Dying Inside (alkuperäinen julkaisuvuosi 1972; vuoden 1990 painos)

This is an excellent book. It uses telepathy to explore issues of connection and separateness among humans using one individual, Selig as its case study. And what happens when the ability to read minds fades and dies? What does that do to our seeming connection to others when we can read their minds? I say seeming because when the power does die, Selig feels both isolated yet perceives others to be more comfortable with him. So do our own powers, whatever they may be connect us with others or do the actual cause our own isolation from the rest of humanity as we become more self-absorbed with ourselves? I think this is the central question of this book that remains open but suggests lightly a possible answer. Interesting SF in that the only SF concept is the possibility of telepathy in one in particular but by no means the only one Earth in the novel. That one required suspension of disbelief is Silverberg’s one instrument that he uses to probe the human condition. A very literary SF novel. I greatly enjoyed it. ( )

Eavesdropping pervert
wasting his gift, and his life
still, I sympathize. ( )

f you are a writer, there is a sadness in completing a masterful work. It is that surety, the cold knowledge that you will never write anything so important, or so simply. That is my unfiltered reaction to having completed Dying Inside. Silverberg filled his book with an absolutely miserable, self-pitying, abhorrent human being. He did little but wander through his current and dim past life, showing us his wallowing failures at holding normal relationships with people.

He has a “gift,” does David Selig, one that makes him — as he considers himself to be — a Superman. However, as we watch his life, and especially as his gift begins to fail him, and disappear, we become aware, as he never does, that it is not a gift. He can read minds, as only a few others can. But it does him no good. He squanders the gift, which oddly, isolates him from society. He doesn’t need to interact, he can “learn” them without their input. There are one or two others with the gift, and they fare slightly better, but it is still pointless.

So, I read about David, the whiny, wheedling, racist, protagonist, and secretly rooted for him to die. He does not, and I’m not certain he ever becomes likable, but I couldn’t help but enjoy the book. Silverberg’s prose is a masterful mix of simplicity and lyricism. And though we don’t like David or anyone in his world — there isn’t a single likable character in the book — we are drawn in by Silverberg’s storytelling enough not to care.

We read the book, not because we care about the character, but because we care about the book. And that, my friends, is a masterwork. ( )

Strangely enough, I found this one a real treat to read. It might have something to do with the fact that I read [b:A Time of Changes|1706646|A Time of Changes |Robert Silverberg|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1264969026s/1706646.jpg|1011356], [b:The World Inside|261625|The World Inside|Robert Silverberg|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1387347151s/261625.jpg|253589], and it all within the same day, somewhat in spirit of how damn quick Silverberg wrote these great classics. :)

And because I read them all back to back, I found that being this familiar with the artist's text made al three books flow like water, common themes kissing intimately and oh so sexually. Like connection. Basic human connection. The first novel revelled in the breaking down of the barriers of self. The second novel, for all it's permissive sex, alienated everyone from deep and meaningful interactions. And then, the the third, David Selig, a powerful telepath living in the Baby Boomer generation here on earth, even with the gift to break through, could never quite make the bridge of intimacy.

Is it a tragedy? Yes. He squanders his talents as a kid and loses his ability as he ages, getting more frantic with time, and yet it's still the question of intimacy that each little vignette keeps coming back to. The novel's scenes jump through time, circling and circling back to peck at this theme, diving deeper into the the problem of telepathy, of squandered gifts, and all the while, we as readers are treated to an honestly delightful and revealing look, so I assume, into Robert Silverberg, himself.

I say this because David Selig is absolutely rich with humanity, being funny, flawed, intensely sexual (I think there *might* be a theme here), unabashedly intellectual, lazy, drug exploratory, and an all-around *real* guy. He's just as fucked as the rest of us, and there's so many things that ground him in the text, so many stream of consciousness moments, and so many insightful reflections, that I couldn't help being utterly, confoundedly, impressed.

It'd be awesome even as a traditional fiction tale, utterly mainstream, but it just so happens to have telepathy. In today's market, this one would probably do very well and no one would blink twice. There's much worse blurring of the lines out there.

Yeah. I'm looking at you, David Mitchell.

For those of you looking for one of those true classics of the SF field, who want a taste without truly wanting to commit to a learning curve, you could do much worse than read this one. It might as well be a novel about a man's descent into sexual impotency, of the rage and fear and embarrassment and loss of connection and identity. It's just that clever, that deep, and that good.

Nominated for '73 Hugo, right on the heels of the other two novels, both of which were nominated for the '72 hugos, both in the same year. Does anyone think that Silverberg was out to prove something during this time frame? Hmmm? The fact that he managed to be so prolific and write such good stuff should be a testament of anyone's real talent, and my hat goes off to him! Bravo! ( )

I liked the idea of this novel more than the actual execution. A man who’s spent his life with an essential cheat sheet to human interaction suddenly being on the same footing as everyone else? Sounds amazing. Sadly I didn’t actually enjoy this all that much.

I didn’t mind that the main character was unlikable. I didn’t mind that he was racist, sexist and morose. What I did mind was that he was boring. So, so boring. Having no real plot to your novel is fine if the characters are interesting to read about. But no plot and boring characters? It’s like every bad stereotype of the Lit Fic genre and not a book I’d recommend.
( )