42 SPACE James Kneale Stories have to happen somewhere, or perhaps, more accurately, stories have to produce somewhere in which to stage their happenings. Film and television represent a three-dimensional space on the screen, and written fictions usually have some sort of setting it seems reasonable to assume that there must be spaces of sf. However, itis not easy to say what “space” is. It is often taken for granted as a category of existence or experience, and has received much less attention than time in philosophy, social theory, and textual criticism ~ although not in the discipline of geography. The word “geography” means “writing about the earth,” so it might seem useless for the study of other worlds, fictional or otherwise, but this chapter will argue that thinking about space can benefit sf criticism. At che same time, taking sf seriously can help the critical study of space by making us think again about experience and representation. ‘This chapter sets out three key arguments. First, space is not natural, or abstract, or literally “there,” but is relational, lived, and lively. Recent arguments in geography hhave rejected the idea that space is an inert backdrop or container for action, nothing more than the canvas onto which life is painted, or the stage on which itis acted out. In the 1960s and 1970s many geographers subscribed to a form of spatial fetishist, ignoring the ways in which space was constructed and instead granting it causal powers of its own. A city was shaped by the distance between it and its neighbors, its size, cansport networks, or other “spatial” phenomena, rather than by social agents or relations like landlords, racism, and governments. We might now suggest that space and society produce each other, though there are of course many different ways of conceptualizing society. Second, texts are not mimetic representations (of space or anything else). Combining these arguments, Sheila Hones contends that the idea of literary “setting” relies on thee erroneous assumptions: that itis possible to make a simple distinction between real and fictional places; that the real world possesses a “definitive and self-evident geography which is more authoritative than the geography of the text"; and that a real geography is “a collection of named places that are internally coherent and totally knowable” (Hones 2005: 1). Finally, all of this is complicated by the nature of sf, which may be written or read in such a way that it escapes mimesis and represents alterity. If sf is “fiction squared” (Suvin 1979: 117), then its textual spaces must also be doubly fictional: represencations of places that do not of cannot exist.JAMES KNEALE Afcer outlining contemporary thinking about space, this chapter concentrates on its textual representation and its significance for sf, concentrating on two particular authors: Kim Stanley Robinson and M. John Harrison. As this suggests, my emphasis is upon written fictions; visual sf presents us with a slightly different set of issues that Tam unable to go into here, though the general argument still holds Space Geographer Doreen Massey (2005) discusses her frustration with the dominant narrative about globalization, which presents it as an inevitable historical process, a single path down which all nations must pass. Massey sces this as symptomatic of the subordination of space to time in philosophy and social theory, which equates change with time and stasis with space. This allows globalization to be seen as a singular narrative of change that applies to all spaces. Spatial variation (e.g, the differences that exist between rich and poor nations) is explained away in terms of time, so that places move forward along the track of “development,” evolving from “traditional” to “modern.” Massey's response is to ask a rather science-fictional question: “what if: What if we refuse to convene space into time? What if we open up the imagi- nation of the single narrative to give space (literally) for a multiplicity of trajectories? What kinds of conceptualisation of time and space, and of their relation, might that give on to? (Massey 2005: 5) Massey offers three alternative propositions about the nature of space, by which she means space-time, each with progressive political implications. (It is not diffieule to think of sf parallels, and in fact one answer to Massey's question would be that we would arrive at thoroughly science-fictional conceptualizations of time and space. When sf critics explored the connections between postmodernism and sf, many of the central metaphors turned out to be spatial as much as seience-fietional: Fredric Jameson's “cognitive mapping"; Donna Haraway's cyborg (hybrid subjects located at the intersection or borders of realms ~ naturefculture, human/machine ~ commonly thought to be separate); Jean Baudrillard’s simulacra and “Disneyfication. First, space is relational ~it is not anything in itself but derives its apparently natural characteristics from its relations with other places, people, and things. This argument is attractive for its anti-essentialism, challenging nationalist and racist assumptions. What we call “Britain” is the sum of a set of historical connections to the rest of the world, rather than a self-evident, closed, and fixed place. This