#71 = Volume 24, Part 1 = March 1997
Christine Kenyon Jones
SF and Romantic Biofictions: Aldiss, Gibson, Sterling,
When St Paul’s and Westminster Abbey shall stand, shapeless
and nameless ruins, in the midst of an unpeopled marsh; when the piers of
Waterloo Bridge shall become the nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers and cast
the jagged shadows of their broken arches on the solitary stream, some
transatlantic commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now
unimagined system of criticism, the respective merits of the Bells, the Fudges,
and their historians.
Miching Mallecho (i.e., Percy Bysshe Shelley), dedicating Peter
Bell the Third to Thomas Brown (i.e., Thomas Moore) in December 18191
uses a favorite motif among the Romantic poets: an imaginary situation in which
their early-19th-century world and its works are seen with the odd and slanted
angle of vision bestowed by a viewpoint in the far future.2 John
Keats (in a passage which is quoted in Dan Simmons’ Hyperion of 1989)
envisaged the time "when this warm scribe my hand is in the grave"
("The Fall of Hyperion" line 18; Simmons, 384-85). Lord Byron, in an
1823 canto of Don Juan, provided a very early example of the "past
as a museum" trope which went on to become a regular feature of later
time-travel narratives, when he imagined a post-catastrophe generation
unearthing the remains of a well-known and hugely fat figure of his own time:
When this world shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped and curled,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned,...
What then if George the Fourth should be dug up!
How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!...
How...will these great relics when they see ‘em
Look like the monsters of a new Museum? (IX:291-320)3
The notion of an affinity between science fiction, and the
lives and works of the Romantic period must once, not very long ago, have
appeared to be an odd and unlikely one. But it has now become almost an
established convention which—unlike Frankenstein’s monster—has been able
to father and give birth to vigorous and autonomous progeny of its own, not only
in criticism but also in fictional works. In this paper I want to trace the
beginnings, the raison d’être, development, and nature of this link, and to
indicate why this association should have become an appealing, meaningful, and
inspiring one for writers in a postmodern era and at the end of a millennium.
As Brian Aldiss has pointed out, "Before I wrote, almost
no one paid any attention to that old previctorian novel of Mary Shelley’s"
(Trillion Year Spree 18). Aldiss’s Billion Year Spree, published
in 1973, certainly was enormously influential, not only in identifying the
Gothic or post-Gothic as the characteristic mode of science fiction, and in
arguing for the status of Frankenstein as the first true science-fiction
narrative, but also in drawing attention to the imaginative depth of Mary
Shelley’s novel and in claiming its right to be the object of serious literary
study. Aldiss’s promotion of the work and the author coincided with the rise
of critical feminism, and the growth in Mary Shelley’s reputation may owe more
to the latter than to the former, but it is nevertheless true that the effect of
her rediscovery in the last two and a half decades has been an astonishing one:
not only affecting the way in which the history of science fiction is perceived,
but also contributing to a redrawing of the mental map of Romanticism itself.4
Aldiss expressed his imaginative as well as critical interest
in Mary Shelley in the form of a 1973 novel, Frankenstein Unbound, in
which a 21st-century ex-president, Joseph Bodenland, travels back in time to
1816 and has a sexual encounter with the author of Frankenstein.5
He meets not only Percy Shelley, Dr John William Polidori (author of The
Vampyre), and Lord Byron, but also the offspring of Mary’s imagination,
Victor Frankenstein, and the illicit creature of his envisioning, the
Monster himself. This blurring in a fictional setting of the line between
historical personages and imagined ones, biographical and fictional
personalities, and the associated exploration of the nature of reality and
consciousness, is an explicit feature of Aldiss’s novel which I shall return
to discuss later. Frankenstein Unbound is an evident precursor for two of
the other works I want particularly to look at here: Tim Powers’ The Anubis
Gates (1983) and Powers’ more extended biofantasy of 1989, The Stress
of Her Regard. Both these novels are substantially set in the Romantic
period and feature Romantic poets as protagonists, with traits which hark back
to Aldiss’s work.
