Zander Dulac

Three Visits to Nightmare Alley

June 30, 2026 /

The life of William Lindsay Gresham reads like a prelude to the novel that would define him. Before becoming a writer of dark Americana, he was a man drawn to causes, extremes, and self-destruction. In the late 1930s, he volunteered to fight for the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War, joining the International Brigades. He saw the collapse of that cause firsthand. It left its mark politically, psychologically, and spiritually.

Back in the USA, Gresham struggled. He attempted suicide more than once. His personal life was not steady. He married the poet Joy Davidman, a brilliant and restless figure in her own right. Their marriage did not last. Davidman would later become known for her relationship with C.S. Lewis, while Gresham drifted further into alcoholism and instability.

Out of this turmoil came Nightmare Alley (1946), a novel that seemed to arrive fully formed, with a confidence and darkness that had few parallels in American fiction at the time. It did not fit comfortably into any category. It had elements of pulp, of noir, of psychological case study, even of allegory, but it resisted reduction.

Gresham never again produced a work of comparable power. His later books faded into obscurity. His health deteriorated: alcoholism, tuberculosis, and cancer compounded each other. In 1962, facing a terminal diagnosis and mounting despair, he checked into a hotel in New York and took his own life.

Before doing so, he had printed business cards. They read, simply: “No Address. No Phone. No Business. No Money. Retired.” It was less a joke than a final gesture. Dry, bitter, and entirely in keeping with the man.

Nightmare Alley follows Stanton Carlisle, a drifter who rises from carnival roustabout to celebrated mentalist, only to fall into degradation as a “geek”, the lowest form of sideshow performer, reduced to biting the heads off chickens for spectacle. The arc is simple. The execution is not.

Part of the novel’s power lies in how convincingly grounded it is. Gresham had done extensive research into carnival life, spiritualism, and fraudulent mentalism. The mechanics of deception, coded language, cold reading, and staged séances, are described with clinical precision. There is nothing supernatural here. Every illusion is explained.

And yet the novel never feels merely realistic. It operates simultaneously as a symbolic descent. Stanton’s rise is not just social or financial. It is metaphysical. He convinces himself that he is more than a fraud, that he can manipulate not just people but fate itself. His downfall, then, becomes inevitable, not as punishment, but as exposure.

The world of the novel is distinctly American, rooted in the 1940s fascination with spiritualism, self-invention, and the promise of reinvention after the Depression and the war. But its themes extend beyond that context. The hunger for belief, the ease of self-delusion, and the thin line between performance and identity are not tied to a specific era.

What, then, is Nightmare Alley? It can be read as noir, with its moral ambiguity and fatalistic trajectory. It can be read as existentialist, in its portrayal of a man constructing meaning only to find it hollow. It can also be read, more simply, as a deeply cynical view of human nature, one in which the desire to be deceived is as strong as the desire to deceive. The novel resists classification because it is doing all of these things at once.

The first film adaptation, Nightmare Alley (Edmund Goulding, 1947), is a fascinating object. It is both faithful and compromised, daring and restrained.

Casting Tyrone Power as Stanton Carlisle was, at the time, a departure. Power was known for romantic leads and swashbucklers. Here, he plays a manipulator and a fraud, charting a descent that his screen persona had not previously suggested. The performance works precisely because of that contrast: the charm is credible, and so is the corruption.

Visually and thematically, the film draws on earlier traditions. One can see echoes of Paul Leni’s The Man Who Laughs in its expressionist touches, and of Tod Browning’s Freaks in its depiction of carnival life not as spectacle alone, but as a closed, precarious community with its own rules and hierarchies.

Within the broader tradition of film noir, Nightmare Alley occupies an unusual place. It lacks the urban setting typically associated with noir, at least in its first half, but it shares the genre’s fatalism and moral darkness. Stanton is not undone by a femme fatale alone, he is undone by himself.

The film’s greatest weakness is also its most discussed feature: the ending imposed by producer Darryl F. Zanuck. Where the novel concludes with a devastating circularity (Stanton becoming the very geek he once pitied), the film softens the blow. It introduces a note of redemption, or at least the possibility of it, that feels unearned and tonally inconsistent. The result is a film that approaches greatness but stops short of it, constrained by the expectations of its time.

