Science Fiction Studies

#13 = Volume 4, Part 3 = November 1977


Darko Suvin

Editorial Introduction

I have the feeling that SFS may have opened a can of worms by trying for an issue on the sociology of Science Fiction, but I also think that no worthwhile fish in SF criticism will be caught without opening and using this can, even if we throw it away after its usefulness is over. Let me try to point out rather briefly, and with no pretensions to any encompassing survey, some of the more useful, and incidentally some of the less useful, among the sociological approaches to literature.

Right at the beginning it should be noted that the very term "sociology" is somewhat dubious, if it is taken to imply that there exist today any solid scholarly or "scientific" fundaments of indisputable value for a systematic study of historical human societies. True, there are some useful techniques for surface research, and beginning with Marx (not with Comte) there are probably some cognitions which will have to be used as cornerstones for whatever real sociology eventually appears. But a few cornerstones do not a fundament make, so that the title of this special issue is simply the least misleading that I could find among a number of possibilities all somewhat misleading. At any rate, even if my skepticism toward present-day sociologies is not shared, it remains essential to say that there remains a "SOCIOLOGY of literature" and a "sociology of LITERATURE." In the first case, literary works are used as documents of and about a certain state of society, or part thereof, on the same level as any other document of material or mental culture -- a road, fireplace, or gravestone; political graffiti, TV ads, or posters. Within sociology, t his is no doubt a worthy and interesting function of literature, but this approach does not consider literature as anything but such a document, does not even pretend to deal with the "literariness" of literature, and is therefore useless for literary studies.1 For literary studies have a very tricky and delicate relationship to what is usually called the social and historical context. It is, I believe, crass reductionism to treat any halfway significant literary text as simply an "expression" of this context: for the insoluble question would then remain as to how it happens that literary texts "expressing" a more or less identical context -- say two succeeding tales of the same author -- are not only different but also (each in its own way) unique. History and society are not an external yardstick to be applied to the literary work: on the contrary, they enter into -- they constitute -- its very structure and texture. This was well brought out by Mukařovsky's rejoinder to the most famous of the Formalists, Shklovsky. When Shklovsky asserted -- in a textile metaphor -- that as a student of literature he was interested in types of yarn and techniques of weaving and not in the state of the international wool market or the politics of the monopoly corporations therein, Mukařovsky pointed out that the weaving techniques necessarily reflect the needs and pressures of exactly the international wool market and all its factors. Thus verbal art cannot be analyzed without taking into account the equally autonomous yet in some ways (more or less) interdependent systems of science, politics, economy, social stratification, language, ethics, or religion -- all of which partake of that collective consciousness peculiar to a given time and place which is also the bearer of signification for every work of verbal art.

Thus even if one starts one's investigation from the very substance of literature, from language itself, it will be found that the most sophisticated linguistics presents us with a language model in terms of five principal factors or relationships, each capable of becoming the dominant function: (1) the addresser, the emotive function; (2) the addressee, the conative function; (3) the context, the referential function; (4) the code, the metalingual function; and (5) the message, the poetic function.2 Now clearly a combination of the conative or "appellative" relationship of the literary work to the addressee, of the referential or representative relationship of the work to its context, and of the metalingual relationship of the work to its code, which in verbal art is not confined to vocabulary plus operational rules but has an eminently socio-historical character -- clearly a combination of at least these three functions marks the ineluctably socio-historical character of every literary work.

What is usually called "sociology of literature" has so far mostly focused on either the addressee or the context of the literary work. Very useful data, without which we would be much poorer, have been assembled by a number of pioneers (Altick, Engelsing, Hart, Nott, Plant -- AB), culminating in surveys such as Nye's (AB) and generalizations such as Escarpit's (AB). Yet whenever empirical studies are not blended with an approach permitting systematic value judgments, whenever they are, in other words, empiricistic, they still split literature into a socio-historical external context, and the pure and undefiled still center of the literary text which is left to an unholy alliance of technical description and ideologizing impressionism (such is the bulk of both the Rosenberg-White anthologies in AB). Even the welcome corrective of communication studies -- focusing on the relationships between the work's emission from the writer, through the important transmissions such as editors, publishers, financiers, distributors, censors, etc., to its reception by various types of reading public -- began with crass versions of the same split. However, communication studies are well suited to a socio-psychological and political discussion of who has the power to evaluate and transmit which pieces of information, and who is supposed to be at the receiving end of such evaluation and transmission -- a discussion particularly pertinent to para-esthetical media such as TV and paraliterary genres such as SF. Strivings toward such an horizon are visible in communication studies which have broken with the stimulating but finally unsubstantiated dazzlements of McLuhan (AB) and the earlier empiricism; they are to be found in a first synthesis in Communications by the always lucid and thoughtful Raymond Williams (AB).

