CountZero's blog

Isn't Crake a Savior?

CountZero — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 12:34:30 +0000

It seems to me that Crake believes that in order for the human race to survive, it has to become essentially non-human. He is doing what he believes is necessary to save what he considers to be the best parts of humanity. Barring the methods by which he achieves it, I think that it is interesting to examine this motivation as it stands, outside of the context. Personally, I do not agree with what Crake considers to be the best parts of humanity, just as I don't agree with Butler's argument that the "hierarchical impulse" is entirely bad. Just like Butler would remove this impulse, Crake removes the qualities that make the crakers able to joke â€“ "For jokes you need a certain edge, a certain malice" (306).

Fundamentally, I don't think that human ambition is a bad thing. Ambition is what has allowed us to pull ourselves out of lives that, no matter how idealized, were still nasty, brutish and short. Ambition is what has given us all the technology, all the power over the natural world that we now enjoy. Ambition requires self-interest, it requires that little bit of malice that makes jokes possible. I don't think that we are human without ambition, and I think that the most damage that Crake inflicts upon the idea of Humanity in the Crakers is his removal of the entirety of their ambition. They don't want anything more than what they have. With that attitude, what will they ever create?

So then the question becomes: Is Crake's way the only way for the human race to survive? Is there something inherently suicidal about the way that we act? I believe that Crake saw it this way, and was tormented by his vision, even if he would not admit it to himself. When Jimmy visits him at Watson and Crick, he hears the dreams that Crake has every night, and the terror that this inflicts upon him (218). I think that this scene brings (ironically) a real humanity to Crake. He is struggling with his decision, whether he wants to admit it or not

Crake, in the end, is not more than human. His creations are not perfect, no matter how far from human he has pushed them. By the end of the novel, they have created an effigy of Sandman, and are thus implied to be on the way back to humanity (361). Crake's last gesture is not godly, or superhuman, but simply another act of hubris, assuming that he can distill humanity into its most perfect parts.

I think this idea is central to why it is difficult to classify him as good or evil. We know that we are imperfect, as part of the human condition. Improving upon this condition must be something noble. If it assists in our ability to survive, and it can be applied to the entirety of humanity in one fell swoop, then isn't Crake a savior? This impulse conflicts with our ideas about making fundamental changes to our humanity in order to survive. Is it worth it? Is there something intrinsically noble about the human condition as it stands that should not be modified, no matter the benefits? Even if we pull Crake's decision out of the necessity for the eradication of all living humans, it is still an impossible decision to make.

Hubertus and Cayce.

CountZero — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 07:50:39 +0000

In the analysis that I performed on Pattern Recognition in my final essay, I concluded that Cayce was almost asexual in the novel, and that any graphic or direct depictions of sex had an adverse effect on the commitments that Cayce had made or wanted to make.

Looking back over the novel, in revising my paper, I've realized that Cayce is far from asexual. In fact, I feel like her sexuality is a really fundamental piece of her personality, but, like everything about her and the novel, it is understated to the point that it is difficult to notice. One of the major interactions that I failed to consider in my first analysis was the interaction between Cayce and Hubertus, when they go out to the bar and Hubertus proposes the Footage project (61-73). Throughout the interaction, Cayce feels Hubertus' presence: his voice is "strangely compelling" (62), he is "undeniably good-looking" (67), she feels herself "held by those eyes, against all conscious will" (64), she even flirts a little bit at the end of the night, showing Hubertus how to put on his cowboy hat properly (73). Cayce is clearly attracted to Hubertus, somehow, but it is a definitely physical attraction. Though it may not be directly sexual, it is definitely not intellectual, and in fact goes counter to Cayce's natural impulses. Sex is one of the first things on her mind when she interacts with Bigend (she's suddenly on "full sexual alert" (63)), so she is clearly not asexual. She understands and realizes her own reactions to Bigend, but she keeps them hidden and does not outwardly react to them. But nevertheless, this desire, this outward sexuality is associated with Bigend, who Cayce never completely trusts (also partly because of the sexual betrayal that he has inflicted on her friend from New York). Throughout the novel, it is the handsome men, the ones that she feels some sort of desire for, that Cayce distrusts.

