Delany believes that sci-fi's primal impulse, like poetry's, is the "incantatory task of naming nonexistent objects."
Last September, while working at his desk in Philadelphia, Samuel R. Delany experienced a mysterious episode that he calls "the big drop."His vision faded for about three minutes, and he felt his body plunge, as if the floor had fallen away. When he came to, everything looked different, though he couldn't say exactly how. Delany, who is eighty-one, began to suspect that he'd suffered a mini-stroke. His daughter, Iva, an emergency-room physician, persuaded him to go to the hospital, but the MRI scans were inconclusive. The only evidence of a neurological event was a test result indicating that he had lost fifteen per cent of his capacity to form new memories and a realization, in the following weeks, that he was unable to finish his novel in progress, "This Short Day of Frost and Sun." After publishing more than forty books in half a century, the interruption was, he told me, both "a loss and a relief."
For years, Delany has begun most days at four o'clock in the morning with a ritual. First, he spells out the name Dennis, for Dennis Rickett, his life partner. Next, he recites an atheist's prayer, hailing faraway celestial bodies with a litany inspired by the seventeenth-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza: "Natura Naturans, system of systems, system of fields, Kuiper belt, scattered disk, Oort cloud, thank you for dropping me here." Finally, he prepares oatmeal, which he faithfully photographs for the friends and fans who follow him on Facebook. Every so often, when the milk foams, he sees Laniakea-the galactic supercluster that's home to Earth.
This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the July 10 - 17, 2023 (Double Issue) edition of The New Yorker.
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