Whatever refinements have in the last ten years or so been added to a sociology of the literary audience by new schools such as that of "reception esthetics" in Germany (Jauss, Iser, etc.), there seem to be two crucial conditions for making such pursuits into anything more than a sociology and/or history extrinsic to literary studies: first, an encompassing model of relationships between literary production and consumption (with all the mediations sketched above), and second, an historically and sociologically precise identification of the particular socio-economic group which in fact has a given response to given aspects of literary works. These horizons are opened up by Marxism, though of course not all scholars within them have necessarily a Marxist ideological commitment (some of the pioneers clearly do not, e.g. Schucking, Auerbach, and Watt-AB). Yet the insistence that social classes have not only a different position in society but different interests and strivings -- a quite basic realization without which there can to my mind be only market research, not scholarship -- is clearly a Marxist one, and most of the leading researchers have been somewhat unorthodox Marxists or "fellow travellers" (Burke, Goldmann, Hauser, Hoggart, Lukács, Williams -- AB). Perhaps in the long run even more important, however, is the specifically Marxist anthropological diagnosis of the relationships between work and creativity, production and consumption, alienation and society. These are themes started by Marx and Engels in their early works (e.g. The German Ideology -- AB), and they provide the ground bass of their whole opus culminating in Capital. Some of the most interesting discussions are contained in Marx's preparations for that work, notably in the Grundrisse.3 It seems necessary to mention them here, if only briefly. Marx wrestles with, among other things, the extremely complex relationships of production and consumption, for which -- significantly -- art is a privileged extreme case:

The object of art-like every other product-creates a public which is sensitive to art and enjoys beauty. Production thus not only creates an object for the subject, but also a subject for the object.... It thus produces the object of consumption [in the form of a need felt by the consumer]. Consumption likewise produces the producer's inclination by beckoning to him as an aim-determining need. [G 92]

However, as the immediate, qualitative use-value of any product is in circulation within class society transformed into quantitative exchange-value, depending more on the conditions of exchange (market, money, etc.) than on its intrinsic properties, so

the exchange relation establishes itself as a power external to and independent of the producers.... The product becomes a commodity: the commodity becomes exchange-value; the exchange value of the commodity is its immanent money-property; this, its money-property, separates itself from it in the form of money, and achieves a general social existence separated from all particular commodities and their natural mode of existence.... [G 146-47]

With circulation subsumed under accumulation of capital, a basic opposition arises between product as use-value and as object of such capitalist circulation subject to the profit principle. As Marx suggests (e.g. G 487), this contradiction is clearest in artistic production (say in the production, consumption, and circulation of a book manuscript): the product as "a specific quality, as a specific thing, as a product of specific natural properties, as a substance of need [is] in contradiction with its substance as [exchange-] value" [G 406]. Thus the transformation of products into money, which originally rendered large-scale production possible (and Marx unambiguously admires all such achievements of capitalism, as opposed to all Romantic cries of back to Arcadia), grows in developed capitalism into both the barrier to further production and the agency deforming all use-values (e.g. texts exploring the intrinsic possibilities of their thematic nuclei) into exchange-values (e.g. texts tailored primarily toward selling well, regardless of all else -- and if anybody thinks this is not happening on a mass scale in SF, it might be enough to dip into well-known statements by writers such as John Brunner or Robert Silverberg). As a consequence:

while capital thus appears as the product of labor, so does the product of labor likewise appear as capital -- no longer as a simple product, nor as an exchange commodity, but as... alien property,... and establishes itself opposite living labor as an alien power.... Living labor therefore now more penurious labor capacity in face of this reality alienated from it, belonging not to it but to others.... [G 453-54]