Also to be considered here as belonging to the neo-Romantic
family ancestored by Aldiss is William Gibson and Bruce Sterling’s The
Difference Engine (1990). The steam-powered, computerized
19th-century London, whose story Gibson and Sterling present as having been
generated by one of its own machines, provides the established "major"
Romantics with alternate, but wittily appropriate, non-poetic bit-parts. As
Percy Shelley is secondary in importance to Mary in Aldiss’s novel, so Lord
Byron appears in The Difference Engine primarily as the father of
Lady Ada Byron, "the Queen of Engines, the Enchantress of Numbers,"
and also as a Prime Minister who owes his real power to his wife.
"P.B. Shelley" has been executed by Lord Byron
before the novel opens, in retribution for his activities as an ultra-radical
conspirator, whose followers, "fired to a phrensy by the furious polemics
of the atheist," attacked and looted Establishment churches (§5:358/399).
"Professor Coleridge" and "Reverend Wordsworth" are the
utopian leaders of the "Susquehanna Phalanstery" (§4: 262/291), an
extrapolation from the real Pantisocracy project which absorbed Coleridge and
Robert Southey in the 1790s, when they planned to emigrate and set up an ideal
community on the banks of the Susquehanna. John Keats appears as a "kinotropist"—a
creator of steam and computer-driven moving pictures—who "tends to
somewhat excessively fancy work" and suffers from a nasty cough
(§3:111/120-21). Of the canonical Romantic "big six" only William
Blake is still allowed to be a poet, and he illustrates his own books of poems
because he "can’t find a proper publisher," and the role of the
"fine poets of England" has been taken over by such as John Wilson
Croker (in reality the MP and Tory politician who critically attacked Keats)
The Difference Engine is not particularly successful as
a narrative, but it does have some brilliant reworkings of early 19th-century
preoccupations, including the theory of Catastrophism, which is what lends the
work of the real Percy Shelley and Lord Byron much of its proto-sf flavor.6
Founded on James Parkinson’s Organic Remains of a Former World (1804-11)
and Baron Cuvier’s Recherches sur les ossemens fossiles de quadrupèdes
(1812), with their exploration of the significance of the dinosaur bones then
beginning to be unearthed, Catastrophism posited that the world had been
destroyed—probably by the impact of a comet—and remade many times before,
and that previous worlds had been dominated by non-human species which might
well have been superior in intelligence and achievement to human beings.
Percy Shelley’s response to these ideas was mainly
political. The ending of former worlds was believed to have been sudden and
brutal, and he envisaged that the political revolution he longed for might begin
in this way, and thus celebrated the destructive force of autumn in the words of
the famous "Ode to the West Wind": "If Winter comes, can spring
be far behind?" Shelley’s Panthea in Act Four of Prometheus Unbound (1819)
The wrecks beside of many a city vast,
Whose populations, which the Earth grew over,
Was mortal, but not human (296-98)
while Byron in the 1823 Preface to Cain speculates
that the pre-Adamite world was also peopled by rational
beings much more intelligent than man, and proportionately powerful to the
A little earlier Thomas Medwin recorded Byron’s prophecy
we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of
sea-voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of want of
atmosphere.... Who would not wish to have been born two or three centuries
later? We are at present in the infancy of science. Do you imagine that, in
former stages of this planet, wiser creatures than ourselves did not exist?
All our boasted inventions are but shadows of what has been,—the dim images
of the past—the dream of other states of existence.... Who knows whether,
when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and
will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of
steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the
flaming mass?—and then we shall have the traditions of the Titans again, and
wars with Heaven. (226-28)
Gibson and Sterling pick up these ideas in The Difference
Engine, making their main protagonist Edward Mallory a geological
Catastrophist, who is led by this theory to "his greatest personal triumph:
the discovery, in 1865, of continental drift (§4:288/320).7 Mallory
also applies Catastrophism outside the strictly geological sphere:
"'History works by catastrophe! It’s the way of the world, the only way
there is, has been, or ever will be. There is no history —there is only
contingency!’" (§4:271/301). This claim apparently supports the novel as
a whole, since the narrative premises an alternate 19th century based on
contingencies and "Jonbar points" creating events which are supposedly
just as plausible as the ones that occurred in reality.