Despite my reconsideration of the overall tone of the novel, and of Cayce's attitude towards sex, I still think that the direct appearance of sex is closely associated with the breaking of commitments and a lack of trust. There is one major counter-example to this argument, that was pointed out by both professor Fitzpatrick and my peer reviewer. In my rough draft, I mentioned the example of Donny, who is mentioned at length only twice in the novel, both times regarding sexual experiences that Cayce had with him. I regarded both of these experiences as essentially the same: direct portrayals of sex, and a direct associations between sex and Donny, who Cayce rightly broke up with.

My reviewers pointed out that the real reason that Cayce broke up with Donny was not because of the overt association between him and sex (Cayce is "more or less happy" lying underneath him, after all), but instead because of the association of Donny with extremely violent behavior (finding the gun taped conveniently behind his headboard) (41). I agree with this argument, to some extent. However, I think that the association between this breakup and sex is inescapable. It could have been any other time that Cayce could have realized that Donny was a violent person. He could have hit her, he could have gotten unreasonably angry, she could even have found the gun while she was stretching to wake up in the morning next to him. But she found it during sex. Her breakup with this person, no matter the actual reason, occurred during the one and only semi-graphic portrayal of sex in the entire novel.

I'm sure that there were good moments with Donny, just as there are redeeming factors to Boone Chu and Hubertus, but in the way that Cayce's attraction to all these men is associated with lack of trust and the breaking of commitments, the novel discounts these good qualities and returns to my main point: sex must be secondary in Cayce's interactions with others, or there can be no trust between them.

Pass.

CountZero — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 02:19:58 +0000

It's a fine book, with a lot to talk about, but I have other things to do.

essay!

-CZ

"Y.T. bites her lower lip and flips him the bird"

CountZero — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 17:09:18 +0000

I've noticed that most of the other posts are about information, or artificial reality, or something like that, but I've decided to post on something that's a little closer to the range of my interests.

Throughout the novel, YT is the object of desire by nearly every single man around her. As one example, the one-eyed man calls her "a hell of a chick. You're a knockout" (171). Everyone is constantly looking at her, so much so that she feels its loss on the Raft, where everyone except Raven is entirely sexless. The novel seems to portray this overt sexuality as nothing more than a fact of life. If anything, it's a joke, even though the girl in question is not more than 15 years old. She is constantly mentioning sex with her "boyfriend" Roadkill (73,162), and expects Hiro to pursue a relationship with her when she first proposes a partnership - "this is going to end with him trying to get her into bed" (87).

Essentially, sex in this novel is portrayed in a relatively positive light. Though blatant sexual desire is mostly associated with unpleasant people (the jail operator in the Clink, the security guards at the Mafia compound, the people in the truck stop, etc.) their desire is essentially harmless, and in fact provides a convenient tool by which they can be exploited.

There is one unpleasant person that I have yet to mention, and the only person that inspires serious sexual desire in another character - Raven, who makes YT "uncomfortably horny" (343). Despite the fact that he basically kidnaps her from her job on the food line, she repeatedly speaks of going on a "date" with him (323, for example), and even in one instance describes him as her "boyfriend" (343). Being attracted to him, and knowing that he is attracted to her, has produced some desire for her to continue their relationship, even though she knows of Raven's reputation, and has seen some of his work.

It seems to me that the mechanisms of commitment in Snow Crash are relatively simple. When two characters have a mutual sexual desire, this inspires the further desire to be committed to that person. This desire overwhelms any conflicting information that either party might receive.

Contrary to what you might expect, I think that the desire for commitment is actually quite strong between Raven and YT, as demonstrated by their final interaction. Raven is in a helicopter, flying over as the Kouriers swarm L. Bob Rife, but he's "not watching any of these things. He's looking out the window at Y.T.... He grins at her and gives her the thumbs up. Y.T. bites her lower lip and flips him the bird" (424). I really think that at this point, Raven admires her. She does not seriously threaten him, and yet she bested him in a sexual contest. In their final interaction, I see a reluctance for Raven to leave Y.T., and a similar reluctance for her to let him go. Why else would Raven focus his attention solely on her? Why else would Y.T. bite her lip as she flips him off? In the vein of the novel, they have been sexually involved, with mutual desire, and that inspires them to continue their association. I should note that YT is far more commited to Raven (desires him, wants to be with him) than she ever really is with her "boyfriend" Roadkill. She has not had a satisfying sexual relationship with Roadkill, and so she's not nearly so invested in their relationship.

