Originally I wanted to make a much stronger statement: “Horror is better than science fiction”—but realized that writing something like this would betray my ignorance of the other genre. Whether a timid question or a bold statement, it is still a subjective judgment—my judgment. Yet all opinions, conclusions, categorizations, and theories are ultimately subjective. In so far as the truth is what is useful for us to believe and in so far as we create our various worlds by the things we pay attention to, subjectivity—belief—will always rule our minds. Reason and so called objectivity will always serve faith. Belief trumps reason every time—in my not so humble opinion.
It
seems that horror entertainment is entirely comfortable with the subjective
view—it is after all our natural experience of the world. It requires “that willing suspension of
disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith,” as Coleridge once
said. The experience of horror fiction
is the enjoyment of a story, which one may or may not believe actually
happened—but this is after its
telling. A similar process goes on in
the appreciation of a drama, whether live, on TV or in a movie.
But
the experience of science fiction often entails an explanation, an artificial distancing from the source of wonder
through its objectification. The appearance
of science—in a story, a sales pitch, a political speech—is a kind of
certification. “You can believe this because it is, well, scientific.” When someone says ‘studies show that…’ or ‘the
research indicates that’—in other words, that some person or organization is
being objective in their
pronouncements, run away. (At
least be suspicious.)
Although
the best science fiction incorporates elements of fantasy and horror, it is
encumbered by a reliance on the trappings of science, often manifested in an
overlay of technological imagery. Science
fiction stories become indistinguishable from other genre writing—Westerns,
Romance, Detective Stories, Adventure Stories, War Stories—if all the futuristic
gadgetry is removed. It may be that the
emphases on science and technology—needed to shore up credibility when a
‘suspension of disbelief’ is called for—is an unfortunate side effect of the
Age of Enlightenment, (from which our society has yet to recover).
An
effective horror story requires a ‘suspension of disbelief’. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say
that it requires a replacement of
more familiar beliefs about the world and how it works with new beliefs more
congenial to the story. H.P. Lovecraft,
in his Supernatural Horror in Literature
(1927), writes that in a true weird tale
“A
certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown
forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seriousness
and portentousness becoming its subject, of that most terrible conception of
the human brain—a malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed
laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and
the daemons of unplumbed space.”
In my
view, Lovecraft was much more effective as a horror writer than a science
fiction writer. In fact, there is very
little actual science in his later work in that genre. With few exceptions, (The Colour Out of Space, At
the Mountains of Madness), his attempts at science fiction amount to
inclusion of pseudo-scientific gadgetry, typical of the pulp fiction of his
time. George Allan England was a strong
proponent of this approach, (see the earlier post this month, “If You’d Rather
Write Pulp Fiction…”).
One
can see Lovecraft struggle with this negative influence in The Shunned House, (1928) which starts out as an interesting horror
story but bogs down as soon as all the scientific equipment arrives. It may be that Lovecraft was anticipating the
changing market for speculative fiction.
He began to have success about a decade before the beginnings of the
‘Golden Age of Science Fiction.’ But
what he wrote most successfully about were his dreams—nightmares, really. The raw psychic material that he fashioned
into his stories is about as subjective
as an author can get.
Perhaps
Lovecraft was also succumbing to the logical consequences of a faith in
objectivity, materialism, realism, cosmicism, relativism, atheism—all these
isms! But can someone write convincingly
about the supernatural without an implicit belief in its possibility? Can anyone be truly objective about what is
horrifying? One can however reduce the
terror, gain some distance, and buy some time by using that holy of holies the scientific method. One can be objective—but the horror is
still coming. Better run.
Whatever
its reality, objectivity is an attempt to escape human beliefs, feelings and values
and their determination of our understanding of the world. There is no real separation between subjective
or objective perception—at most a difference of degree. The striving for objectivity is hopelessly
and inextricably entangled with very human motivations—selfishness, pride,
greed, fear, anger. Ignorance of this,
whether willful or unconscious, leads to all kinds of evil. It is replacing what Martin Buber has
referred to as an “I and Thou” relationship—subjective and compassionate—with one
involving “I and It”. Or trying to, at
least.
Lacking
this sensibility, scientists in the pharmaceutical industry can rush dangerous,
untested medications to market.
Scientific discoveries can be enthusiastically applied to the
development of ever more ghastly weapons of mass destruction. Social scientists can ape their colleagues in
the ‘harder’ sciences by gilding their preposterous conclusions about human
nature with a veneer of mathematically objective statistical methods. Scientists who study environmental and
climate changes can come to conclusions that vary with their source of research
funding.
To be
fair, ‘science’ and ‘scientists’ are surely not the only professions affected
by the hazards of objectivity. Those on
fire with a faith in objectivity and reason above all other ways to understand
the world—whether teachers, doctors, journalists, psychologists, or science
fiction writers—can be every bit as evangelical as the most fervent
fundamentalist.
Unlike
science fiction, horror avoids the false objectification of that which terrifies. Indeed, it is by making an experience a subjective one that the reader is
brought ever closer to the source of the horror. We must face our fears, because “the only
thing we have to fear is…fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror
which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance”, as FDR
famously said. Insofar as these fears
are lodged in our very subjective minds, we must approach them, see them
clearly, and name them. Horror helps us
to do that in a way that science fiction does not.
H. P.
Lovecraft famously wrote “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the
inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.” But it is necessary for our salvation that we
continue to try and do so.
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