The screen retelling, also called Nightmare Alley (Guillermo del Toro, 2021), moves beyond simply remaking the 1947 film. Instead, it returns to the novel and reinterprets it with a contemporary sensibility.

From the outset, the film is more expansive. The carnival sequences are longer, more detailed, and more tactile. Del Toro lingers over textures (wood, canvas, mud, flesh) that ground the story physically while reinforcing its thematic weight. The world feels inhabited, not stylized.

The casting is precise. Bradley Cooper brings a controlled intensity to Stanton, suggesting both ambition and fragility. Cate Blanchett, as Dr. Lilith Ritter, is not merely a noir archetype but a fully realized counterforce: cool, analytical, and ultimately more dangerous than Stanton because she understands the game more completely.

What distinguishes this adaptation is its willingness to embrace the full darkness of the source material. There is no imposed consolation. The narrative is allowed to complete its arc, and the final transformation of Stanton is rendered with a clarity and inevitability that the 1947 film avoided.

At the same time, del Toro introduces his own sensibility. There is a heightened attention to trauma, particularly in Stanton’s backstory, which reframes his rise not just as ambition but as escape. The film is more explicitly psychological, less interested in deception as technique and more in deception as identity.

It preserves what matters, the structure, the themes, the ending, while expanding the emotional and visual range of the story. In that sense, it does not replace the earlier film so much as complete it.

Nightmare Alley endures because it refuses comfort. In Gresham’s life, in his novel, and in its adaptations, there is a consistent refusal to soften the fall. The story insists that the distance between success and ruin is not as great as it appears, and that, under the right circumstances, anyone might find themselves at the bottom of the alley.

Why I Like to Play Easy Games

June 16, 2026 /

Among video game enthusiasts, especially those who enjoy CRPGs, there is often an unspoken assumption that the “right” way to play is on the hardest difficulty setting available. Finishing a game on Normal is respectable. Finishing it on Hard is admirable. Finishing it on Nightmare, Insanity, Death March, or whatever intimidating name the developers have invented this time, is treated almost like a badge of honor.

I understand the appeal. Some of my favorite gaming memories come from overcoming difficult challenges. There is genuine satisfaction in mastering a complex combat system, learning enemy patterns, and finally defeating a boss that seemed impossible only a few hours earlier.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to easy games and easy difficulty settings. Not because I can’t handle harder games, but because they often provide a different kind of enjoyment.

When I sit down to play a game, I am usually looking for relaxation rather than stress. Real life already provides deadlines, obligations, unexpected problems, and difficult tasks. I don’t need my leisure activities to do the same. Sometimes I simply want to spend an evening wandering through a beautiful virtual world, following an interesting story, and enjoying myself.

Easy difficulty allows me to focus on the parts of games I often value most: atmosphere, exploration, characters, and narrative. Instead of replaying the same battle twenty times until I finally win, I can continue moving forward and experiencing what the developers created. The challenge becomes discovering the world rather than surviving it.

There is also something liberating about not caring whether a game judges my performance. On easy mode, I am more willing to experiment. I’ll try unusual weapons, strange character builds, or reckless strategies, simply because they seem fun. When every encounter is a life-or-death struggle, experimentation often gives way to optimization. Players stop asking “What would be interesting?” and start asking “What works best?”

Time is another factor. As a teenager, I could spend an entire weekend learning how to defeat a particularly difficult boss. Today, I would rather spend those hours playing several different games, reading a novel, watching a film, writing, traveling, or simply enjoying a good meal with friends. Easy modes allow me to experience more games without demanding the same level of commitment.

I also think the obsession with difficulty sometimes confuses challenge with quality. A game is not automatically better because it is harder. Some games are memorable because of their stories. Others because of their art direction, music, characters, or world-building. Difficulty is only one element among many. No one would argue that a novel becomes better if every page contains a vocabulary quiz, or that a movie improves because the audience must solve a puzzle before each scene. Yet gamers often treat difficulty as if it were the primary measure of value.

Perhaps most importantly, games are entertainment. They are one of the few activities in life where there is no objective reason to impress anyone else. Nobody gives out medals for selecting Hard Mode. Nobody’s career depends on defeating a boss without taking damage. The purpose is enjoyment.

For some people, enjoyment comes from extreme challenge. For others, it comes from immersion, exploration, storytelling, or simple relaxation. Neither approach is superior.

