#50-The War of the Worlds

Science-fiction owes a lot to H. G. Wells.  He was one of sci-fi’s earliest pioneers and later authors owe much to the ideas he explored, from time-travel to genetic manipulation to space exploration.  I completely recognize and applaud his influence.  Without him, the genre might not have become what it is today.

I don’t like his books.

Okay, that’s not totally true.  The Invisible Man was the first horror novel I ever read and I’m glad it was.  Griffin remains one of the scariest monsters hiding in the shadows and at the same time very pathetic and tragic; his deepest wish could only be granted in death.

But all the other classics I slogged through just never did it for me.  And having finished The War of the Worlds, I think I know part of the reason why.

First, in War of the Worlds defense, while not the first alien invasion story or even the first novel written about Martians, he made both popular and its effects are still felt.  And I must say, I really like the Martians.  When they first come out of their canisters, Wells spare imagery is genuinely scary.  My imagination was able to conjure up something that would take on the Predator.

My problem with this book, and with his other books, is the narrator.  Too many of them feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.  Now, as delightful as Wonderland is, Alice was never that interesting or even likeable.  Our nameless narrator in War of the Worlds feels much the same.  He’s been dropped into an extra terrifying Wonderland of mayhem, Heat-Rays, walking tripods, red kudzu, and octopus-like vampires, and Wonderland is awesome… but he’s not.  And once the Martians die from Earth’s bacteria (an admitted deus ex machina within the book itself), we’re left with this fairly dull gentleman and have to deal with his wandering around until he finds his wife—I’m not totally heartless, by the way.  That was a sweet moment.

But, you know, Wonderland was boring.  Despite all the cool stuff, I caught myself skimming during the panic sequences.  And I shouldn’t be bringing up this point because it’s obvious to me while Wells did this, but: why are the Martians only attacking England?

The reason is the same for why in Hollywood and the X-Files the aliens only seem to strike United States: it’s the writer’s home territory and having an invasion at home creates a terror he couldn’t manufacture otherwise.

But my brain will not turn off.  Why only Britain?  And why only ten spaceships?  Was this just a trial run?  And if they’re effectively drinking human blood for their subsistence, why did they burn up so many of the humans with their Heat-Rays at the start of the story?  That seems an awful waste of their food supply.

Of course, human blood being seems a pretty bad source of sustenance considering that the bacteria is what killed them.  I mean, couldn’t they sense that something was off from the first feeding?

Oh, it’s not worth thinking about anymore.  Despite my griping, Wells will not make you less of a human being for having read him.  Chances are, you’re less judgmental than me.  I just really think sci-fi literature got so much better after Wells.