This page contains some more in-depth analyses and commentaries on various of Silverberg's novels. Note that these reviews may contain spoilers. Consider yourself warned.
The Alien Years is an aliens-invade-the-Earth story, which you might say has been done before. In fact it has been one of the staples of science fiction since its beginnings (HG Wells wrote The War of the Worlds, the prototype for all alien-invasion stories, in 1898). Silverberg has done his share of them ("Passengers", Nightwings, "The Martian Invasion Journals of Henry James"). The subgenre has seen little action in print SF since the 1950s, though movies have continued without abate. So why write another one? Why now? I'm only guessing, but I believe the recent success of Independence Day had something to do with it, and the centennial of The War of the Worlds, and maybe even the tenth anniversary of Robert A Heinlein's death. In many ways Silverberg uses the opportunity to throw the clichés of the genre on their heads, if I can be permitted a really awkward metaphor.
First, the Independence Day connection. This movie, which was abysmal in science fictional terms, was hugely successful, and Silverberg can hardly be unaware that alien-invasion stories are likely to sell in today's market (especially if they feature cover art reminiscent of ID4). Furthermore, it's a natural desire on the part of anyone who loves and understands real science fiction, to set the record straight and point out all the ridiculous flaws in the movie. In other words, to do it right. For example: 1) Why would aliens systematically destroy landmarks which, although they possess sentimental value for humans (and a high recognition level among movie-goers), have no strategic value? 2) Would human military technology really stand a chance against a race capable of interstellar travel in ships the size of cities? 3) Would human institutions really survive the disruption caused by an alien invasion? 4) How could human computer programmers, no matter how brilliant, really hope to intrude into or damage alien systems? 5) Why would aliens want to conquer Earth anyway--what's in it for them? (Of course, these are only a few of the movie’s problems.)
Silverberg answers or negates all of these questions. 1) There is no reason for aliens to pick on famous buildings, so Silverberg’s Entities don’t do it. They land in seemingly random locations and destroy only (apparently) by accident. They do have an obsession with Stonehenge, but destruction is not their goal there. 2) Human weapons are not effective against the Entities’ advanced technology (though the Entities’ ships are nowhere near as large as those in ID4). 3) Human institutions would not survive the disruption (more on this later). 4) And while Silverberg’s hackers do eventually manage to break into the Entities’ computer system, it takes decades of effort and slow discovery, not a few minutes of fiddling with a Powerbook. (Of course decades of effort and slow discovery wouldn’t be very exciting in a movie.) 5) And why are the Entities interested in Earth? This question is never answered, and by this omission perhaps Silverberg is saying something about the pointlessness of the question. After all, virtually all the reasons given in alien invasion stories are silly. In V the aliens needed water, which is the single most common compound in our universe. Other alien invasion scenarios are equally nonsensical. The Entities came for their own incomprehensible alien reasons, subjugated humans for their own incomprehensible alien reasons, and left for their own incomprehensible alien reasons. Probably better this than some rationalization which couldn’t stand close scrutiny.
Maybe the Heinlein connection is my invention, but I think the clues are real. First is the recurring name Anson, which was Robert Heinlein’s middle name, and which Silverberg gives to at least one Carmichael in every generation covered in the book. Secondly, Silverberg has expressed an admiration for Heinlein on numerous occasions. (Personally I find this admiration somewhat misplaced since Silverberg is a much better writer than Heinlein ever was. On the other hand, Heinlein did much to shape science fiction as we know it, so perhaps I’m too hard on him for his literary shortcomings.) Thirdly, the first Anson in the book, the old Colonel, is very reminiscent of any number of Heinlein’s characters, from Jubal Harshaw in Stranger in a Strange Land to Lazarus Long in Time Enough for Love, as well as many others. Fourth, as John Clute and David Pringle put it in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, "Farnham’s Freehold (1964)…begins to fully articulate a theme that obsessed the late RAH: the notion of the family as utterly central. From this time onward, [we see] hugely extended father-dominated families, sustained by incest and enlarged by [complex] mating patterns…" If this isn’t a description of the Carmichaels in their mountain stronghold, I don’t know what is.
