In the exotic interstellar civilization of the Second Starfaring Age, youthful wanderers are known as Children of Fortune. This is the tale of one such wanderer, who seeks her destiny on an odyssey of self-discovery amid humanity's many worlds. Arresting and visionary, Child of Fortune is a science-fictional On the Road.
CHILD OF FORTUNE
and over one million other books are available for Amazon Kindle.
Learn more
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Book Description
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Editorial Reviews
Review
"A sublime comedy-an epic, an extended narrative in the heroic tradition with grandeur and sweep. It's a Homeric space voyage, a Joycean interstellar trip, a Huck Finn saga of humanity's next adventure. It's a literary masterpiece."-Timothy Leary
"An outstanding book on every level."-Michael Moorcock
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
"An outstanding book on every level."-Michael Moorcock
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
I was born on Glade, a planet, like most of the far-flung worlds of men, of no particular fame in starfaring lore, and no economic significance in the transstellar scheme of things. Like most of the worlds of men, Glade is an almost entirely self-contained economic unit, which is to say that its plains, rivers and seas provide sufficient nutriment to support a healthy human population of about 300 million without the need to import significant amounts of trace elements from other stellar systems, and its mineral wealth, supplemented by the occasional asteroid, provides a sufficient raw materials base for its industrial economy.
Verdad, through hindsight's eye I can thus dryly state that I was born and grew up on a world ordinaire, not unlike hundreds of such worlds warmed by G-type suns. But my girlhood perception of my heimat's centrality to the larger scheme of things was quite a grander matter, for I was also born and raised as a child of Nouvelle Orlean, considered by all on Glade to be the jewel of our planet, and no more so than by the citizens of the city itself.
Like its legendary Terrestrial namesake, Nouvelle Orlean was built upon the ocean-mouth delta of a great continent-draining river system, but naturellement, in an age of primarily aerial transport, the original settlers had not chosen the site for its geographic significance as an ideal nexus of river and ocean commerce. Rather had the settlers of Glade chosen the venue for our planet's metropole along esthetic--and indeed perhaps spiritual--parameters from the outset.
Glade, by the standards of human genetic parameters, is a somewhat cool world, capped by mountains of glacial ice at either pole, and dominated by less than simpatico semitundra in its middle latitudes, so that the most favorable zone of human habitation is the tropics, where the bulk of the populace is therefore to be found. Portions of three continents lie within this optimal climatic zone. Of these lands, southern Arbolique is clearly the geographic heimat of the human spirit on the planet.
Arbolique is the mightiest continent of Glade in more ways than one. It extends from the northern ice cap to just short of the equator at its southernmost point at the tip of the Culebra Peninsula, and the Grand Massif begins beneath the polar ice, rises into a towering longitudinal cordillera of snow-capped and moss-crusted rock, then splits into eastern and western chains as it marches down the continent nearly to the shores of the tropical sea.
Between these two mountain chains lies the Great Vale, a broad and fertile central valley veined and subdivided by chains of lesser mountains and hills, the whole more of an enormous mountain meadow than a peneplain, beginning in the north at an elevation of some three thousand meters and reaching sea level only at the delta mouth of the Rio Royale, the mighty central river whose headwaters begin as myriad lesser streams draining the ice cap run-off, and which foams and roars over great falls and wild rapids through the passes of the high cordillera, finally debouching into the sea via its delta as a broad stream of clear blue fresh water visible from the air against the contrasting greener ocean waters many miles from the shoreline.
Nouvelle Orlean lies somewhat upstream from the lowland marshes of the true alluvial delta of the Rio Royale, at a point where the wide and placid river flows through a mild canyon cut through the low coastal mountains. Here there are narrow river flats on both sides of the Royale, and immediately behind them loom hills and river cliffs crusted with the gnarly and intergrown trees of the Bittersweet Jungle and dripping with lianafungi, crawlervines, and saphroflors, like brilliant and varicolored molds festooning huge green mounds of ancient bread. Here, too, there are islands in the stream, most mere sand and mud bars held together by their crowns of jungle growth, but some large enough to hold whole arrondissements of the city.
Nouvelle Orlean spreads itself on both banks of the river, on the islands, both natural and crafted, inbetween, and some folk have chosen to build manses on the jungled heights above. Beneath the palisades on both banks of the river, tall buildings rise, sheathed for the most part in numerous subtle tints of mirror-glass, and between them and the river on either side are tree-shrouded esplanades lined with kiosks, restaurants, and pavilions. Above and behind the east and west bas-corniches, haute-corniches wind among the jungle-shaded manses of the Hightowns.
