There is a peculiar cosmic comedy that unfolds in the world of science fiction publishing — a comedy so recurring, so predictable, so gloriously absurd, that it deserves its own subgenre: the Great Recycling of SF Titles.
Yes, dear readers, welcome to the era of Solaris Rising, Andromeda Smirking, Dune Reborn, Neuromancer Reloaded, Hyperion Descending, Foundation Ascending, Snow Crash 2.0, The Left Hand of Midnight, The Right Hand of Darkness, The Slow Gods, The Fast Gods, The Gods Who Overslept, and of course…
COR SERPENTIS — AGAIN!
Because nothing says “bold new vision of the future” like dusting off a title from 1958 and pretending it materialized spontaneously in your creative nebula.
The Eternal Return of SF Titles
Science fiction prides itself on originality — galaxies never seen, civilizations never imagined, futures never predicted.
And yet, when it comes to titles, the genre behaves like a cosmic ouroboros:
it devours its own past and regurgitates it with a fresh coat of marketing gloss.
It’s not plagiarism.
It’s not theft.
It’s not even homage.
It’s gravitational laziness.
Certain words orbit the SF genre with the inevitability of celestial mechanics, Solaris, Serpentis, Andromeda, Hyperion, Foundation, Neuromancer, Leviathan, Babel, Horizon, Nexus, Omega, Arcadia, Eternity, etc.
They are the comfort food of SF titling — the mashed potatoes of speculative paraliterature.
Case Study: Cor Serpentis — The Cosmic Déjà Vu
Ivan Efremov wrote “Cor Serpentis” in 1958. A Soviet classic. A philosophical space tale. A cornerstone of proto-hard-SF.
Fast forward 67 years.
The Frenchman Romain Benassaya publishes „Cor Serpentis”— same title, same cosmic vibe, same star cluster, same mythic resonance.
Coincidence?
Probably.
But the effect is irresistible, of course, Monsieur Benassaya has never heard of Ivan Efremov’s short story “Cor Serpentis” (1958)!!! :)) Isn’it ??? :))
And yet here we are, watching the same title rise again like a star that refuses to die.
Why Does SF Recycle Titles?
Because cosmic words are addictive. Writers love them. Publishers love them. Readers love them.
They sound deep even when they’re shallow. Because the genre has a shared mythological vocabulary.
Certain terms feel like they belong to everyone — a communal toolbox of cosmic metaphors.
Because nobody remembers everything.
The SF canon is enormous.
You can accidentally reinvent a title without ever knowing it existed.
Because repetition creates lineage
A recycled title becomes a wink across decades — intentional or not.
Recycling titles in SF is not a crime. It is a tradition. A ritual. A cosmic joke shared across generations.
But let’s be honest, it’s also fucking lazy !
And that’s why we need texts like this — little satirical supernovas that remind the genre to look up, not back.
Solaris Rising
If someone publishes a novel tomorrow called “Solaris Rising”, we will all pretend to be shocked.
We will not be!
Because in the end, science fiction is a universe of infinite possibilities — but its titles?
They orbit in circles. Beautiful circles. Predictable circles. Cosmic circles. And we love them anyway.
Warm congratulations to the French SF fan Emilie Tran, who noticed and wrote about the similarity between the two titles!
“10 December 2025. Before even opening the book, the title intrigues me: “Cor Serpentis“, literally “Heart of the Serpent“. SF readers with a touch of the archaeologist in them will immediately hear the echo of the 1950s, when the Soviet writer Ivan Efremov published “Serdtse Zmey”, a foundational tale of optimistic science fiction — the kind that still believed an encounter with the Other, human or not, could elevate us. Why this title? Intrigued, I read on…”
“COR SERPENTIS”: A TALE OF TWO STARS — IVAN EFREMOV (1958) VS. ROMAIN BENASSAYA (2025)
COR SERPENTIS: TWO HEARTS, ONE STAR, AND A COSMIC JOKE
There’s something perversely poetic about watching a title crawl out of the grave after sixty‑seven years, blinking under the neon lights of a new century, pretending it’s never been here before.
Cor Serpentis — the “Heart of the Serpent” — once belonged to Ivan Efremov, the Soviet paleontologist‑philosopher who believed the universe was a polite dinner party where all species, oxygen‑breathers and fluorine‑breathers alike, could clink glasses and toast to reason.
His 1958 story was a hymn to cosmic civility, a communist utopia written in the language of chemistry and hope.
Then came Romain Benassaya, 2025, and the serpent shed its skin.
His “Cor Serpentis” opens with a girl named Jay waking up after five centuries of hypersleep, surrounded by ghosts, glitches, and a planet that hates her guts.
The AI is broken, the mission smells of lies, and the jungle hums with something that doesn’t want company.
It’s not a hymn anymore — it’s a fever dream.