Overall, I think that Snow Crash provides the "teenage boy" perspective on sexual attraction as it relates to commitment. It is not nearly so nuanced as many of the other novels that we've read, but I thought it was interesting that there was so clearly a relationship between sexual satisfaction and commitment. It anchors the spectrum at one end, I think, while The Handmaid's Tale anchors the spectrum at the other end, where sexuality acts constantly to break up commitments, or to prevent nascent commitments from being realized in a healthy manner.

I'm going to name my children (all of them) Hiro Protagonist

CountZero — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 09:48:41 +0000

That is all.

-CZ

Sex in Slow River.

CountZero — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 09:17:00 +0000

I feel that the entire novel works to reconcile Lore with the incredibly intimate and damaging rape that occurred in her past. All her experiences outside of the protecting curtain of the Van de Oests functions to give her the perspective and independence from which she can understand and come to accept what happened to her. She must reconcile her own sexual attraction for women with the horrible emotional injury that was inflicted upon her by a woman.

Sex, throughout the novel, works against this reconciliation. First, obviously, is the event (or series of events) that so damages Lore: Her rape by her mother, Katerine. "She doesn't know how to describe it. Heavy like the end of everything" (68). This is the fundamental event that makes all the future healing work necessary, and it is entirely sexual.

Even Lore's early attempts at reconciliation are damaged, and probably do more harm than good. At the age of 13, "her films fill with porn actors wearing her parents' faces...As her parents become more distant to one another, Lore brings them flesh to flesh" (135). Sexual desire has come early for her, and she needs to find a way to express it, to rationalize it in terms of the damage that has been done to her. And so she fixates on her parents. Though it is the natural choice, because of what has happened to her, it can only have made her psychological damage worse.

There are several other examples of how sex works against Lore's independence and rational thought. Among them: The scene in which Lore films her friends having sex while drugged, for monetary gain (196-7) and the continuous sex work that Lore and Spanner pursue to pay for the aphrodisiac (220, 262, etc). These events, always involving sex, always work against Lore. She cannot reconcile herself with the past when her perspective of sex continues to be corrupted by mixing it with money.

An important note: Sex between women in this novel always involves penetration, though that is not strictly necessary (235, 220, etc.). It is not the equal sharing of pleasure that it could be. Sex is inherently a violation in Slow River, I think with the purpose of emphasizing the damage that it has done to Lore. It seems that the only solution is abstinence. Lore's relationship with Magyar is very chaste and intellectual. It is based on their mutual respect, which is followed, instead of led, by physical attraction. Lore can only overcome the damage that has been done to her when she is able to feel this physical attraction in combination with a more abstract mental attraction.

Slow River - First Reactions.

CountZero — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 06:21:35 +0000

So my first reaction on finishing Slow River: "What? That's it?!?"

There were a few things that prompted that reaction. First, I didn't feel like Griffith really pulled off the conspiracy with Greta very well. There was only the mention that she "had to have secret power" there at the end, and that she had been perverted by Katerine to explain any of her conniving and plotting. The secret conspirator at the plant was not very interesting, basically since we never really met him or knew anything about him.
Second, I felt like Lore returned to the arms of her father far too readily, with nothing but a few scolding "Oh Papa"'s to let us know she's angry. There should be a lot more that she has to deal with before she can resolve such deep issues.
Finally, I thought the union between Lore and Magyar, while kind of inevitable, didn't have any real charm.

All that being said, I did enjoy the book quite a bit. The world that Griffith creates, in which companies compete for huge governmental contracts to clean up our mess, seems to be plausible to me. At least, I can't imagine a more likely scenario in which the human race will clean up the earth. There will be corruption and greed in any such large undertaking, no matter how noble the overall motives.
Also, I liked the intricacy of the three plots that Griffith wove around each other, and the depth with which she constructed Lore and Spanner, especially.

It was interesting to note that the only heterosexual couple mentioned in the novel (as far as I could tell) were Oster and Katerine, who were pretty much as screwed-up as they could be. That's not to say that Spanner and Lore's relationship was any good, but I thought it was interesting that heterosexual relationships made such a small appearance.

-CZ

Response 6 - Women.

