wooohooo's blog

i just remembered that i promised that i would post this

wooohooo — Mon, 05 May 2008 09:54:22 +0000

http://www.peta.org/feat_in_vitro_contest.asp

Narration in Oryx and Crake

wooohooo — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 06:28:13 +0000

Going along (sort of) with my response, I wanted to add in the idea of the narrative voice in Oryx and Crake. Obviously, it varies from Jimmy to Snowman, but there are also moments in which another narrator supercedes both of the protagonist's voices. Examples: "So who is he to blame them? (He blames them)" (page 67); "Jimmy didn't envy him. (He envied him.)" (page 250). At other times, this new narrator knows things that neither Jimmy nor Snowman could: "(Jimmy's dad refused to pay...he and the dentist had a shouting match later, over the phone.) (page 62). At first, I thought that these parenthetical statements were simply Snowman inserting comments over Jimmy's storytelling, but sometimes they're things that Snowman really couldn't have known. Is this just a goof on the part of Atwood? Or is there another narrative voice that only pops up at certain times?

Response 10. Or maybe 9. Pattern Recognition.

wooohooo — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 06:16:48 +0000

A Few Thoughts on Pattern Recognition (potentially scattered, I apologize.)
One of the things that interested me most in Pattern Recognition was Gibson's recycling of his protagonist's name. I know that we talked about this a little bit in class, but it was definitely one of the things that stuck out to me most about the novel (shoot me, I'm not a Gibson fan!). Also, I know that Gibson claims that he didn't do it on purpose. But, I mean, come on! There are millions of names in the world and he has enough imagination to come up with whole new science-fiction realms. I would think that he could at least think of a new name.
So I decided to look up who exactly the Cayce who the Cayce of Pattern Recognition was named for. Apparently, Edgar Cayce was a psychic from the early 20th century. In that way, Cayce seems like a perfectly appropriate name for the protagonist of Pattern Recognition. Obviously, her abilities are paranormal, although apparently coolhunter is not an expression invented by Gibson, but is actually a fairly common term for someone who is hired to predict trends (who knew?).
I find myself wondering whether or not the use of the name Cayce was actually a pattern intended by Gibson. Or is it simply a flash of apophenia? By using the name again, Gibson seems to be inviting his readers to draw a connection between the two protagonists. And their lives are, at times, disturbingly similar: two seemingly free-spirited professionals (one hacker, one coolhunter) are offered contracts. Action ensues.
However, the novels' endings are different enough that I didn't find myself immediately wanting to write Cayce's story off as the feminine version of Neuromancer. (Obviously, there are tons of other differences--over-simplification for the point of a reading response.) The end of Neuromancer intentionally veers away from a fairy-tale ending: Molly leaves Case, eliminating any possibility of a future between the two of them. In contrast, the ending of Pattern Recognition seems to veer in the opposite direction: everything is worked out rather neatly, and Cayce finds romantic happiness and comes to terms with the disappearance of her father. The ending might be why I found myself not liking Pattern Recognition as much as Neuromancer.

Response 9

wooohooo — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 05:41:31 +0000

While reading Oryx and Crake, I was fascinated by the narrative structure that Atwood uses to tell her characters' story. At first, it was extremely confusing: it was difficult to tell the point at which Jimmy stopped and Snowman began. However, once I acclimated to this technique, I found it really interesting. After recognizing the differences between Jimmy and Snowman, I realized that pretty much every character has at least two identities, although they are not necessarily as clear-cut as those of the narrator. Crake is another such character, although his latter identity essentially overtakes the former: "Snowman has trouble thinking of Crake as Glenn, so thoroughly has Crake's later persona blotted out his earlier one" (Atwood 71). Oryx is just as fragmented as Snowman and Crake, in many ways: "How long had it taken him to piece her together from the slivers of her he'd gathered and hoarded so carefully? There was Crake's story about her, and Jimmy's story about her as wellâ€¦and then there was her own story about herselfâ€¦There must once have been other versions of herâ€¦" (Atwood 114). Snowman himself seems attached to this idea that humans have dual identities. When presented with the character of Jack, the pornographer from Oryx's childhood, he demands to know not just the name by which Oryx knows him, but "his other name" (Atwood 143). Atwood links the concept of identity with name, suggesting that a name has an underlying power to create one's identity. She also interconnects the concept of self-identity with that of identity presented by others, implying that multiple stories co-exist within one person. However, it seems unclear whether or not these identities can actually co-exist. Are they, instead, exclusive?
Snowman and Jimmy seem to be one example in which two separate identities cannot co-exist. Instead, at the moment when he meets the Crakers, he decides that "he no longer wanted to be Jimmy, or even Jim, and especially not Thickneyâ€¦He needed to forget the past--the distant past, the immediate past, the past in any form" (Atwood 348). However, Snowman is unable to fully escape his past, even at the very end of the novel. The last page illustrates this as Snowman hears echoes from his past: "Oh Jimmy, you were so funny" (Atwood 374). Even at the very end of the novel, Snowman is unable to let go of his identity as Jimmy.
In contrast to Snowman, whose present identity seems consumed by that of his past, Crake's past seems completely overwhelmed by his future. To Snowman, Crake's past identity as Glenn is nothing more than "a disguise." Unable to reconcile the persona of Glenn with that of Crake, Snowman claims, "The Crake side of him must have been there from the beginning" (Atwood 71). However, this idea of Crake's latter identity as omnipresent clashes with Snowman's own desire to reject and forget his past. Atwood seems to imply, through Crake's persistent identity and Snowman's own inability to actually forget his past, that identity is an underlying facet to one's personality, something that cannot actually be changed.
The character of Oryx is an interesting mesh of identities, since her actual character seems rather vague throughout the entire novel. I found her identity especially interesting because she means so many different things to so many different characters. Snowman himself has an entire persona built up around the picture of her that he printed off from a porno site when he was fourteen, but Oryx seems unsure of whether or not it is actually her. At times, Oryx seems like nothing more than a construct, some sort of idealistic girl dreamt up by Crake and Jimmy when they were fourteen. The Crakers' association with her does little to dissuade this image, since she becomes a sort of goddess in their minds.