But the heart, and indeed the soul, of the city, for all who style themselves true Orleaners, is Rioville, the magical archipelago spreading across the Royale and uniting what would otherwise be twin cities into one. Here the buildings have been kept low and rambling, in harmony with the jungle and wooded parklands which have been allowed to occupy most of the terrain, both for esthetic effect, and in order to bind the islands together so that the river will not sweep them away. Rioville architecture relies upon wood, brick, and stone, or at least on excellent ersatzes of natural materials, though not to the point of excluding wide expanses of window-glass overlooking every vista. Porches, breezeways, gazebos, open pavilions, and interior rooms that fling open whole walls to the natural realm while inviting vegetation inside are also very much in the Rioville mode. As are the hundreds of footbridges which span the smaller channels and the thousands of small boats of every type and fancy which give the city the ambiance of fabled Venice of ancient lore, and not without deliberate homage to the spirit of the Doges.
By custom with greater moral force than law, the arrondissements of Rioville are given over entirely to the realms of art, leisure, cultural endeavor, pleasure, and tantra, while most of the plyers of these trades have residences within these precincts, as well as those of more prosaic callings who have the desire and where-withal to live within its ambiance of perpetual fiesta.
My parents had built a rambling house on the low crown of a small island near the north end of Rioville close by the center of the river, and for the first eighteen years of my life, I spent many late afternoons and early evenings on the second story porch, watching the sun set behind the western Hightown, the lights of the manses winking on from between the folds of the deeply shadowed jungle as the stars slowly emerged in the purpling sky above and the mirrored buildings of the eastern bank flashed deep orange as they reflected the sunset like a sheath of flame across the island-studded waters.
From my little aerie, I could look north up the river as it poured through the gorge that reached up into the icebound crown of the continent, and sometimes a fragrant wind, redolent of jungle vegetation and oncoming night, would blow down from what seemed to me at the time the very roof and mystery of the world, and I could inhale deeply and imagine that I was breathing in the very spirit of the planet. On other evenings, a tongue of fog might blow in from the sea, enveloping Rioville in perfumed billows of dream stuff, turning the lights of the city into the faerie fires of a Brigadoon rising ghostly and triumphant from the mists.
And at all times, after night had finally fallen, and the full panoply of stars had come out, and one could scarcely tell where the stellar concourse ended and the lights of the Hightown began, I would walk to the other end of the porch and gaze out over the islands of Rioville itself, a carpet of multicolored jewels flung across the waters, a brilliant spiderwork of illuminated bridges, the running lights of thousands of boats bobbing in the currents, and wafting up on the sea breeze towards me, the faint, far-off music of the magical city, compounded of laughter, and sighs, and myriad voices, and the sounds of instruments, fiestas, and entertainments. At such times, I would grow giddy with the intoxicating aroma of Nouvelle Orlean itself, a heady brew compounded of dozens of cuisinary styles offered up by hundreds of restaurants, the perfumes of lovers, intoxicants, incenses, wood shavings, oil paints, leather, and the overwhelming nighttime effluvia of tropical flowers.
May the young girl that I then was therefore not be forgiven for supposing that she was favored by fate and blessed by fortune, a citizen of Xanadu and destiny's darling?
Moreover, as I grew from relatively innocent young girl-hood into early pubescent flower, as the social relativities of Nouvelle Orlean society began to impinge upon my consciousness, my sense of humility was hardly enhanced by the knowledge that my parents, far from being mere ordinary burghers of this extraordinary city, were figures of some local fame, if not quite the leading luminaries of the haut monde that I portrayed them as to my schoolmates.
My mother, Shasta Suki Davide, had herself been born in Nouvelle Orlean, and after spending her wanderjahr exploring the vie of an erotic adventurer, had studied for two years at the Academie Tantrique on Dravida, where she became an adept of the tantric arts both erotic and healing. Her freenom, Shasta, she had chosen upon completion of her studies homage à Nicole Shasta, a figure of considerable controversy in her day, who had first elucidated the mass-energy phenomena underlying the ancient metaphorical and metaphysical tantric principles and had thus founded the science my mother followed.
My father, Leonardo Vanya Hana, had been born on Flor del Cielo, and had spent only a rather brief period as a wandering Child of Fortune, for he was one of those rare people who seem to have known what they wish to become almost from birth, namely an inventor and fabricator of personal enhancement devices, several of which he had already created as a schoolboy.