anti-essentialism is also suspicious of the naturefculture opposition, and we might follow Haraway (1991) and Bruno Latour (1993) in arguing that humans are effectively constituted through networks of nonhuman agents. In sf, this anti-essentialism is sometimes explored through the eyborg, of in cyberpunk discussions of the end of the nation- state in an era of information flows. However, the cyborg can also crystallize fears of hybridity and dreams of purity, and the end of older geopolitical certainties does not 404SPACE necessarily lead to more progressive imaginings of place; in Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age (1995) an essentialized “Chinese-ness” fills the vacuum left by communism (Longan and Oakes 2002). Better examples include Jeff Noon's slogan “pure is poor” from Viet (1993), with its posthuman hybrids, and the suggestion in Kim Stanley Robinson's Mars trilogy (1992-6) that the terraforming of Mars would also entail the transformation of its colonists into Martians. Mary Louise Pratt (1992) suggests that imperialism involved a series of encounters in “the contact zone,” where engagement leads to transformation on both sides, and this sense of open (although clearly not equal) encounter also runs through Robinson's Years of Rice and Salt (2002). Second, space is muliple and heterogeneous. There are many different narratives within one place and many experiences of it; the cultural politics of identity and difference become spatial metaphors of “position.” Drawing on the ideas of Eesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Massey argues that any real recognition of difference ‘means putting these uneven and agonistic relations at the heart ofall discussions of change. Utopias have always added to the meanings of ordinary spaces by contesting taken-for-granted assumptions about our place within them. The figure of the alien has also offered a highly productive fictional device for revealing the contingency and multiplicity of place. ‘ally, space is in process, becoming rather than fixed. The agonistic relations between and within places ensure that their futures are always open, allowing us to resist teleological arguments and to derail apparently singular narratives (Iike globalization). There are always alternatives. There is a parallel here with the call of Jane Bennett (2001) to “re-enchant” our encounters with the world. Narratives of disenchantment, like Max Weber's iron cage, can produce fatalist, she argues, but recognizing that the world is enchanted and learning to look for moments of discont nuity and difference can counter it, insisting on possibility and encouraging a kind of everyday utopianism that resembles the spirit of progressive sf. The appeal of utopias and counterfactual histories is their refusal to accept that the past, present, or future must be singular. Alternative universes and parallel worlds give life to spaces that seem closed and finished, just as time travel gives places new histories and futures. However, ic is the means rather than the ends that are enchanting, just as utopia is more about process than outcomes. Opening up to possibility is genuinely enchanting in a world where there seems to be no alternative, even if there is nothing inherently progressive about the results of change. Taken together these three points offer an escape from the paralyzing assump- tions of many arguments about space: “What is needed ... is to uproot ‘space’ from thar constellation of concepts in which it has so unquestioningly so often been embedded (stasis; closure; representation) and to settle it among another set of ideas (heterogeneity; relationality; coevalness... liveliness indeed) where it releases a more challenging political landscape” (Massey 2005: 13). 425JAMES KNEALE Textual space Representations of space can help us to reflect on these arguments. Robinson's The Wild Shore (1984), set in a postdisaster California, offers an excellent example. Halfway through the book, Henry, the narrator, returns to San Onofe, the tiny hamlet where he has spent almost all of his life, from San Diego, just down the coast. Despite the fact that the first quarter of the novel is set in San Onof, it has not been extensively described until this point. Henry writes: Have I described the valley yet? It is in the shape of a cupped hand, and filled with trees. Down in the crease of the palm is the river winding to the sea, and the fields of com and barley and potatoes. The heel of the hand is Basilone Hill, and up there is the Costas’ place, and Addison’s tower, and Rafael’s rambling house and workshop. Across from that, the spiny forested fingers of Tom’ ridge. (Robinson 1984: 151) ‘This is an entirely ordinary piece of topographical writing but it soon becomes something much more interesting When I got to the river I sat gingerly and continued to look around at it all, T couldn't get enough of it. It all looked so familiar and yet so strange. Before ry trip south Onofre was just home, a natural place, and the houses, the bbridge and the paths, the fields and the latrines, they were all just as much a part of itas the cliffs and the river and the trees. But now I saw itall ina new way. The path. A broad swath of dusty diet cutting through the weeds, curving here to get around the corner of the Simpsons’ garden, narrowing there where rocks cramped it on both sides ... It went where it did because there hhad been agreement, when folks frst moved to the valley, that this was the best way to the river from the meadows to the south, People’s thinking made that path. I looked at the bridge ~ rough planks on steel struts, spanning the gap between the stone bases on each bank. People I knew had thought that bridge, and built it, And the same was true of every structure in the valley. 