Response 8

wooohooo — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 06:32:47 +0000

Maybe it's because I just finished writing a ten-page paper on incest, but I can't help but focus on the relationship between Antonio and Tan-Tan. Throughout the beginning of the novel, I thought that my final paper topic was the reason that I was reading so much into their relationship. When the abuse was revealed, I found myself comparing it to that of Lore and her mother from Slow River.
I didn't really see Catherine's abuse coming, in all honesty. I feel like I simply couldn't anticipate a mother abusing her daughter. If you look back through the novel, the clues are absurdly honest: I mean, the interaction at the fountain is pretty blatant. However, I made up reasons for why Stella might verbally attack her mother. The one that I finally settled on was that Catherine knew about her husband's abuse and kept silent. I didn't even consider the fact that Catherine might be responsible for the actual abuse.
However, I instantly assumed that Antonio was abusing Tan-Tan, even though the clues were much more subtle in Midnight Robber than in Slow River. Why is it that I was so much readier to put the abuse in the father's hands than in the mother's?
We talk so much in class about the negative constraints that our society puts on female gender concepts. Obviously, there are negative stereotypes about women. However, there are also some terrible images of men that our society has perpetuated. After reading dozens of books on the societal construction of incest and the oppression of our patriarchal society, I can't help but be a little bit disgusted by the instant assumption that a father will be the abusive member of the parental couple. Of course, it's possible that the fault is all within me--maybe others' minds didn't instantly jump to the fact that Lore's father was the abuser. But it seems to me that that was the whole shock value of the abuse in Slow River--the reader wasn't supposed to guess that it was Lore's father.
On another note (away from incest), I was surprised that Midnight Robber didn't have the same slightly-cheesy fairy-tale vibe of Slow River. Although there was a mythological vibe, made obvious by the interjections of story-telling between Tan-Tan's own narration. However, it didn't have the same happily-ever-after ending of Slow River. I'm not sure exactly why I didn't get the same vibe from Midnight Robber as Slow River. both have female characters going through trials and tribulations and coming out better in the end. The ending leaves almost no room for negativity--Tan-Tan is obviously already a legend, and her son, Tubman, lives long enough to be told stories about his epic mother. I think I might have liked Midnight Robber more because the character of Tan-Tan is actually pretty likeable. Lore, in contrast, is both pretty dull and relatively impossible to like at times--I mean, come on! She makes porn with her friends' faces!
Because I felt so emotionally attached to Tan-Tan, I found myself liking the ending of Midnight Robber much more. I wanted things to end well for her--I wanted her child to grow up and escape any hint of the memory of his grandfather's abuse. I think that Nalo Hopkinson managed to write a story with a happy ending without sounding cheesy, something that is pretty damn hard to do.

