Meet Me in the Moon Room

July 30, 2001
The same antic spirit that imbued Vukcevich's mystery novel The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces
moves playfully through this first collection of fantastic fiction, whose 33 helium-filled stories achieve just the right absurdist lift to escape the gravity of their themes. "By the Time We Get to Uranus" offers a peculiarly affecting take on terminal illness: the afflicted grow buoyant spacesuits that force them to leave loved ones behind. The mysteries of parenthood manifest amusingly in "Poop," about a couple who discover that their newborn's diaper fills variously with birds, mice and symphonic music. Though deceptively simple in their pared-down style, the vignettes show meticulous care in the crafting of oddball metaphors to express the moods of their estranged spouses, exasperated lovers, competitive children and disgruntled employees. The willingness with which the author's characters accept the incongruity of their situations often yields profoundly moving insights into the human condition. In the poignant title tale, for example, a man does not find it at all strange that a lover from decades past has summoned him to a simulated moon landscape at a theme park, reflecting that the meaning of life really is "nothing more than a couple of people huddling close for comfort in a cold universe." Inventive and entertaining, these stories yield more emotional truth than much comparatively realistic fiction. (Aug.)Forecast:With blurbs from Damon Knight, Kate Wilhelm and Jeffrey Ford, this collection is a quality item that should benefit from good word of mouth.

July 1, 2001
A man pulls the sweater his girlfriend made him over his head and nearly gets lost inside it. Rescued from the arctic ice, the dying Victor (Frankenstein) tells a story that leaves little doubt that the monster is James Joyce or Stephen Dedalus or Finn (again). Tim saves the world from a comet by having his family put paper bags over their heads. What? What?! What?!! Calm down. This is just the world according to Ray Vukcevich, sf-ish enough to get him into the " Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction" and " Asimov's" but also resembling the fantastic milieus of Gogol, Kafka, and Looney Toons. Whether you cotton to it depends on how you feel about cartoons made of words and prisons made of logic: Are you afraid or amused? Actually, either reaction works for appreciating Vukcevich's outlandish virtuosity. Sf fans with long memories will note Vukcevich's deadpan delivery and jokey-creepy aura, recall the wonder-workings of Fredric Brown (see " From "These Ashes [BKL Ap 15 01]), and smile.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2001, American Library Association.)