complexity is hoakum straight out of colonialism and the White Man's Burden. Piserchia makes this idea work by having the spark of redeeming humanity be the tiny remnants of a Life destroyed. This shift of focus allows the narrative to explore the stubborn survivability of Human-ness, the ability of the Human spark to carry on within a hellish world order whose Horror knows no bounds.

I, Zombie is a peculiar coda to a peculiar career. Doris Piserchia wrote a pile of good science fiction, but never quite broke through to the popular imagination. It is almost as if the glimmer of feminine viewpoint that permeates her writing, as hard to discern as it is, was enough to scare off the pimply army of Fanboys who supply the money to keep the Baloney Factory churning out product. With an injection of overt Agenda, I, Zombie could have been a milestone book in feminist sci fi, but it was not to be. For the reader who enjoys building political meaning into their reading on their own, this book is a rich source of thought-provoking material. And who knows, maybe Piserchia wanted to make a point without beating the reader over the head, though the politics of I, Zombie are understated to the point of virtual invisibility. Whatever it is, I, Zombie is an appropriately ambiguous headstone for a completely ambiguous writing career.

--from Strange Words

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- tom moody 3-10-2002 5:35 am [link] [1 ref]



The Deadly Sky, 1983

Ashlin, a teenage boy in a the utopian city of Emera, starts to wonder why so many people are deciding to join that weird cult where you cut off your arms and legs to eventually become a cyber-person, a brain in a robot body. And why doesn't anyone want to talk about those strange birds circling the top of Emera's highest mountain? I don't want to give too much of the plot away, but maybe Emera's benign suburban facade is hiding something strange and frightening.

Not particularly focused on feminist issues, but the female characters are interesting, well-rounded, and brave. Minor romance between Grena and Ashlin, on the level of going to have an ice cream soda and then--off again to ride telepathic vultures and battle the alien threat together.

All in all The Deadly Sky is entertaining and light hearted, considering that the whole world is in grave danger. A suburban type of kid learns about war and about responsibility, and saves the world.

Uncomplicated and fun.

--Liz Henry, 1995, from Feminist Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Utopia.

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- tom moody 3-10-2002 5:23 am [link] [1 ref]



The Fluger, 1980

A dystopian novel where another invulnerable monster from somewhere mysterious threatens the gleaming perfect city. Under pressure, Olympus City reveals its flaws; because of the Fluger and its enigmatic opponent, Kam Shar, perhaps humanity is forced to become a little more aware of itself and the squalid world outside the floating cities.

Corrodado, the monster, is even cooler than Mordak from The Spinner. He hates the humans intensely, and maybe it's just my bloodthirstiness but most of the people he kills are so obnoxious and worthless, I'm cheering for the monster most of the time.

None of the major characters are female. Gender isn't really a focus of this book either, so if you are looking for something more feminist, go read Star Rider.

--Liz Henry, 1995, from Feminist Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Utopia.

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- tom moody 3-10-2002 5:21 am [link] [1 ref]



The Spinner, 1980

Another study of humans under pressure. Society breaks down under the threat of the alien monster--as good as reading about accounts of the Great Plague, if you like that sort of thing.

Mordak, a nasty, web-spinning, invulnerable creature, threatens a large city in our not too distant future. He accidentally comes through a rift in space created by a new mining tool called the Rumson Bore. Another monster who manages to be charming even as he is dribbling gobbets of human flesh out of his fanged mouth. You know he's laughing at the pathetic scurrying of the humans. Fit prey for his young, when they hatch!

Meanwhile a bunch of wraithlike old people are living in a system of caves underneath the city. Most of them seem to have escaped from a horribly oppressive nursing home. Numerous other characters are sketched out, very quickly, but in depth; they are destined to either die rather pointlessly or to help in the great escape from the webbed-in city.

I wouldn't say that there's anything particularly "feminist" about Spinner, though it can provide fine material for a feminist slanted reading. Everyone is equally loathsome, which in my book is perfectly feminist and more realistic than the Mary Daly "cult of natural womanhood".

The picture of Rumson and his girlfriend Olivia was incredibly amusing to me. Rumson, an archetypal mad scientist with a bad case of agoraphobia, is a figure of pity here. Piserchia has something to say here about scientists who are out of touch with the world, who never know or particularly care what effects their inventions will have on society. His head is in the sand 100 percent, though you feel sorry for him even after his ultimate treatment of Olivia.