Some thoughts on Slow River

wooohooo — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 17:27:19 +0000

I am still not sure if Slow River falls into my personal definitions of science fiction. Obviously, it takes place in the future, and there are extrapolative qualities to the narrative, but it does not seem "sciency" enough to me. The water parts, although interesting, do not have the same glamorous appeal as interstellar space travel. One of the most fascinating areas of the novel, to me, was the role of pleasure in manipulating its victims' lives. Like Molly from Neuromancer, Lore and Spanner utilize a futuristic method to distance themselves from the reality of selling their bodies to men. However, the implication remains that there is no true escape from prostitution. Although the drug makes the act itself more pleasurable, eventually one needs to wake up. Both Molly and Lore have rude awakenings to this fact, and both are forced to continue prostituting themselves once they stop using the drugs.
I am interested in the role that prostitution plays in many of the novels that we have read so far. Obviously, there is the futuristic whorehouse of Neuromancer, and there is the twosome prostitution of Lore and Spanner in Slow River. However, there is also the necessary prostitution of the humans in Lilith's Brood. I am not quite sure if prostitution is the right word, but there is an implied obligation to having sex with the Oankali in order to stay in their good graces. Again, in Lilith's Brood, pleasure is used as the seductor for sex, and it proves to be a powerful tool for the Oankali. Why do all of these novels portray pleasure in such a negative fashion? Or is it simply the manipulation and excess of pleasure that is the real problem?
On a somewhat-unrelated note (sorry for the rambling nature of this response paper, but there were so many interesting aspects of Slow River!), I liked her name-choices, although some were a little bit obvious. The article that we read for today mentioned the hedonistic implications of the plant's name, but I felt like that was only one of the novel's many Dickenson-worthy names. I brought this up in class, but I found it interesting that all of her siblings' names had some sort of fairy-tale connection. I was trying to remember where I had heard the name Tok from, and I just realized last night that he is a character from The Wizard of Oz collection. It seemed completely contradictory that Griffith chose to give such a cold family fantasy-related names, but perhaps this irony was what she really wanted for the Van de Oest family. In addition to the family itself, my presentation group talked a little bit about Spanner and what her name implies. Although she seems firmly planted in her sector of society (Lore notes the fact that she has found her niche in the underworld), she also seems to have her hand in everything. There is always the sense that Spanner knows much more than she lets on, although she too is duped by the pleasure-inducing drug.
Because there are implications for the other characters' names, I really want to know why Griffith chose to call the manager of the plant Magyar. It is the Hungarian term for themselves, and I cannot help but wonder why she chose this word. Maybe it is just the Hungarian blood in me, but I really want to know why!

Race in Cyteen

wooohooo — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 00:01:49 +0000

In general, race in Cyteen seemed to be of absolutely minimal importance. Surface physical differences deteriorated (or evolved) into genetic ones: the most blatant division within Resuene society is the dichotomy of CIT and azi. However, I find myself wondering if that division is not just a displacement of race issues. The azi certainly seem to be the inferior members of this hierarchical structure. Although they have an important function within the society and do not seem to mind their lower status, they are forced to be servants of the upper strata of CIT's. The most constant reminder of this is Caitlin and Florian's inability (or refusal) to call Ari anything but "Sera," an honorary term.
There is also a degree of segregation within the Resuene world: the azi all live down in the "Town," in barracks separate from the CIT's whom they serve. Unless the azi have been chosen to be special servants for a CIT, they live within this segregated world.
Of course, there is another degree of segregation within the azi world--the division of them into alphabetical and intellectual classes. This division, strikingly similar to Brave New World, offers up another look into segregation within Cyteen. Maybe it all just ties into what the Oankali think--humans are inherently hierarchical... :)

Response 6

wooohooo — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 23:55:22 +0000

After finishing the literary behemoth that is Cyteen, I still cannot help but be a little bit confused about certain aspects of the novel. Although Cherryh does her best to explain all of the details of her world, it seems impossible to ever fully grasp everything that happens within Resuene. Although I enjoyed the book, I felt pretty much clueless at the end of 680 pages. One of its most confusing aspects is the fact that the entire civilization is split into two fundamental groups: the azi and the CIT's. Obviously, there are surface differences, and Cherryh drops hints about these throughout the novel. However, she also intentionally muddles her readers' understanding about the two groups.
Because Cyteen is so epic, the number of characters within its pages offer up many perspectives on the CIT-azi conflict. The most obvious pairing of CIT and azi is Justin and Grant, who originally act as the perfect dichotomy within the society. Upon their first introduction, Cherryh makes sure to note the most important difference between them: "a replicate citizen was not azi. There were considerable legal differences between young Justin, say, and elegant, red-haired Grant, at the second of tables, so, so close in all respectsâ€¦born in the same lab, an insignificant day apart" (Cherryh 38). For all of their similarities, the two characters are really not alike at all, simply because of the nurturing differences in their upbringings: "one infant had gone to a father's armsâ€¦the other had gone to a crib where human heartbeat gave way at intervals to a soothing voice, where activity was monitored, crying measured, reactions clocked and timed--then extensive tape and training for three yearsâ€¦" (Cherryh 39). The difference seems to lie, not in their births, but in the all-important tape that pervades every aspect of life on Cyteen. Cherryh never seems to find it important to explain exactly what it is, although she gives numerous examples of what it can do. Although it certainly seems to have biological components such as those that enable a young boy to improve his penmanship, it also seems to work on moods and can even cause death, as in the case of "Final tape" (Cherryh 651). No matter its exact physical components, tape is certainly at the fundamental center of the creation and indoctrination of the azi.
However, azi creation only leads me to ask numerous other questions about them: primarily, are they slaves? They do not seem to have any control over their assignments: Caitlin and Florian could not even choose their own partners or their own jobs. Instead, they are genetically engineered to fit into certain professions. The title of the Abolitionists party also implies that at least some members of the Cyteen society believe that azi can be directly compared to slaves. However, is it possible to make a slave out of something that does not have the same emotions as a human? Are they even human? Constantly, Cherryh reminds her readers that azi and CIT's are not the same. Grant, in particular, is fond of differentiating between his own logic and the "CIT kind of feeling" that he gets at times (Cherryh 554). Azi do not seem particularly unhappy with their lots; in fact, they seem to enjoy mocking CIT's for their inability to "[know] what's right and sane" (Cherryh 429). However, I find my own inability to know what's right tested by the meager differences between Grant and Justin. Cherryh obviously intends to make this test--there are none of the noticeable changes between the diction of Grant-narrated and Justin-narrated passages that are present in those of young Ari. Instead, their language seems strikingly similar, causing yet another question about how different the azi and CIT's really are.
If they are fundamentally similar, I cannot help but shirk away from their treatment within Resuene society. The original Caitlin and Florian's deaths remind me of the K-9 dogs of Starship Troopers that were put to death because the loss of their masters was simply too hard. Abban is also unable to refuse his late master's orders, even though they brought about his own death. Although the Abolitionists were not presented in the most favorable lights, I found myself often leaning towards their side on the issue of the azi--their status in Resuene seemed to be little more than glorified genetic slavery.

