“It took two years to make,” retorted the Time Traveler. “Now I want you clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends the machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the motion. The saddle represents the seat of the time traveler. Presently I am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go. It will vanish, pass into future time, and disappear. Have a good look at the thing. Look at the table, too, and satisfy yourself that there is no trickery. I don’t want to waste this model and then be told I am a quack!” –The Time Machine
That’s the description of the first time machine to be called a time machine — little more than a Victorian mechanical bull, although a pretty one, built of brass, quartz and ivory. H.G. Wells’ landmark 1895 novella was a major leap forward for time-travel yarns — so much so, that we think of it as the first true time-travel story. It deserves to be. In our previous lecture, we examined the literary roots of time-travel pop, and while we saw how those stories established many essential themes (political allegory; regret and carpe diem living), we also saw that they weren’t really what you would call science fiction; the likes of A Christmas Carol and Rip Van Winkle were moralistic fables, written for audiences hooked on ghost stories and whose worldviews were still colored by folklore, superstition, and apocalyptic religion.
But by the time you get to Wells — who was writing at the same as fellow futurists Jules Verne (Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea; Around the World in Eighty Days) and Edward Page Mitchell (The Clock That Went Backward; see my previous essay for more) — you begin to see the modern world as we recognize it — mechanistic and scientific and God-subtracted — displacing the old. In many ways, the time-travel genre has been a mirror to many of the ideas that have gassed this transformation — and it has also been a conscience, worrying about what we may be losing in the transition. READ FULL STORY »