Naturellement, the conclusion of his wanderjahr found him on Diana, perhaps the planet most famed for the production of just such personal amplifiers, where he secured employment in one of the leading fabriks as an artisan and sometime designer of same...
I was born on Glade, a planet, like most of the far-flung worlds of men, of no particular fame in starfaring lore, and no economic significance in the transstellar scheme of things. Like most of the worlds of men, Glade is an almost entirely self-contained economic unit, which is to say that its plains, rivers and seas provide sufficient nutriment to support a healthy human population of about 300 million without the need to import significant amounts of trace elements from other stellar systems, and its mineral wealth, supplemented by the occasional asteroid, provides a sufficient raw materials base for its industrial economy.
Verdad, through hindsight's eye I can thus dryly state that I was born and grew up on a world ordinaire, not unlike hundreds of such worlds warmed by G-type suns. But my girlhood perception of my heimat's centrality to the larger scheme of things was quite a grander matter, for I was also born and raised as a child of Nouvelle Orlean, considered by all on Glade to be the jewel of our planet, and no more so than by the citizens of the city itself.
Like its legendary Terrestrial namesake, Nouvelle Orlean was built upon the ocean-mouth delta of a great continent-draining river system, but naturellement, in an age of primarily aerial transport, the original settlers had not chosen the site for its geographic significance as an ideal nexus of river and ocean commerce. Rather had the settlers of Glade chosen the venue for our planet's metropole along esthetic--and indeed perhaps spiritual--parameters from the outset.
Glade, by the standards of human genetic parameters, is a somewhat cool world, capped by mountains of glacial ice at either pole, and dominated by less than simpatico semitundra in its middle latitudes, so that the most favorable zone of human habitation is the tropics, where the bulk of the populace is therefore to be found. Portions of three continents lie within this optimal climatic zone. Of these lands, southern Arbolique is clearly the geographic heimat of the human spirit on the planet.
Arbolique is the mightiest continent of Glade in more ways than one. It extends from the northern ice cap to just short of the equator at its southernmost point at the tip of the Culebra Peninsula, and the Grand Massif begins beneath the polar ice, rises into a towering longitudinal cordillera of snow-capped and moss-crusted rock, then splits into eastern and western chains as it marches down the continent nearly to the shores of the tropical sea.
Between these two mountain chains lies the Great Vale, a broad and fertile central valley veined and subdivided by chains of lesser mountains and hills, the whole more of an enormous mountain meadow than a peneplain, beginning in the north at an elevation of some three thousand meters and reaching sea level only at the delta mouth of the Rio Royale, the mighty central river whose headwaters begin as myriad lesser streams draining the ice cap run-off, and which foams and roars over great falls and wild rapids through the passes of the high cordillera, finally debouching into the sea via its delta as a broad stream of clear blue fresh water visible from the air against the contrasting greener ocean waters many miles from the shoreline.
Nouvelle Orlean lies somewhat upstream from the lowland marshes of the true alluvial delta of the Rio Royale, at a point where the wide and placid river flows through a mild canyon cut through the low coastal mountains. Here there are narrow river flats on both sides of the Royale, and immediately behind them loom hills and river cliffs crusted with the gnarly and intergrown trees of the Bittersweet Jungle and dripping with lianafungi, crawlervines, and saphroflors, like brilliant and varicolored molds festooning huge green mounds of ancient bread. Here, too, there are islands in the stream, most mere sand and mud bars held together by their crowns of jungle growth, but some large enough to hold whole arrondissements of the city.
Nouvelle Orlean spreads itself on both banks of the river, on the islands, both natural and crafted, inbetween, and some folk have chosen to build manses on the jungled heights above. Beneath the palisades on both banks of the river, tall buildings rise, sheathed for the most part in numerous subtle tints of mirror-glass, and between them and the river on either side are tree-shrouded esplanades lined with kiosks, restaurants, and pavilions. Above and behind the east and west bas-corniches, haute-corniches wind among the jungle-shaded manses of the Hightowns.
But the heart, and indeed the soul, of the city, for all who style themselves true Orleaners, is Rioville, the magical archipelago spreading across the Royale and uniting what would otherwise be twin cities into one. Here the buildings have been kept low and rambling, in harmony with the jungle and wooded parklands which have been allowed to occupy most of the terrain, both for esthetic effect, and in order to bind the islands together so that the river will not sweep them away. Rioville architecture relies upon wood, brick, and stone, or at least on excellent ersatzes of natural materials, though not to the point of excluding wide expanses of window-glass overlooking every vista. Porches, breezeways, gazebos, open pavilions, and interior rooms that fling open whole walls to the natural realm while inviting vegetation inside are also very much in the Rioville mode. As are the hundreds of footbridges which span the smaller channels and the thousands of small boats of every type and fancy which give the city the ambiance of fabled Venice of ancient lore, and not without deliberate homage to the spirit of the Doges.