Efremov’s universe was clean, crystalline, Soviet communism in its optimism: the cosmos as a rational republic.
Benassaya’s is a swamp of paranoia and bioluminescent deceit.
Efremov’s aliens extend a hand; Benassaya’s would rather eat it.
One wrote about the triumph of reason; the other writes about the corrosion of trust.
Same star, different century, and the light has turned acidic.
The irony is delicious.
Efremov’s “Cor Serpentis” was the heart of the serpent — pulsing with empathy, glowing with the belief that knowledge makes us kind.
Benassaya’s “Cor Serpentis” is the serpent’s bile — cold, poisonous, coiled, and waiting to strike.
Between them lies the entire moral collapse of science fiction: from the utopian dream of the communist cosmic brotherhood to the claustrophobic nightmare of human arrogance.
And yet, both are obsessed with the same question: what happens when we meet the Other?
Efremov answers with a handshake; Benassaya answers with a scream.
The Soviet Bolshevik sage saw the stars as mirrors of our better selves.
The modern novelist sees them as jungles full of teeth.
So here we are, orbiting the same title like moths around a dying sun.
Communist Efremov’s “Cor Serpentis” believed in progress; Benassaya’s “Cor Serpentis” believes in entropy.
One wrote from the Age of Sputnik, the other from the Age of Existential Burnout.
The serpent hasn’t changed — only the heart inside it has.
And maybe that’s the cosmic punchline: perhaps science fiction doesn’t recycle titles because some guys are lazy.
It does it because it’s haunted.
Every new author thinks they’re naming a star, but they’re really digging up a fossil.
Efremov dreamed of peace among the stars; Benassaya dreams of surviving them.
Two hearts, one serpent — and the universe, somewhere out there, laughing its scales off.
Origins and Context
Ivan Efremov’s “Cor Serpentis” (1958) — originally “Сердце Змеи” (Serdtse Zmey, Heart of the Serpent) — was written at the height of the Soviet space‑age optimism. Efremov, a paleontologist and visionary thinker, imagined humanity as a rational, cooperative species destined for cosmic brotherhood. His short story became a cornerstone of Soviet Communist “philosophical SF,” where science and ethics fused into a utopian worldview.
Romain Benassaya’s “Cor Serpentis” (2025) — published by Éditions Critic — emerges from a completely different cultural moment: the post‑Anthropocene anxiety of the 21st century. Benassaya, known for “Pyramides”, reuses Efremov’s title but flips its meaning. His novel is not about cosmic harmony but about isolation, deception, and survival. It’s the same star, but a darker sky.
The Premise
Ivan Efremov (1958): Two starships — one human, one alien — meet in deep space. The encounter reveals that intelligent life, though chemically distinct (oxygen‑based vs. fluorine‑based), can share reason and empathy. The story is a hymn to universal understanding, a scientific parable of peace.
Romain Benassaya (2025): Jay, one of twelve adolescents sent to colonize the planet Cor Serpentis, awakens after five centuries of hypersleep to find her companions gone, the ship’s AI corrupted, and the planet hostile. The jungle hides a presence that resents humanity’s arrival. The novel asks whether her mission — and her faith in it — were built on lies.
Ivan Efremov’s prose radiates serenity — the belief that knowledge leads to harmony.
Romain Benassaya’s narrative pulses with uncertainty — the suspicion that knowledge conceals manipulation.
Both works orbit the same celestial metaphor: Cor Serpentis, the “Heart of the Serpent,” the star Alpha Serpentis.
For Ivan Efremov, it symbolizes connection: the heart of the serpent as the pulse of universal life.
For Romain Benassaya, it becomes dislocation: the serpent’s heart as a labyrinth of deception, a planet that devours its explorers.
The title thus mutates from utopia to dystopia, from cosmic empathy to cosmic irony.
Thematic Continuum
Ivan Efremov’s story belongs to the era of scientific humanism, when space was a metaphor for moral progress.
Romain Benassaya’s novel belongs to the era of post‑colonial introspection, when space becomes a mirror of our ethical failures.
Both, however, share a fascination with encounter — the moment when the self meets the Other and must decide whether to understand or to dominate.
The Great Recycling of SF Titles
Romain Benassaya’s reuse of Efremov’s title is not theft — it’s resonance.
It’s the echo of a lost optimism reverberating through a more fractured century.
Ivan Efremov’s “Cor Serpentis” looked outward, toward the stars, and saw friendship.
Romain Benassaya’s “Cor Serpentis” looks inward, toward the human psyche, and sees doubt.
Between them lies sixty‑seven years of evolution — from the utopian heart of the serpent to the serpent’s heart of uncertainty.
Two visions, one title, and a single question that still burns across time:
Can humanity meet the unknown without trying to conquer it?
