Читать книгу Imagining Urban Futures - Carl Abbott - Страница 8

INTRODUCTION

Nothing says trouble like a city smashed to smithereens on screen. Meteors and earthquakes, tsunamis and glaciers, earthly monsters and alien invaders—moviegoers might think that the only thing science fiction does with cities is demolish them with big-budget special effects. Giant waves crash over New York in Deluge (1933) and When Worlds Collide (1951), an asteroid pulverizes it in Deep Impact (1998), and ice crushes it in The Day after Tomorrow (2004). Everyone knows that the star of Godzilla: King of Monsters (1956) has it in for Tokyo. Los Angeles takes hits in Earthquake (1974) and Independence Day (1996), whose flying saucer bad guys also take out New York, Washington, and Paris, itself soon reobliterated in Armageddon (1998). Not to be outdone, screenwriters for 2012 (2009) devised a planetary cataclysm to eradicate Los Angeles, Washington, Rome, and every other city lower than Tibet.

Look again and the picture is far more interesting. Cities certainly perish on the science fiction screen and page, but they also grow, thrive, and decline in complex and intriguing ways. Hit the science fiction section at your local library or used bookstore for the pure pleasure of browsing the covers. Among the exotic planetscapes, cosmic vistas, and battling starships are cities seen from above and below, from near and afar. Cities soar in the distant view of foregrounded heroes and shelter beneath transparent domes like gigantic snow globes. Tiny humans and all manner of other creatures clog street corners and thread their way among the intricate towers, tunnels, sky bridges, wiring, and plumbing of the coming metropolis. Artists bathe their visions with the patina of fantasy or the shimmer of high tech.

We—the majority of humankind—already live in an urban world and share an urban future. Cities are home to a majority of our planet’s population, and they are gaining a greater edge over the countryside with each passing year. Sometime in the first decade of the present century, so far as demographers can calculate, more than half of humankind became city people. I wouldn’t bet on the exact date, but the world crossed the fifty–fifty threshold between city life and rural life in 2008, according to the United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. China passed the same milestone at the end of 2011, with an official count of 691 million city dwellers. By the end of the century, the worldwide ratio of city to country is likely to be three to one or even four to one, the balance already reached in Western Europe and North America.

Since our mundane future will be so decidedly urban, it is no surprise that the science fiction imagination has generated cities by the bucketful. Cities are background and setting for stories on and off future Earth, often assumed as a natural part of coming society. They are sometimes an active part of the plot, places whose characteristics are essential to a story’s contests and conflicts. At times they become actors in their own right, intervening and shaping as well as framing the action. The future, the native land of science fiction, will be an urban future for all foreseeable generations. It’s like a syllogism:

Science fiction is about the future.

The human future will be urban.

Therefore, science fiction should be about urban futures.

Voyage outward from Earth. Settlers on the moon will likely live in underground cities—at least that’s what Larry Niven and Allen Steele propose. Martian pioneers will start off in domed cities and then transition to surface cities as terraforming takes effect—at least as Kim Stanley Robinson has projected that planet’s future. On Venus cities will float in the thick atmosphere, says Pamela Sargent. Intrepid extraterrestrial homesteaders may hope to make new lives under new skies and stars, but they will need cities and towns to supply their tools and market their crops—at least that is how Robert Heinlein envisioned the future on Ganymede. And sometimes creative imaginations have run wild to fashion implausible superfantastic cities that are built into miles-deep canyon sides, that pierce the stratosphere like huge stalagmites, that raft together on the deep sea, that span huge chasms on vast platforms, that englobe entire planets, and that even disassemble and reassemble themselves to creep across the landscape.

Waive your berth on the next interstellar departure and you may still find yourself in the future of a present-day city. We can experience the effects of climate change on Boston and Washington and economic stagnation on Los Angeles and Detroit. We can navigate an imagined megacity—super-high-rise Chicago or cybernetic Tokyo or hypertrophied Shanghai. We can choose among dozens of different Londons and New Yorks and explore the rise of the Global South in future Bangkoks, Saigons, and Istanbuls where a few social or technological tweaks can lead to fascinatingly different cities.