While it is impossible here to go into ramifications of such basic insights, it is clear that Marx started with the realization that Joyce expressed as "my producers they are also my consumers" (Finnegan's Wake), but proceeded from there into a rich sequence of theories that could provide the much needed basis for adequate analysis of social alienations in cultural production -- such as literature, movies, comics, or TV (in all of which we find SF). Its value lies in its blend of scholarly sophistication and fierce ethico-political value-judgments, which brands capitalist production as hostile to art and poetry, and yet does not condone the artist-producer's cynically giving in to this hostility:

A writer naturally must earn money in order to be able to live and write, but under no circumstances must he live and write in order to earn money.... The writer in no wise considers his work a means. It is an end in itself; so little is it a means for him and for others that he sacrifices his existence to its existence, when necessary; and like a religious preacher, in another sense, he applies the principle "Obey God rather than men" to the men among whom he is himself confined with his human needs and desires.4

Admittedly, such horizons receive only a stimulating first sketch in Marx, and subsequent officially socialist thinkers -- both social-democratic and Leninist -- have shied away from them. The fate of Lukc's early and (alas) only philosophically significant development of such notions in History and Class Consciousness (AB), which he was forced to recant, has led to their being developed only by Marxist "guerillas," on the margins of political orthodoxy, with all the strengths and weaknesses arising therefrom. They are mainly Germans -- Adorno, Benjamin, Bloch, Ensensberger, Fischer, Jakubowski, Kofler, Marcuse -- but also Sartre, Rossi-Landi, and Williams, with a first synthesis in Jameson; to these names (all in AB), I would add at least Bertolt Brecht, whose writings are significant for much more than theatre.5

How does one apply the lessons of the various "sociologies of literature" so far developed to the study of SF? Again, only a few areas can be mentioned. Chief among them would be studies based on the facts that SF is a genre, and that it is a (mainly) paraliterary genre.

Any sociological approach to literature, I would feel, becomes really significant when and insofar as it situates the literary text at the crossroads of its esthetic tradition and its implied readership. Now the esthetic tradition can be expressed in a number of ways, according to mode such as satire, to devices such as inner monologue, etc., but it would seem that the most useful way for most texts is to express it as a tradition of genre. (Of course, any single text will not simply follow the genre norms but modify them, usually by blending them with norms from other genres or esthetic traditions, but this does not reduce the overall theoretical importance of speaking simply in terms of genre in a first approach.) A literary genre is an ensemble of norms and conventions (linguistically speaking, a set of choices typical to a given literary use of language) which exists at a given historical point and regulates directions of literary discourse. It implies that "one should write it in this way and not otherwise." In this sense genres can be compared to a grammar of literature. Just as speaking a language correctly does not require a knowledge of the rules of grammar in the sense of being able to formulate them theoretically (so that Moliere's Monsieur Jourdain spoke prose without knowing it), so writing within a given type of literary discourse does not require the writer to know the definition of that literary genre. Nonetheless, he/she will have absorbed it "from the air" as a modality of literary practice.

Thus each genre implies a given ensemble of possibilities for literary discourse. These possibilities flow out of the genre's telos or purpose -- to speak with Aristotle -- and the logical cognitive uses that purpose can be put to. The historically realized possibilities give rise to clear expectations from a genre at any given historical point. The consciousness about what can as a rule be expected from a genre, the genre-consciousness, exists among its audience of readers. From them it is transmitted to (and modified by) the producers in the genre -- who were readers before they became writers (a fact especially clear in the history of SF with its recruitment of writers from fans). That does not mean that the genre-consciousness or genre identification of the readers and the writers is necessarily identical. In fact, their genre-consciousness will necessarily be at least somewhat different in function of their primary interest in reading or in writing the genre.

