Roadside Picnic is a deserving entry on any list of sci-fi classics, certainly due to its standalone merit, but also because of the unique history of the novel. It was written during the depths of the Cold War, at a time when art was strictly monitored and censored by the Soviet state, and was one of the few works of science fiction to cross the Iron Curtain.
The novel is set post-“visitation” – aliens came and left without interacting with humans, leaving behind Zones that contain strange, seemingly magical objects. The lack of visible aliens as a narrative device creates a vacuum that the human mind must attempt to fill (both for the characters in the novel and the reader). This theme was also deployed in Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama, which was coincidentally written just two years after Roadside, but **instead of the cosmic majesty on which Clarke waxes lyrical, the Strugatskys embed the Zones in a bleak, practical world wherein the characters are normal people, primarily concerned with looking after their families and putting food on the table, as opposed to the “great men” of several other sci-fi novels (like a Hari Seldon in Foundation or Paul Atreides in Dune).
The setting emphasises the grit of quotidian life rather than wondrous sci-fi technology (Neuromancer is another book that does this well). There is no tone of excitement surrounding the alien technology in the zones, instead, the mood is one of unfulfilled nervousness – people don’t understand anything about how the technology works, and thus don’t feel like they are using the devices correctly. This all leads to an existential exploration of why we were visited in the first place, which is the philosophical core of the novel (and the source of the title).
It’s tempting to try and fit a Soviet analogy onto Roadside, given its historical context, but I’m not certain this is easy nor advisable. Because of the political environment, in which some subversive artists were literally sent to gulags (Julian Barnes’ The Noise of Time explores the angst this caused for Shostakovich), the Strugatskys would have had to bury their metaphors deeply. It also feels somewhat patronising to the authors to see the novel as allegorical… perhaps they would prefer it to be appreciated as a piece of historical fiction in its own right, rather than needing political subtext to lend it weight. But how can one ignore the desperate plea of the protagonist in the wrenching conclusion of the book: “I have no words, they haven’t taught me the words; I don’t know how to think, those bastards didn’t let me learn how to think. But if you really are—all powerful, all knowing, all understanding—figure it out! Look into my soul, I know—everything you need is in there. It has to be. Because I’ve never sold my soul to anyone! It’s mine, it’s human!”.
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“You are absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. Always was and always will be. Except right now,” I say, “it’s a hole into the future. And the stuff we fish out of this hole will change your whole stinking world. Life will be different, the way it should be, and no one will want for anything. That’s our hole for you. There’s knowledge pouring through this hole. And when we figure it out, we’ll make everyone rich, and we’ll fly to the stars, and we’ll go wherever we want. That’s the kind of hole we have here (loc 672)
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And you know the amazing thing: I’m telling him this, and I completely believe in what I’m saying. And our Zone, the evil bitch, the murderess, is at that moment a hundred times dearer to me than all their Europes and Africas. (loc 686)
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What do you actually think about the Visit? Even if not seriously.” “Fine, I’ll tell you. But I have to warn you, Richard, that your question falls under the umbrella of a pseudoscience called xenology. Xenology is an unnatural mixture of science fiction and formal logic. At its core is a flawed assumption—that an alien race would be psychologically human.” “Why flawed?” asked Noonan. “Because biologists have already been burned attempting to apply human psychology to animals. Earth animals, I note.” “Just a second,” said Noonan. “That’s totally different. We’re talking about the psychology of intelligent beings.” “True. And that would be just fine, if we knew what intelligence was.” “And we don’t?” asked Noonan in surprise. “Believe it or not, we don’t. We usually proceed from a trivial definition: intelligence is the attribute of man that separates his activity from that of the animals. It’s a kind of attempt to distinguish the master from his dog, who seems to understand everything but can’t speak. However, this trivial definition does lead to wittier ones. They are based on depressing observations of the aforementioned human activity. For example: intelligence is the ability of a living creature to perform pointless or unnatural acts.” (loc 1875)
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“A picnic. Imagine: a forest, a country road, a meadow. A car pulls off the road into the meadow and unloads young men, bottles, picnic baskets, girls, transistor radios, cameras … A fire is lit, tents are pitched, music is played. And in the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that were watching the whole night in horror crawl out of their shelters. And what do they see? An oil spill, a gasoline puddle, old spark plugs and oil filters strewn about … Scattered rags, burntout bulbs, someone has dropped a monkey wrench. The wheels have tracked mud from some godforsaken swamp … and, of course, there are the remains of the campfire, apple cores, candy wrappers, tins, bottles, someone’s handkerchief, someone’s penknife, old ragged newspapers, coins, wilted flowers from another meadow …” “I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic.” (loc 1908)
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‘You ask: what makes man great?’” he quoted. “‘Is it that he re-created nature? That he harnessed forces of almost-cosmic proportions? That in a brief time he has conquered the planet and opened a window onto the universe? No! It is that despite all this, he has survived, and intends to continue doing so.’” (loc 1921)
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at first he didn’t hear what this talking key was shouting, but then something seemed to switch on inside him, and he heard: “Happiness for everyone! Free! As much happiness as you want! Everyone gather round! Plenty for everyone! No one will be forgotten! Free! Happiness! Free!” With that he abruptly went quiet, as if a huge hand had forcefully shoved a gag into his mouth. And Redrick saw the transparent emptiness lurking in the shadow of the excavator bucket grab him, jerk him up into the air, and slowly, with an effort, twist him, the way a housewife wrings out the laundry. (loc 2709)
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he was no longer trying to think. He just kept repeating to himself in despair, like a prayer, “I’m an animal, you can see that I’m an animal. I have no words, they haven’t taught me the words; I don’t know how to think, those bastards didn’t let me learn how to think. But if you really are—all powerful, all knowing, all understanding—figure it out! Look into my soul, I know—everything you need is in there. It has to be. Because I’ve never sold my soul to anyone! It’s mine, it’s human! Figure out yourself what I want—because I know it can’t be bad! The hell with it all, I just can’t think of a thing other than those words of his—HAPPINESS, FREE, FOR EVERYONE, AND LET NO ONE BE FORGOTTEN!” (loc 2749)
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