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213 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1975
Alan Dean Foster loves words. It's always a delight when an author is having fun. His prose is florid, unnecessarily so at times, but I forgive him that, because I can tell he was smiling when he wrote it. The love of language seeps into the book's worldbuilding, too: Foster's attention to idiomatic drift in isolated human populations is paralleled only by his attention to plants.
Alan Dean Foster LOVES plants. I mean, the book is literally dedicated to a houseplant. Plants are not just scenery to him: they are dynamic, terrifying, beautiful characters. The setting's visceral detail is essential for communicating Midworld's core themes, which, refreshingly for a book written by a white guy in the 70's, are environmentalist without being anti-human: We are part of the world. Harm done to the world is harm done to ourselves. Love for the world is love for ourselves.
The human characters are compelling, too. They clash realistically without ever diverting the plot, where a pointless argument could suck all the air out of the world's deadliest road trip. Instead, the tension seethes and builds while Foster reserves his punches for the book's true conflict: the horror of extraction. Harm done to the world is rationalized by exceptionalism, "us versus it". Any persons who retain love for themselves are easily reclassified as "it". But a people that is part of the world is not so easily destroyed.
It's been some time since I last read Le Guin's The Word for World is Forest. I want to return to it now and compare it to Midworld; the two stories are clearly kindred. I remember finding Word for World brutal, almost unbearably so. I'm not sure what I'll find this time.