One thing that struck me strongly throughout the book is Silverberg’s quick dismissal of human social and political institutions in the face of crisis. During the long (and almost wholly unnecessary) expository lump at the beginning of the second part, he writes: "The whole law-enforcement structure fairly swiftly dissolved as though it had been dipped in acid, and vanished. Only by common consent, one could see now, had any of it been sustained in the first place." This presents a fairly grim portrait of human nature. Certainly the world is full of evidence for this view. But it also seems to be human nature to pull together, at least in situations of natural disaster. In any case, Silverberg makes the point that our current society depends heavily on technology to sustain itself. Our huge centralized bureaucracy would not be possible without computers, telephones, and quick long-distance travel. Without these devices, many of the institutions we take for granted would function very poorly. But would they die entirely? I don’t know. I tend to think they would fare better than in The Alien Years, but maybe I’m being optimistic. It does strike me that never once does a character express any surprise that things fell apart so quickly.
Some other thoughts:
There you go. Some of my thoughts about this book. Sorry to ramble on so—I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t feel it a worthy addition to Silverberg’s work.
I was surprised by this novel, in several ways. At the beginning, I wondered how Silverberg intended to maintain a sense of narrative suspense based on the initial plot threads he offers us. We have, on the one hand, Muller in the maze and, on the other, the characters of Ned Rawlins and Charles Boardman on a ship that arrives near the planet Lemnos (on which the maze is located). It is always hard, in a way, to portray characters effectively when they are isolated: there is no dialogue to provide character insights, no interaction with other individuals that reveals the person’s motivations, fears, etc. Yet Silverberg manages to get the reader "inside" Muller extremely well. Also, the relationship between Rawlins and Boardman, and the general sense of events to come, portrayed especially through Boardman and his aims, proves interesting. Somehow while reading I got the sense that, even though there was something I disliked about the main setting of the book, something not quite satisfying, the characters were interesting, events were beginning to happen of their own accord—the whole thing gained energy and momentum. It wasn’t exactly ‘sense of wonder’, but rather curiosity concerning the resolution of the basic scenario.
Why the tinge of negativity in my initial reaction? The maze, and Muller’s situation, can readily be interpreted in metaphorical terms (although, for once, this might not be entirely necessary). The protagonist of this novel is an outcast: due to intervention on the part of aliens he ends up emanating an aura of all of his thoughts and feelings, which proves too poisonous for others to tolerate. The psychic revulsion he elicits in others is not the result of a particularly warped psyche, rather it is the natural condition of being human. Ironically, Muller is, from a certain perspective - as he himself says (p. 124) - more human than everyone else, because he cannot hide his humanity. But that, in itself, did not cause me any problems. Strangely enough, for me it was the physical manifestation of this isolation, the maze, that generated discomfort. As though the maze is a place inside all of us, a place chosen and entered by a few and completely ignored by a vast majority, an interior room left in the dark. We are all trapped inside our own minds (something which this novel, partially, and other stories by Silverberg, notably Dying Inside, almost make us thankful for): we are also, inescapably, alone. Yet this basic predicament is both a source of strength and weakness to humanity, something well explored in this book, and all too often treated from a single point of view.
And yet ... having said that, and despite the many strengths of this book, I thought there was something missing. Other important events notwithstanding, the book concentrates on the conversations between Rawlins and Muller, full of fascinating "classical" ideas (for instance, when Muller considers the alien’s process a way of reminding him of his own mortality, a kind of hubris-induced retribution), the question of what it is like to be human, of what ends justify what means, etc. It is certainly a very enjoyable read, but the SF involved isn’t overwhelmingly innovative, though well-treated.
Here are some final comments:
Here begins a happy review in 1998.
This is one of the most clearly dystopian novels I have read by Silverberg (although I think this hit me more in retrospect than at the time). The central premise is that rather than dealing with the overpopulation problem our future society swings the other way and decides to increase the population as rapidly as possible, adopting a philosophy of life according to which copious copulation is "blessworthy", or God’s will. Man’s duty, his purpose in life, is to multiply, and thanks to a vertical approach to existence, in which 3-kilometer high structures, urbmons, house over 800,000 individuals, it is possible to accommodate the ever-increasing numbers of "littles".
