The Iron Dream

by Norman Spinrad

(Panther Science Fiction)

'As the command-car driver brought the vehicle to a halt outside the high fence, Ferie was presented with a spectacle as revolting as any he had ever been forced to witness. Crammed together behind the barbed wire was a seemingly endless throng of grotesque creatures of every nauseating description. Thousands of Parrotfaces clicked their beaks at each other. Humpbacked dwarfs of every variety scuttled about like herds of monster crabs. Skins were of every cancerous hue: green, blue, red, brown, purple. Pinheads rubbed shoulders with loathsome Toadmen. Moreover, dung, offal, and filth were everywhere in evidence, and the stench that arose from the Camp was nothing short of terrific.'

Remarkable as it may seem, very little critical literary analysis has been written about this oeuvre, and still less that is competent. However a very good article, written by critic R A. Williams, appears in the June 1975 issue (p.47) of the 'Journal of Contemporary American literature'. In his critique Williams highlights among other things the inherent banality of Spinrad's novel, arguing that the book is a fascinating exposure of its author's contaminated subconscious mind.

'I wanted you to experience the reality of the problem firsthand, my Commander,' Remler said. 'We've rounded up every last Borgravian, and the SS is more than equal to the task of confining them to the Camps, and even a blind man would have no trouble separating the true human stock from the genetic rubbish provided he still had the use of his nose. But what are we to do with all these sordid creatures? We hold millions in the Borgravian Camps, and the situation in thee other conquered provinces is no better.'"

To some, it may seem strange or even laughable to attribute such an indisputable gem of modern literature to poor toilet training, but there is no doubt that the psychoanalytic approach is the most valuable tool any critic or student of serious literature can possess. It can officer astute and penetrating insight into an author's mind, as for example Spinrad's obvious excremental fixation in the following passage, coupled with a completely unhealthy oral gratification response:

'Beyond the barbed wire, Parrotfaces, Blueskins, Toadmen, and all varieties of other monstrosities picked through dung and filth with their fingers for morsels of edible material which they transferred directly to their mouths. Feric's gorge began to rise.'

Williams' study is for the most part billiant, and will provide an excellent introduction to 'The Iron Dream' for those unfortunate enough not to have read this superb masterpiece. Although I do not entirely agree with Williams' representation of the book as a whole as Norman Spinrad's gift of faeces to his spiritual parents, i.e. Society, I would endorse his view of this literary classic as the product of a neurotic and diseased mind. Spinrad is undoubtedly, like the rest of us, a sick man.

"It's obvious that they must all be sterilized and then exiled into the wildlands,' Feric said. 'But my Commander, what is to prevent millions of the wretches from simply wandering back to their former habitations?'

There was no denying that Remler had raised a cogent point. How would it be possible to encourage the Helder people to colonize the new provinces if they were presented with the foul spectacle of degenerate vermin at every turn?"

Like every writer of genius, Spinrad owes little or nothing to his predecessors. It is therefore useless to consider his work in the light of other literature. It bears the mark of a classic in its relevance not only to our society, disfigured as it is by genetic contamination and physical repulsiveness, but to all time.

'Perhaps it would be better to confine the creatures to the Camps for the duration of their lifespans,' Ferie said, as a dull-eyed Toadman not ten yards from the car dropped his pants and proceeded to defecate. 'Such is my feeling, my Commander,' Remler replied. 'But the expense of feeding and housing millions of such useless wretches for decades staggers the imagination, and to what useful end?'

'I see your point,' Ferie said. 'From my own experience among the Borgravians, I know that they lead uniformly sordid lives of great misery; they are genetically incapable of anything better. No doubt euthanasia would be a humane service to the wretches as well as our most pragmatic course."

Spinrad's pathological hypersensitivity to the unregenerate ugliness of the large numbers of people who do not possess the True Human Genotype is revealed on every page of his astounding opus magnur for exaple in his obsession with organic refuse - ordure, filth and rotting animal matter. He has written a novel which will stand with such epics of human endeavour as the Odyssey' and the 'Aeneid'.

'A Bluesk in darted from one heap of rubble to the next, and Feric ripped it to pieces with a burst of his machine gun. 'One less bag of twisted chromosomes to contaminate the world gene pool!' he exclaimed. 'Best, you cannot conceive of the personal satisfaction it gives me to finally wipe this reeking cesspit from the face of the earth!"

With the rest of 'The Iron Dream', this passage deserves to be read out loud, if possible with an undertone of hysteria. Its place among the classics of our time (for example Burroughs' Naked Lunch and the collected short stories of Julius Buboes) as well as those of all time demands nothing less. For the professiona dilettante of English literature, not to have read, digested and enjoyed Norman Spinrad's 'Iron Dream' is a mortal sin of omission.

— Kenneth A. Simpson