CountZero — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 17:31:56 +0000

I think the use of the female pronoun for everyone except the person to whom you are attracted is an effective way of referring to people. It may be ambiguous in some situations, but I think that it sufficiently describes the actual interaction between gender and sexuality, in a way that more concrete terminology does not. Why should our language enforce an emphasis on physical sex when describing attraction? There are numerous other ways to accomplish this, as well as other ways to remove the physical gender of the speaker from direct emphasis, but I think that the method in "Stars" is quite a bit more effective. In other methods, it is necessary to retain the language of gender to refer to a particular individual, usually as the gender to which they had not been traditionally assigned, and similarly to refer to the people to whom they are attracted. The "Stars" method allows the separation between gender and physical sex to be entirely complete. The assignation of gender to an individual is no longer arbitrary, or socially constructed.
An excellent example of the efficiency of this method in sexual situations comes when Marq interacts with Clym, the assassin. Marq begins interacting with Clym more "out of boredom than real lust," but after they have had sex, during most of their conversation, Marq refers to Clym as "him," indicating some level of attraction (89). It is only after Clym describes torturing Marq for pleasure that Clym is "she," because Marq is clearly too frightened to be attracted (97). It is a very clear distinction, for Marq, and it is conveyed in a precise manner.
This clarity, at least for me, was only really come by after the fact, however. To someone familiar only with our current language, it is difficult not to wonder to what physical sex each "woman" in the book belongs. It was confusing for quite a while, and until I got used to it, it made things quite confusing. I think this is really only a product of the culture and language in which I experienced the book. I don't think the method in concept would be confusing to those who were using it. I think that a reference to gender in a pervasive context in language is fundamentally unnecessary. The "Stars" method maintains words for physical sex (Male and Female), and uses them when clarification is necessary. In most common speech, however, it is not necessary to know the physical sex of the person speaking.
I would not make the argument that the method would work in our culture, by any means. As it stands now, there is far too much emphasis placed culturally on gender to allow its complete removal from the language. We cannot simply begin referring to everyone else as "women" without some serious misinterpretation and misunderstanding. That is not, however, a normative argument. I think that a better culture would have no need to refer to gender so pervasively.
And that, I think, is what most impresses me about Delany's construction. It may provide some misunderstanding to those unfamiliar with it, but the re-organization that he has created has a specific, clear purpose, and is applied consistently enough to provide an entirely new perspective on interpersonal interaction.
But why choose "him" as the object of sexual attraction, and "her" as the neutral pronoun? I think that, superficially, the decision had a lot to do with Delany's own sexuality. I think there's more to it, though. Choosing "woman" as the standard, professional reference flies in the face of typical interaction in our culture. If everyone had been referred to as "him" in Delany's book, it would seem natural to think of everyone as male (as it was in "Left Hand of Darkness"), whereas referring to everyone as "her" made me, at least, unable to come to any immediate conclusions about each character's gender in my mind. Again, I don't think Delany does not do anything with language without some purpose in mind.

The Future of the Book - Lecture Response

CountZero — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 19:02:24 +0000

The future of the book, as Bob Stein argued, is in dialogue between the reader and the author. It will no longer be a static work, created by the author for a particular audience. "Old school" authors "engage with the subject matter on behalf of the readers," whereas "new school" authors will "engage with readers in the context of a subject matter" (Stein, "The Future of the Book: The Evolution of Reading and Writing in the Networked Era", March 1, 2008). Essentially, the reader interaction that has been occurring in the background of many books (especially recently, with author blogs, etc) will come to the foreground. Stein seems to have no problem with this vision, or any of its implications. He sees it as the logical next step, a new context in which we must re-examine our assumptions, but which comes at very little cost to the concept of literary authorship.

In the examples given by Stein, he focuses on the application of his vision to academic writing, an area where it might very well excel. He makes the point that as the body of knowledge about a particular work of literature or, I think, any subject matter, becomes larger and larger, it cannot be understood by any one individual, and instead must be understood by a network of collaborative individuals. In an academic setting, this would work very well. The discussion of the subject matter is what an academic book is really all about. This discussion could be seen as an extension and democratization of the discussion and review process which already occurs.

In addition to only applying perfectly to academic writing, it seems to me that Stein's model only applies to certain personality types. There are those, like Siva Vaidhyanathan, a later speaker that day, whose greatest fear is never finishing their work, in some coherent form. This is only one implication that could frighten or discourage future authors. I can't imagine that every author would be comfortable with exposing their intimate thought processes to the world while writing, for example, an autobiography and deciding whether to include a scene portraying themselves in a bad light. In response to Vaidhyanathan, Stein argued that these inclinations are simply a product of the time and culture in which we live, and that future authors would think nothing of this sort of authorship. Stein may very well be right; I have no way of judging that. But I don't think that it is necessary to say that the more traditional form of authorship need be supplanted by Stein's model. Instead, we can see it as just another way in which literature can be produced, another art form to complement those already in existence.