1 tried to look at the bridge in the old way, as part of things as they were, but it didn’t work. When you've changed you can't go back. Nothing looks the same ever again, (Robinson 1984: 151-2) [At first Henry sees the valley afresh, describing it as an outsider might, but this immediately becomes a relational space of which he is part; he can no longer simply see “things as they were.” There are two reasons for this. First, he now has somewhere else to compare it to, and his movement from a taken-for-granted San Onofte to San Diego and back to a newly unfamiliar valley is presented as an epiphany of sorts Mikhail Bakhtin suggests that “On the road ... people who are normally kept separate 426SPACE by social and spatial distance can accidentally meet; any contrast may crop up, the most various fates may collide and interweave with each other,” and that the road reveals “the sociohistorical heterogeneity of one’s own country” (Bakhtin 1981: 243, 245), Henry's journey leads to a new understanding of who and where he is. Spaces are relational in the sense chat they mean something only in contrast with each other, strung out along a road for example, but also in the way that the object of landscape 1d the subject that experiences it may both he changed by their encounter with each other. Second, Henry no longer sees the valley as natural because he now recognizes the social relations that went into constructing it, the planning, negotiation, and building, the engagement with the physical landscape itself (the path avoids rocks as well as properties), The villagers work together to ensure their survival, but there are different interests within the valley and tensions are exacerbated by the arrival of the strangers from San Diego. The tiny space of the valley contains a heterogeneous group of actors, and is itself the outcome of many agreements and disagreements between them. This leads us to Massey's third point, that San Onofte is lively and open. Clearly textual spaces tend to experience dramatic events, but even if we ignore the momentous challenge that the community faces its future unfolds in unpredictable ways. Again it seems significant that Henry isa teenager maturing into a man, a self. conscious narrator only too happy to record his doubts and hopes about the future and his place in it; as the novel concludes he has grown up and his world has changed around him. San Onofte contains the future because of the interwoven actions of Henry and others, and that future is never closed. Before leaving San Onofre, we might consider a wider point about this kind of landscape description. Many fictions of all kinds get by with few extended descrip- edia can treat setting as a mere backdrop; for every detailed future city like the Los Angeles of Blade Rurner (Scott 1982) there are a hundred anonymous quarries or factories that stand in for alien environments. Why do different texts give varying amounts of weight to textual space? Denis Cosgrove (1984) argues thar the modern sense of landscape is essentially an outsider's views under capitalism the laborer is alienated from the land and the owner can only appre ciate itas property. Landscape becomes the object of painting at precisely this moment and ceases to be an important focus when this relationship comes to be taken for granted. Similarly, Lennard Davis suggests that extended topographical descriptions in print from the eighteenth century onwards were part and parce! of colonial and capitalist conceptions of land: “locations are intertwined with ideological explana tions for the possession of property” (Davis 1987: 54). The realist texts of Balzac or Dickens also mark the highpoint of literary descriptions of place. Davis suggests that “The difference between nineteenth- and twentieth-century descriptions of space is that the historical and ideological justification for space has dropped out” (Davis 1987: 96). In Robinson's novel, what Henry sees is a working landscape where every- thing is defined by its use-value, but we should remember the general point thar many texts do not rely on extended descriptions, which means that they are worth consid ering when they are present. tions of space. Even visual nJAMES KNEALE Space and sf ‘Without the wider context of Robinson's post-disaster novel, this example isa rather ordinary one ~ in fact, John Barrell makes a similar point about textual space in analysing the geographies of Thomas Iardy’s Wessex. [lis article begins: T have never been to Dorset ... I make that confession, not to disqualify myself from writing this essay, but to indicate at the outset the sort of essay itwill not be. It will not be concerned with the identification of place in the ‘Wessex novels with their possible originals in Dorset and the neighbouring counties. (Barrell 