The best of C. L. Moore Book

I don't know if it's a fact that Catherine Lucille Moore published under her initials to downplay her womanhood to the pulp audiences of the 1930s and '40s. Certainly she was among some esteemed male company in doing this: H. P. Lovecraft, C. M. Kornbluth, R. A. lafferty, and so on. Nevertheless, I have to admit that it is probable that a predominantly young male audience in 1933 would not have been predisposed to look as kindly on the debut story of this remarkable woman, not because it compares unfavourably to the work of her male counterparts, but simply because of the ethos of the time and because, well, without meaning to condescend in the slightest, you can tell there's something different about this: A direct connection between science fiction and myth, not a true stranger to the pages of Weird Tales, but told with such passion, such almost discomfitingly raw emotion. I don't think Moore was "passing" as a man when she wrote any of this stuff. I think she was aware of her audience, and gave them what they wanted, and imbued it with a certain aura that I can sometimes describe as challengingly feminine.

And Moore does burst right out of the gate, fully formed. The book begins with "Shambleau", one of her most notorious pieces, and believe it or not, her first published story. Lovecraft praised it. Indeed, it's been compared with his work. But I'm reminded more of his lesser known contemporary, Clark Ashton Smith, in both content and form. Lonely lamiae on a dark frontier, in this case, the old, vast cities of Mars. This is a story about Northwest Smith, a wanderer of the solar system, a hard man who is often on the wrong side of the law, and his encounter with a mysterious, silent woman. I've read a whole bunch of these Northwest stories now, and I'll grant you that mostly they follow the same pattern: Northwest is wandering somewhere, alone and maybe on the run, and encounters some kind of alien demigod/outcast/hybrid plant thing/beautiful woman, usually with vampiric tendencies, though often of the more soul-destroying rather than blood-sucking variety. What's really striking about these tales though is their huge, pervasive melancholy. The atmosphere and moodiness just seems to blow from the pages like a dusty Martian wind redolent of unknowable, terrible secrets that were old before man learned to stand upright. The rich, almost flowery prose helps with this, again calling some of Clark Ashton Smith's tales of Zothique (or indeed, old Mars) to mind. Both "Shambleau" and "Black Thirst" deliver on their promises of vampiric thrills, but there's definitely something more going on here. The way Moore describes sensations so sharply, with such depth of feeling, and also the most alien mental impressions, is something really powerful to behold. It's almost sensory overload at times, and I'm sure that's a part of what she was going for. The sensations depicted are so strong that you almost feel uncomfortable reading about them, but at the same time it's all oddly compelling and, even, beautiful.

This all comes to an apotheosis in "The Bright Illusion". Imagine you become enslaved by an unfathomable godly presence, who sets you a horrible task. Then you fall in love with one of those Lovecraft-style amorphous being from Beyond Time and Space, whose mere sight would drive you to absolute insanity. But we're not talking love here, this is LOVE, an all-pervading limitless thing that is greater than gender or time or space or dimensions beyond mortal ken. OH yes, Moore asks us to accept some pretty far-out stuff here on face value. But don't you want to? I mean yes, it'd probably all be a bit much for some; the sensory overload thing is turned up to maximum here, and Moore's aliens are really alien. If you liked David Lindsay's A Voyage to Arcturus as much as I did, you should be able to appreciate this, though. Indeed, the almost gnostic idea of a spiritual purity beyond all mortal experience is even a bit similar here, though I get the idea that Moore's not quite as grim as Lindsay. The ending is so appropriate and again we're traversing territory that sings of intense melancholy feeling laced with an aching wonder at the cosmos and the beings both vast and small who dwell within.

That LOVE theme recurs in quite a few of the stories here, although of course there's much more to Moore than this. It's true that "A Trist in Time" reads like a science fiction romance, but it's short, feels ahead of its time, and the ending just adds more to the sense of mystery. I liked it.

