By searching for “Colin Wilson” just to see what’s new on the web, I just now found this thoroughly irritating review of my friend Colin Wilson’s work. Although it is three months old, it deserves to be preserved somewhere as an example of the sort of trash that gets printed in newspapers just as if the author knew what he was talking about.
It is easy enough for the novelist who wrote this little hatchet-job to dismiss Wilson’s ideas and insights as being “just far too daft to be taken seriously.” That merely shows his own blindness. For in fact Wilson knows that humans as we know them are not what humans can become. He calls the font of our mostly undiscovered abilities Faculty X, and he shows very convincingly that this is our future. Unfortunately, this is all fantasy if you are a herd animal — as apparently this Harry Ritchie is. (I have no idea what he has written or what credentials he brings to his would-be demolition job.)
Wilson knows that we are not the stunted, accidental by-product of chemicals, nor neurosis-ridden animals that have gotten above ourselves. Instead, we are gods in the making. If that is a meaningless sentence to you, then either anything Colin Wilson has to say is closed to you, or he will serve as your doorway into better things. (You may find most accessible his Spider World series, which Hampton Roads published. This series gives many of his ideas is a science-fiction format.)
The Outsider (and, earlier, his science fiction novel, The Mind Parasites) marked a turning point in my life — and in many another life, too. It may for you, as well.
Look back in wonder
Fifty years ago, critics turned The Outsider into an overnight sensation and hailed its author a genius - then they changed their minds. Harry Ritchie charts the rise and fall of Colin Wilson
Saturday August 12, 2006
The Guardian
This year marks the golden anniversary of one of the most sensational debuts in English literary history. Not Osborne’s Look Back in Anger, which was greeted on opening night with dutiful applause and ho-hummish reviews, but the work of an even younger writer, the 24-year-old Colin Wilson, whose first book, The Outsider, was an overnight sensation.
The Outsider hardly seemed to be the stuff of even modest success. It was a bizarre concoction of philosophy and literary criticism, purporting to be about existentialism, and packed full of quotes and references to Sartre, Heidegger, Kierkegaard, Gurdjieff. Even garlanded with the dust-jacket praise of Edith Sitwell (whose 137-line blurb claimed that The Outsider was an “astonishing” book and that Colin Wilson would be “a truly great writer”), Gollancz’s initial print run of 5,000 copies seemed wildly optimistic.
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