Science Fiction
![John Wyndham - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_john_wyndham.jpg)
Trouble with Lichen
A "sharp, amusing story" (The Guardian) about the fountain of youth and its implications for women's rights, by one of the twentieth century's most brilliant-and neglected-science fiction and horror writers, whom Stephen King called "the best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."
"It was a genius move for John Wyndham to center an age-slowing narrative on women, who are still today pressured to remain youthful-looking forever, or succumb to social invisibility. . . . Wyndham was uniquely gifted at skewering humankind's foibles while maintaining a shred of hope that our better angels would prevail."-Kate Folk, from the introduction
What if humans discovered the secret to prolonged life?
Francis Saxover and Diana Brackley, two biochemists investigating a rare lichen, separately discover that it has a remarkable property: It slows the aging process almost to a halt. Francis, realizing the horrifying implications of an ever-youthful wealthy elite, decides to keep his findings a secret. But the younger and more daring Diana sees an opportunity to overturn the male status quo and free women from the career-versus-children binary-in short, a chance to remake the world.
"It was a genius move for John Wyndham to center an age-slowing narrative on women, who are still today pressured to remain youthful-looking forever, or succumb to social invisibility. . . . Wyndham was uniquely gifted at skewering humankind's foibles while maintaining a shred of hope that our better angels would prevail."-Kate Folk, from the introduction
What if humans discovered the secret to prolonged life?
Francis Saxover and Diana Brackley, two biochemists investigating a rare lichen, separately discover that it has a remarkable property: It slows the aging process almost to a halt. Francis, realizing the horrifying implications of an ever-youthful wealthy elite, decides to keep his findings a secret. But the younger and more daring Diana sees an opportunity to overturn the male status quo and free women from the career-versus-children binary-in short, a chance to remake the world.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for John Wyndham
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
Readers Top Reviews
Darren Ware
I was new to John Wyndham. Ashamed to say! I found this a little uninteresting to me. This was the third book I read of his and his first two were so great that reading this didn't put me off him. It's not that's bad. I'm not sure if I just didn't feel it or I read it during a time in my life where I wasn't in the mood for this type of book I just found it slow with little care for any of the characters.
Tony AndersonMark
Other reviewers have expressed their disappointment with this book better than I can. The plot is full of holes, lacks any kind of credibility, and leaves so much unanswered - why the arson? Why the attack on Zephanie and her boyfriend? What did either of them achieve, and who on earth was responsible. It got to the point where I didn't care. There is a fundamental naivete here - the idea that if we lived longer, we'd be more experienced, and therefore better able to tackle the world's problems. Oh, and women would be able to emerge from domestic drudgery (see - they can't do it for themselves, can they?). Everything about this work is two-dimensional - the characters, the setting, the quick-fix at the end (so Diana was married, was she? Oh but she was so so in love with Francis). And so many loose ends left dangling - what happened to the perpetrators of those attacks; and so the opposition just melted away, did it; how come that, contrary to everything that went before about the impossibility of sourcing the lichen from anywhere else, she's able to grow it in the English countryside? And, even more disappointing, the basic premise raises so many intersesting issues, that are just skirted over - how would society deal with vast numbers of 150 year olds (stopping the "suicidal" birthdate - really??), the issue of work vs retirement (and not in the pathetically caricatured "we are the workers" scene), the collaboration between science and the beauty industry. None of that is tackled sensibly, if at all.
A Searcher of Lif
Good food for thought, but I do not like the writing style! Too many English conversations that go on and on! The surprise ending is good, and the concept of what if!, but no, I can't recommend.
Jeanne KernA Sear
Taking a waltz through the golden years of Sci Fi, Wyndham fans will delight in his ability to create intriguing characters, imagine science-related events we can stretch to accept, and keep us wanting to read on. Not as chilling as Midwich Cukoos, Lichen is still a dandy page-turner.