The last two contemporary novels I want to mention here are
not, I think, related to the Aldiss and Frankenstein Unbound family.
Amanda Prantera’s Conversations with Lord Byron on Perversion, 163 years
after his Lordship’s Death (1987) is a modern version of a type of work
that was popular enough in the early 19th century to stand almost as a sub-genre
in its own right: gossip about Byron, fantasies and forgeries of aspects of his
life and more-or-less accurate accounts of his conversations recorded by his
contemporaries (see Soderholm, passim). Prantera brings in computers, Artificial
Intelligence and Cognitive Emulation to pastiche these Romantic
"Conversations," telling a tale of modern university researchers who
have developed a computer and programmed it with every known word that Lord
Byron ever wrote, and every piece of information about him ever recorded, so
that it has "become" Byron in some sense. The twist is that, while the
computer is managing to avoid any really significant communication with the
researchers, its "passive" or unexpressed mode is ruminating on
"its" life and recounting to itself a mysterious episode from the
Byron biography. For the reader (but not the researchers) it recounts a new
explanation of Byron’s relationship with a choirboy, John Edleston, at
Cambridge and the series of poems apparently addressed to a woman—"Thyrza"—but
actually written about Edleston after his death. Prantera’s story does what
many women wanted to do in Byron’s own time, by straightening out his actually
complex sexuality and making the choirboy a girl from a noble European family,
who is in disguise at Cambridge for obscure reasons. Later episodes in Byron’s
biography are also "explained" with reference to this hypothesis.
More elaborate and ambitious is Tom Holland’s The Vampyre
(1994; US title, Lord of the Dead), which makes Byron himself into a
vampire, living on with Haidée, the now "realized" (and also
vampirized) heroine of cantos two to four of Don Juan, in the crypt of a
London chapel, preying on late 20th century Londoners and recounting his life
story to his own great-great-great granddaughter. As in Powers’ and Prantera’s
novels, recorded events of the "real" biography of Byron are
skillfully reinterpreted as part of a new and hitherto secret story. Magic and
sorcery take the place of "science" in the book, but its fictional
mode is emphatically neo-Gothic, with all the props which are associated with
what Lyotard called the "hysterical sublime" (77-81).
Karl Kroeber has suggested that both fantasy and science
fiction emerge in reaction to periods—including the European Enlightenment
culture of the 18th century, and the Western modernist culture of the mid-20th—when
the supernatural has been driven out by a society which has ceased to recognize
anything except the strictly human (24). Holland’s book, like other
contemporary vampire and sword-and-sorcery novels, expresses a determination to
work the supernatural back into a human-dominated world. Its vampire
subject-matter associates it firmly with Gothic and Romantic writing and it
shares with the group of sf and fantasy novels I have identified a fascination
with the lives of the Romantic poets and an ingenuity in interpreting them
according to an agenda of its own.
What these agendas are, and how they relate to those of a much
more dominant sub-genre of late 20th-century science fiction—cyberspace and
cyberpunk—is what I want to explore in the second part of my paper. At first
sight, the two types of subject-matter could hardly seem more dissimilar. On the
one hand, cyberculture novels deal with a determinedly non-historical world,
where referents can only be sustained with difficulty over hours or days —let
alone years, decades or centuries—because the speed of change is envisaged as
being exponentially faster than that of our own time, and where all culture,
which is based on history, is imagined as being subjugated to the machine.