Response 5

wooohooo — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 06:46:39 +0000

One of the first things that struck me in reading Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand was the perspective. It might be just because I missed the switch from third to first person in Lillith's Brood, but I found myself getting caught completely off-guard by the switch here. Obviously, Delany chooses to make this movement for a reason--he doesn't seem to do anything without reason in this novel.
From the very beginning, the reader is alienated from Korga as a character. The novel starts out with complete ambiguity: "'Of course,' they told him in all honestyâ€¦" (Delany 3). There are no names given, although there is a physical description. In fact, Korga's name is not given until the perspective switches to Marq. Throughout the entire time period on Korga's home planet, Rhyonon, the readers are left in the dark about his name. Although this could be a simple overlook, it seems doubtful in a work as intricate as Stars. In contrast, I think it serves a very important purpose--because of the lack of a name, readers are forced into the mindset of Korga's home planet. The only option that readers have to think about Korga is his status, Rat. Because he is so nameless, Korga fades into nothing more than a slave among other nameless slaves. Simple statements like "around him, thousands of rats serviced the great city full of machines" are confusing simply because they emphasize the unimportant nature of Rat (Delany 13). His humanity dissolves because of his anonymity--he is reduced to a mindless machine not only because of the operation, but also because of his namelessness.
Korga's lack of identity in the entire first section of the book makes the mention of his name on page 61 very disarming. The immediate reaction of the reader is to connect the new character of "Rat Korga" with the nameless Rat from the first section (Delany 61). However, I was a little bit unsure about this instant connection--because Rat wasn't ever really identified before, there was the possibility that this new Korga character was actually someone new. This idea doesn't fade immediately because Delany doesn't let his readers contemplate the possibility--he moves on to describe Marq's life and doesn't return to Korga for another twenty pages. Again, the reader almost forgets about Korga, letting him fade in comparison to the much more thorough character of Marq.
Part of the instant identification with Marq is due to the sheer level that Delaney gives to this character. He gives Marq's name instantly, and the readers know his occupation, a little bit about his world, and some of his "earliest memories" (Delany 74). This information serves as a sharp contrast to the lack of character given to Korga.
In addition to the flatness of Rat's character in comparison to Marq's, there is also the matter of perspective. Rat's section is third person, a perspective that helps to alienate the reader from Korga. If the third-person voice is alienating, then it follows that the first-person perspective helps the reader to identify more with Marq. From the beginning of his section, the reader is placed inside of Marq's head.
I can't help but wonder why exactly Delany chose to do this: is it simply to give Marq more personality than Korga? Personally, I enjoyed the first part of the novel more than the stories centered on Marq, although this might be an outlier opinion. Either way, whether Marq or Korga is more likeable, Delany intentionally makes Rat much less relatable.