1982: 347) In the same spirit, I should admit that I have never been to Tatooine or an orbital habitat or a gas giant. Sf represents places that do not exist (yet), or that are still somehow mysterious. If “Wessex” isa fiction, sf places must be doubly fictional. While there are readers who will compare the represented place with what science tells us is possible, it makes litle sense to compate Jain M. Banks's Orbitals with their referents, hhecause they do not exist outside sf, futurology, and other fictions. This is one of the most interesting aspects of sf; not only does it encourage a subtler form of analysis than examining texts for “mistakes” or “bias” in their representations of places, but it questions the very idea of setting. If sf encourages us to look again at the taken-for- granted, then representations of impossible places constitute experiments in what can be said about place, new ways of thinking about our experience of being-in-the-world. However, some sf places are more estranging than others; we might distinguish between extrapolative and speculative environments, between the close-to-home and the truly alien. The cyberpunk city is a good example of the former. Blade Rurer and ‘William Gibson’s fictions might have offered remarkable visions of the future, but it was their plausibility that appealed to audiences and critics, from Bruce Sterling's declaration that “Gibson's extrapolations show, with exaggerated clarity, the hidden bbulk of an iecberg of social change” (Sterling 1986: 10-11), to Fredric Jameson's suggestion that cyberpunk offered “the supreme literary expression if not of postmod- ernism chen of late capitalism itself (Jameson 1991: 419, original emphasis) and “a mapping of the new geopolitical Imaginary” (Jameson 2003: 107). ‘While it was eyberspace that received most attention at frst, the eyberpunk city divided crties. Urbanist Mike Davis (1998) applauded Gibson's depiction of the priva tization of public space, leading to a dialogue between the two writers (sce Kitchin and Kneale 2001), while Claire Sponsler (1993) and others dismissed this vision of the city as a white gentrifers playground. We are left with two different eritical responses to represented spaces; Davis sees Gibson's texts as dystopian, Sponsler as a utopia of the powerful. Extrapolated fictional spaces are often seen as thinly disguised versions of the present; the text is read sympromatically, as an expression of wider cultural developments. For example, much of the work on Blade Runner reflects in some way upon the city and postmoderity. 428SPACE Even more exotic sf environments can be strangely familiar. As Stanislaw Lem's Solaris (1961) puts ie We don't want ta conquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the bound- aries of the Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos. For us, such and such a planet is as arid as the Sahara, another as frozen as the North Pole, yet another as lush as the Amazon basin ... We are only seeking Man. W other worlds. We need mirrors. ve no need of. (Lem 1987: 72) For example, the settings of the Star Wars films (1977-83, 1999-2005) are as much nineteenth-century adventure fiction and twentieth-century westems as classic sf. The plausibility or otherwise of science-fictional places rests on extrapolation from what we know, but with more unfamiliar or speculative environments this has to assume that physical laws and conditions are the same throughout the cosmos. The act of imagining new kinds of life and environments that ate consistent with these laws is sometimes called “world building.” Hal Clement's Mission of Gravity (1954) remains the classic example, its depietion of the massive, highly oblate world Mesklin resting on a careful working-through of the causes and consequences of its size, rapid rotation, and other factors (although its superstitious "primitives" are pure H. Rider Haggard). Clement published his notes and calculations, and invited others to set stories on Mesklin as long as they maintained “reasonable scientific standards.” In a sense, this commitment to playing the game is more important than an exact account of the assumptions made, and many other authors have engaged with current scien tific thinking to build fictional worlds. Anthropological “laws” have been used to construct alien cultures, perhaps most obviously in the work of Ursula Le Guin, while the development of xenobiology has greatly encouraged sf based on the life sciences since Frank Herbert's Dune (1965), by authors such as Greg Bear, Octavia E. Butler, Kathleen Ann Goonan, Paul McAuley, Joan Slonczewski, Brian Stableford, and Peter Watts (see Slonezewski and Levy 2003). In all of these examples, fictional worlds are felt to be plausible because they are coherent and consistent with scientific principles. However, this discussion of plaus bility seems at odds with Massey’s conviction that space is lively, as well as with the argument that sf should be estranging. The problem with world building While the science in hard sf can evoke a “sense of wonder,” when these worlds are described in the Tanguage of nineteenth-century realism lively space can become structured and contained by the formulas of world building, It might be impossible to experience true alterity, but maybe we can