My review of Shanidar and Other Stories:
"Caverns" was sad and depressing and so unlike what I've come to expect from Zindell's writing. This dialogue between a man who decided to "upgrade" his brain and his wife twisted my insides into a knot:
“Don’t leave me, Mary.”
“You don’t need me any more.”
“I need you now more than ever.”
“You need knowledge and information input and your damn quantum consciousness but you don’t need me.”
“I love you.”
“You love quarks and quiffs and charms and God-only-knows what else—aren’t I right?”
“There is light that has taken millions of years just to jangle the nerve cells of our retinas right through to our brains so that we can glory in the radiance of the ancient stars.”
“Look at you! You’re losing movement in your arms! I have to practically shout so you can hear me. Pretty soon they’re going to have to keep you in one of those rooms above the cliffs.”
“There is room for us everywhere in the universe. All the forces—the electromagnetic, the strong and weak nuclear forces, and gravity—are one. The unities. There is unity of forces, and there is unity of space-time. Unity of unities. Do you want me to explain the consequences? Can’t you imagine, from here to Antares in no time at all!”
“Will you take us back to Hawaii? Will you?”
“The will is free; we are alone and complete among the stars of the night. There are glories from the earth and cruelties from the human heart.”
For me, the genuine gem in this collection was
"When the Rose is Dead". It is an acorn that will grow into an oak in
A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, expanding and intensifying the ideas here.
(The following excerpt is, however, more reminiscent of Valashu, the main character of Zindell's Ea cycle.)
[Rose] hated war, everything about it. She’d written antiwar poems—she was a famous poet. That’s why she was in the hospital. The Medical Congress had just created a new category of mental illnesses, and the clinic doctors committed anyone they caught suffering from them. The unnatural desire to be alone, the inability to follow orders—there was an illness named ‘oppositional disorder.’ You know what that was? The psychiatrists’ manual, DSM III, defines it as ‘a pattern of disobedient, negativistic and provocative opposition to authority figures.’ And Rose was very disobedient, sometimes even provocative. She was a member of the Green Party; in fact she was one of the founders of the Greens. She wanted to abolish war, everywhere, in all the zones of the City, for all time. Crazy, huh?
And my perennial favorite, the free will conundrum:
“He confided that in his student days he had injected himself with brain drugs—and many times since. A few micrograms of a specifically designed drug and you could tune the serotonin concentration in the brain, experience a minute or hour of bliss. Or wild euphoria, or sexual exaltation. ‘Or God,’ he told her, ‘God in a pill—what’s the point in calling it that? Yes, I’ve seen it, but if that’s God, well, it can’t be God, if you know what I mean.’ And she provided a quotation of her own, or rather a misquotation: ‘The Tao you see while high on drugs is not the true Tao.’ ‘Then there is no true Tao,’ Dr. Stone said. ‘The brain drugs activate the same natural neuroactive chemicals you’d find in the cortex of a meditating saint, or in a young girl staring at the roses in the park. Why do you think meditation and biofeedback are illegal? Drugs are drugs—there’s no difference.’
“When he said this, Rose shook her head back and forth so hard her hair snapped like a whip. ‘Are we nothing more than chemical machines, Doctor?’ And he said, ‘We’re nothing but an interlocking set of subroutines; we’re programmed by the molecules in our brain. There’s nothing more.’ ‘But,’ she said, ‘if we choose what molecules to put in our brains, by injection or meditation or faith, we’re still choosing, aren’t we? Isn’t there a spark of soul and free will in everyone?’ And Dr. Stone said, ‘No, certain neurotransmitters fire according to the laws of chemistry, and you call this “choice.” So if you believe in God, I suppose you can’t help it.’ And Rose, she smiled and laughed when he said this, and then she said, ‘Oh, no, Doctor, you’re so wrong!’”
And then the ending, which saved the story from sliding down the drain of Terry Gilliam's
Brazil and washed away with tears any previous bitterness.
Interestingly, the writing in "When the Rose is Dead" often sounds livelier and more varied (if less visionary) than Zindell's later novels.