By custom with greater moral force than law, the arrondissements of Rioville are given over entirely to the realms of art, leisure, cultural endeavor, pleasure, and tantra, while most of the plyers of these trades have residences within these precincts, as well as those of more prosaic callings who have the desire and where-withal to live within its ambiance of perpetual fiesta.
My parents had built a rambling house on the low crown of a small island near the north end of Rioville close by the center of the river, and for the first eighteen years of my life, I spent many late afternoons and early evenings on the second story porch, watching the sun set behind the western Hightown, the lights of the manses winking on from between the folds of the deeply shadowed jungle as the stars slowly emerged in the purpling sky above and the mirrored buildings of the eastern bank flashed deep orange as they reflected the sunset like a sheath of flame across the island-studded waters.
From my little aerie, I could look north up the river as it poured through the gorge that reached up into the icebound crown of the continent, and sometimes a fragrant wind, redolent of jungle vegetation and oncoming night, would blow down from what seemed to me at the time the very roof and mystery of the world, and I could inhale deeply and imagine that I was breathing in the very spirit of the planet. On other evenings, a tongue of fog might blow in from the sea, enveloping Rioville in perfumed billows of dream stuff, turning the lights of the city into the faerie fires of a Brigadoon rising ghostly and triumphant from the mists.
And at all times, after night had finally fallen, and the full panoply of stars had come out, and one could scarcely tell where the stellar concourse ended and the lights of the Hightown began, I would walk to the other end of the porch and gaze out over the islands of Rioville itself, a carpet of multicolored jewels flung across the waters, a brilliant spiderwork of illuminated bridges, the running lights of thousands of boats bobbing in the currents, and wafting up on the sea breeze towards me, the faint, far-off music of the magical city, compounded of laughter, and sighs, and myriad voices, and the sounds of instruments, fiestas, and entertainments. At such times, I would grow giddy with the intoxicating aroma of Nouvelle Orlean itself, a heady brew compounded of dozens of cuisinary styles offered up by hundreds of restaurants, the perfumes of lovers, intoxicants, incenses, wood shavings, oil paints, leather, and the overwhelming nighttime effluvia of tropical flowers.
May the young girl that I then was therefore not be forgiven for supposing that she was favored by fate and blessed by fortune, a citizen of Xanadu and destiny's darling?
Moreover, as I grew from relatively innocent young girl-hood into early pubescent flower, as the social relativities of Nouvelle Orlean society began to impinge upon my consciousness, my sense of humility was hardly enhanced by the knowledge that my parents, far from being mere ordinary burghers of this extraordinary city, were figures of some local fame, if not quite the leading luminaries of the haut monde that I portrayed them as to my schoolmates.
My mother, Shasta Suki Davide, had herself been born in Nouvelle Orlean, and after spending her wanderjahr exploring the vie of an erotic adventurer, had studied for two years at the Academie Tantrique on Dravida, where she became an adept of the tantric arts both erotic and healing. Her freenom, Shasta, she had chosen upon completion of her studies homage à Nicole Shasta, a figure of considerable controversy in her day, who had first elucidated the mass-energy phenomena underlying the ancient metaphorical and metaphysical tantric principles and had thus founded the science my mother followed.
My father, Leonardo Vanya Hana, had been born on Flor del Cielo, and had spent only a rather brief period as a wandering Child of Fortune, for he was one of those rare people who seem to have known what they wish to become almost from birth, namely an inventor and fabricator of personal enhancement devices, several of which he had already created as a schoolboy.
Naturellement, the conclusion of his wanderjahr found him on Diana, perhaps the planet most famed for the production of just such personal amplifiers, where he secured employment in one of the leading fabriks as an artisan and sometime designer of same...
Product Details
Would you like to update product info or give feedback on images?
|
More About the Author
Norman Spinrad Bio
Reviews of HE WALKED AMONG US
Norman Spinrad's He Walked Among Us - Horror Drive-In
Norman Spinrad's He Walked Among Us
I'm always getting up here and urging you to buy this book, or to go see that movie. Buy a DVD or try a new author. I do it because I'm passionate about this stuff. And I swear to you that, regardless of whether you end up agreeing with me, I am always 100% honest about them.
