Roger Zelazny (1937–1995)

Hell Tanner's the baddest bad ass left in what's left of the decimated F.U.S.A., the Former United States of America. Roger Zelazny really socks it to the F.U.S.A. as he satirically skewers this arguably great (and nearly late) nation.

The nation of California, where the action begins in Roger Zelazny's classic postapocalyptic road trip romp through man made Hell, has recruited Hell, commuting his life sentence, if he can successfully navigate Damnation Alley, after having received some show more terrible news from the Republic of Boston that the black plague has struck! As if post-nuclear holocaust weren't bad enough, in marches the dratted black plague. Rats!

A dehumanized remnant out of Los Angeles, perhaps 25,000 strong (or weak, rather — Roger Zelazny never gives us the exact figures) wants to help, of course, as the plague, if not eradicated, just might soon eradicate their city of ex-Angels too. But what can they do, now that Damnation Alley stands in their way? Enter Hell Tanner and his mission improbable ...

Running Damnation Alley is akin to sunbathing beside exposed fuel rods inside a nuclear reactor. Not a great, nor one would think, survivable, idea. The driver from Boston carrying news of the plague didn't make it, even though his message did. L.A. "brainstorms" (don't chuckle): What if some resourceful folks hip to the ultimate van conversion, 1970s-pre-Hummer style — a van contraption in which one could conceivably accomplish more than just getting laid in — can construct their dream machine with radiation-proof skin, with a roof and siding able to withstand everything the ruined sky can upchuck at it? A van conversion replete with rocket launchers and the best weaponry ever made to combat reptile mutations and marauding bands of Nuclear Hell's Angels that make the ones of Altamont-infamy seem like really nice guys by comparison? Can they do it?

Why not fly the black plague antidote out to Boston instead? Because the atmosphere got so fouled up after the bombs fell, that it literally rains cat and dog carcasses, not to mention elephants, fish, and hippopotamuses too. The air is so bad that air transportation is a joke. Any pilot foolhardy enough to try and get his craft airborne would be knocked out of the sky in seconds, if not by deceased zoo animals, then by a sofa or VW bug. Used to be birds were problematic for pilots. In Damnation Alley, it's everything, including the kitchen sink.

Everything got gargantuan out there in the wasteland of Middle America that's become Damnation Alley, except humans, who are no more morbidly obese than they always were, their population having shrunk to one-millionth its former size, approximately. Gila Monsters have become monsters indeed, mutated as large as those rectilinear monstrosities once known as "motorhomes" -- and that's just when they've hatched! Rattlesnakes slither through the pulverized cities-turned-into-asteroid-craters as long as freight trains. The birds make Hitchcock's seem like mere innocuous butterflies. Yet somehow when they fly, along with super-sized swarms of bats (gross!), they're able to avoid all that detritus of damnation up in the sky.