BG McDonaldJeanne
This book is an easy read, typical of the Wyndham style. The ideas presented in this book show incredible imagination and are presented in an engaging manner via likeable characters.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
The floor of the hall had been cleared. Someone had put rather somber bunches of evergreens here and there on the walls. Somebody else had thought a little tinsel might cheer them up. The tables, set end to end down one side, made a white-clothed counter supporting plates of sandwiches, plates of bright cakes, some dishes of sausage-rolls, jugs of lemon, jugs of orange, vases of flowers, and, intermittently, urns. To the eye, the rest of the room suggested a palette in motion. For the ear, even from a little way off, there was a reminder of starlings at dusk.
St. Merryn's High was holding its end-of-term party.
Miss Benbow, maths, while listening to a tedious account of the intelligence shown by Aurora Tregg's puppy, let her gaze wander round the room, noting those she must have a word with in the course of the evening. Up at the far end she saw Diana Brackley, alone for the moment. Diana was certainly one who deserved congratulations, so, seizing a pause in Aurora's breathless delivery, she commended the puppy's sagacity, wished it well in the future, and broke away.
Crossing the room she had a sudden glimpse of Diana through a stranger's eyes: no longer a schoolgirl, but an attractive young woman. Perhaps it was the dress that did it. A simple navy-blue face-cloth, unnoticeable among the rest until you really looked at it. It had been inexpensive-Miss Benbow knew that it must have been-yet there was a quality of style about it, or was there really? She wasn't quite sure. Diana had taste in clothes, and that something else that can make three guineas look like twenty. A gift, Miss Benbow thought ruefully, not to be despised. And, she went on, still seeing through the new refraction, the looks were a part of the gift. Not pretty. Pretty girls are lovely as the flowers in May, but there are so many flowers in May. No one who knew words could call Diana pretty . . .
Eighteen-just eighteen-Diana was then. Fairly tall-five foot ten, or thereabouts-and slender, and straight. Her hair was a dark chestnut, with a glint of russet lights. The line of her forehead and nose was not truly Grecian, yet it had a classic quality. Her mouth was a little reddened, for one must not go to a party undressed, but, in contrast with the many rosebuds and gashes to be seen all around, she had just the quantity and the color that suited the occasion. The mouth itself had a kind of formally decorative appearance which told one practically nothing-yet it could smile with charm on occasion, and did not do it too often. But at closer range it was her grey eyes one noticed, and was aware of all the time; not only because they were fine eyes, beautifully spaced and set, but even more on account of their steadiness, the unembarrassed calmness with which they took in, and considered. With a kind of surprise, because she was in the habit of thinking of her as a mind rather than as a shape, Miss Benbow realized that Diana had become what in the youth of her parents' generation would have been termed "a beauty."
This thought was immediately followed by a pleasant sense of self-congratulation, for in a school like St. Merryn's High you not only teach and attempt to educate a child; you conduct a kind of jungle warfare on her behalf-and the better-looking the child, the more slender, generally speaking, are her chances of survival, for the partisans of ignorance enfilade your route in greater numbers.
The touts for dead-end jobs slink along beside you, butterflies with wings of iridescent bank-notes flutter just within reach tempting your charge to chase them, the miasma of the picture-papers taints the air, the sticky webs of early marriage are spun close by the track, hen-witted mothers dart suddenly out of the bushes, myopic fathers blunder uncertainly on to the path; rectangular, flickering eyes gleam hypnotically from the shadows, tomtoms beat a restless, moonstruck rhythm, and up above there are the mocking-birds, always crying: "What does it matter as long as she's happy . . . ? What does it matter . . . ? What does it matter . . . ?"
So you are entitled, surely, to feel some pride of achievement when you regard those whom you have helped to guide past these perils.
But then, in honesty, Miss Benbow had to call herself to order for taking unearned credit. Diana, one must admit, had required little protection. The hazards did not trouble her. The temptations she regarded aloofly, as if it had never crossed her mind that they were intended to tempt her. Hers was something the manner of an intelligent traveler passi...