What is a city, by the way? With lots of small variations, historians and archaeologists agree that cities are big, long lasting, densely developed, and full of difference—different types of people, jobs, neighborhoods, and economic activities.¹ They are also points of exchange that influence people outside their boundaries. People come to cities to trade goods, services, ideas, and their own labor. More than anything else, a city is a device for making connections. It is a system for creating innovation and change, because the best way for any of us to come up with a new idea is to bring us in contact with strangers and their strange opinions. This is what Samuel R. Delany has in mind when he writes that “cities are fun precisely because they encourage encounters across class lines” and other social strata of race and sexuality. Putting it more concretely, says Delany, “There must be places where Capulets can regularly meet Montagues and fall in love.”²

Deeper in time behind the last two centuries of exploding industrial urbanization are six thousand years when humans independently invented cities at least six times in what are now Egypt, Iraq, China, India-Pakistan, Mexico-Guatemala, and Peru. In fits and starts, as kingdoms and empires flourished and fell, urban society spread gradually into different corners of the world—to Londinium and Angkor and Timbuktu and Cahokia and Cuzco. Some cities have been so useful as to be invented and then reinvented multiple times, as with the Romes of Hadrian, the Medici popes, Mussolini, and Federico Fellini. Cities are a natural part of human society past and present … so it is not surprising that they are part of our near and far futures.

So, sure, science fiction is about rocket ships and weird aliens and strange new worlds. It is about technologies possible and impossible—genetic engineering, cloning, robotics, artificial intelligence, nanotechnology … and warp drives and time travel. Cities do not often appear as a category on these common lists of science fiction subject matter, but they are ubiquitous nevertheless. Some future cities function as effortlessly as glitchless software. Others are dystopian disaster zones.

Science fiction cities sometimes work as familiarizing frames, serving up useful expectations for readers and viewers. Indeed, SF often employs cities as backgrounds and settings that function in much the same way that cities do today (just as Star Fleet functions in the Star Trek universe as a familiar naval bureaucracy). Peter Hamilton’s city of Memu Bay in his space thriller Fallen Dragon (2001) would be totally familiar to a resident of Zurich or Milwaukee. C. J. Cherryh’s city of Reseune in Cyteen (1988) and Regenesis (2009) is the research center for an empire based on cloning, with all the new social dynamics that implies, but the place itself is not all that different from an American or Indian science-park district found in Palo Alto or Bangalore. The planetary capital to which it reports has hotels and public buildings, streets and back alleys, airport and commercial waterfront—it could just as well be Seattle or Chicago.

Melissa Scott in Burning Bright (1993) similarly serves up a city that is far more familiar than strange. The plot intertwines interstellar political and commercial intrigue with the adventures of a space pilot who takes shore leave in the city of Burning Bright to practice her skills as the designer of computer-based role-playing games. The city itself sounds like fun, but it is one where Scott’s readers could easily find their way around. It has elite neighborhoods and poorer neighborhoods, upscale shopping streets, warehouse districts, down-market bars, and a colorful waterfront. Residents get about on foot, with water buses on a canal system, and with helicabs. Just like home, the main streets are brightly illuminated but the side streets dimly lit with “pool[s] of light that marked each intersection to the brief edge of almost-dark where the first light ended and the next did not quite reach” (112). We’re far, far away from Earth, but not far at all from the noir ambiance of 1940s Los Angeles.

There is some resistance to an urban approach to science fiction. Antiurbanism is an easy reflex for anyone raised within Anglo-American culture, with its long-standing reverence for Arcadian scenes and rural society. Clifford Simak’s City (1952) presents a society that happily evolves beyond the need for urban places. Ursula Le Guin’s The Eye of the Heron (1978) presents a recently settled planet divided between a rural society that values hard work, peace, and gender equality and a city that is a nascent Nineveh—masculine, rigid, corrupt, exploitative, and cruel. Only by escaping the city and joining with the People of Peace can Luz Marina Falco realize her personhood. Or here, from City of Ruins (2011), are words that Kristine Kathryn Rusch puts into the mouth of Boss, the kickass woman who is the continuing protagonist in a series of novels about space exploration, time travel, and galactic politics:

I travel to Vaycehn reluctantly. I don’t like cities. I never have. Cities are as opposite from the things I love as anything can get.

First, they exist planetside, and I try never to go planetside.