These days, I play games the same way I travel. I am not trying to prove anything. I am there for the experience. If an easy setting allows me to enjoy that experience more, then that is the setting I choose. And I have absolutely no regrets about it.

Favorite Science Fiction Novels, 2000-2020

June 9, 2026 /
  • House of Leaves (2000), by Mark Z. Danielewski
  • Perdido Street Station (2000), by China Miéville
  • The Three-Body Problem (2008), by Liu Cixin
  • The Yiddish Policemen’s Union (2008), by Michael Chabon
  • The Martian (2011), by Andy Weir
  • Ancillary Justice (2013), by Ann Leckie
  • Annihilation (2014), by Jeff VanderMeer

In chronological order.

Did you really write that book?

June 2, 2026 /

There’s a very specific narrative hook that shows up only occasionally in film: a writer comes into possession of a manuscript that is not theirs, and decides to pass it off as their own. It’s a narrow premise, almost schematic. Yet across three films, A Murder of Crows (Rowdy Herrington, 1998), The Words (Lee Sternthal & Brian Klugman, 2012), and Secret Window (David Koepp, 2004), it opens into three distinct genres: thriller, drama, and psychological horror.

The divergence doesn’t come from the setup. In all three cases, the situation is similar enough: a struggling or compromised writer faces a moment of temptation, and a text appears that could change everything. What differs is not the act itself, but how each protagonist responds to it and how the film chooses to interpret that response.

In A Murder of Crows, the reaction is pragmatic, almost opportunistic. The protagonist treats the manuscript less as a moral problem and more as a solution to a stalled life. The tone that follows is accordingly external. The story looks outward, toward consequences that take the form of pursuit, exposure, and danger. The question is not “should he have done it?” but “what will happen now that he has?” The film aligns itself with the mechanics of a thriller: escalation, suspicion, and the constant sense that something is closing in. Authorship becomes a liability, a trigger for events that move faster than the protagonist can control.

The Words approaches the same decision from the opposite direction. Here, the act is less impulsive than quietly rationalized. The protagonist is aware, perhaps too aware, of what he is doing, and the film lingers on that awareness. Instead of building outward momentum, it turns inward, toward reflection and consequence over time. The tension is not driven by immediate danger but by the slow accumulation of moral weight. Recognition, success, and admiration all arrive, but they are never uncomplicated. The premise becomes a vehicle for examining ambition, insecurity, and the cost of becoming the person you wanted to be under false pretenses. If A Murder of Crows asks what happens when you get away with it, The Words asks whether “getting away with it” is even possible.

Then Secret Window takes the same premise and bends it into something less stable. The protagonist’s reaction is not clearly opportunistic or reflective: it is defensive, even evasive. The accusation of theft, when it appears, is treated not as a legal or ethical dispute but as something more personal, more intrusive. The film doesn’t expand outward like a thriller, nor does it settle into introspection like a drama. Instead, it destabilizes the ground beneath the protagonist. Certainty erodes. The question of authorship, who wrote what, and who has the right to claim it, becomes entangled with identity itself. The premise is no longer just about taking a story, it is about whether the boundaries of the self can hold. In that sense, the film naturally slips into psychological horror. The threat is not exposure or guilt, but disintegration.

Seen together, the three films suggest that the core idea, publishing someone else’s work as your own, is less about literary ethics than about pressure points in the self. One protagonist treats it as an opportunity and is pulled into a world of external consequences. Another treats it as a compromise and is forced to live with its internal cost. The third cannot contain the implications at all, and the situation turns into something far more unstable.

It’s a useful reminder that genre is often less about plot than about emphasis. The same premise can generate suspense, reflection, or dread depending on where the camera lingers: on the chase, on the conscience, or on the fracture.

Complaining about the Guardian’s Top 100 Best Novels

May 19, 2026 /

I just saw the new Guardian’s 100 Best Novels of All Time list, created by “170 authors, critics and academics from around the world”, and I was appalled.

The top of the list leans heavily toward what might be called “prestige seriousness”: books that are endlessly taught, endlessly written about, and endlessly admired partly because admiring them signals cultural literacy. So you get the almost ritual elevation of Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, and In Search of Lost Time near the summit. Now, are these important novels? Obviously. But “important” and “greatest reading experiences for actual human beings” are not the same thing. Lists like this often confuse influence, academic prestige, and emotional obligation with vitality. There is a certain kind of literary culture that treats admitting boredom with Proust as if one had confessed to kicking puppies.