Coming out on March 30th is what I consider to be the book of the year. It's He Walked Among Us, by Norman Spinrad. I bet it's already shipping now from Amazon.
Maybe you've read some Spinrad. Some pieces here and there. Or maybe you've been trying to make the time to read Bug Jack Barron for decades now. Or maybe you've read some of his books. My own personal favorites are Bug Jack Barron, The Iron Dream, Pictures at 11, Little Heroes, The Mind Game. My previous favorite was probably Norman's mainstream novel of Hollywood, Passing Through the Flame. My favorite now is He Walked Among Us.
Spinrad had trouble getting this book published and it boggles my mind. Here is not only one of the finest science fiction writers that ever published, but one of the most important writers of the modern age. I'm not kidding.
He Walked Among Us was previously published in a typically overpriced and poorly manufactured POD edition in 2004. Norman Spinrad having to put his work out in what is barely a notch above self publishing. It's criminal.
Why did he have such a difficult time getting He Walked Among Us published? For one thing, Spinrad has never been afraid to bite the hand that feeds him. He has been an acerbic critic of organized science fiction fandom for a long time. He paints the community in a harsh light in He Walked Among Us. I have the experience to tell you that his unflattering depictions of SF conventioneers is pretty damned accurate.
Also, Spinrad's career has been hard to classify in any one particular genre. He's known as a science fiction writer and many of his book fall solidly in that realm. Russian Spring, Songs From the Stars, The Void Captain's Tale, Greenhouse Summer, for examples. He has also written books that made him a popular figure in the counterculture, like The Children of Hamelin and Passing Through the Flame. There are stories that seem pulled direct from current events, such as The Mind Game and Pictures at 11. Spinrad has even done historical fiction: Mexica and The Druid King.
So what, exactly, is He Walked Among Us? Well, that's a hard one. In a way it's science fiction. It's also an acidly satiric satire of show business. The novel is screamingly funny at times. There are New Age aspects to He Walked Among Us. It's philosophical. It might deal with Quantum Physics, but I'm not exactly sure. And it also has some hardcore scenes that might make Edward Lee wince.
Jimmy Balaban is an aging, seedy, third rate show biz agent. He meets a dubious comedian named Ralf who claims to be from the future. He's here to save us from ourselves. It's an odd act, but Jimmy is a pro and the nose knows. Maybe there is a little bit of money to be made from this strange act. He takes Ralf on as a client and hires a male science fiction writer and a female New Age guru to turn Ralf into the cash cow that he always wanted. Astonishingly, it works. The question remains: Who, or what, is Ralf?
Spinrad has called He Walked Among Us his magnum opus and I definitely agree. I've been a fan of his work for a long time and I've been continually blown away by his writing. He Walked Among Us, however, is a revelation.
Naturally, a lot of people aren't going to get it. This isn't an easy, simple book. Oh, it's easy enough to read, but it's even easier to dismiss it as gimmicky fluff. Worse, readers could feel that Spinrad has a condescending attitude toward his audience. That he's laughing at them or feeling smugly superior. I don't feel that way, but a complex novel like He Walked Among Us can be interpreted in endless ways. That's part of the beauty of it.
Spinrad has always had an amazing imagination, which is augmented by his own radical sensibilities. I've always felt an element of danger in his work.
Norman Spinrad recently announced on Facebook that he has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. He had previously been told that it was inoperable, but there is greater hope now. It's still terrible news. This writer is a treasure and it's horrible to think that we may be losing him soon. Perhaps he'll pull out of it. I've always perceived Norman Spinrad as a fighter and I believe that he'll fight this battle with the courage that he is known for possessing. Hopefully he'll emerge with his health and years of productive life ahead of him. Forget the vicious lie that everything that doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Cancer is the worst thing in the world and it'll take its toll on him.
Thankfully we have a large body of work from Norman Spinrad to keep us astonished, entertained, and best of all, to keep us thinking. And he's never done a better work than He Walked Among Us. This writer has been neglected for far too long. He Walked Among Us deserves to be a success. And Norman Spinrad deserves more respect than he has gotten lately. A lot more respect.
Please consider buying a copy of He Walks Among Us.