One of the basic insights, even if still not fully developed, of the modern sociology of literature is that there is an imaginary ideal reader programmed into the structure and texture of literary texts and ensembles of texts such as genres. The communicational trinity of emission-transmission-reception within a social context implies--as information theory has taught us--a code which alone permits the understanding of the communication. This code is shared (at least largely shared) by reader and writer, emitter and receiver, in the same cultural context. The imaginary implied reader is thus a product of three factors: (1) of the writer's production, (2) of the audience's expectations as intuited--and sometimes directly studied-- by the writer, and (3) of the code, "language," or convention of the literary genre, a convention that provides a more or less wide but never unlimited field of possibilities for both audience expectation and writer production as well as for their often conflictual interaction. Any significant (original, cognitive) writer will transgress some audience expectations: only hacks (of which no doubt we have a fair share in SF) will satisfy these expectations by fully or simply reproducing their conventional sources. The genre convention or code is thus a meeting ground for the writer's production and the audience's expectations; it assigns social roles to both the writer and the reader (e.g. a writer or reader of fairy tales is assigned a quite different role from--can legitimately have only very different expectations than--a writer or reader of psychological tales or SF tales). On the other hand, the implied reader (a heuristic construct) is not the same as the real readership, which is a statistically investigable and not necessarily homogeneous audience for the literary text(s). This real readership is, of course, divisible according to socio-economic class, nationality and ethnic background, age, sex, education, and a number of other factors all participating in the shaping of different "social tastes" (Schucking--AB) or "class consciousnesses" (Goldmann--AB). These tastes or consciousnesses will furthermore be different for the same group in different socio-historical periods. The resulting expectations will therefore change with each social class or sufficiently specific other social sub-group with its own language and above all own interests. The ideal reader inscribed between the lines of the literary text will be a reduction and/or prefiguration of the real readership according to the writer's imaginative and material interests and needs. The implied author of the literary text(s), by the way, should also be differentiated into at least three different concepts, sometimes blended but also in mutual tension: (1) the "authorial image," the image of the fashioner of the literary work that arises out of, is characterized and transmitted by, and exists only within, the literary work; (2) the narrator of the story, when the story is narrated, e.g. in The Time Machine; and (3) the historical personality of the author. One wishes that a number of "author-studies"--now vying for popularity in SF criticism with "theme studies"--would take such differences into account.

The horizons discussed above offer prospects for a great deal of work in SF criticism on the relation of various audiences to various sub-genres, authors, and devices within it. A few of these have been explored, but as a rule either without sufficient socio-economic differentiation of the readers involved or without sufficient differentiation of the text-aspects involved. It is by now rather banal to investigate the relationship of "X in SF" (whatever X may be) to, say, the US audience. Even assuming that we know the US audience to be roughly age 15-30 (which is by no means certain), fundamental questions remain: X in which type of SF (author, subgenre, ideological horizon, etc.)? in the opinion of which part of the US audience (male-female, middle-working-capitalist class, urban-rural, high-middle-low education, WASP-ethnic, etc., etc.)? Only then can one get beyond bourgeois mystification of the reader responding to the work of so-and-so; only then can value-judgments go beyond impressionistic ideologies and noises of approval or disapproval. Only then could SF critics proceed to large-scale overviews, comparing e.g. various national situations (which I suspect will at a given time be found not to be always synchronic--thus reader expectation in French SF in the 1950s and 60s was largely a sub-set of US reader expectation ten years earlier, while Russian expections of SF diverged in the 1920s from the common European norm, setting up a new normative system which opened up to international stimuli with Yefremov and the Strugatskys). Or one could envisage very interesting comparisons of various ideological positions in SF correlative to different readerships: "hard science" devotees vs. "soft science" devotees, readers of Starship Troopers and Haldeman vs readers of The Word for World is Forest and Disch, etc. Such a comparison would, I believe, indicate that the major sociological and ideological problem in contemporary SF is the indiscriminate consumption of quite disparate sub-sets of works, with incompatible ideal readers, by what seems (but perhaps wrongly?) the same real readership--in other words, the degradation of SF to pure consumption dominated by capitalist circulation and the intermediaries of transmission (editors, publishers, distributors, financiers--in the final analysis, it seems, large multi-media corporations). Should this be true, the strictures of a Lem which basically say that SF has by now become a medium which is its own message rather than the bearer of any particular poetico-cognitive messages--strictures which I am still reluctant to accept fully--would find themselves confirmed. But one hopes that instead it might be possible to differentiate the puerile ideal reader of (say) 80% of SF, the "median stage of adolescence" which Samuelson once postulated for Clarke and similar, accounting for perhaps 15-18% of SF, and the 2-5% of SF whose ideal readers are among the most interesting social groups of the present day. In order to decide about this, we would need an inventory of motifs, topoi, and attitudes in different ensembles of SF, and of the relations of such ensembles to other genres. And in particular to other genres both of older "high lit." (e.g. the 19th-century psychological tale) and of contemporary "low literature," the noncanonical paraliterary genres of Western, spy thriller, detective mystery, etc.

