Lem avoids the tedious trap of hard sci-fi by granting equal time to the philosophical aspects of his alien worlds and his thought provoking and lyrical prose has prompted some critics to call him "science fiction's James Joyce".  (...)  His ideas are impeccable and his pacing - though complex - is captivating.  In an age when ludicrous aliens are usually seen being pummeled by the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger it's encouraging that a tale over 30-years-old can come from overseas and introduce so many new ideas.  It's a shame American audiences don't call for translation of Lem's works sooner.

Robert Errera, Lakeland Today

 

  Eden, written in 1958, opened the epoch of Lem's mature science fiction works.  Why do we still read this book with great interest?  Certainly thanks to author's exceptional imagination, who creates rich visions of the culture and nature of a remote planet at the same time keeping the reader in suspense - slowly revealing the mysteries of Eden with a dramatic suspension that characterizes all discoveries.

  Political order on the planet makes the reader think about Orwell's visions.  However what seems even more important is the skepticism regarding the nature of cognition:  the very difference between technology used by the natives and humans make it very difficult to communicate.

Professor Jerzy Jarzebski

Editions Gerard,
France 1972 

 

 From today's perspective Eden is neutral in my eyes.  It is so-so.  From the point of view of literature it is a rather unsuccessful book;  its characters tend to be schematic and the pictured universe is a bit "flat" and one-dimensional.  This literature of the "second sort" is quite good in comparison with average science fiction - but one cannot line up a man of regular height with hunchbacks and claim that he is an Apollo.

  Because of miscalculation, the craft dipped too low and hit the atmosphere with an earsplitting scream.  Lying flat in their bunks, the men could hear the dampers being crushed.  The front screens showed flame and went black;  the cushion of incandescent gas at the bow was too much for the outside cameras.  The control room filled with the stench of hot rubber.  Under the force of the deceleration, the men temporarily lost their vision, their hearing.  This was the end...

  No one could think.  No one had the strength, eve, to inhale.  Breathing was done for them by the osypulsators, forcing air into them as into straining balloons.  Then the roar abated.  The emergency lights went on, six on either side.  The Crew stirred.  Above the instrument panel the warning signal showed the floor.  There was no roar now, only a dull whistle...
 

Translated by Marc E. Heine, Harcourt Brace 1989