Biofictions and fantasies, on the other hand, are apparently entirely
preoccupied with the historical and the personal: they start from the premise of
a given individuality and what they construct on this basis only makes sense if
the details of the biographical foundation are at least slightly known to the
But such a simplified description of their subject-matter
misses the point that the two sub-genres exist side-by-side in time, written
within a community of discourse and a genre that is notably or notoriously
self-referential, and that they are sometimes, as in William Gibson’s case,
the product of the same word-processor. As Percy Shelley pointed out in his
preface to The Revolt of Islam,
there must be a resemblance, which does not depend upon
their own will, between all the writers of any particular age. They cannot
escape from subjection to a common influence which arises out of an infinite
combination of circumstances belonging to the times in which they live....
In fact, I hope to show that the small handful of Romantic
biofictions share with the much more extensive and widely-read volumes of
cyberculture novels an involvement with the organization and disorganization of
self, a compulsion to explore the nature of their authors’ contemporary,
postmodern world, and a desire to reflect upon the texture and meaning of
science fiction itself: a preoccupation of late-20th-century sf writers which,
as Edward James has remarked, may be taken either as a sign of the maturity of
the genre or as one of its decadence (201).
Damien Broderick, in Reading by Starlight (1995),
selects from Fredric Jameson’s analysis of the postmodern some features that
are particularly apposite to science fiction:
"a flatness or depthlessness"...a
waning of affect, or feeling, linked to the (alleged) loss of a discrete
subjectivity...the end of personal, unique style and a sense of history
itself, and their replacement by a pastiche...[and] the fragmentation of
artistic texts...which takes the form especially of collage governed by
"differentiation rather than unification." (104)
Many critics (including Jameson himself) have identified these
features in cyberculture novels, particularly William Gibson’s hugely
influential Neuromancer of
1984, which some have seen as quintessentially postmodern. Tim Powers’ The
Anubis Gates, which won the Philip K. Dick award the year before, does, I
believe, respond in very much the same way to postmodern influences, despite its
19th-century setting and its plot, which ranges from Romantic biography to
ancient Egyptian magic, and from Piranesian Gothic to the Dickensian underlife
The story centers on a character called William Ashbless, who
is presented as a canonical Romantic poet.8 But Ashbless is actually
fictional in more than the straightforward sense, since the novel itself
narrates the fictionality of his creation: he is in fact a combination of the
personality of Brendan Doyle (a 20th-century academic who travels back in time
partly to research Ashbless and gets stuck in the year 1810) and the body of
another 20th-century time-traveler who is the victim of a body-change werewolf.
Ashbless is therefore a collage, in Jameson’s terms, whose physical entity is
made up from fragments, and whose poetry and biography are fictions created by
Doyle from his own memory of reading them in the 20th century. Doyle/Ashbless is
destined to live out every detail of his own remembered life, lacking "a
discrete subjectivity" until the very end of the book when he unexpectedly
kills his doppelgänger, thus hoodwinking the fictional biographer into
recording Ashbless’s own death, and liberating Doyle/Ashbless to live on into
the unknown future, unrestricted by any previously-recorded life story.
Doppelgängers are an important feature of the novel: the young Lord Byron
appears in it only as a ka, or replicant, while another character exists
in three different versions simultaneously: the "original," his
double, and the ravaged version of that double who has been almost destroyed
during a time-travel episode.9
There is perhaps a link here with Aldiss’s Frankenstein
Unbound, where, at the end, "two moons sailed in the sky"
(§22:133), indicating a state of multiple alternate possibilities, and where
Bodenland feels that his "original personality had now almost entirely
dissolved, and the limbo I was in seemed to me the only time I knew"
(§24:139). But in Aldiss’s novel, published in 1973, although a concern with
the disintegration of individuality is strongly prefigured, it is as yet mainly
a side-effect, brought about by time travel and encounters with alternate
fictions and realities. The main theme of the book is firmly stated and is quite
different, being to show Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as "the archetype of
the scientist, whose research, pursued in the sacred name of increasing
knowledge, takes on a life of its own and causes untold misery before being
brought under control" (§6:47).