Second, they are filled with people, and I prefer to spend most of my time alone.

Third, cities have little to explore, and what small amount of unknown territory there is has something built on top of it or beside it.

The history of a city is known, and there is no danger. (7)

Rusch seems to be channeling critic Gary K. Wolfe, who has argued that cities are basically antithetical to the science fiction imagination. Cities, he suggests, represent confinement, limitations on possibility, the known rather than the unknown. They are stasis rather than change, contrary to the science fiction spirit of adventure and discovery.³ This position goes beyond a simple negative evaluation of city life (cities as jungles, cities as sources of eco-catastrophe) to a larger position that, in effect, cities are useful only to serve the spaceports that allow authors to launch their stories into unfamiliar territory. It is another version of space as frontier, with cities standing in for the jump-off points for the Oregon Trail. In The Martian Chronicles (1950), Ray Bradbury began his story “The Settlement” with emigrant families waiting to embark for Mars from Independence, Missouri.

I argue the contrary—that cities can be front and center as vividly imagined worlds whose characteristics play active roles that help to structure the arc of the story, forcing and constraining the choices that the characters make. For earthly cities, the Los Angeles of Octavia Butler in Parable of the Sower (1993) and the Bangkok of Paolo Bacigalupi in The Windup Girl (2009) fill the bill. Their state of physical and social decay is an essential driver for their developing plots. On an imagined world, New Crobuzon is as much a force in China Miéville’s novels as London was for Charles Dickens. Cities are sentient actors in John Shirley’s City Come A-Walkin (1980), Greg Bear’s Strength of Stones (1988), and Carrie Richerson’s “The City in Morning” (1999).

There are thousands of science fiction cities—as many or more than the number of actual cities of twenty-first-century Earth. My solution to this abundance is to identify common ways in which we imagine the urban future in a wide and eclectic range of books, films, and television rather than dwelling on a few noteworthy examples, although familiar places like Arthur C. Clarke’s Diaspar and Isaac Asimov’s Trantor will make their appearance. No matter how varied the specific twists and locations, science fiction writers imagine future and alternative cities in several distinct ways—as machines, for example, or as prisons, or, sometimes, as places just a little bit different from those of today. The field supplies a shared repertoire of city types that writers can use for background or develop for their own purposes.

As we think about the multiple cities of science fiction, it is useful to consider additional syllogisms that suggest two basic and inclusive ways that the field approaches cities. One strand derives from the technological/design imagination and its ability to think up cities whose form and function express new technical possibilities. The second comes from the desire to consider future social and cultural systems that find their most developed and conflicted forms in cities. Together the physical and social imaginations create the two big clusters of city types explored in the following chapters.

Science fiction is about the implications of new technologies.

Cities are the most complex of technological artifacts.

Therefore, science fiction is [often] about the physical and

technological possibilities of city making.

Science fiction tries to explore the future of human society.

Cities are the central organizing system for human society.

Therefore, SF is [often] about the complexities of living in future cities.

The first syllogism reaches back to early efforts to imagine the shape of ideal places, both fantastical schemes like Tommaso Campanella’s City of the Sun (1602) and bureaucratic prescriptions like the Laws of the Indies that the Spanish crown promulgated as a guide to laying out colonial cities in the Americas. The impulse continued in the proposals of early industrial-era reformers like Robert Owen and Charles Fourier, who were engrossed with schemes for social betterment through remaking the physical structure of settlements. These were the “utopian socialists” whom Friedrich Engels pointedly criticized for ignoring the primacy of economic relationships that truly determined spatial patterns. In practice, early Western utopias imitated the everyday communities of the time. The City of the Sun was an idealized Renaissance city. Fourier’s phalanstery and the idealized scheme for Owen’s Harmony colony in Indiana resembled the factory/dormitory complexes of textile towns like Lowell, Massachusetts.⁴