When I began to read this book, I was overcome by queasiness, a general dizzying sense of guilt. I doubt that when Silverberg wrote it, nearly three decades ago now, he intended it as a warning of the problems of overpopulation. Rather, I see in this work a deeply ironic portrait of what unfortunately seem to be some of humanity’s underlying traits--perhaps highlighted at the time, the 70s being, in several aspects, a decade of excess--a metaphor for how we sometimes fail to deal with problems and the nightmarish scenarios this can lead to. Have you ever woken in the middle of the night convinced you have done something terrible throughout your life, absolutely sure that you are guilty of a terrible immoral act, something for which there is no redemption? To me, The World Inside was a voice of darkness answering, "Yes, yes, you have committed the Act, you’re not alone, we’ve all committed the Act, the Act is who we are": the overpopulated world, with its beehive-like urbmons, and the confused, profoundly empty individuals soaked in recreational excesses who inhabit them, are what we become when we shut our eyes and make believe that everything is all right. Permanently. The world inside. Inside us, inside that place where we eternally teeter on the edge of endless self-implosion, of the loss of self, of identity. An extended metaphor for the deliberate and ever desperate abandonment of reason, thought, control. A metaphor for what happens when we live in a world that becomes an orgy of consumption, of indulgence, the ultimate selfish bliss that is the perfect extension of our genetic programming. For when we live right now, right here, and shut out the rest. For when we go about our daily business, drone-like, and don’t think about those people we knew who were sent to Auschwitz yesterday, as long as Hitler keeps the economy up, or that family who was shipped to Siberia, as long as Stalin says the farmers are going to be OK. The system of government presented in this novel is vague, imprecise: what is clear, and this is everything we need to know, is that power is in the hands of a few, a class-distinguished elite who make choices for the rest of the people. "Flippos" are sent down chutes and incinerated, so that they may, even in death, contribute some energy towards maintaining the urbmons. What is so horrifying is the way in which the fictional population, with a few exceptions, seems to accept this, the lack of emotional impact. It is the way of things, and the way of things is not to be challenged. Or else.
A distressing aspect of the novel is certainly the fact that, as some characters point out, even though the overpopulation problems have been solved for the time being, and perhaps will be dealt with by vast expansion in times to come, there will inevitably come a time when things must change. Limits must be set, somewhere, sometime, somehow. A time of awakening, of realizing we have wasted our lives. But reaching that moment of collective enlightenment is here, unlike more of his recent works, unimportant to Silverberg: what he cares about is showing us how a few disparate individuals, whose paths at some point converge, struggle to deal with the world into which they have been born (and yet their struggle is not a sign of hope, for there is no liberation from their anxiety, no resolution to the massive denial that has engendered their sense of disconnection to begin with). There is no central plot as such, but Silverberg pulls off the trick of carrying along our interest from one situation and one set of characters to another with ease. As much as the people herein, the urbmon itself, with its dark catacombs penetrating deep into the bowels of the earth, and its soaring, wind-swept top, is a constant presence, the omniscient thread of desperation that links all the people. Each story is relevant in its depiction of a specific individual’s reactions and struggle for sanity, for understanding. I think the stories about Michael Statler—and the very physical manifestation of his search for truth, for experience—and Siegmund Kluver are the best, although the others also provide interesting insights into the society Silverberg has created.
This novel presents frustration as something evil, an approach rife with interesting philosophical consequences, considering, for instance, the restriction this causes on individual liberty when this freedom might lead to the frustration of others (e.g. it is very strange to refuse any sexual solicitation by "nightwalkers" whatsoever, irrespective of one’s own condition). Solving the population problem, claims a character, is challenge enough, and since it is man’s purpose to meet challenges, what better way than by continuing to procreate? This viewpoint is drenched in irony. Frustration, the struggle for existence, is a driving force, a motivation, something that can be used to give existence meaning, even perspective (a theme upon which Silverberg has touched in other works, for instance the novel Star of Gypsies, or the short story "Trips"). The World Inside turns this philosophy inside out by showing how we are so narrow-minded, so small, that we often fail to realize our potential by becoming steeped in problems of our own creation. On a whole, it seems to me that the theme of overpopulation is explored more comprehensively than in his other works (sociological, religious, political and personal consequences being dealt with in an interesting manner), especially when one considers the metaphorical interpretation. This may be the result of the above-average frequency of change in character viewpoint for a mid-period Silverberg novel, which allows us to see how the same basic situation affects different people in different ways (and isn’t that what all good writing is about?), or simply of a more concentrated, almost feverish approach on the part of the author.