---Mark Sieber
Spinrad, Norman. He Walked Among Us. Tor. Apr. 2010. c.544p. ISBN 978-0-7653-2584-6. $27.99. SF
When talent agent Jimmy Balaban discovers an ad lib comic named Ralf who claims to be from the future, he recognizes a potential moneymaker. Together with a once-famous sf writer and a New Age guru, the trio transform Ralf into a messiah-like figure who brings a message about a desolate future and the need to transform the world in order to avert disaster. When Ralf refuses to break character, his handlers wonder whether he is their creation or whether his message from the future is in fact real. VERDICT First published in France, this latest novel by one of sf's most distinguished authors (Bug Jack Barron, The Iron Dream) presents a cautionary tale that is at once sardonically witty and intellectually thought-provoking. A big book in more than pagination, this meaty saga of a contemporary prophet is essential for sf fans.
Library Journal
-->
Norman Spinrad is the author of some 20 or so novels, five or six dozen short stories, a classic Star Trek epsisode, a couple of flop movies, an album's worth of songs, political columns, film criticism, literary criticicsm, mini-cookbooks, autobiography, and a bunch of assorted other stuff.
The latest to be written is a new and literarily revolutionary novel called WELCOME TO YOUR DREAMTIME, in which you, the reader are the viewpoint character, and sections of which have been published in a weird assortment of magazines as free-standing short stories.
The latest to be published in the US,by Tor, is HE WALKED AMONG US, a novel so far ahead of itself that it had to wait until it had become something of the fave rave of a radical viral internet distribution experiment and a cause celebre in France as IL EST PARMI NOUS before any traditional American publisher would bring it out in paper.
Reviews of HE WALKED AMONG US
Norman Spinrad's He Walked Among Us - Horror Drive-In
Norman Spinrad's He Walked Among Us
I'm always getting up here and urging you to buy this book, or to go see that movie. Buy a DVD or try a new author. I do it because I'm passionate about this stuff. And I swear to you that, regardless of whether you end up agreeing with me, I am always 100% honest about them.
Coming out on March 30th is what I consider to be the book of the year. It's He Walked Among Us, by Norman Spinrad. I bet it's already shipping now from Amazon.
Maybe you've read some Spinrad. Some pieces here and there. Or maybe you've been trying to make the time to read Bug Jack Barron for decades now. Or maybe you've read some of his books. My own personal favorites are Bug Jack Barron, The Iron Dream, Pictures at 11, Little Heroes, The Mind Game. My previous favorite was probably Norman's mainstream novel of Hollywood, Passing Through the Flame. My favorite now is He Walked Among Us.
Spinrad had trouble getting this book published and it boggles my mind. Here is not only one of the finest science fiction writers that ever published, but one of the most important writers of the modern age. I'm not kidding.
He Walked Among Us was previously published in a typically overpriced and poorly manufactured POD edition in 2004. Norman Spinrad having to put his work out in what is barely a notch above self publishing. It's criminal.
Why did he have such a difficult time getting He Walked Among Us published? For one thing, Spinrad has never been afraid to bite the hand that feeds him. He has been an acerbic critic of organized science fiction fandom for a long time. He paints the community in a harsh light in He Walked Among Us. I have the experience to tell you that his unflattering depictions of SF conventioneers is pretty damned accurate.
Also, Spinrad's career has been hard to classify in any one particular genre. He's known as a science fiction writer and many of his book fall solidly in that realm. Russian Spring, Songs From the Stars, The Void Captain's Tale, Greenhouse Summer, for examples. He has also written books that made him a popular figure in the counterculture, like The Children of Hamelin and Passing Through the Flame. There are stories that seem pulled direct from current events, such as The Mind Game and Pictures at 11. Spinrad has even done historical fiction: Mexica and The Druid King.
So what, exactly, is He Walked Among Us? Well, that's a hard one. In a way it's science fiction. It's also an acidly satiric satire of show business. The novel is screamingly funny at times. There are New Age aspects to He Walked Among Us. It's philosophical. It might deal with Quantum Physics, but I'm not exactly sure. And it also has some hardcore scenes that might make Edward Lee wince.
Jimmy Balaban is an aging, seedy, third rate show biz agent. He meets a dubious comedian named Ralf who claims to be from the future. He's here to save us from ourselves. It's an odd act, but Jimmy is a pro and the nose knows. Maybe there is a little bit of money to be made from this strange act. He takes Ralf on as a client and hires a male science fiction writer and a female New Age guru to turn Ralf into the cash cow that he always wanted. Astonishingly, it works. The question remains: Who, or what, is Ralf?