The Virginia Woolf saturation is another example: five novels. That is not an accident. It reflects institutional taste. Mrs Dalloway and To the Lighthouse are understandable inclusions, but at some point representation becomes canon maintenance. Woolf is one of those writers whom critics adore discussing almost more than readers enjoy reading. Her importance to literary modernism is unquestionable, but five slots out of a hundred is excessive unless the goal is specifically “the history of high modernist prose technique”.

Tolstoy gets the same treatment. One can defend War and Peace and even perhaps Anna Karenina as monumental works, but when authors start receiving multiple guaranteed spots, the list stops feeling exploratory and starts feeling bureaucratic. It becomes less “the best novels” and more “approved monuments”.

Then there is Jane Austen, with a near-sacred aura surrounding her. She often benefits from a kind of critical inflation in which elegance, irony, and social observation are treated as inherently superior to ambition, imagination, or emotional scale. Pride and Prejudice could be considered well written, even charming and sharp, but it’s basically a story where the heroes are women whose main concern in life is to marry rich men. Does that deserve perpetual placement above wildly more ambitious works from world literature?

The Marilynne Robinson inclusion is almost comically predictable for this sort of list. Robinson occupies a very specific niche in Anglo-American literary culture: quiet, contemplative, Protestant-inflected seriousness written in pristine prose. Critics adore that combination. But outside literary circles, her cultural footprint is tiny compared to many omitted authors. When you see Robinson included while someone like Umberto Eco is absent, you can practically hear the seminar room humming in the background.

The Ernst Hemingway placement is especially revealing. Only one book, and low on the list, suggests a contemporary discomfort with old-school masculine prose and direct emotional architecture. He used to be unavoidable in these canons. Now he feels almost grudgingly retained, like an aging rock band reluctantly invited to the festival because the audience would riot otherwise.

Meanwhile, the omissions are honestly more interesting than the inclusions. No Paul Auster? That is bizarre for a list supposedly interested in literary innovation and postmodern identity games. No Ian McEwan? One can argue about individual novels, but Atonement alone has had enormous literary and cultural impact. No Kurt Vonnegut is another symptom of the list’s discomfort with humor, satire, and speculative fiction. Literary institutions often say they value imagination, but when voting time comes, realism and solemnity dominate. No Jack Kerouac is another classic establishment move. The Beats remain oddly suspect to elite literary culture because spontaneity, looseness, and countercultural energy age badly in academic environments that privilege polish and interpretability. And no Somerset Maugham hurts because he represents something modern literary criticism undervalues: readability. Maugham was one of the great storytellers of the 20th century. But “beautifully constructed and compulsively readable” now counts for less than “structurally interrogates memory and identity through fragmented temporality”.

No Umberto Eco is absurd. The Name of the Rose alone bridges literary fiction, historical fiction, semiotics, detective fiction, philosophy, and popular readability better than half the list combined. No Julio Cortázar and therefore no Hopscotch? That is one of the great modern novels about structure and reader participation. But Latin American literature in English-language canons often gets reduced to the obligatory García Márquez checkpoint. And the absence of Machado de Assis is honestly indefensible if the list pretends global scope. The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas anticipated modern metafiction decades before many Europeans supposedly invented it. Likewise, no Eça de Queirós means an entire literary tradition barely registers. The Maias is easily worthy of consideration.

No J.R.R. Tolkien is maybe the single clearest sign of bias. One can dislike fantasy, but excluding The Lord of the Rings from any serious “greatest novels” conversation is like discussing cinema without mentioning Kurosawa because samurai movies are “genre”. Tolkien shaped modern storytelling more than many of the approved literary names on the list.

And then, where is Les Misérables? If readability, emotional force, social ambition, historical sweep, and cultural influence matter, its omission is astonishing.

Contemporary literary institutions tend to overvalue books that align with current ideological and aesthetic priorities while undervaluing writers who were massively important to actual readers across generations. These lists often mistake “books that are rewarding to study” for “books that fully justify the existence of the novel as an art form”. Those are not identical categories. A novel can be technically revolutionary and emotionally inert. Another can be messy, uneven, melodramatic, yet unforgettable.

The funniest thing is that the Guardian itself admits the whole enterprise is subjective and argumentative. Which is true. These lists are less maps of literary greatness than x-rays of institutional taste.