Drugs and Choice

wooohooo — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 18:33:30 +0000

We talked a little bit in class on Monday about the morality of the Oankali. One of the examples used to make the claim that they are immoral was their lack of concern for the human concept of choice. Because the Oankali can read into your heads (sense, read, whatever), they have an uncanny ability to know what humans might REALLY want. Obviously, Joseph's reaction to ooloi sex is one such instance. An even more disturbing example is Nikanj's assumption that Lilith wants a child when she is ready, instantly looking into her thoughts and saying, "I mixed a girl to be a companion to you. You've been very lonely" (Dawn 246). Obviously, as humans, this strikes us as immoral, partially because it overrides our ability to choose some of our most basic desires--sex, child, etc.
However, I think it's really interesting that drugging reappears in Adulthood Rites: not with humans, but between Oankali themselves. The instance that caught my attention the most is the fight between Akin and the two Construct siblings. Although Akin initially protests, the girls take him and hold "him between them and put him to sleep...He understood what they were doin and resisted them angrily at first, but they were right...He knew [that he could get them captured], and they could feel his contradictory feelings. They knew he knew. Thus, there was no need to argue....He accepted it finally and allowed them to send him into a deep sleep" (Adulthood Rites 395). This brings up a whole new side to the issue of choice, and I think it's a good argument for the Amorality rather than the IMmorality of the Oankali.
I don't think they were ever trying to destroy the humans' lack of choice: obviously, they made some decisions that we instinctually label as wrong. However, they were simply acting on their own moral system, drugging the humans as they did each other.
However, does this make it right? Is it ever possible to judge something completely alien to yourself?

Response 4

wooohooo — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 06:20:08 +0000

I seem to be one of the few people who found The Left Hand of Darkness worthy of a response paper, so maybe I read (oh God, the unintentional pun) too much into this one. However, I found Le Guin's novel extremely entertaining, and I actually thought that it raised some interesting questions not only about gender, but also about sexuality in general. Obviously, the most blatant issues deal with gender, but I feel like there are some other things that we didn't have the chance to touch on in class.
Some of the most interesting parts of the novel were those that Le Guin almost completely brushed over. The concept of incest was especially intriguing: why did the author choose to insert this interesting bit of information into the lives of the Gethenians? In many ways, she presents a relatively utopian society--there is no war and, sexually speaking, the roles are remarkably equalized. However, in addition to this liberalized sexuality, she also makes them incestuous. In the Gethenian world, incest is not only not frowned upon, but is entirely acceptable. However, there are exceptions to this rule: "Incest is permittedâ€¦between siblings, even the full siblings of a vowed-kemmering pair. Siblings are not however allowed to vow kemmering, nor keep kemmering after the birth of a child to one of the pair" (Le Guin 92). However, I could not completely understand why this restriction is so important to Gethenian society. If incest is entirely acceptable, why would it be bad for the parents to continue kemmering even after the birth of their first child? Obviously, there is some degree of taboo to incest that is inescapable, even on another world. In addition to the restriction against the continuation of kemmering after the birth of a child, there is also the ban against incest between generations. Children seem to have a certain innocence about incest that the adults do not: they cannot witness it in their parents, and their parents cannot act out incestuous feelings with them.
There is another taboo in Gethen that is hidden much better than incest: homosexuality. Although to a naÃ¯ve Earth reader the interactions between Estraven and Genly would seem homoerotic, they would not be regarded as such on Gethen. After all, Estraven "was a woman as well as a man" (Le Guin 248). Genly is obviously a difficult case, because of his "perversion," but their relationship is not overtly homosexual due to the androgyny of Estraven. However, actual homosexuality was certainly almost a moot point in Gethenian society: "If there are exceptions, resulting in kemmer-partners of the same sex, they are so rare as to be ignored" (Leguin 90). This is the only mention that readers get of homosexuality as the Gethenians would see it. To me, this seemed very strange in such a boundary-breaking novel. Obviously, Le Guin chose to brush over the subject of homosexuality in Gethenian culture, but she thrusts the homoerotic relationship of Genly and Estraven directly into her readers' faces.
However, it is important to remember that all of our descriptions of Gethenian sex acts come from outsiders' perspectives. Any commentary on taboos and customs must be filtered through a non-Gethenian mind. Obviously, this calls into question the reliability of the information--since the speaker has not undergone kemmering, they cannot personally know all of the details. Assuming the reliability of the information, Le Guin seems to imply that there are limits to taboo-breaking. She can make a society that accepts incest, but it will not infiltrate into the minds of its children. She can present a pseudo-homoerotic love scene, but it is not REALLY homosexuality because one of the characters is simply androgynous. The Left Hand of Darkness breaks down some interesting walls, but it also suggests the presence of other, more inflexible ones.

