Triffids Beard 2 - The Bearded Triffid

I Can't Lift up My Book
Phoenixine Ninety-Two, April 1997
I've been feeling OOSful. I had this pain in my shoulder and upper arm. I just ignored it -- only a pain,
bound to go away. But it didn't, it just got worse and it became more and more difficult to use my arm
for anything at all. Eventually things reached such a state that I could no longer lift it high enough in the
shower to wash my armpit. Crisis! Soon the whole world would know.
What I needed was an anti-inflammatory -- so I chatted to my friendly chemist and a strong one was
obtained. Instant success! Being now OOSless, it became possible for me to type this article. So I did.
Transmat is a first novel by Maxine Komlos. The transmat of the title is a matter transmitter, commonly
in use as a transport mechanism in 2022. It is a simple and reliable device and its use has transformed
society. But now things are starting to go mysteriously wrong. Sabotage is suspected. And the impact
and implications of that prove quite startling. Rather too many rabbits are pulled out of rather too many
unannounced hats for my complete comfort, (the transmat is a sort of 21 st century philosopher's
stone, a veritable wampum substance) but the book is certainly a creditable performance.
I do have some cavils. The society of 2022 is one that I am likely to see if I live out my threescore years
and ten. That brings it quite close to home, and while I do expect changes, I don't expect them to be as
revolutionary as those portrayed in the novel -- in other words the writer failed to convince me; failed to
invoke that very necessary "willing suspension of disbelief". I think perhaps I would have been happier
had a hundred years been added to every date in the story. Certainly I would have been more willing to
suspend my disbelief.
Quite a large cast of characters are invoked, but Maxine Komlos does a Heinlein with them and they are
virtually indistinguishable, one from another. There were times when I had enormous difficulty trying to
work out who was speaking to whom. The love interest is also dragged in, kicking and screaming, and
the love scenes are particularly ineptly written; page 44 simply cannot be read with the eyes open.
The novel has been privately published and therefore (I suspect) has lacked a firm editorial hand. That's a
shame -- it is certainly as good as much that is published commercially, and better than many and with a
little tightening here and there could hold its head up in most company. If anybody is interested in
purchasing Transmat, contact the author at 270 Sportsmans Drive, West Lakes, South Australia, 5021.
A phenomenon of recent years has been the urge of many SF writers to commit autobiography. L
Sprague de Camp has now indulged this urge and of all the writers who have succumbed to the
temptation, he is probably the best qualified since he has written two full length biographies (of H. P.
Lovecraft and of Robert E. Howard) as well as quite a lot of shorter biographical sketches of many
another fantasy writer. Now he has applied the lessons he learned in these earlier efforts to his own life
and a fascinating tale it makes. He washes no dirty linen and much that is private in his life remains so -he
is quite restrained in what he says and there are no great revelations. He has been far more
outspoken in other forums. His obituary of Lin Carter was less than complimentary, but his comments
on Carter in this book are quite laudatory.
Much of de Camp's life has been spent in travel to remote corners of the world and a large part of the
book consists of traveller's tales (some taller than others). For more than 400 pages this story of his life
held me enthralled, and the insights into his books and his travels are fascinating.
The book itself was very expensive; it is printed on acid-free paper with a special watermark, and yet
despite all of this care and obvious high investment in the production values, the copy editing is abysmal
and there are typos littering far too many of the pages. It deserves better than that.
One of my favourite hack writers is Mick Farren who was quite prolific in the 1970s and 1980s but who
fell quiet in the 1990s. Well he's back, and his new novel The Time of Feasting was well worth waiting
for. It's a vampire novel and in some respects quite a traditional one. Renquist is the centuries-old