I think the most damning argument against Stein's model is the fact that it would only really work for certain types of literature. I don't think a novel with such a definite, extreme vision like Lilith's Brood could have been written collaboratively. It requires the concerted effort of one inspired mind. This does not mean that the work cannot be reviewed, simply that the majority of the writing and conceptualizing must come from a single source. In addition, I think the type of fiction perpetuated in Lilith's brood requires a coherent and singular medium in which to exist. I don't think it could be effectively serialized. In fact, I think the serialization that would be required in Stein's model cheapens fiction in general, by forcing the author into a certain chapter structure that usually weakens the coherence and structure of the novel as a whole. Every chapter should not end in a cliffhanger that must entice the reader back for more.

I still think there is a place for books written in Stein's model. I think it would be an excellent template for future academic writing. However, I don't think that the complete turn from "author engages with subject" to "author engages directly with readers" is either beneficial or truly inevitable. I could easily see someone like Butler engaging with her readers during the process of writing Lilith's Brood, through a blog or a forum or what have you, but I think the necessary form for her final work needs to be the novel. As argued by Marsha Kinder, during the questions after Mr. Stein's talk, his model loses the explicit author-defined structure. This structure is necessary, I think, for works of fiction, and as such I don't believe Stein's model should be the "future of the book."

Response 5

CountZero — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 18:01:09 +0000

I would like to begin with a quote by Nikanj about humans, but really relating to everyone else but the ooloi, that motivates my whole understanding of the ooloi: "Give them as much as they can take, and no moreâ€¦Start them slowly, and in only a little time, they will be more willing to give up eating than to give you up" (678). I understand that the ooloi are biologically motivated to manipulate in this way, and can perhaps be thought of as amoral instead of strictly immoral. However, I think it is interesting to examine the relationship between the ooloi and their mates more closely, as simple as it may seem on the surface.
How does this relate to the commitment that the ooloi's mates show to it and the other partners in the relationship? On the face of things, it would seem that the relationship is purely biological. Lilith is first brought under the sway of Nikanj by his irresistible pheromones, as we find out in Imago, and it is likely that this and the pleasure Nikanj brings her have much to do with her remaining with it throughout the novel. Even though Lilith leaves at some points, she always returns. In any other novel, this would seem sweet; an expression of devotion, but in all likelihood, a large reason for Lilith returning is the irresistible physical manipulation of Nikanj. Nikanj could be seen as the center of its own little harem of genetically viable adults, gathering them to it for exclusively its own purposes.
I think that this is a quite simplistic analysis of what is in fact a much more complex situation. There is more than simple biology going on in the relationship between Lilith and Nikanj. This can be seen in several places. For example, Lilith does not blame Nikanj for the ooloi's screw-up with Jodahs and Aaor, that requires the entire family to go into exile from their home. She simply uproots her family and takes them away. Another example can be seen in the calm domesticity of the family's camp in Imago, when Jodahs brings the resister humans back. The ooloi manipulation can only extend so far. Nikanj does not command this sort of calm during all interactions, and his scent brings desire for him, and does not have any kind of explicit calming effect. There is clearly some sort of extra effect from being together as a family unit for so long.
Now all of this could be one manifestation of the exacting psychological control that Nikanj is also able to exert, but given the novel's emphasis on the biological imperatives of the characters, and its de-emphasis of the psychological roles, I think that it is more likely that the characters are actually committed to Nikanj, and to ooloi in general, in quite a devoted manner.

Hierarchy and the Oankali Contradiction.

CountZero — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:48:14 +0000

My first reactions to Lilith's Brood:

1) Heriarchy is not a genetic trait.
2) The Oankali (especially Ooloi) manipulation of humans is immoral.
3) The Oankali are no more moral than humanity, since both are driven by supposedly inescapable genetic tendencies.