Powers’ 1983 doppelgängers, however, along with his
surgically-created monsters, and his biofictional and fabricated personalities,
share with Gibson’s 1984 cyborgs, personality constructs and human/machine
hybrids—different as they appear to be on the surface—a much more central
involvement with the fragility of personal and biographical identity, and a
preoccupation with defining individuality at the very limits of the possible
which is recognizably postmodern in its development.
In The Anubis Gates literary achievement seems to be
reverenced and privileged (although, of course, the fabrication of a
"new" canonical Romantic poet in the novel draws satirical attention to
critics’ ability to resurrect and almost to "invent" authors). At
the end of the novel a sympathetically-drawn Samuel Taylor Coleridge—whose
lecturing is the ostensible reason for the time-travel in the first place—interprets
the whole of the villains’ Gothic edifice and its monstrous inhabitants as
creatures of his own imagination: a sort of anachronistic Ballardian Inner
Space. He assumes in a distinctly post-Freudian way that the building and its
prisoners—"mistakes" created by experiments on living human flesh—are
embodiments of his own duties, vices, and virtues which he has imprisoned in his
unconscious, and he politely requests some "Thought or Whimsy or Fugitive
Virtue" to "direct me to the waking levels of my mind" (§15:450)
As in Aldiss, where "the poets had always been on the side of the
people" (§8:58), and in Gibson’s Neuromancer—where it is the
strong humanity of the Zionites which makes them able to write poetry, while the
personality construct of the Dixie Flatline is sentient but "ain’t likely
to write you no poem" (§10:159)—contact with poetry acts as a touchstone
to define the inherent sympathy or moral worth of a character.
In Powers’ The Stress of Her Regard, however, the use
of biofiction applies itself to an attack on the poets and on the idea of
literary individuality. The younger Romantic poets were in many ways the apogee
of literary individualism: the cult of the poet as a remarkable and
unconventional personality reached its peak with them, and a close link was
perceived between inspirational biography and literary output which had never
been so significant before nor has been since. Powers’ later novel turns this
on its head by reducing Byron’s, Percy Shelley’s and Keats’s poetic
inspiration to nothing but the effect of playing host to the vampire-like
nephelim, who are brilliant musical and poetic creators but who harbor
murderously jealous intentions toward the poets’ families. "I wonder how
many of the world’s great writers have owed their gift to the...ultimately
disastrous attentions of the nephelim," Powers’ Byron ponders, "And
how many of them would have freed themselves, if they could have"
(§9:176). When Keats, Shelley, and Byron at last find the strength to cast off
their supernatural muses they cease to be poets but become fully human instead.
Powers very effectively deploys this alternate myth, with
rigorous attention to accuracy with respect to the biographical
"facts" of the Romantics’ lives (although he does make a few
mistakes!). In The Anubis Gates Byron’s actual life is described as
"appallingly thoroughly chronicled" and in his later novel Powers
determinedly shoe-horns into the interstices of Byron’s, Percy Shelley’s and
Keats’s well-documented lives a Gothic sf plot which completely subverts the
meaning and authority of the biographies while leaving the surface patterns
intact. The effect is that of a structure which has huge complexity and
intricacy, but which in fact is not "original": it relies on what
Jameson identifies as pastiche and collage, or more accurately, on bricolage—not
quite in Lévi-Strauss’s terms, but as a re-use of existing materials to
create something new.
Here again, despite the entirely 19th-century setting, there
are many resemblances to cyberspace and cyberpunk. One of the characters has a
"mechanical mode," very reminiscent of a robot, into which she reverts
when the going gets too tough for her "real" personality to cope.
