One of the first “grown up” books I ever discovered
and read for myself was HG Wells’ The
Time Machine. It was in the local
library and it had a shiny silver cover, and it was also short.
I like to think I still remember it pretty well
from that first reading, though I have reread it over the years and of course I’ve
seen the George Pal movie. (I preferred the book).
You couldn’t call The Time Machine a book about walking,
and yet when the Time Traveller (“for so it will be convenient to speak of him”) makes
his second appearance, having been away on his adventures in the fourth
dimension, he “walked with just such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps,”
so evidently he’d been doing plenty of walking on his travels.
Much of the book is
the Time Traveller’s own account of his adventures, and walking is certainly
involved, some ruin too; “As I
walked I was watching for every impression that could possibly help to explain
the condition of ruinous splendour in which I found the world—for ruinous it was.
A little way up the hill, for instance, was a great heap of granite, bound
together by masses of aluminium, a vast labyrinth of precipitous walls and
crumpled heaps ...” Are we in JG Ballard
territory yet?
And
apparently the people of Wells's future don’t do much walking: “There
were no large buildings towards the top of the hill, and as my walking powers
were evidently miraculous, I was presently left alone for the first time. With
a strange sense of freedom and adventure I pushed on up to the crest.”
The description of the time machine in the book
is, I think, deliberately vague, leaving you free to imagine your own apparatus.
I always liked this futuristic bicycle version:
And I found it rather more convincing than the
fairground ride kind of thing that’s in the movie, and of course also in the
Big Bang Theory:
But now that I think about it, I can’t see any
reason why a movie remake couldn’t employ a form of walking machine, perhaps “The
Time Treadmill,” especially some futuristic one like this:
Gardens do appear here and there in the novel, and at
one point the Time Traveller observes
that, “There
were no hedges, no signs of proprietary rights, no evidences of agriculture;
the whole earth had become a garden.”
There’s a JG Ballard
short titled the “Garden of Time” featuring Count
Axel “a tall, imperious figure in a black velvet jacket, a gold tie-pin
glinting below his George V beard, cane held stiffly in a white-gloved
hand.” Every evening he and his wife
walk in the garden attached to their villa.
He looks to the horizon and across the plain where he sees “that the advance columns of an enormous army
were moving slowly over the horizon … the army was composed of a vast confused
throng of people, men and women, interspersed with a few soldiers in ragged
uniforms, pressing forward in a disorganised tide.”
Ed Emshwiller’s illustration for The Garden of Time from The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Feb 1962
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This
rabble is no doubt symbolic, though there are many kinds of symbolism to choose
between, but however you slice it, they’re the forces of anarchy and they can
only be kept at bay by plucking one of the “time flowers” that grow in the count’s
garden. Pick one of those and the rabble
retreats, at least for a day.
Perhaps they,
and the count and his wife, go back in time, but as with most time travel stories,
that doesn’t quite work because if time simply reversed then the time flower would
still be there unpicked, and the story’s McGuffin is that there are fewer and
fewer of the flowers, that chaos and death are coming, at the hands of the riff
raff.
This is a picture of JG Ballard doing something (not
exactly walking) in his garden.
And here’s a picture of HG Wells in a garden, and again
not walking, but playing “Little Wars,” a game he invented.
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