glimpse it in the way language and representation struggle to cope with the encounter with complex, relational places In Philip K. Dick's Galactic Pot- Healer (1969), for example, Joc Fernwright, taking his first trip from Earth, steps out onto Plowman's Planet: 429JAMES KNEALE He smelled the ait. Another world and another atmosphere, It feels strange, he decided, “Don't say,” Mali said, “that you find this place ‘unearthly’. Please, for my sake.” (Dick 1972: 63) But to what else can Joe compare it? For some authors, the attempt to describe or build worlds is central to the imagi- native impulse of the gene itself. My final example therefore concerns M. John Harrison's critical assault on the idea of “world building,” something he has worried away at since at least 1971 (2005a). In his comments which begin “Every moment of a science fiction story must represent the triumph of writing over worldbuilding” (Hartison 2007), Hartison appears to be echoing Roland Barthes’sdistinetion bevween seripuile texts, which encourage multiple readings, and lsible texts, in which the play of meaning is “traversed, intersected, stopped, plasticized by some singular system (Ideology, Genus, Criticism) which reduces the plurality of entrances, the opening of networks, the infinity of languages” (Barthes 1975: 5). Harrison seems to suggest that world building produces lsible texts: “Worldbuilding gives an unnecessary permission for acts of writing (indeed, for acts of reading). Worldbuilding numbs the reader's ability to fulfil their pare of the bargain, because it believes that it has to do everything around here if anything is going to get done.” Authors and readers subordinate their own imaginations to the rules of world-creation. He continues, “Above all, world building is not technically necessary Its the attempt to exhaustively survey a place that isn’t there. A good writer would never try to do that, even with a place that is there” (Harrison 2007) Despite this, Harrison’s own fiction is centrally concerned with the desire for something or somewhere better. He describes his story “Egnaro” (1981), in which the narrator searches for a secret country, as an “exploration of the poisoned liminal,” which we ourselves poison through “the colonization of the fantastic, the liter alization of the improbable, the amazing made ordinary” (Harrison 2003a: 436). ‘World building is the corruption of our desire to escape elsewhere, one of the ways in which “SF rigorously and systematically ‘naturalizs’ or ‘domesticates' its displace- ments and discontinuities” (Malmgren 1991: 6). Reviewing a recent collection of Le Guin’s stories, Harrison concluded that “one of the traps of science fiction is its open invitation to build sensible worlds, rather than to live in ~ and with ~ the real thing” (Harsison 2003b: 29). ‘Acthe same time Harrison is clearly committed to landscape writing, including the poisoned postindustrial wastes in The Centauri Device (1974) and the unpredictable, disorientating event site of Nova Swing (2006). His writerly landscape descriptions take the form of a series of glosses on something that never comes into clear view. ‘These lively places are provisional, open rather than fixed, even when they seem uteerly mundane: “The bus was full of od women who nodded and smiled and read out all the signs to one another as if they were constructing or rehearsing between them the landscape as they went through it” (Harrison 1985: 140), Harrison has argued that 430SPACE “what modernism can give you is a surprising sense of what it’s like to be inside your own life, For a second you are encouraged to teinhabit yourself” (Harrison 2005b: 146). Asa result he makes writing about place a central problem, one that can be better explored in sf and in avant-garde writing than in realist fiction, Other sf authors see world building as a tool for creating plausibility, and in doing so ignore the problems with “setting,” thinking perhaps that the world is simply given to us, knowable and coherent. ‘One way of developing this insight is to recognize that sf can help us to explore how to write about the Earth. In Robinson's The Wild Shore, Henry tries and fails to deseribe a storm at sea, concluding, “The world pours in and overflows the heart till speech is useless, and that's a fact” (Robinson 1984: 327). When Henry starts to think about writing down the summer's events as a book, the novel we are reading, he becomes increasingly disappointed with his efforts: Here all those things had happened, they had changed us for life, and yet the miserable string of words sitting on the table didn't hold the half of it ~ the way it had looked, the way I felt about it all. It was like pissing to show what a storm was like. Why, there was no mote of last summer in that book than there is of the tree in an old scrap of driftwood, (Robinson 1984: 336) Despite this, Henry continues to observe and describe San Onofre’s sea, sky, and landscapes, and the novel ends with “Til stay right here and fill another book” (Robinson 1984: 343), Harrison and Robinson recognize that this effort is inevitable and necessary: we must engage with the world, and while writing about it is one way of doing this there is no way of getting it right. 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