Can Hell Tanner survive that damnable ride to Boston through Damnation Alley? If he can, will he arrive in time to save its dwindling citizenry being picked off, one by one, by the black plague? Will he get to hook up, along the way, with some skanky biker mamas, all tatted (or tied) up? I'm not saying, I'm not saying, and I'm not saying (a gentleman never tells). Read the damn good (and great B-movie equivalent) of a book yourself for the answers, if you dare. I wouldn't dare, however, watch the bad B-movie made out of this book, starring Jan Michael Vincent as Hell Tanner. I wouldn't watch it if only because the cockroaches depicted in it aren't even as big as my hands, whereas in the book, assuming Zelazny had included cockroaches in it, which he didn't, would've undoubtedly been as large as tanks.

~~~~~~~

Remember the band Hawkwind? They released a song in the seventies, off their Quark, Strangeness and Charm album, titled, coincidentally, "Damnation Alley". It's bitchen! I've posted its lyrics below ~

I've got the serum and I'm going to take it
All the way to Boston, oh I've got to get through
The going won't be easy, but I'm going to make it
It's the only thing that I'm cut out to do

Ride the post-atomic radioactive trash
The sky's on fire from that nuclear flash
Diving through the burning hoop of doom in an
eight wheeled anti-radiation tomb
Thank you Dr. Strangelove for going do-lally and
leaving me the heritage of Damnation Alley, Damnation Alleyway

No more Arizona, now Phoenix is fried up
Oklahoma City what a pity it's gone
Louisiana delta where the Mississip's dried up
No more Chattanooga, Cherokee, Lexington

Radiation wasteland, radiation wasteland
Ashes coming at me now, craters coming at me now
Radiation wasteland, I've got my anti-radiation machine
Thank you Dr. Strangelove, I said thank you Dr.
Strangelove
For giving me the ashes and post-atomic dust
The sky is raining fishes it's a mutation zoo
Going down Damnation Alley, well good luck to you
Good luck to you now
Armor plated angel, motor-pony express
Armor plated angel, motor-pony express
Going down Damnation Alley it's one hell of a mess show less

I read Doorways in the Sand when I was a thirteen-year-old boy and I thought it was amazing. I was correct--upon reading it now, I agree it is amazing. And also frustrating. At the time of its publication, Roger Zelazny should have known that if you write an adventure story where every character is male, except for a nagging wife, a frisky-college-student-who-I-have-sex-with, and a nurse, you might just possibly be profoundly myopic, missing out on huge elements of the human experience while show more also alienating an audience that might think of men and women as human beings of equivalent value. Doorways in the Sand is not so much sexist as it is blind, a clever and thoughtful science fiction novel written by a child of the 1940s who just can't manage to imagine the story any other way. Zelazny is so brilliant in so many stories and novels! He is considerate and thoughtful, he is clearly willing to reach behind the veil of every-day perspective taking, reach beyond himself and into the unknown. So why do only male characters take actions, have ideas, interact, fight, explore, and think? Why do the female characters exist only for rescuing, having sex with, or serving as the assistant to a doctor? During this adventure, the main character meets members of three or four different alien species--detectives, spies, doctors, including a goddamn awesome sentient plant creature...and all of them just happen to be "he/him" as well. There's one possible interpretation: Zelazny is playing with form in this novel. For example, he mucks about with the beginning of each chapter using a flashback technique. And the tone of the novel is sort of "gumshoe", Raymond Chandler, etc. So, if that's the tone he's playing with, maybe you NEED to have a kidnapped wife tied to a chair at the first climax, and have a gun go off, right? Maybe the myopic sexism is just another part of the experiment? Eh. So: Doorways in the Sand is a clever, fun, fast-moving enjoyable science fiction novel that is chock-full of ideas and even some successful humor. Good read, as long as you can pretend it takes place in a parallel universe where having two X chromosomes means you don't really exist. show less

A reread for the umpteenth time in 30 years. This effort has a sense of urgency. I'm trying to get in a little more time with this universe before the TV adaptation stamps its mark on it. I can't think of a first book that does more world-building and tone-setting work so quickly or well. This book hits the ground sprinting. Zelazny throws out big, new, wild fantasy ideas almost on every page, and that detached, mannered, sardonic, allusive prose is so addictive.

"I'm going to go down there first thing in the morning and punch him in the eye!"
"Will that solve anything?"
"No, but revenge fits in with the classic life-style."

2015 is going to go down in my personal history as the year of awesome books. I am like a kid in a candy store here, running down the aisles with armfuls of treasure. I could tell you that I am giving this five stars (thinking about six) because I review things for what they are and this little beauty transcends all its genres to show more become something that is, while small, also quite amazing. True enough. I could tell you that I will probably five star anything that sucks me in and refuses to let me go until I have heard the whole story. Also true. Also that I will five star anything that allows a character I instantly love to follow his own tale to the end with no author tricks or lies anywhere. I do. But more than that, I am five starring this because I finished it an hour ago and I am still grinning ear to ear, still filled with the hope and beauty and humor of the thing.

The book is dedicated to Isaac Asimov, but if you are not a sci-fi fan, don't let that scare you off. I am not much a lover of sci-fi, but I loved this. It has great people sense, a tightly written story, fantastic literary references (hello again, Lewis Carroll), and truly funny humor. If it telegraphs a punch here and there, keep in mind that it was published back in 1976. (Won the Hugo back then, too.) If everybody wrote books this well, we in the postmodern world would all be kids running down the aisles with armfuls of treasure all the time. Not everybody writes this well. Not even close. Go enjoy this.

(What the heck. Six stars.)

Reviewed 7/10/15. show less