Conference noted::sf

946.0. "Schenck: Chronosequence" by SUBWAY::MAXSON (Repeal Gravity) Fri Jan 18 1991 02:48

	Chronosequence, Hilbert Schenck, 1988, TOR books,
		ISBN: 0-812-50320-1

	Eve Pennington is a scientific historian who is browsing
	old textbooks offered for a U.K. auction. A small, handwritten
	book catches her eye - a journal of a bizarre occult event which
	took place in the late 1800's on Nantucket.  Since she vacationed
	on Nantucket as a child and liked the place, she decides to buy
	the journal, even though the occult isn't really her interest.
	She reads the strange account and becomes fascinated; but it
	seems everone else is fascinated, too - strangers try to steal
	the book, the police try to sieze it, and even her friends seem
	to be schemeing to get it away from her. Could there be something
	behind the strange, dusty New England yarn about a lifeguard and
	his odd young bride? Could it be the Rooshians? Maybe Space Aliens
	with psychic powers?  Naaah. But...

	-----------------   ----------------  --------------  ------------

	I always try to give unknown authors the break. I buy their books
	on pure speculation, and maybe one time out of ten, I find a new
	talent worth reading. Most of the time, there's disappointment and
	sometimes great amusement.  Rarely, there's a jewel.  The cover
	blurbs on this one gave me hope: "An outstanding work of fiction"
	said The New York Daily News. "Forceful, pungent, and full of the
	rhythyms of life", said Roger Zelazny.  So off I went.
	And the prose is wonderful. Schenck manages to weave a descriptive
	web that is enchanting, and his characters seem three dimensional
	and alive. This guy can write.  And slowly, enticingly the premise
	begins to emerge, the plot thickens and stews, filling the air
	with a rich aroma. And all of a sudden, the story has jelled to
	the point where I can grasp it and...

	Yeerch. It stinks.  Unbelieveable premise on top of nonsense,
	with implausibilities and impossibilities using each other as
	references, the whole, carefully woven story simply collapses
	as I am unable to suspend disbelief for another instant.  The
	lead character is a spinsterish techno-librarian, but we suddenly
	learn of her lesbian, incestuous past. Excuse me? But that wasn't
	really her, oh no, in fact, she was under the spell of a space alien
	with psychic powers who happens to live under a rock near Nantucket.
	Oh, Okay. Now I see. That makes it understandable. Is this story
	a mystery? Yes, but noooo - whoops, it's really a romance. No, wait,
	it's a spy novel. No, I got it, it's science fiction. No, now it's
	a stroke book, a la "Mandingo" or "Love's Throbbing Passion".
	Nah, it really was science fiction. The author can't decide, and the
	reader, exhausted from all of these diversions, can't care.

	Sometimes, you get a story with a clumsy author who just can't
	find enough descriptive style to tell it.  And in the case of
	Hilbert Schenck, you get a truly talented wordsmith who can
	summon up a windstorm with mere paper and ink; but sadly,
	Hilbert just has no story to tell.  All form, no content.

	A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

    	By the way, what does Chronosequence mean?  I have absolutely no
    	idea, and I read the book.  Don't you make the same mistake.