Soviets in Orgoreyn

wooohooo — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 08:25:00 +0000

This is kind of in addition to my earlier post, but I was just wondering if anyone had drawn the connections between Orgoreyn and Soviet Russia. Obviously, they're both cold. BUT, also, Orgoreyn has a secret police, and their media is controlled by the censorship of the mysterious Sarf. In addition to these similarities, Orgoreyn is also "a genuine fullblown bureaucracy" (Le Guin 144). The descriptions of the work camp also sound disturbingly similar to those of the gulag: "At Pulefen Farm we were...underfed for the work we did, and our clothing, particularly our footwear, was completely inadequate for that winter climate. The guards, most of them probationary prisoners, were not much better off" (Le Guin 178). There are other similarities, but I thought that these were the most interesting. Anyone else notice this? (or it might just be disturbingly obvious, and we'll probably talk about it in class :))

Insanity in Karhide

wooohooo — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 08:19:42 +0000

Slightly departing from the central themes of the course, I was very interested in the concept of mental illness on Gethen. Obviously, insanity acts as a catalyst in the novel, simply by leading the king to order Estraven's exile. However, madness is less abhorred than respected in this culture, something that the narrator seems to find distasteful: he asks, confused "if these two psychopaths could not be cured" (Le Guin 63). There is a definite admiration found in the Karhider's voice when he responds, "Would you cure a singer of his voice?" (Le Guin 63). Although the Foretellers might perhaps be outliers (Oracles at Delphi, if you will), the king's madness leads me to think that insanity is a quality respected in Gethen. Everyone seems to understand that the king is absolutely insane. The narrator confesses it openly, tossing it in almost as a joke: "If this is the Royal Music, no wonder the kings of Karhide are all mad" (Le Guin 3).
However, the insane king does not prove to be the most malicious one. The sheer stability and cautiousness of the other government's bureaucracy is much more dangerous than Argaven's pure madness: "It was odd that in the less primitive society, the more sinister note was struck" (Le Guin 144). Le Guin obviously chose to make Argaven insane for a reason; through this madness, she avoided portraying him as a completely idealized monarch. However, it also serves to make the Karhide society less intimidating and sinister and more oddly comical, a nation with a fool for a king.

Response 3

wooohooo — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 04:53:05 +0000

I just finished watching the movie adaptation of The Handmaid's Tale, and I have to confess that I was pretty disappointed. Obviously, Professor Fitzpatrick had warned us about the screenwriter's not-so-feminist stance, but I was still pretty shocked. Some of the parts that I loved in the book came off as cheesy and over the top. For example, the Salvaging, one of the most chilling sections of the novel, had very little power in the film version. There was no "energy buildingâ€¦[no] tremor of readiness and anger" (278). As hard as the film tried, it simply could not capture the anger that is so palpable in the book. Much of this failure came from the portrayal of the character of Offred. The film took Offred's position as a mother and ran with it, forcing her into an overly female role. At the same time, she was much more dominant than the Offred of the novel, even physically striking out at the Commander. This contradiction, for me, made Gilead's power much less horrifying: Atwood's Offred finds herself internalizing her protestations, too terrified to strike out. Her power is too obvious in the movie, and it helps make the Republic of Gilead seem less like an oppressive society and more like a game.
Much of this surreal quality comes from the fact that the movie missed many of the subtler parts of Offred's character. Rather than an essentially human character, the Offred of the film is excruciatingly female. I never felt like Atwood's Offred was ever overbearingly womanly. At times, she seems intensely judgmental of the women around her: at the birthing ceremony, she describes the other women as "twittering," a condescending term (126). However, despite her snarky comments about the other women in the society, she also finds herself forced into identifying with them. At the same birthing ceremony, Offred's breasts leak "fake milk" and she "holds in her lap a phantom, a ghost baby" (127). The protagonist's side comments and strong character emphasize the overpowering effects that the society's brainwashing can have upon its members.
The movie seemed to pull Offred's character in two separate directions: she is both strong and separate from the society and yet almost childlike in her naivete. This contradiction almost completely destroyed the power of the novel. In the Salvaging ceremony, Offred is shown standing apart, her look of horror blatantly obvious. Moments like this ruined the terror of Gilead's society. I feel like the Offred of the film constantly made motions or looks that would have gotten her executed in the Gilead of the novel. Atwood's Offred is not a hero: she recognizes her perilous situation in the house and Serena's longing "to slap [her] face" (16). She acts cautiously, hiding her urge to "laugh, shriek with laughter, fall of [her] chair" at the Commander's request to play Scrabble (138). Instead, she replies "as if indifferent," realizing that the Commander holds her completely in his power and that an admission of interest could get her killed (139). The Offred of the film is anything but humble and submissive: she is intensely defiant and taunts the Commander. The film's representation of their relationship, with its flirtatious teasing and lack of respect, forces its audience to treat them as equal to one another rather than recognizing the Commander's superior position.
There are obvious differences in pure events between the film and the movie: of course, the stabbing of the Commander is the most blatant. Again, this action serves to portray Offred as heroic character, fighting back against the oppression of Gilead. However, the Offred of the novel is much more realistic: to her, becoming a handmaid is her way to "give in, go along, save her skin" (249). The movie lost the sense of desperation and helplessness that is so obvious throughout Offred's story, and I feel as though that loss prevented the film from having the power of the novel.