Paraliterary studies (see section 6 of AB, in particular Angenot's own introductory book, also Cawelti, Langenbucher, Lowenthal, Nutz, Orwell, and Schulte-Sasse) have been wittily classified by Eco, himself possibly their most prominent practitioner (AB) into "the apocalyptic" which reject mass culture wholly (e.g. Q.D. Leavis--AB) and "the integrated" which accept it fully (e.g. the more zealous SF fans). Eco himself pleads--with pioneering examples--for a third way, without automatic acceptance or rejection, but with formal and ideological discrimination. This is difficult but possible: an example of the latter is Seesslen-Kling (AB). What makes modern paraliterature so complicated, however, is the sea-change it suffered in the last two or three generations. In almost all epochs before the 19th-20th century, there existed a profound difference between the popular or plebeian (largely oral) culture and the official ruling or upper-class (usually written) culture. Since the rulers have always written history, including the history of culture, it is the latter writings which have been, abusively, called Literature in the consecrated or canonic sense: such Literature with a capital "L" is composed of officially "higher" genres (tragedy, ode, or psychological novel). But Literature in this sense has always a twin in its complementary plebeian or vulgar, narrative discourse, which one would then have to call Paraliterature. This literature (lower-case "I") is an ensemble of non-canonic or "lower" genres, such as proverbs, humor, fables, sagas, detective tales--or SF. The deep paraliterary stream, old as class society, penetrates into official culture and Literature only occasionally, during those favorable socio-political periods when its bearers--the lower, plebeian classes--rise to at least a partial participation in the canonic culture. The "iceberg" character of the paraliterary tradition(s)-including SF if we consider it historically from Antiquity to our own time-with only a small fraction surviving to be recorded above the surface of neglect, persecution, and oblivion, is thus the result of deep tensions which have historically split every nation's culture into at least "two nations," as Disraeli formulated it. The cultures of these "two nations" have been connected by various antagonistic relationships, from suppression to partial permeation, but as a rule they have (except for special historical moments of cohesion such as part of the Elizabethan Age in England) been sufficiently distinct to preserve distinct identities. A renewal of Culture and Literature came about by the rise of earlier non-canonic forms to canonic status together with the social group that was the ideal reader of those forms (e.g. the psychological novel and the bourgeoisie).

The complication with 20th-century paraliterature and SF is that neither the Jacobin nor the Bolshevik revolutions have basically succeeded, so that universal literacy and a better economic standard coincided with the rise of imperialism and the welfare/warfare state. In culture there ensued a very specific and complex amalgam of suppression and permeation which has still been barely identified -- much less properly studied (for a first approximation see Williams, The Long Revolution--AB). In the language of Gramsci (AB), the hegemony of the bourgeois ideology and taste has been challenged but not overthrown: new forms and genres rise into official culture at the expense of the plebeian horizons, at the price of emasculation and containment, of what Marcuse has analyzed as cooption (AB--see also his Counterrevolution and Revolt [US 1972]). This means a temporary and usually spurious renewal of official culture, but also the failure of these new genres to live up to their potentiality, to their own nature. It might be a useful hypothesis to approach SF in this way, and see whether the empirical material will confirm or invalidate this hypothesis. This would be, to my mind, quite important; for, as Gramsci also observed, a new valid literature as the expression of that moral and intellectual renewal which this planet needs unless we are to render it uninhabitable, can only come from readers of paraliterature, by means of new writers subsuming and transcending its popular tradition, as Dostoevsky did with the roman-feuilleton and criminal stories la Sue. The stakes, thus, are the highest ones imaginable.

It is also impossible to enter here into any fuller survey of sociological investigations conducted specifically about SF. Suffice it to say that we are at the very beginning even of empirical investigations, much less intelligent overviews. True, SF has intermittently been used for documentation on various attitudes such as "the image of the scientist" and similar "content analyses" sociologists seem so fond of. A number of writers have grumbled about economics and censorship, giving valuable indications but no more than that. From John Campbell on, SF magazines have run polls of readers, but it is impossible to check their representivity and in Campbell's case even their veracity. Finally, in the last few years trained young researchers have gone, in the USA and USSR, into empirical studies of the SF audience, though I would feel that the means at their disposal have permitted them only to scratch the surface (in itself useful when we know practically nothing); and first bids at theoretical overviews--however sketchy--have been provided by, say, Stover's on SF as a response to the Research-and-Development "revolution," or the much more encompassing and sophisticated thesis by Gérard Klein on American SF having a basis in the "scientifically and technically oriented" petty bourgeoisie or middle class, and its basic horizons changing parallel to the massive ideological realignments in that class or group.6 There have also been a number of discussions of ideology of SF, very rarely connected to historical social groups, and a great deal of scattered market research--mostly, I suspect, lying unpublished in publisher's archives (but see e.g. Publishers Weekly for June 14, 1976, for the latest feeble try)--but I do not see any major trends I have left out.

