The Book of Skulls (1972)

I read this 1972 Robert Silverberg novel in a kindle edition which included an afterword by Silverberg from 2004. He was at pains to defend it as science fiction because it is about an arguably scientific approach to seeking and perhaps finding immortality. But, well, no, I must demur. This novel hews far closer to horror, with its imagery and mythifying and above all with its ingeniously intricate premise. A college boy, Eli, has shown an aptitude for the study of ancient civilizations, which gains him entry to an archive where he discovers an untranslated document (in Catalan) called The Book of Skulls, which among other things dictates a route to immortality. By an amazing coincidence, Eli also notices an item in the newspaper about a cult in the Arizona desert that uses skull imagery. And so we are off to Arizona. Here are the terms: the cult must be approached in groups of four to submit to a trial for entry. During the trial, one of them must willingly commit suicide. Then two of the others must murder the third and the survivors will subsequently live forever. Easy-peasy. It’s a beauty of a concept, symmetrical, balanced, and savage. Silverberg tells the story in a tour de force of shifting first-person narratives among the four casual college chums on their spring break. Each of the four is individual but of a type. Eli, the instigator, is a scrawny brainy Jew. Ned is the scrawny sarcastic gay boy-man. Timothy is the rich and entitled WASP—his credit card is paying for the road trip. And Oliver is the scrappy Midwestern survivor, an orphan who is making it on charity, government assistance, and talent. In typical Silverberg fashion much about the tales, the present action and the flashbacks, are highly sexualized—“pervy,” as one reviewer noted. That reviewer approved of the novel overall but worried about the sex, which is constant. In fairness, that’s how lots of bestselling novelists were doing it in 1972. Also, apparently Silverberg wrote softcore porn for money at some point or points in his career. All the sex does date the novel somewhat in embarrassing ways, but at the same time it might be fair to say that Silverberg was clear-sighted and even prescient on gays. It’s a rollicking good time here. A genuine page-turner. But I claim it for horror, not science fiction.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.