The floor of the hall had been cleared. Someone had put rather somber bunches of evergreens here and there on the walls. Somebody else had thought a little tinsel might cheer them up. The tables, set end to end down one side, made a white-clothed counter supporting plates of sandwiches, plates of bright cakes, some dishes of sausage-rolls, jugs of lemon, jugs of orange, vases of flowers, and, intermittently, urns. To the eye, the rest of the room suggested a palette in motion. For the ear, even from a little way off, there was a reminder of starlings at dusk.
St. Merryn's High was holding its end-of-term party.
Miss Benbow, maths, while listening to a tedious account of the intelligence shown by Aurora Tregg's puppy, let her gaze wander round the room, noting those she must have a word with in the course of the evening. Up at the far end she saw Diana Brackley, alone for the moment. Diana was certainly one who deserved congratulations, so, seizing a pause in Aurora's breathless delivery, she commended the puppy's sagacity, wished it well in the future, and broke away.
Crossing the room she had a sudden glimpse of Diana through a stranger's eyes: no longer a schoolgirl, but an attractive young woman. Perhaps it was the dress that did it. A simple navy-blue face-cloth, unnoticeable among the rest until you really looked at it. It had been inexpensive-Miss Benbow knew that it must have been-yet there was a quality of style about it, or was there really? She wasn't quite sure. Diana had taste in clothes, and that something else that can make three guineas look like twenty. A gift, Miss Benbow thought ruefully, not to be despised. And, she went on, still seeing through the new refraction, the looks were a part of the gift. Not pretty. Pretty girls are lovely as the flowers in May, but there are so many flowers in May. No one who knew words could call Diana pretty . . .
Eighteen-just eighteen-Diana was then. Fairly tall-five foot ten, or thereabouts-and slender, and straight. Her hair was a dark chestnut, with a glint of russet lights. The line of her forehead and nose was not truly Grecian, yet it had a classic quality. Her mouth was a little reddened, for one must not go to a party undressed, but, in contrast with the many rosebuds and gashes to be seen all around, she had just the quantity and the color that suited the occasion. The mouth itself had a kind of formally decorative appearance which told one practically nothing-yet it could smile with charm on occasion, and did not do it too often. But at closer range it was her grey eyes one noticed, and was aware of all the time; not only because they were fine eyes, beautifully spaced and set, but even more on account of their steadiness, the unembarrassed calmness with which they took in, and considered. With a kind of surprise, because she was in the habit of thinking of her as a mind rather than as a shape, Miss Benbow realized that Diana had become what in the youth of her parents' generation would have been termed "a beauty."
This thought was immediately followed by a pleasant sense of self-congratulation, for in a school like St. Merryn's High you not only teach and attempt to educate a child; you conduct a kind of jungle warfare on her behalf-and the better-looking the child, the more slender, generally speaking, are her chances of survival, for the partisans of ignorance enfilade your route in greater numbers.
The touts for dead-end jobs slink along beside you, butterflies with wings of iridescent bank-notes flutter just within reach tempting your charge to chase them, the miasma of the picture-papers taints the air, the sticky webs of early marriage are spun close by the track, hen-witted mothers dart suddenly out of the bushes, myopic fathers blunder uncertainly on to the path; rectangular, flickering eyes gleam hypnotically from the shadows, tomtoms beat a restless, moonstruck rhythm, and up above there are the mocking-birds, always crying: "What does it matter as long as she's happy . . . ? What does it matter . . . ? What does it matter . . . ?"
So you are entitled, surely, to feel some pride of achievement when you regard those whom you have helped to guide past these perils.
But then, in honesty, Miss Benbow had to call herself to order for taking unearned credit. Diana, one must admit, had required little protection. The hazards did not trouble her. The temptations she regarded aloofly, as if it had never crossed her mind that they were intended to tempt her. Hers was something the manner of an intelligent traveler passi...