About 150 years ago, new technologies of transportation—horizontal railways and self-powered automobiles, vertical elevators—allowed the design imagination to expand and soar. Facing ever-growing industrial cities, design visionaries began to explore a fundamental choice: Should the metropolis deconcentrate or centralize more effectively—should it grow outward or upward? In the first group we can count Frederick Law Olmsted, Horace Cleveland, and other landscape architects who wanted to reduce urban densities by building parks and open space into the urban fabric. Ebenezer Howard proposed “Garden Cities of To-morrow” (his 1902 book title) as a way to deconcentrate London. Frank Lloyd Wright’s scheme for Broadacre City preceded the General Motors Futurama exhibit at the New York World’s Fair, with its model of a freeway nation in miniature, by only seven years. The opposite impulse was to envision megastructures that extrapolated the first-generation skyscrapers of New York and Chicago. The Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier proposed clusters of towers in a park linked into a single entity by underground passages. Paolo Soleri envisioned vast self-contained cities for hundreds of thousands of residents with quirky names like “3-D Jersey” and “Novanoah.”⁵

Pictures are powerful, and the visual punch of creative design has made it a rich source for science fiction. As Bruce Sterling has noted, genre science fiction emerged in tandem with the art deco extravaganzas of “century of progress” expositions in Chicago (1933–34), New York (1939–40), and San Francisco (1939–40), which provided the visual vocabulary that artists like Frank R. Paul transmuted into pulp magazine covers.⁶ Garden cities, Corbusian towers, and arcologies have all come with compelling diagrams and drawings that easily capture eyes and imaginations—especially Soleri’s drawings in the oversized Arcology: The City in the Image of Man.⁷ Architects continue to relish chances to show their imaginations and drawing skills, as with eVolo magazine’s decade-long imaginary skyscraper competition.⁸ The fantastic cities of comics, anime, and video games extend the same tradition of science fiction as a visual medium.

Behind many of the classic diagrams and drawings, however, are social visions that link to the second syllogism. Ebenezer Howard wanted to find a route toward a socialist society via land reform inspired by the theories of Henry George in Progress and Poverty (1879), with Garden Cities as the tool rather than the end point. The first edition of his book in 1899 summarized his goal with its title To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, and he regretted the distracting diagrams he had published as thought experiments. With an approach completely opposite that of his contemporary Howard, the eccentric entrepreneur King Camp Gillette in 1894 proposed consolidating the entire American population in a single vast metropolis in western New York State to counter the chaos of individualism.⁹ Le Corbusier and Soleri both claimed the environmental goal of freeing land from urban encroachment by concentrating people within limited building footprints. Recurring proposals for lineal cities stretched along transportation lines have aimed at economic efficiency and social equality—a sort of urbanist manifestation of collectivist principles.

Even design utopians thus recognize that the social dimension is primary in the process of urban growth, despite the seductions of the visual. Cities are vast physical objects because they are machines for making connections among thousands and millions of individuals. They are human life support systems with distinct metabolisms. They collect, process, and distribute goods and information in the complex economy of production and consumption. They bring individuals together to facilitate the routines of everyday life. In The Gold Coast (1988), Kim Stanley Robinson interweaves all three connective functions. He highlights the freeway system as the support structure for future Orange County, California, critiques defense contractors as the economic drive wheel, and explores individual efforts to connect into communities through workplace, school, church, and social clique. The picture is not pretty, for the book is Robinson’s version of California well along the wrong path of rampant capitalism, but the elements of connection are there.

Like Robinson, ecologists, economists, geographers, and sociologists all want to understand the costs and benefits of urban connectivity: Do cities run on poverty and immiseration as their necessary social and economic fuel, an assertion that goes back to Karl Marx? Do capitalist cities generate spatially structured inequality by their very nature, as geographer David Harvey argues, or do they provide the tools with which individuals build the capacities to improve their lives? How do the new contacts and interactions that they enable compare with the social worlds in alternative settings such as small towns and villages? Is community-without-propinquity—the development of interpersonal connections based on common interests rather than residential proximity—as rich as localized neighborhood communities?¹⁰

Anglo-American culture—the dominant seedbed of science fiction—assumes the negative about urban life more often and more easily than does continental culture.¹¹ It is easy to trace American antiurban thinking through intellectual traditions and popular culture.¹² When Thomas Jefferson compared cities to cancers and sores on the body politic, he set a tone that has resonated in American politics for two centuries (“Ford to City: Drop Dead” read the New York Daily News headline of October 29, 1975, after President Gerald Ford nixed a federal bailout for the bankrupt city).¹³ Nineteenth-century fears of cities as cauldrons of social disorder and political chaos fueled the urban dystopias that appeared again and again in imagined futures of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Even in the twenty-first century, a majority of Americans hold to the ideal of small-town living over big-city life that is supposedly less satisfying, less authentic, less healthy, more dangerous, and more alienating.