Olivia gets pretty much equally claustrophobic hanging out in Rumson's closet-like, windowless home. She comes and goes as she pleases; she has a job in some distant city. But then he drops valium in her coffee, ostensibly to save her from being caught in the web. Again the picture of a wife being drugged into complacency with her lot. It makes me wonder what Seconal or Valium horrors lie in Piserchia's past; maybe she saw this sort of thing happen to her friends. Anyway, the amusing part (but I'm pretty sick) is when Olivia stuffs his corpse in the deep freeze. She's only slightly disturbed later when she opens the freezer, days later. . . to find that maybe he hadn't been dead after all. Somehow it still makes me giggle. She barely gives it a thought. How horrid!

--Liz Henry, 1995, from Feminist Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Utopia.

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- tom moody 3-10-2002 5:20 am [link] [1 ref]



A Billion Days of Earth, 1976

Piserchia plumbs the depths of existential despair. Cool sentient rats. Not for the faint of heart.

The most feminist thing about this book is that everyone, male or female, dog-person, rat-person, flying cat-person, God, or barely sentient animal, is equally despicable. It's so far into the future that rats have evolved to human status, with all the parallels possible to our own society. Their world is a dark mirror, a judgement, of our own world--and the verdict: all it deserves is a clean death. Dank, murky, bloody, chaotic, depressing. It is one of my favorite books. It would make a classic movie if anyone had the nerve to do something this dark and anguished. Billion Days of Earth faces nihilism and despair head on, and makes you feel like there's hope, sort of. Well, not the best sounding recommendation, but read on.

Sheen, a flowing metallic blob just born to life, converses with a future rabbit, a "tare". This particular tare happened to be thoughtful, unlike most of the beings on the planet; "It was subnormal in intelligence because it wanted to find sense in this world of Three Million, A.D." Sheen confuses the tare thoroughly by declaring his love for it. Their encounter, and their conversation about love and existence, sets the stage for Sheen's swath of destruction across the planet. The tare tries to put its belief into words:

"One way you can tell what you love is by eliminating everything repulsive to you. You love what's left."

"Nothing is repulsive to me."

"Then you must be very inexperienced. As you go along you'll find plenty to turn your stomach. In fact, most of your life will be spent avoiding those things."

Sheen proves the tare wrong as he loves, hates, understands, seduces and absorbs the egos of most of the human (rat) race.

Is Sheen evil incarnate? Is Sheen just the earth's combination weed eater and garbage collector, consuming the weak? I think I would have to read Billion Days of Earth several more times and live a little bit longer to have anything coherent to say about this. But in any case we get to watch the rat-person society go to hell under the pressure of a seemingly malevolent alien force. If you can count as malevolent a creature who offers you eternal Heaven in exchange for your ego.

Rik, rat-descended person and first class asshole, realizes the world is ending. His wife Aril freaked out, went crazy, and got religion after their son Sten was born a vicious atavism. Not just retarded, dangerous; we're talking a mindless giant baby rat with claws and fangs. Aril is one of the few female characters, and she's not all that likeable. However, she provides definite food for feminist thought.

The Gods, the super-evolved descendents of homo sapiens, are worse than the rat-people; decadent, uncaring, isolated from each other and the rest of the world. Toying around pointlessly--like some academics and exceedingly wealthy people--takes all their time, energy, and tremendous power. They don't give a shit about much of anything.

Jak is Rik's best friend. He is a Leng, a creature evolved from ancient dogs; without the artificial hands of the rat-people, they are relatively helpless. He is oddly monkish; Sheen taunts him with his ancestry, implies he is doomed by his compassion, implies he's stupid because he's not cynical. All the characters in Billion Days of Earth are obvious manifestations of certain personality types, if you haven't noticed.

Most obvious feminist moment: Miss Lune, a sour, spinsterly rat-person who works in the artificial hand factory, suddenly realizes that Rik was right. She was living only for her job.

"You were right," she said. "After the plant was gone I had nothing left but myself. It turned out to be enough. . . It took all this chaos to make me realize I never had anything else. I think it's a crime to sit back and watch your individuality go down the drain, but it's much worse when you approve of it. I'm talking about people in general. You don't get self-respect because someone respects you. Women couldn't see that."

"They'll see it now," said Rik.

"Only if they have guts. I don't know if they can do it."

"Do you care?"

"I'd be a liar if I said I didn't, but I'll tell you something more important than my caring what happens to them--their caring. If they don't care, it doesn't matter what I think."

Miss Lune is far from being scared of Sheen. She has him relaxed in her living room with his feet up, watching TV. They are going to have friendly philosophical discussions after dinner.

This is how I think of Doris Piserchia; serving tea to the Devil while they politely discuss metaphysics. Like Sheen, she has used her life to stretch her mind to encompass humanity in all its frailty, greed, pettiness, energy and beauty.

--Liz Henry, 1995, from Feminist Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Utopia.

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- tom moody 3-10-2002 5:10 am [link] [2 refs]