In case the list disappears from its original place, I’ll leave a copy here for reference: 100 My Ántonia, 99 The Go-Between, 98 The Road, 97 Catch-22, 96 Pedro Páramo, 95 The Return of the Native, 94 The Known World, 93 Invisible Cities, 92 Sentimental Education, 91 Life and Fate, 90 Jacob’s Room, 89 The Left Hand of Darkness, 88 Ragtime, 87 The Line of Beauty, 86 The Turn of the Screw, 85 The Vegetarian, 84 The Talented Mr Ripley, 83 A Farewell to Arms, 82 The End of the Affair, 81 Buddenbrooks, 80 Rebecca, 79 Go Tell It on the Mountain, 78 A House for Mr Biswas, 77 The Rainbow, 76 Dracula, 75 The Bluest Eye, 74 Nervous Conditions, 73 Austerlitz, 72 Our Mutual Friend, 71 Kindred, 70 Jude the Obscure, 69 Crime and Punishment, 68 Blood Meridian, 67 The Man Without Qualities, 66 The Master and Margarita, 65 The Color Purple, 64 The Good Soldier, 63 White Teeth, 62 Half of a Yellow Sun, 61 The Rings of Saturn, 60 Howards End, 59 Never Let Me Go, 58 Disgrace, 57 The Sound and the Fury, 56 Mansfield Park, 55 The Waves, 54 Orlando, 53 The Transit of Venus, 52 The Golden Bowl, 51 My Brilliant Friend, 50 Wide Sargasso Sea, 49 A Fine Balance, 48 The Metamorphosis, 47 Vanity Fair, 46 The Leopard, 45 The Golden Notebook, 44 Giovanni’s Room, 43 Housekeeping, 42 The Magic Mountain, 41 Heart of Darkness, 40 Song of Solomon, 39 Their Eyes Were Watching God, 38 The Age of Innocence, 37 Invisible Man, 36 The Handmaid’s Tale, 35 Great Expectations, 34 Wolf Hall, 33 David Copperfield, 32 The God of Small Things, 31 The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, 30 Frankenstein, 29 Pale Fire, 28 The Brothers Karamazov, 27 The Trial, 26 Don Quixote, 25 Lolita, 24 The Remains of the Day, 23 Midnight’s Children, 22 Things Fall Apart, 21 The Portrait of a Lady, 20 Wuthering Heights, 19 The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, 18 Persuasion, 17 One Hundred Years of Solitude, 16 Nineteen Eighty-Four, 15 Moby-Dick, 14 Mrs Dalloway, 13 Emma, 12 Bleak House, 11 The Great Gatsby, 10 Madame Bovary, 09 Pride and Prejudice, 08 Jane Eyre, 07 War and Peace, 06 Anna Karenina, 05 In Search of Lost Time, 04 To the Lighthouse, 03 Ulysses, 02 Beloved, 01 Middlemarch.

Playing Old CRPGs Again: the Divinity series

May 5, 2026 /

My plan was to play Larian’s Divinity series next. I had played all the games when they were launched, and was eager to return to the world of Rivellon. Then I found out that the first five games no longer work on an updated Mac computer. Fortunately, the two more recent games still work, Divinity: Original Sin (2015) and Divinity: Original Sin II (2017), and that’s what I’m going to play next, while waiting for the upcoming ninth title in the series, Divinity, which doesn’t have a launch date yet.

These games are very enjoyable and also very large, and it will take me a long time to complete them. Meanwhile, here is what I remember from the story of the previous games. It’s not required to know this to play any of the titles, as they are independent adventures, but it’s interesting to see the connections in the rich and convoluted history and mythology of Rivellon.

Divine Divinity (2002) sets the template: Rivellon is under threat from an apocalyptic force called Chaos, and a shadowy cult known as the Black Ring is working to summon it. You begin as an apparently ordinary adventurer but soon discover that you are one of the Marked Ones, destined to become the Divine, a messianic figure meant to oppose Chaos. The early plot plays like a grounded fantasy mystery (mad healers, undead mages, political intrigue), but gradually expands into something more mythic: false prophets, manipulated wars between races, and a grand conspiracy engineered by the Black Ring. The twist is that Duke Janus, the supposed savior figure, is actually the Demon of Lies, and the player must assume the true role of the Divine after a ritual involving the heirs of the ancient Council of Seven. The game ends with the defeat of Janus and the prevention (or postponement) of Chaos’s return, but with a lingering unease: the forces behind Chaos are not truly gone, merely delayed.