There is an episode where Byron and the novel’s main protagonist, Crawford,
share and exchange consciousness and bodies in a way which readily recalls Case
using "simstim" to access Molly’s experiences in Neuromancer. The
nephelim can create visual phantasms similar to Riviera’s mental holograms,
and "elective surgery" of the type favored by streetwise gangs in
Gibson’s work is necessary in Powers’ book to create the hybrid creature
Werner Von Aargau, who unites the human and nephelim species by having a stone
child implanted into his abdomen. Crawford in The Stress, like Case in Neuromancer,
can see making physical love in two contradictory ways at once: as both
"the flesh, the meat the cowboys mocked" (§20:285) and as a uniquely
human and powerful experience.
Gibson’s novel, as the earlier of the two, must be accepted
as the originator of these nova, but Powers deploys them in distinct and
inherently convincing ways so that there is no sense of borrowing or copying.
The effect is rather that of using very different material—about as different
as it could be within the confines of science fiction and fantasy,
although Gibson does include distinctly Gothic elements in his description of
the Tessier-Ashpool dynasty—to explore the same themes and preoccupations.
While Gibson and his cyberculture colleagues are exploring ways of
de-constructing the human essence in a technology-dominated world, Powers and
the other creators of biofiction are taking that most human of artefacts—a
biography—and subjecting it to forces that crack it open and rebuild it in
quite a different form.
Biofiction and science fiction may not immediately appear to
be productive partners, but it seems to me that in fact biographical material
can be very successfully adapted for sf. Karl Kroeber has suggested that
science-fiction plots must tend towards the functional, because sf aims to
convince by using scientific discourse which requires an absolutely
straightforward relationship between cause and effect to demonstrate proof (28).
Scott Sanders has described science fiction as a genre "centrally about the
disappearance of character" (131), and it is a common perception that the
creative energy of sf writing goes not into plot or characterization but into
the novelty of the treatment. Critics have nevertheless expressed disappointment
with the predictability of Gibson’s plots and characters and called for
"a radically different formulation of human agency and action" to go
with the exciting surface of cyberpunk (Sponsler 53). The biofiction novels of
Powers and the other writers I have explored suggest that biography and
biofiction might provide a way of meeting this need, by offering a ready-made
framework—of both character and plot—onto which science fiction can be
woven, allowing the maximum possible scope for ingenuity and originality within
carefully defined limits.
Romantic biography is particularly appropriate for use in this
way. The life-stories of the Romantic poets are especially gripping in their own
right, and their association with the writer who was arguably the founding
mother of science fiction adds to their attraction. As a setting, the turn of
the 18th and 19th centuries offers possibilities because it is at the
cross-roads between eras of magic and superstition and
those of modern science and technology: a time when, as John Clute has it,
"any experiment might well bear fruit, any dream might become reality"
(110). This was also the great age of biography—including Samuel Johnson’s Lives
of the Poets (1779); James Boswell’s life of Johnson (1791), the Comte de
Las Cases’ life of Napoleon (1821-23), and Thomas Moore’s of Byron (1830)—and
thus the first era to find a literary means of celebrating personality and
cultivating individuality. We seem now to be at the end of this era—to have
arrived at a point where the cult of personality has gone full circle and is
being broken down again by forces defined as postmodern. Romanticism and
postmodernism are the two ends of an arch celebrating human individualism which
has spanned two centuries. William Gibson’s Neuromancer—or "New
Romancer"—begs the question, as to who or what is the old romancer.
The novels I have presented here supply an answer to that question by both
celebrating and driving a postmodern stake into the heart of Romantic biography.
1. The poem and dedication, however, did not see print until
1839, when they were included in the second edition by Mary Shelley of Shelley’s
poetry. See Carlos Baker’s Shelley’s Major Poetry: The Fabric of a Vision
(Princeton UP, 1948), 164-73, for an account of the circumstances that
occasioned the poem and dedication.