Moira--Freeeeeedooooommmmmm

wooohooo — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 09:09:38 +0000

*I think I have a different addition, so my page numbers are probably very wrong. Sorry about that*
I was unbelievably excited about the existence of Handmaid's Tale on this syllabus. For one, it's one of my favorite books (apologies to the people who hate Atwood's constant metaphors). Also, I didn't even think about it as being Science Fiction. After reading Suvin's article, however, I had to redefine my definition of Science Fiction (at least a little). Handmaid's Tale does seem to fit into his definition rather nicely, plopping its readers into the middle of a society that both could have come from ours and is shockingly different. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Offred doesn't really seem to fit into either of the two stereotypes we discussed in class: she's certainly not an ass-kicker, and she doesn't scream "damsel in distress," either. I wonder if this is at least partly due to Margaret Atwood's own gender. However, I was interested to notice the character of Moira, who does seem to, at first, fall into that first category. Offred even says, "Moira was our fantasy" (133). The idealized female moves from a masculine fantasy to a feminine one, representing escape and freedom. However, we later discover that she really is a fantasy for both genders, acting as a prostitute in the club the Commander haunts. Offred's dream of "gallantry from [Moira], swashbuckling, heroism, single-handed combat" is lost in the prostitute that she's become (249). Offred and Moira take two separate paths, but they both wind up serving men, and Moira's track is, societally, much more degrading. Handmaid's Tale takes the one female character who seems to have a dollop of a chance at freedom and puts her in the most degrading possible job.
However, her prostitution reminds me a lot of Molly's selling her body to get her implants: Moira sells her own body to get the few scraps of freedom that she can, admitting that she's "not a martyr" (249). In some ways, Moira's character shows the perversion that her society has put into the minds of its women: the only escape is through sex, and that really is no escape at all.

Response 2

wooohooo — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 08:04:27 +0000

Since I wrote my last blog post about race, I decided to write this response paper about gender (mainly just to keep the title of the class going). I found the women in Neuromancer refreshingly different from the almost non-existent females of Starship Troopers. The character of Molly was obviously interesting, but I feel like we will talk about her in class even more on Wednesday. I was actually more interested in Linda Lee, Case's arcade-haunting girlfriend. She seems to be a constant presence in the novel, and acts, at times, as Case's motivation for his actions. However, her character is always mysterious. She was, to me, almost as ambiguous as Carmencita in Starship Troopers. She appeared as the object of his desire, but she never really seemed to have much of a personality. The reader's sole extended interaction with her is a situation in which even Case admits, "she wasn't real" (235). Other than that, the only glimpses into her character are through Case's idealized memory of her.
The actual interactions with Linda at the very beginning of the book are interesting, but short-lived. One of the things that I found most fascinating was her physical description. Case's descriptions of Linda give the impression of a junkie that is simply falling apart at the edges: Her eyes are always "rimmed with smudged black paintstick" (8), and her "skinâ€¦was pale and unhealthy-looking" (9). In general, the initial image of Linda Lee is not particularly flattering. She is also almost childlike: for all her wear, she is only twenty, and "her upper lip [is] like the line children draw to represent a bird in flight" (8). Gibson's comments about her actual age and the firmness of her skin contrast starkly with the absolute depravity of 'the hungry armature of [her] addiction" (8). However, both of these aspects blend to create a futuristic damsel-in-distress. She has both the carelessness of a child and the complete helplessness of a junkie.
This perception of Linda as a damsel in distress holds true in her reappearance in the artificial reality towards the end of the novel. She loses any shred of strength present in that first glimpse of her, and it is replaced by steady tears, "a dry sobbing" (238). In this alternate reality, Linda becomes a passive character, waiting alone on the beach until the arrival of her man, who she was told would come. In addition to her damsel-in-distress characteristics, Linda also has a certain homebody-esque quality about her. She takes Case into her home and gives him food and a place in her bed, instantly accepting him into her world. In many ways, Linda is the perfect woman for Case, and Neuromancer seems to recognize this yearning.
Obviously, Linda's personality at the end of the novel is not her own, but a construct of Neuromancer. However, I find this construct extremely interesting, especially since Case seems to really want her and her world. If Molly is the ass-kicking stereotype of science-fiction woman, then Linda seems to personify the damsel in distress. However, her past as a junkie adds an extra dimension of depravity to her distress. This depravity seems to fit in well with the cyberpunk nature of the novel, in which everything is taken to a lower level of society. The idealized helplessness of the damsel in distress is degraded to the ultimate sickness of a junkie. All in all, Case's Linda definitely seems to be a damsel in distress, but I'm not sure if Gibson is mimicking or parodying this image.

disaster in etv

wooohooo — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 07:06:07 +0000

so i'm probably the only person watching this so late, but i just settled down to watch bladerunner and it's showing me that the content is unavailable. figures.
anyone else have this problem? i didn't have any problems watching starship troopers...