Beyond Divinity (2004) is set about twenty years later and shifts tone and structure. Instead of playing as the Divine, you control a paladin of the Divine Order who is forcibly soul-forged to a death knight by a demon. The two are magically bound (if one dies, so does the other), creating a reluctant partnership that drives the entire story. Most of the game takes place outside Rivellon, in a demon-controlled realm. The core objective is simple but effective: find a way to break the soul forge and return home. Along the way, the uneasy alliance between holy warrior and undead servant evolves into something more ambiguous, culminating in a return to Rivellon, where the death knight reveals deeper ties to the overarching villainy. The game is less about saving the world and more about survival, identity, and the uneasy overlap between good and evil, though it quietly sets up the rise of Damian, one of the central antagonists of later entries.

By the time of Divinity II: Ego Draconis (2009), the world has moved forward (and sideways). The Divine (Lucian, implied to be the hero of the first game) is gone or mythologized, and the new threat is Damian, a powerful figure with demonic ties and a personal vendetta rooted in past events. You play as a Dragon Slayer, trained to eradicate dragons, but quickly gain dragon powers yourself (already a sign that the moral lines of the series are shifting). The story revolves around rediscovering your lost memories, understanding the truth about dragons, and confronting Damian, who is building an army to conquer Rivellon. His motivations are not purely evil. They stem from betrayal, loss, and manipulation, particularly involving Lucian and a woman named Ygerna. The game reframes earlier lore: the Divine is no longer a clear savior figure, dragons are not simply enemies, and the world is shaped by cycles of conflict rather than a single apocalyptic threat. It’s the point where Divinity starts becoming morally ambiguous rather than mythically straightforward.

There was a rerelease called Divinity II: The Dragon Knight Saga (2010), which included the original game plus the expansion Flames of Vengeance. The key addition was narrative closure. After the events of Ego Draconis, your character becomes a Dragon Knight and is trapped within a magical tower, where the story shifts into a more contained but more introspective final act. The conflict with Damian reaches its conclusion here, though in typical Divinity fashion, the resolution is not clean or absolute. The expansion leans heavily into themes of manipulation, destiny, and cyclical war, suggesting that Rivellon’s problems are structural, not temporary. In practical terms, this version is the canonical endpoint of the “original era” of Divinity storytelling.

Divinity: Dragon Commander (2013) was both clearly part of the series and oddly detached from it. Chronologically, it comes first, set thousands of years before the other games, during the collapse of a unified empire in Rivellon. You play as the half-dragon heir to the empire, tasked with defeating rival claimants and preventing a demonic power (Corvus) from taking control of the world. The story mixes political intrigue, civil war, and personal decision-making, with outcomes shaped by alliances and ideology. So, is it really part of the same series? Technically, yes. It shares the same world (Rivellon), recurring concepts (dragons, demons, power struggles), and long-term thematic concerns (cycles of rise and collapse). But in practice, it feels more like a mythic prehistory, a distant legend rather than a direct prequel. Its gameplay (strategy + politics + dragon combat) and tone are so different that it reads less like a chapter in an ongoing narrative and more like a foundational myth that the later games loosely build upon.

Taken together, these games don’t form a clean, continuous saga. Instead, they resemble layers of storytelling added over time: a classic “chosen one vs. evil” beginning, a darker companion piece, a morally ambiguous reinvention, and finally a retroactive mythic origin. The continuity exists, but it’s flexible, almost folkloric. That looseness is part of what allowed Larian to eventually reinvent the series with Original Sin. But the DNA of everything that came later (the Divine, the ambiguity of good and evil, the cyclical nature of power) is already present in these early, rougher games.

Now, let’s play Divinity: Original Sin.

Favorite Science Fiction Novels, 1970-1979

April 28, 2026 /
  • Tau Zero (1970), by Poul Anderson
  • The Dancers at the End of Time (1972), by Michael Moorcock
  • Time Enough for Love (1973), by Robert A. Heinlein
  • The Forever War (1976), by Joe Haldeman
  • The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1979), by Douglas Adams

In chronological order.

« Older posts

© 2026 Zander Dulac

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