As for the essays in this issue, they should speak for themselves. No doubt all of them together--in my opinion--at best point out how much still remains to be done. But they comprise a number of complementary approaches and viewpoints which can help in such further work. They range from theoretical overviews--such as Elkins', Levin's, and the second part of Klein's already mentioned exciting essay, focusing this time on a single but a highly representative author--to tries at dealing with the American SF subculture in not only sociometric or empiricistic terms (Berger and Fleming). We could, alas, find no English-language authors to write for us about the crucial category of market mediators, but we fortunately found a West German book devoted to it, and with the kind permission of the editor, Mr. Joug Weigand, and the publisher, Asgard-V. Dr. Werner Hippe, we have translated three contributions from it, on the commercial TV and book market (Hasselblatt), on book-editing and publishing (Jeschke), and on censorship, right out of the horse's mouth (Stefen). Though nothing can fully compensate for the absence of financial and other factual data in the commercial metropolis of SF (outside the USSR at least), the USA, these last three contributions could perhaps remind the pessimists among us that West Germany is in a way the eastern counterpart of California--a place where a number of tendencies otherwhere veiled show themselves openly, perhaps as a prefiguration for the rest of the capitalist world. Regardless of that, all of you readers working for magazines, publishing houses, or similar--as well as all of you who are interested in the field sketched in these reflections and this issue--would you please send us more contributions? With data, facts, elegant generalizations from them, theoretical overviews and speculations, based on any and all of the tendencies mentioned? If you do so, we might one day be able to decide whether there really can be such an animal as a SOCIOLOGY of LITERATURE--and of SF.


1. See for superior examples of this approach Lewis Coser, Sociology Through Literature (US 1963), and Rockwell in Marc Angenot's bibliography in this issue. Further references to works in this bibliography will be given by author's name followed by AB.

2. Roman Jakobson, "Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics," in Style in Language, ed. Thomas A. Sebeok (US 1960). Mukaovsky's 1934 review was republished in Kapitoly z eske poetiky I (Prague 1948--partly available in Genrian as Kapitel aus der Aesthetik [Frankfort 1970]); see from him also Aesthetic Function, Norm and Value as Social Facts (US 1970) and three essays in Semiotics of Art, ed. Ladislav Matejka and Irwin R. Titunik (US 1976).

3. Grundrisse der Kritik der politischen Oekonomie, written 1857-58, published in entirety only 1939--cf the first "complete" (in fact still incomplete) edition of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Werke (Berlin: Dietz, 1956-58), vol. 13. In English, the best instrument for a thorough study is the Pelican Marx Library (London: Penguin, and New York: Vantage, in progress), in which the Grundrisse are available as a separate volume (1973). It will be quoted by page number preceded by G. for briefer introductions to Marx in English see Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Selected Works in One Volume (US & UK 1968) or Robert C. Tucker, ed., The Marx-Engels Reader (US 1972).

4. Quoted from Marx's article Wages in Mikhail Lifschitz, The Philosophy of Art of Karl Marx (UK 1973), much the best comment on this subject, which should be read for further developments, together with Meszaros and Walton-Hall (AB).

5. In English see Brecht on Theatre, ed. John Willett (US 1966), and The Messingkauf Dialogues (UK 1965), and for comments on Brecht as theoretician, Walter Benjamin, Understanding Brecht (UK 1973) and Erika Munk, ed., Brecht (US 1972).

6. Leon Stover, "Science Fiction, the Research Revolution, and John Campbell," Extrapolation 14(1972-73):129-48, and La Science-fiction américaine (Paris 1972); Gérard Klein, "Discontent in American SF," SFS 4(1977):3-13, the first part of the article that is concluded in this issue of SFS.

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