The comprehensive findings of social science, however, are not so clear. City people in the United States have roughly the same density of social networks as small-town folks, just skewed away from kin and toward groups of common interest.¹⁴ Even the slums and shantytowns of Latin America and South Asia are places of opportunity for the rural poor, with better health care, education, and job opportunities. In developing countries, city dwellers generally are more likely than their rural counterparts to say they are happy.¹⁵ Cities are cultural incubators, technological innovators, and the places where reformers introduce and test progressive institutions. The city as creative milieu is a network of industries and universities, artists and entrepreneurs. It is easy to poke fun at Richard Florida’s trendy idea of an urban creative class, but economists and urban planners can agree that certain metropolitan settings have a special ability to generate change.¹⁶

Science fiction, of course, always draws on the knowledge base available to its creators. Writers of hard SF take scientific advances from the pages of Science, Nature, New Scientist, or Scientific American and build stories on those foundations. Robert Heinlein argued decades ago that writers of science fiction are free to imagine the uncertain and unknown, but not to ignore the body of accepted knowledge. Writers who want to base stories on the effects of black holes or on genetic engineering need specific understanding of the relevant physics or biology. The producers of the SF epic film Interstellar (2014) won kudos from the science fiction community for consulting with astrophysicist Kip Thorne and utilizing wormholes “appropriately,” whereas Star Trek warp drives don’t merit the same respect. H. G. Wells was free in 1898 to populate Mars with spiderlike beings, given contemporary astronomy. If writers working in 2016 want to set some action on Pluto, however, they will have to pay attention to the findings from the New Horizons flyby in July 2015.

There is a difference, however, in the relationship of the natural sciences to hard SF when we move to the urban realm, where there are few firm answers to powerful questions. Someone writing cities into social science fiction has fewer reliable sources and fewer constraints than someone building a plausible planet according to the laws of physics. Novelists and scriptwriters who highlight cities are unlikely to consult Cal Tech professors, or even urban studies professors, but they do draw on the ideas and projects of designers, social scientists, and social utopians.

The design professions on their visionary edge are a free-for-all world of sometimes sober, sometimes audacious, and sometimes silly ideas that are an inviting grab bag for writers and artists. The stacked trailer towers in Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One (2011) exaggerate the modular apartments of Le Corbusier’s unité d’habitation in Marseilles. Geodesic domes are ubiquitous over future cities, imaginative projections of Buckminster Fuller’s 1970s proposal for Old Man River City, a bundt-cake megastructure under a geodesic umbrella to replace troubled East St. Louis.¹⁷ Wright, Soleri, Fuller, and other ambitious and self-conscious planners and architects like Constantinos Doxiadis did not think of themselves as offering science fictions. Nevertheless, their versions of ideal cities—to be realized in the future—tilt toward the fantastic and provide jump-off points for writers as radically different as J. G. Ballard and Larry Niven.

The social sciences are even more uncertain ground. Dozens of stories have depended on John B. Calhoun’s studies of overcrowded rats, but the application to people is much more tenuous than we popularly believe.¹⁸ Social sciences are often ambiguous, uncertain, and roiled by competing political agendas and ideologies—just consider the five-hundred-year debate about the causes of poverty that started under the Tudors and shows no signs of resolution in the U.S. Congress or British Parliament. Writers can pick and choose between Jane Jacobs’s celebration of Greenwich Village and Lewis Mumford’s preference for Hudson River exurbia. They can attribute caste systems in a future city to capitalism, racism/speciesism, or genetic differences and find supporting experts and arguments. They can draw on Walter Benjamin’s celebration of the variegated surface of big cities or Louis Wirth’s analysis of the alienating effects of urban life, and neither is a wrong choice.