"The Black God's Kiss" is a Jirel story and it's also great, but I didn't care for the ending. Don't let that faze you though; it's possible you will like the ending very much in fact, particularly if Moore's LOVE theme really resonates with you. It's also true that I haven't read the other Jirel stories Moore wrote (not in this volume) yet, and they might help to put this one into some perspective. Jirel is Moore's stab at sword and sorcery. You could almost describe her as a female Conan, but I don't think that would quite be doing her justice. Of course the setting is faux-medieval, and the world reads like fantasy, only there are science fiction elements present: portals to other dimensions, beings that are clearly aliens and not dragons or gods or whatever. But Jirel is a person of her time, so she still sees all that stuff as magic and sorcery, even if the raeder draws different conclusions. It's pretty neat

"Fruit of Knowledge". Lilith, Adam, Eve and Satan, and the Garden of Eden. Yes, it's a biblical retelling/reimagining, with subversive tendencies. I was impressed by this story, but in a somewhat aloof way, perhaps because everyone does this sort of thing nowadays. I've no doubt though that for 1942 this was really fresh ground (although of course the real antecedent is Paradise Lost), and I'm really glad that she wrote it because it again proves how ahead of her time this writer was. And if you really like this sort of thing, as I know many do, it's entirely possible this will be a favourite in the collection.

Now we are moving away from the fantastic and horrific elements that characterized the older stories, and into more science fiction. If you thought the language of the 30s stories was a bit overwrought and excessive, I guess you'll have an easier time with these. You could say Moore's concerns are becoming more contemporary, and she's really starting to think about technological and social ramifications in unique and clever ways. "Greater than Gods" reads in many ways like so much old SF, in that much of it consists of guys in a room talking ideas passionately at one another. But the ideas! I think you'll be really surprised at just how far Moore is willing to take things, and this is a consistent strength of her work. She thinks big, but she's not afraid to start small, with the seed of in intriguing idea, as she does here, and turn it into something that will change the world forever. It's a story with a vast, broad scope, and immensely impressive.

"Daemon" is a brief return to a somewhat more fantastic milieu, and the only story in the book told in first person. It's not as heavy as some of the stories here but it's intensely atmospheric; very much in a "weird fiction" style. That emotional, heady melancholy is everpresent.

"No Woman born" seems so modern to me. What's it mean to be human? What makes us human? What's consciousness, really? Oh come on, he said, these questions are old hat in SF now. You get this on Star Trek every other week! But hang on a second..Moore was doing this in the early 40s! There are just a few characters here, and any synopsis would reveal that not much actually happens. A famous actress dies in a terrible accident, her body burned beyond recognition, but her brain is saved and downloaded into a robot body. But she is the same person she always was! Isn't she? And she wants to perform again, for an audience..an audience used to seeing a beautiful star image with her name attached to it. It's all in the dialogues. Such astute psychological observation. I would hesitate to call Moore an overtly feminist writer, yet here she is, before just about anyone else in the field, questioning the concept of the female image and identity.

And even with all the praise I've given this collection so far, it's possible they saved the very best for last. "Vintage Season". My god, what a story! It was published in 1946, but I swear to you that if it were written in 2016 more-or-less exactly as it is, it would pack just as much of a punch. It has the universal appeal of a classic Richard Mathetson story, or at least that's how it starts. Petty domesticity's world intruded on by something strange and outré that is fascinating before it's disturbing. But I promise you won't predict quite where it goes. Once you get there, the ending is one of those ultimate game-changing revelations that will make you completely re-assess what you read previously and realize that things that didn't seem significant were in fact loaded with ominous meaning. The last couple of pages are so very, very haunting. What a way to end the book. If Moore had only written this one story, people would be perfectly justified in talking about her over seventy years later. There's so much in this one piece, so much to think about, so many haunting strange images that you'll never forget. I realize all I've done is shout vague praise and haven't really said a thing about it, but this one I really don't think you should have spoiled even a little. Come to it fresh and unprepared. Trust me, it's the best way.
And with that we close the book and sigh. I don't often say this but, I wish there were more! Ten stories just doesn't seem like enough, sensory overload and all. I hate to sound reprimanding, but the truth is that Moore just didn't write enough! There are of course other short stories collected in other places (though not very many), many shorts and several novels written in collaboration with her husband Henry Kuttner (their life together was tragically cut short when he died young of a heart attack)
, and, I think, a scant two or so novels of her own. She lived well into the 1970s but didn't write any fiction after Henry died. When I think about it, the two of them were actually perfect for each other as a writing team, complimenting each others styles and approaches rather than one coming out more strident than the other. It must have been amazing for them.