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A review by oblomov
Rogue Moon by Algis Budrys
4.0
Year of New Authors
A breakthrough in transmission technology has allowed mankind to dub a human being and materialise their doppelganger on the moon, with a short term psychic link to their original on earth. This monumental progression for science is somewhat hindered by an alien structure on the lunar surface, as indescribable as it is very, very deadly. With every volunteer who enters swiftly dispatched by the malevolent architecture, and psychologically damaged by experiencing their own death through their clones, the head scientist searches for a man prepared to die over and over again.
Why in the ground control to Major Tom fuck is this book not more well known? I mean... Jesus, forget [b: Solaris|95558|Solaris|Stanisław Lem|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1498631519l/95558._SX50_.jpg|3333881] or Duncan Jones' Moon, this novel is a pungent Smörgåsbord of philosophical, moral and sociological questions, including, but far from limited to: concepts of personhood, suicide, PTSD, loneliness, the psychopathy of politics, legacy, power, masochism and, of course 'What has science done!?'
The themes and questions the book raises are delightfully exhausting, but most fascinating to me was the exploration of gender. The portrayal of rival forms of feminity is about as nuanced as you could get for the early 1960s (it's just Whore and Madonna, honestly), but Budry's exploration of manliness fascinated me. We're given a triumvirate of toxic masculinity with our three main male characters, with the dare-devil jock, the slimy master of manipulation, and the cool detatched, unemotional scientist. All three archetypes are utterly broken as they suffer their own inner turmoil, are desperate for some form of true connection with another human being, and their bravado and power are exposed as worthless facades for a sad and isolated vulnerability.
Sadly, there are two notable downsides to the novel.
The dialogue: It suffers from the Haruki Murakami problem of everyone being far too quick to offer monologues on their own secret desires within two minutes of meeting someone, as well as the Ayn Rand bullshit of a character's personality being second to their philosophical role, so everyone has an uncanny valley feel of a human being.
The second fault is the weird eldritch building. It piques your interest through the entire book, but ends up as nothing more than a disappointing maguffin. It's weird, it's mind bending, sure, but we're given no clue or even discussion on the what/why/how of the other worldly structure, and once the characters are able to navigate this Ikea from Hell, it's swiftly forgotten so they can talk about humanity again.
This a novel length wiki page of thought experiments, but it still works as a compelling narrative with memorable characters (even if their dialogue is a little off). It invokes that beautiful sense of suffocating, God awful ennui I seem to love inflicting on myself, apparently for no good reason other than a spoonful of surreal salt helps reality's existential crisis go down.
A breakthrough in transmission technology has allowed mankind to dub a human being and materialise their doppelganger on the moon, with a short term psychic link to their original on earth. This monumental progression for science is somewhat hindered by an alien structure on the lunar surface, as indescribable as it is very, very deadly. With every volunteer who enters swiftly dispatched by the malevolent architecture, and psychologically damaged by experiencing their own death through their clones, the head scientist searches for a man prepared to die over and over again.
Why in the ground control to Major Tom fuck is this book not more well known? I mean... Jesus, forget [b: Solaris|95558|Solaris|Stanisław Lem|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1498631519l/95558._SX50_.jpg|3333881] or Duncan Jones' Moon, this novel is a pungent Smörgåsbord of philosophical, moral and sociological questions, including, but far from limited to: concepts of personhood, suicide, PTSD, loneliness, the psychopathy of politics, legacy, power, masochism and, of course 'What has science done!?'
The themes and questions the book raises are delightfully exhausting, but most fascinating to me was the exploration of gender. The portrayal of rival forms of feminity is about as nuanced as you could get for the early 1960s (it's just Whore and Madonna, honestly), but Budry's exploration of manliness fascinated me. We're given a triumvirate of toxic masculinity with our three main male characters, with the dare-devil jock, the slimy master of manipulation, and the cool detatched, unemotional scientist. All three archetypes are utterly broken as they suffer their own inner turmoil, are desperate for some form of true connection with another human being, and their bravado and power are exposed as worthless facades for a sad and isolated vulnerability.
Sadly, there are two notable downsides to the novel.
The dialogue: It suffers from the Haruki Murakami problem of everyone being far too quick to offer monologues on their own secret desires within two minutes of meeting someone, as well as the Ayn Rand bullshit of a character's personality being second to their philosophical role, so everyone has an uncanny valley feel of a human being.
The second fault is the weird eldritch building. It piques your interest through the entire book, but ends up as nothing more than a disappointing maguffin. It's weird, it's mind bending, sure, but we're given no clue or even discussion on the what/why/how of the other worldly structure, and once the characters are able to navigate this Ikea from Hell, it's swiftly forgotten so they can talk about humanity again.
This a novel length wiki page of thought experiments, but it still works as a compelling narrative with memorable characters (even if their dialogue is a little off). It invokes that beautiful sense of suffocating, God awful ennui I seem to love inflicting on myself, apparently for no good reason other than a spoonful of surreal salt helps reality's existential crisis go down.