Nor do most writers feel much need to be explicit about their choices, for residents of an urbanizing world have internalized many assumptions about the nature of cities. As Nicola Griffith put it, “fiction generally embodies that which a culture knows to be true.”¹⁹ In a previous book, I argued that American science fiction has incorporated the common historical narratives of the American West. In some cases the frontier references are front and center, as in future homesteading stories about “the little house on the big planet,” but in many others they are part of the background understanding that writers and readers share.²⁰ In this book I am making a parallel argument. We think we know that high-rise living is alienating, so neither Robert Silverberg nor J. G. Ballard has to justify dystopian assumptions. We know that multiethnic cities are both stimulating and intimidating, so China Miéville can easily project the same values on a multispecies city. In the chapters that follow, I will be looking at the explicit borrowing of ideas about cities and city life, but also at implicit parallels and broader assumptions that are the basis for imagined places. Novelists and screenwriters are creative artists, but they are also symbionts with the social sciences, with history, and with the design professions, drawing on their ideas and simultaneously enriching their conversations.

I write about cities as a historian and urban planner and about science fiction as both a reader and a critic, and think that it is not only fun but informative to explore the different types of SF cities. For this book I have identified eight generic science fiction cities that appear and reappear in different settings as variants on common themes and concerns. What I call types bear a close resemblance to what critic Brian Attebery has recently called science fiction “parabolas.” Unlike some genre fiction like romances and westerns, where formulas nearly require certain plot elements and certain endings, science fiction is open-ended. Writers may start from a common premise or situation—galactic empires, generation starships—but science fiction readers relish the variations that can be developed from the same starting point as writers respond to each other’s version. These departures never take us to the same place, just as the parabola is a curve that never returns to its starting point. Parabolas, write Attebery and Veronica Hollinger, are “combinations of meaningful setting, character, and action that lend themselves to endless redefinition and jazzlike improvisation.”²¹

These types have developed in dialogue with the efforts of social reformers, social scientists, and designers to understand and improve cities. One of the goals of this book is to explore the variety and range of borrowings, influences, and interactions between SF and the ideas and practice of mundane urbanism and to embed science fiction in the body of urban theory and criticism. The loosely grouped set of cyberpunk writers from the 1980s and 1990s, for example, reflected critical urban theory around cities as communication systems and the effects of economic globalization. Samuel R. Delany has acknowledged that the Unlicensed Sector in Trouble on Triton: An Ambiguous Heterotopia (1976) is “a Jane Jacobs kind of thing” while drawing the subtitle from the work of Michel Foucault.

Each chapter will keep these questions in mind as it discusses ways in which writers, filmmakers, and visual artists have made use of these city types. What defines each type? What are some key examples? How do particular urban settings impact their stories? What do we gain in wonder, terror, and insight as we follow characters through different sorts of city? How do these cities reflect or exemplify our understanding of mundane cities in popular culture and formal social theory? The approach will be panoramic without being exhaustive, drawing examples from different media, from different science fiction eras, and from writers with very different sensibilities and politics. Chapters 5 and 6 are most closely grounded in the specific American experience of suburbanization and urban crisis, tracing a historical trajectory as writers in different decades respond to the changing world around them. The other chapters are structured synchronically as variations on a theme.

Taking off from design urbanism, the first three chapters explore different ways in which we envision future cities as physical objects—impressive, imposing, exciting, curious. “Techno City” deals with cities as containers for new technologies, from slideways to high-rise towers. The cities in “Machines for Breathing” become mega-machines in themselves, huge comprehensive artifacts that depend on sophisticated engineering to function. “Migratory Cities” are a variation on the self-contained cities of the previous chapters, carrying designer thought experiments to imaginative extremes in fictional form. Because these cities appear in narratives rather than in architectural portfolios and engineering specs, people in crisis and conflict drive the story line; but the physical container itself—whether space station city, migratory city, or some other variation—stirs readers’ imaginations. C. J. Cherryh builds interesting characters and exciting situations to make Downbelow Station an exciting read, for example, but the central tension revolves around the fragility or survivability of the huge space-station city itself.

Chapters on “The Carceral City” and “Crabgrass Chaos” begin to shift focus to cities as social environments. The physical character of the city remains important—the city of refuge or city behind walls in the one chapter, the decaying suburban environment in the other. The pivots of the stories, however, are human responses to two types of confinement. Carceral cities are places where the physical barriers of ramparts and cavern walls produce psychological imprisonment that is integrated into the culture of everyday life—to be broken only by maverick misfits. The residents of feral suburbs, in contrast, live in places only a step from newspaper headlines. They are individually rebellious but imprisoned by the economic and social limitations of poverty, and their stories are dramas of stress and survival.