2. See also Anna Laetitia Barbould’s Eighteen Hundred and
3. For museums in science fiction, see Crossley, passim.
4. Aldiss does sometimes over-emphasize Mary Shelley’s
originality. He describes her short story "Transformation" as one
which "throws light on the events of Frankenstein’s wedding night" (Trillion
Year Spree 36). In fact "Transformation" (published after
1828) owes its plot and its theme to Byron’s unfinished play The Deformed
Transformed, which was written in 1822-3, some six years after Frankenstein,
and copied out by Mary Shelley for Byron in 1823. Both the story and the
play feature the exchange of bodies between the hero and a misshapen
Mephistophelian dwarf, who succeeds in wooing the woman the hero loves.
5. The title of Aldiss’s novel is, of course, an allusion to
Percy Shelley’s poem Prometheus Unbound, which is echoed in Frankenstein’s
own subtitle: "The Modern Prometheus."
6. The two poets’ interest in Catastrophism is discussed by
7. In reality, the theory of Continental Drift did not receive
serious attention until the publication of Alfred Wegener’s Die Entstehung
der Kontinente und Ozeane in 1915.
8. Powers has also used "William Ashbless" as his
own pen name.
9. Byron, in a letter to John Murray of 6 October 1820
recounts how several people claimed to have seen him in London in 1810, when he
was in fact in Greece and Turkey (George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, Byron’s
Letters and Journals, ed. Leslie A. Marchand [13 vols., London: John Murray,
Aldiss, Brian W. Frankenstein Unbound. 1973. Triad,
_____, with David Wingrove. Trillion Year Spree, London:
Brewer, William D. The Shelley-Byron Conversation.
Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 1994.
Broderick, Damien. Reading by Starlight, Postmodern Science
Fiction. London and NY: Routledge, 1995.
Byron, George Gordon Noel, Lord. The Complete Poetical
Works. Ed. Jerome J. McGann. 7 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980-1983.
Clute, John. Science Fiction, the Illustrated Encyclopaedia,
London: Dorling Kindersley, 1995.
Crossley, Robert. "In the Palace of Green Porcelain:
Artefacts from the Museums of Science Fiction." Fictional Space: Essays
on Contemporary Science Fiction. Ed. Tom Shippey. Oxford: Basil
Gibson, William. Neuromancer. 1984. London:
_____ and Bruce Sterling, The Difference Engine. 1990.
London: VGSF, 1995. The page references following the slash are to NY: Bantam
Holland, Tom. The Vampyre, Being the True Pilgrimage of
George Gordon, Sixth Lord Byron. London: Little, Brown, 1995. As Lord of
the Dead: The Secret History of Lord Byron. NY: Pocket Books, 1996.
James, Edward. Science Fiction in the Twentieth Century, Oxford:
Oxford UP, 1994.
Kroeber, Karl. Romantic Fantasy and Science Fiction.
New Haven: Yale UP, 1988.
Lyotard, Jean-François. The Postmodern Condition: A Report
on Knowledge. Trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi, Manchester:
Manchester UP, 1984.
Medwin, Thomas. Conversations of Lord Byron Noted During a
Residence with His Lordship at Pisa, in the Years 1821 and 1822.
London: Henry Colburn, 1824.
Powers, Tim. The Anubis Gates. 1983. London:
_____. The Stress of Her Regard. 1989. London: Grafton,
Prantera, Amanda. Conversations with Lord Byron on
Perversion, 163 Years after His Lordship’s Death. London: Abacus, 1987.
Sanders, Scott. "The Disappearance of Character in
Science Fiction." Science Fiction: its Criticism and Teaching. Ed.
Patrick Parrinder. London: Methuen, 1980.
Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Complete Poetical Works of Percy
Bysshe Shelley. Ed. Thomas Hutchinson. Oxford Standard Editions. NY: Oxford
Simmons, Dan. Hyperion. NY: Doubleday, 1989.
Soderholm, James. Fantasy, Forgery, and the Byron Legend. Lexington:
UP of Kentucky, 1996.
Sponsler, Claire. "William Gibson and the Death of
Cyberpunk." Modes of the Fantastic: Selected Essays from the Twelfth
International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts. Ed. Robert A. Latham
and Robert E Collins. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1991.
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