Spinrad has called He Walked Among Us his magnum opus and I definitely agree. I've been a fan of his work for a long time and I've been continually blown away by his writing. He Walked Among Us, however, is a revelation.
Naturally, a lot of people aren't going to get it. This isn't an easy, simple book. Oh, it's easy enough to read, but it's even easier to dismiss it as gimmicky fluff. Worse, readers could feel that Spinrad has a condescending attitude toward his audience. That he's laughing at them or feeling smugly superior. I don't feel that way, but a complex novel like He Walked Among Us can be interpreted in endless ways. That's part of the beauty of it.
Spinrad has always had an amazing imagination, which is augmented by his own radical sensibilities. I've always felt an element of danger in his work.
Norman Spinrad recently announced on Facebook that he has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. He had previously been told that it was inoperable, but there is greater hope now. It's still terrible news. This writer is a treasure and it's horrible to think that we may be losing him soon. Perhaps he'll pull out of it. I've always perceived Norman Spinrad as a fighter and I believe that he'll fight this battle with the courage that he is known for possessing. Hopefully he'll emerge with his health and years of productive life ahead of him. Forget the vicious lie that everything that doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Cancer is the worst thing in the world and it'll take its toll on him.
Thankfully we have a large body of work from Norman Spinrad to keep us astonished, entertained, and best of all, to keep us thinking. And he's never done a better work than He Walked Among Us. This writer has been neglected for far too long. He Walked Among Us deserves to be a success. And Norman Spinrad deserves more respect than he has gotten lately. A lot more respect.
Please consider buying a copy of He Walks Among Us.
---Mark Sieber
Spinrad, Norman. He Walked Among Us. Tor. Apr. 2010. c.544p. ISBN 978-0-7653-2584-6. $27.99. SF
When talent agent Jimmy Balaban discovers an ad lib comic named Ralf who claims to be from the future, he recognizes a potential moneymaker. Together with a once-famous sf writer and a New Age guru, the trio transform Ralf into a messiah-like figure who brings a message about a desolate future and the need to transform the world in order to avert disaster. When Ralf refuses to break character, his handlers wonder whether he is their creation or whether his message from the future is in fact real. VERDICT First published in France, this latest novel by one of sf's most distinguished authors (Bug Jack Barron, The Iron Dream) presents a cautionary tale that is at once sardonically witty and intellectually thought-provoking. A big book in more than pagination, this meaty saga of a contemporary prophet is essential for sf fans.
Library Journal
-->
Norman Spinrad is the author of some 20 or so novels, five or six dozen short stories, a classic Star Trek epsisode, a couple of flop movies, an album's worth of songs, political columns, film criticism, literary criticicsm, mini-cookbooks, autobiography, and a bunch of assorted other stuff.
The latest to be written is a new and literarily revolutionary novel called WELCOME TO YOUR DREAMTIME, in which you, the reader are the viewpoint character, and sections of which have been published in a weird assortment of magazines as free-standing short stories.
The latest to be published in the US,by Tor, is HE WALKED AMONG US, a novel so far ahead of itself that it had to wait until it had become something of the fave rave of a radical viral internet distribution experiment and a cause celebre in France as IL EST PARMI NOUS before any traditional American publisher would bring it out in paper.
Customer Reviews
|
Share your thoughts with other customers:
|
||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
18 of 20 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
brilliantly written and thought-provoking,
By rhonva (Bay Area, CA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Child of Fortune (Mass Market Paperback)
This has long been one of my favorite books. It is a serious, no-simple-answers coming-of-age tale, yet at the same time it manages to imaginative and entertaining, with plenty of laughs and vivid imagery. Thus the story is enjoyable whether the reader is in a contemplative mood or simply craving a good science fiction yarn.Most of all, I admire the author's use of language and dialect. He creates a form of modified English by incorporating words from several different languages throughout the text, as well as some made-up slang and terminology. (The novel is written in first-person, thus the use of dialect is constant through the text.) This can be daunting at first, but by the time you're a few chapters in you'll have 'picked up' the language to a remarkable degree. Years after my last reading, I still remember it. Again, one of my favorites. I'm going to buy another copy soon, before my old, often-reviewed copy falls apart completely.
18 of 20 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Absolutely astonishing,
By "rikki_tikki_tavi" (Odenton, Maryland United States) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Child of Fortune (Hardcover)
I first tried to read this book when I was a teen. I wasn't ready for it. I recently happened across it, and decided to give it a go. How can I explain this? I've read literally thousands of books. (None of them Norman's until recently). The story is a brilliantly told tale of a young girl growing into herself through a space-style walkabout; but it's more than just that. There are ideas and correlations and connections that are both familiar and alien, none of which left me untouched. I know, you hear "this will change you" from movie critics and the like, but I urge you to find this book, and sit down and really read it. It's not a difficult read; the story flows smoothly and the humor is delightful. Don't let this one get away. Trust me.