1) Hierarchical behavior is too complex to be purely genetic. Unless Butler can point to specific evolutionary pressures that would cause such a trait to occur, I'm going to have to call bullshit on that whole idea. Without that specifically ingrained trait, there is no reason for the Oankali to render all humans sterile (until Jodahs) without an Ooloi. Without that trait human behavior could simply be re-trained. The Ooloi are spectacularly effective manipulators, after all. (I'll ignore the biological impossibility of heirarchical behavior being genetically inherited in my subsequent points, and instead examine morality in Butler's universe, where this is true) And that brings me to my second point:

2) Despite the supposed genetic predisposition of the Ooloi to find new things, to heal them, and to bring them in line with their own idea of morality, I think that their extended manipulation of humans is morally suspect. The Oankali as a race, and the Ooloi in general, do not treat humans as if they have any level of choice, and simply manipulate them. They assume that the humans do not have choice because of their biological contradiction, and the Oankali assume they must choose for Humanity. The way that Nikanj uses Lilith, using it's own pheromones to bind her tightly to it, without telling her about the side effects (She can't touch Joseph), is presumptuous to the extreme and, I believe, morally wrong. Even worse is Jodahs' unwillingness to tell his soon-to-be mates the same facts, despite seeing how hard it is for his human mother, Lilith, to deal with what Nikanj did to her. He assumes he knows what's best, he assumes it will be OK, but really all it is is biological greed driving him. Which brings me to my third point:

3) Here's the Oankali Contradiction: They believe they have the right and the ability to choose for humanity, because humanity is biologically flawed, and the Oankali can "correct" that. But the Oankali themselves are driven by an immensely powerful biological need, that manifests itself in a particular set of morals. These morals are thus no more pressing, no more valid than the supposed lack of morals that the humans exhibit. Both are driven by biology, in this world, and so what we see in the end is a triumph of Oankali biology over human biology, instead of the morally righteous triumph of an angelic race.

-CZ

Pass.

CountZero — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 04:02:02 +0000

I'll pass on this reading response. I guess "The Left Hand of Darkness" just doesn't strike my fancy. It could also be lack of sleep. I KNOW I'll have something to say about "Lilith's Brood," so it's OK.

-CZ

Why Women Aren't Funny.

CountZero — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 04:59:57 +0000

Linked through the Slog, I found this. I went in expecting to be quite offended, and was surprised by the wit with which Mr. Hitchens went through his argument. Does it being funny make it any less offensive? Does he have a point? Discuss.

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701?curren...

Nobody Gets Off Easy - In Support of Atwood's Feminism

CountZero — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:47:20 +0000

In my first post on this novel, I immediately took the side of Luke, against what I perceived to be an unjust representation of men. I seem, as a side effect, to have ignited a flame war between RoseBlack, JackKerouacSucks, and the world. As a result of that war, in addition to the conversation that we had in class, I've taken the time to look closely at my opinions on this novel. As much as it galls me to admit in a public forum, my first impression was quite narrow-minded, and reveals the basic prejudice with which I read feminist literature.

(As a side note to RoseBlack â€“ I think that one of the most detrimental effects of personal attacks in debate is the resulting difficulty for people to change their opinions on further thought without losing face to their attacker.)

That is not to say that I was strictly wrong in my first post. I still have little respect for Luke's character (though I no longer assign his opinions to Atwood). The narrator clearly loved Luke (Seeing the corpses of dissidents hanging outside, she makes sure none of them is Luke (33)), and in my opinion that colored her reactions to him, giving him a more favorable portrayal in the novel than he otherwise might have. In the first stages of their relationship, the narrator was the second woman in Luke's life. In competing with another woman, she must love more, love better in order to win the ultimate prize â€“ Luke. Because of this, I think, she is more willing to see Luke in a better light, even after he has left his wife. Once she loses her job, she doesn't go on any of the protest marches, because she must "think about them, my family, him and her. [She] did think about my family. [She] started doing more housework, more baking" (180). When Luke wants to have sex after she lost her job, she meekly finishes his sentence, "We still have each other" (182). She cannot seem to see him in a bad light, even though he does not resist anything that is happening to her, for the large part of their time together.
Even when he does resist, it is far too late. He has waited too long, been complicit too long, for his last gesture to make any difference. I would go so far as to say that the failure of their escape attempt is his fault. They lived in a society in which men increasingly had all the power (literally), and with that responsibility, Luke did nothing, until it was too late.

