Twilight at the Well of Souls

Arthur Miller has died, and I expect plenty of people will have plenty to say about him. He was a giant, and plenty of people more eloquent and knowledgeable than me will have something to say about him, I’m sure. As for me, I always liked All My Sons and After the Fall, and hope I never get any more empathy for Willie Loman than I already have.

But I just heard some surprising news – surprising because I didn’t realize I missed him. Jack L. Chalker died today.

For those of you who don’t know, Jack Chalker wrote a number – an enormous number – of science fiction and fantasy books. I haven’t read any for years, but when I was in junior high and high school, they truly knocked me out. Looking back, they were the next stepping stone for me after Piers Anthony’s Xanth books.

The first one I read was called Midnight at the Well of Souls. It featured a strange cast of characters, all transplanted onto a planet that looked like a giant hex map, with a new environment (desert, jungle, tundra) and lifeform on every hexagon. A total patchwork world. And these characters all had to work together to find out what was going on and get their lives back. (If I recall correctly, they were each—with one exception—transformed to the dominant lifeform of the hex they teleported into.) The book and its sequels were full of page-turning adventure and neato-cool science fiction ideas, and I read ‘em past when the paperbacks were held together with rubber bands. (That sounds more impressive than it is – a stiff wind could blow apart those flimsy Del Rey bindings.) As I was rereading them, I remember thinking that the essence of science fiction was putting familiar people – our heroes – in unfamiliar places, situations, and even bodies, confronting the unknown. It’s my first memory of ever examining a book like that – like a writer instead of a reader. It would have happened regardless, but I certainly owe Mr. Chalker thanks for bringing it out of me when he did.

He wrote so many books, and I read a ton of them, but the other series that really grabbed me was the Dancing Gods series. Beginning with River of the Dancing Gods, these lampooned the clichés of fantasy novels, while still telling an exciting fantasy story on their own. The world operated by a book of rules, seemingly cobbled together from the clichés that J.R.R. Tolkien and Robert E. Howard put in motion, such as “all beautiful maidens in distress must be scantily clad,” and similar dress codes for barbarians and the like. Although I’m sure he didn’t invent it, I’d never seen that sort of comedic trick pulled before, and Chalker opened my eyes about that, too.

Sooner or later, I stopped reading his books. The formulas and tropes I identified in earlier books seemed worn a little too much on the sleeve, and I was looking for more resonant drama and subtler humor. But his books were exactly what I was looking for at the time, and there was a two or three year period where, if you had asked me who my favorite writer was, I would have said Jack L. Chalker.

I guess what I’m saying is rest in peace, Jack. I wish I’d realized earlier that I’d appreciated you as much as I do.

Rob