10 of 10 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Spinrad's Space Stairs to Paradise!,
By A Customer
This review is from: Child of Fortune (Paperback)
Child of Fortune was one of my few satisfying excursions into Sci-Fi. Though the story; a hefty space opera, is set in the far future it is very accessible.Reading the book was like being in the best "dark ride" in the best theme park ever built. Spinrad takes the reader into incredible worlds and civilizations; most are wonderful utopias. The charactors are developed and believable. This book will appeal to old hippies and the new Bohemians. For those who loved Brave New World, the explorations of the McKenna Brothers, Electric Kool Aid Acid Test -- u ain't read nothin YET! So, my advice -- "take a walk on the wild side" and read this book before it gets burned!
Share your thoughts with other customers: Create your own review
|
|
Inside This Book
(learn more)
Browse and search another edition of this book.
Browse and search another edition of this book.
First Sentence:
I was born on Glade, a planet, like most of the farflung worlds of men, of no particular fame in starfaring lore, and no economic significance in the transstellar scheme of things. Read the first page Key Phrases - Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs): (learn more)
mystic libertine, tantric tableaus, tantric performance, long slow centuries, little moussa, ancestral flowers, apes into men, chef maestro, pillow throne, inner lore, research domes, mental retreat, quotidian realm, parental largesse, tantric figures, sky ferry, dream chambers, pas problem, process thereof, spirit thereof, name tale, tantric arts, word crystals, style myself, ancestral trees Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Pater Pan, Child of Fortune, Children of Fortune, Yellow Brick Road, Ciudad Pallas, Perfumed Garden, Pied Piper of the Bloomenveldt, Nouvelle Orlean, Guy Vlad Boca, Great Edoku, Second Starfaring Age, Grand Palais, Honored Passengers, Unicorn Garden, Cloth of Many Colors, Pacer Pan, Sunshine Shasta Leonardo, King of the Gypsies, Void Ship, First Starfaring Age, Mardi Gras, Spark of the Ark, Mistral Falcon, Wendi Sha Rumi, Gold Mountain New!
Concordance | Text Stats Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
I was born on Glade, a planet, like most of the farflung worlds of men, of no particular fame in starfaring lore, and no economic significance in the transstellar scheme of things. Read the first page Key Phrases - Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs): (learn more)
mystic libertine, tantric tableaus, tantric performance, long slow centuries, little moussa, ancestral flowers, apes into men, chef maestro, pillow throne, inner lore, research domes, mental retreat, quotidian realm, parental largesse, tantric figures, sky ferry, dream chambers, pas problem, process thereof, spirit thereof, name tale, tantric arts, word crystals, style myself, ancestral trees Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Pater Pan, Child of Fortune, Children of Fortune, Yellow Brick Road, Ciudad Pallas, Perfumed Garden, Pied Piper of the Bloomenveldt, Nouvelle Orlean, Guy Vlad Boca, Great Edoku, Second Starfaring Age, Grand Palais, Honored Passengers, Unicorn Garden, Cloth of Many Colors, Pacer Pan, Sunshine Shasta Leonardo, King of the Gypsies, Void Ship, First Starfaring Age, Mardi Gras, Spark of the Ark, Mistral Falcon, Wendi Sha Rumi, Gold Mountain New!
Concordance | Text Stats Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
Citations (learn more)
This book cites 2
books:
3
books
cite this book:
- Peter Pan by Golden on page 454
- Greenhouse Summer by Norman Spinrad in Front Matter
- Understanding Contemporary American Science Fiction: The Age of Maturity, 1970-2000 (Understanding Contemporary American Literature) by Darren Harris-Fain on 5 pages
- Teaching About Adolescence: An Ecological Approach (MSU Series on Children, Youth and Families) by Lawrence Shiamberg on page 256
- Year's Best SF 6 (Year's Best SF (Science Fiction)) by David G. Hartwell on page 143
Suggested Tags from Similar Products(What's this?)Be the first one to add a relevant tag (keyword that's strongly related to this product).
|
Customer Discussions
|
This product's forum
Active discussions in related forums
Search Customer Discussions
|
Related forums
|
Listmania!
So You'd Like to...
|
|
