Word: fictioners
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...both astronomers and science fiction writers. Mars is the king of planets. Its atmosphere is dense enough to make life possible, but not so dense that it hides the surface, as does the cloudy white atmosphere of Venus. There is water on Mars - not much, but some. Thin winds carry clouds of several types. The color of the surface changes blotchily with the seasons, as if vegetation were growing. There is a wealth of fine detail just at the threshold of vision, but even the best astronomical instruments have not been able so far to take photographs of it. Some...
...news stories made it plain that the Supreme Court's anti-segregation ruling brought both new hopes and old heartaches to the South. It remained for fiction to shape the facts into a form the heart could not ignore. This task might well have been undertaken by Negro writers such as Richard (Native Son) Wright...
...mamba-like revenge, ambushes Henry in the jungle and shoots him as dead as Hemingway's Mrs. Francis Macomber shot Mr. Francis Macomber. It is a neat story, but only its expertise on herpetology, lycanthropy and the flora and fauna of the Congo raises it above popular adventure fiction. The reader would do well to ignore the author's declaration that "this is the story of the struggle of a man against the forces of evil which drive him, and those of good which inspire him; of a God-woman concept . . ." Not so. It is just a fairly...
...most of them would no more expose it than be caught jitterbugging. Samuel Shellabarger, who died in 1954 at 65, had no such qualms. Years as a Princeton English professor and as head of a girls' school failed to dim his passion for writing cloak-and-dagger fiction (Captain from Castile, The King's Cavalier), a passion that was further inflamed by 1,000,000-copy sales and nods from the Literary Guild...
This is the old American story of the clash of generations, the impact of modern life on tradition. That Author Shellabarger wrote it at a pitch of sincerity cannot be doubted. Unfortunately, he was a carpenter of fiction and not an architect. In his historicals, that fact was nearly a virtue. In Tolbecken it exposes all his built-in limitations. The story is wooden, the characters stock, and coincidence is made to do the work of imagination. Yet it is so rare to find a contemporary novelist writing in praise of character that the literary defects seem almost less important...