Walter Moudy (1929–1973)

On June 16, 2022, the author Geraldine Brooks (author of March, Horse, and other fiction) was interviewed about her reading in the New York Times. When she was asked to name her favorite book that no one else has heard of, she named No Man on Earth by Walter Moudy. "The only other person I know who has read it is my son, because I pressed it on him," she added. I was intrigued: it's rare enough for a writer of mainstream fiction to name an SF novel as a favorite book, but it's especially show more rare for her to do so in the New York Times. I read the "By the Book" feature every week, and I can tell you that most writers are trying hard to impress. And they generally know that naming an early '60s paperback novel by a virtually unknown author won't do the trick. So I searched out the book. It wasn't easy to find. I think the bookseller was in England.

Well, I can tell you that it kept me reading, though I have to wonder at it. The book whips wildly through changes in tone and setting with every new chapter, adhering to a broad plot while presenting a series of largely discrete episodes. The science background is ludicrous; apparently the secret of exceeding the speed of light is maintaining acceleration, and the secret of defeating an intelligent thinking machine is to give it a problem it can't solve (the hoariest sci-fi cliché in the genre). The sociology is worse: although set in the 2080s, the culture is pure 1952, with white male technocrats running a benignly centralized authority, sending messages via pneumatic tubes and ticker tapes under the glare of neon signs. (The book was copyrighted in 1964.) A former "woman president" gets a brief mention, along with a description of her "stormy" temper. The other women in the book include a hillbilly, a go-go dancer, a couple of secretaries and a sexy Russian spy. And the sex, well, it's alternately puerile and revolting. So why did I keep reading? Because of the author's wild, uninhibited imagination—his willingness, having found his theme, to just write a crazy space adventure, no matter where he finds himself going. The novel actually reads like the work of a brilliant teenager, too naïve to know that he should know better, that he should take more care. And that can be a lot of fun. The soul of this book is its enthusiasm. And I admit I didn't know where it was headed. (Whether you think it's the worst ending you've ever read or the best depends entirely on you. Your tolerance for low humor will factor in.) As a piece of writing, the book is all over the place, veering from surprisingly good narrative and unpredictable but intriguing dialogue to groaningly purple descriptions and verbal exchanges between the sexes that make James Bond look like Samuel Johnson.

A little bit Flash Gordon, a little bit The Day the Earth Stood Still, this one's not going to be republished by The Library of America anytime soon. But it was a fun read and way different from anything I'm likely to find again! show less

Typical of 1960s SF. Decent read. Some fun ideas. Nothing special.
This is Moudy's only SF novel. He also wrote a few short SF stories.