Ah Neuromancer

wooohooo — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 08:57:27 +0000

At first, I was really excited to read Neuromancer. It's won all kinds of awards, everyone in the class seemed pretty excited about it, and I had even heard of it! Unfortunately, I think I missed something. But, more importantly to the themes of the class, I did think that its views on race were interesting. One of the things that I found most unusual was the fact that Neuromancer didn't seem to fall into either of the two race categories that we talked about in class (ideal UN world or displacement onto species). In fact, the racial tensions in the book seemed similar to those of our world. I did find it interesting that Gibson constantly describes things in terms of race. For only a few examples: it's not just a virus, but a "Chinese virus" (168), and "The Finn" is only referred to by his nationality. I'm not sure if this reveals any sort of obsession with race, but it kept catching my attention throughout the novel.
Obviously, if we're talking about race, the Zionists are a pretty blatant stereotype--I mean, come on, stoner rastas? Other than that, though, I found it interesting that Gibson chose to make Asia so advanced (Japan has the best surgeons, while China has the best programming skills). Did anyone else notice this? (or anything else in this long, rambling post)? :)

Response 1

wooohooo — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 08:33:27 +0000

I would like to preface this response paper by saying that I am not a science fiction reader. With the exception of Handmaid's Tale, which I read purely on the basis of its being by Atwood, I have never even heard of any of the books on the syllabus. However, I am an English major, and I thought it downright prejudiced of me to discount an entire genre without even giving it a chance. That being said, I loved Starship Troopers. It wasn't a particularly great book--I found myself wincing at the dialogue, for example--but it was, in the words of a very wise friend of mine, "like reading an action movie."
Fortunately, I feel as though there is much more to the book version of Starship Troopers than the horrific action movie that came of it. For a while, I toyed with the concept of the Bugs as other races, reduced to nothing more than mindless, vicious killers. However, I think that this impression doesn't give Heinlein enough credit. To me, the bugs seemed simply too primitive to be another race, and their creation of separate classes made them more of an anti-caste statement than a racial slur. Rico's volatile hatred of them: "those Bugs make me queasy" made me think of them as nothing more elaborate than another species (13). In addition to his own personal hatred of the creatures, they are constantly going on "bug hunts," a term that reduces them firmly to animal level. Although it is possible that I am simply too naÃ¯ve to think of anyone as hating another race so much that they could happily "[smack] down any Bugs that showed their ugly heads" (225), it seems that, at least to Rico, the Bugs are nothing more than animals. Heinlein's book seems, if anything, attempting to disregard the importance of race entirely.
One of the more subtle cues to this racial oblivion comes in the character of the father. At the beginning of the novel, Rico's father comes off as the most closed-minded character, absolutely adamant against the idea of his son joining the forces. He was, to me, the least admirable character, and he did not like other races. Rico's father sees Mr. Dubois as a catalyst for his son's entry into the army. When he hears Dubois's name, he instantly retorts with, "â€¦a silly name--it suits him. Foreigner, no doubt" (23). This comment serves to accentuate the father's close-mindedness and also caused me to second-guess my theory of the Bugs as a vilified other race. If Heinlein had xenophobic leanings, why would he not put them into the mouth of a more sympathetic character?
Another hint came surprisingly late--the racial identity of the central character. Only on page 260, when I discovered that Rico's native language was Tagalong, did I realize that he was Filipino. Obviously, I realized that he was not White (simply because of his last name), but I had no idea that he was Filipino until that line. This realization means that Heinlein chose to cast a non-White character as the hero of his novel. In addition to Rico, his "love interest" is also obviously non-White. With a name like Carmencita Ibanez, she seems intentionally blatantly foreign.
In general, the issues of race don't seem overly important to Heinlein. He obviously didn't feel like the main character's heritage was very important, and his characters were, in general, unconcerned with race. He even says that his world's democracy is one "unlimited by race [or] color" (183). However, I was shocked to realize the connection that Heinlein made between their egg-laying and the Chinese population: "â€¦the Bug commissars didn't care any more about expending soldiers than we cared about expending ammo. Perhaps we could have figured this out about the Bugs by noting the grief the Chinese Hegemony gave the Russo-Anglo-American Alliance" (153). In all honesty, I was not sure what to make of this comment. It seemed subtly tossed in, but it really surprised me.
However, I think that this was more a statement about fears of over-population and the expendability of the human race. The Army is an organization that relishes the idea of abandoning individuality, and I think that Heinlein, despite his military pride, was warning his readers against this very concept.

test?

wooohooo — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 07:35:16 +0000

sweet. technology.