Chapter 6 deals with the variety of catastrophes that can threaten to undermine and destroy metropolitan life, and with the abandoned cities that result from disaster. Like the suburbs of “Crabgrass Chaos,” the tottering cities discussed in “Soylent Green Is People!” are earthbound places of the near future. Over the decades, science fiction has explored a variety of crisis-and-collapse scenarios drawn from the social sciences and from societal fears of proletarian revolution, overpopulation, and overconsumption.²² Cities intensify and concentrate problems and pressures to the point of social breakdown, planting the seeds of their own destruction. The result may be the abandoned cities that populate chapter 7 with stories of post-apocalyptic Earth and distant worlds where danger lurks among the ruins.

“Market and Mosaic” focuses on the city as a nexus of human activity—the city as social and economic community. Cities bring disparate individuals in contact with each other, sometimes through exchanges in the marketplace, sometimes through the interactions of communities and neighborhoods. By this point in the book, the city as megamachine no longer dominates the imaginative horizon. We come instead to a ground-level view of life on the streets and in the neighborhoods. This is where the science fiction city becomes most relevant to contemporary problems. Cordwainer Smith could model the social inequities of mid-twentieth-century America through the metaphor of fantastic cities, William Gibson can highlight the city as creative environment, and China Miéville can offer cities that reflect the real places in which we live and work.

Imagining Urban Futures thus moves in a broad arc from the physical city to the social city. Extrapolating current technologies, inventing new city types, and extending visionary ideas about urban form to their logical extremes can be fun, but the imagined cities remain thought experiments. They are limited by the practical constraints of materials science, energy consumption, and safety engineering. As Harry Harrison observed in Bill, the Galactic Hero (1965), world-spanning cities with populations in the tens of billions will have a major garbage disposal problem. Places can be interesting in themselves, but the most compelling stories are about the experience of living in specific places with distinct social relations, histories, and myths. My approach is congruent with the work of Michel de Certeau, who contrasts the totalizing view of a city from a skyscraper observation deck to the ways in which urbanites actually construct and experience city life as they inhabit the streets and buildings of the metropolis.²³ To twist a phrase that Mrs. Snedeker used to explain “synecdoche” to my seventh-grade class, the container of the physical city is much less interesting than the individuals who are the “thing contained.”²⁴

Writers like Samuel R. Delany, Molly Gloss, and Octavia Butler have used the possibilities and limitations of future cities to explore character under stress. Texts as different as Blade Runner and Paolo Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl reproduce and interrogate the social inequities of modern society. This embedded argument about cities as creative social milieux leads to my choice of Kim Stanley Robinson’s “Science in the Capital” trilogy about political and scientific responses to global warming as the final example. It is science fiction that is earthbound, near future, politically engaged, and character driven, and which recognizes the large metropolis of Washington as a set of constantly shifting small communities. Even under stress, residents cooperate and public systems work—an implicit refutation of the libertarian survivalist scenarios common in much American science fiction.²⁵

This exploration of science fiction and cities ends purposefully on the upbeat. I like cities large and small—a good thing, since I have been studying and writing about their history for over forty years. There are plenty of dystopian cities among my examples, but the book is structured around the variety of imagined city types rather than a contrast of rational utopias, critical utopias, and utterly bleak dystopias.²⁶ What makes cities attractive and exciting is that very variety. Urbanization and urban life present plenty of challenges, but cities are where ideas happen as their residents interact in a dazzling number of combinations. John Stuart Mill long ago recognized the importance of cities as centers of interaction: “It is hardly possible to overrate the value, in the present low state of human improvement, of placing human beings in contact with persons dissimilar to themselves, and with modes of thought and action unlike those with which they are familiar…. Such communication has always been, and is peculiarly in the present age, one of the primary sources of progress.”²⁷ The thought experiments of science fiction cities, in all their disparate versions and types, embody and contribute to that dialogue. Avid viewers and readers of science fiction may well find that I have missed a telling example and left out their favorite city. By all means let me know so we can continue a conversation beyond the confines of this book.