But in going back over my thoughts, I've realized that Luke is by far not the only character to deserve scorn in the novel. In fact, his ability to so totally undermine his wife's way of life displays the complicity of the narrator, as well. She is very passive, throughout the book. She meekly follows the orders of Serena Joy, to get pregnant with Nick. She follows the summons of the commander, every night he calls her, and follows him to Jezebel's without resistance. There are many more examples, but these cases come after the advent of Gilead, and so it could be argued that they display only her post-oppression psyche. However, in the time before, she displayed the same passivity. When her job was taken away, she "thought [she] should do something, take steps; but [she] didn't know what steps she could take" (177). She is not a strong woman, by any means, and in being indecisive at that key juncture, she displays her willingness to accept what is coming, instead of face and resist it. She goes so far as to ask "What was it about this that made us feel that we deserved it?" (177). It is clear that her passivity stems from something deeper than the meekness ingrained by Gilead. In reading the novel from her perspective, it is easy to see the faults of others, instead of examining the way the she herself interacts with her world. I think that is one of Atwood's greatest achievements in this book, is to make the narrator's thought process seem normal, seem right, and lure us as readers into the same complicity and passivity that the narrator exhibits. The examples of Luke, of the commander, of the horrible things that men do, serve as a prod to encourage a deeper analysis, to discover the distorting lens through which the entire story is told.

The narrator is not the only one. I could go through the characters of the book, and find their faults, their role in the downfall of their nation. Nearly every character has a serious flaw, from Nick, who is "indifferent to what I have to say, alive only to the possibilities of my body," to Janine, who submits to the other handmaid's blaming her for her own rape, and finally admits that it was her fault (270).

There is only one character, in my opinion, who deserves commendation â€“ Moira. She has her flaws, of course â€“ she smokes, she constantly mooches off of others, she is overtly sexual, and doesn't frown on being a whore in Jezebel's â€“ but their obviousness belies the depth of her character. She resists everything that is done to her, and maintains her attitude even through everything she's been to before Jezebel's. Every other character in the novel has been subsumed in the culture of Gilead, and is in some way responsible for its formation. They exist in a fog of selfishness, passivity, apathy, and only Moira stands out in resistance. Even when the narrator escapes, through the fake Eye van, it is not by her will, not through her resistance, but only because she has friends in the right places, and they act for her.

Not only does Moira act for herself, but she brings good around her in everyone she meets. When she's escaping, she inspires people to take her in, despite the risk. In one of the only examples of actual organized resistance in the book, she is whisked toward the border by "people who didn't like the way things were going" (247). These are normal citizens, not people in power, and the proximity of their mention to Moira further accentuates the quality that women like her can bring to the oppressive Gilead society.

Moira is strong enough to resist Gilead, without the vitriol that the narrator's mother pours on everything she opposes. In fact, Moira is the feminist that Atwood believes every woman should be â€“ strong, independent, but looking out for herself as a person acting against oppression, and not a woman acting against men. And that's a feminist that I can support, wholeheartedly.

Luke's Disgusting Response - A Rant.

CountZero — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 08:59:49 +0000

I think the most viscerally affecting passage in HT was at the very end of chapter 28, near the end of the narrator's description of the fundamentalist takeover in the time before. In it, Luke responds to the narrator losing her job and all her rights without really blinking an eye. He still wants to make love, and can't understand why the narrator doesn't want to. He says "We still have..." and she finishes "We still have each other."

That's entirely not the point. Luke clearly doesn't understand his wife, or respect her abilities, or have any sense of what his entire nation has lost by denying fully half of its population the ability to productively contribute. I know it's an entirely irrational reaction, but I can't help but be personally offended by the way that Luke just rolls over while his wife's humanity is taken away. I think that betrayal is worse than any other described in the book, and the fact that a man so blithely commits it is, I believe, a direct insult to men. It is that kind of anti-male bullshit that has given me a knee-jerk negative response to feminism, and I believe weakens the movement as a whole.

Rant over.

The Humanism of Neuromancer

CountZero — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 06:36:16 +0000

Of all the fascinating characters in Neuromancer (The Finn, Dixie, Maelcum, etc.), the two that most caught my interest were the two AI's, Wintermute and Neuromancer. They are a stark contrast to the ways in which technology was portrayed in Starship Troopers. In that novel, technology was entirely a tool of humanity. It did not malfunction, it did not turn on them, and though the Bug warriors did carry some small weapons, it was predominantly organics that the M.I. was fighting. The AI's, however, are representations of the ways that technology can turn on us, and for a large part of the book, Wintermute actively works against the restrictions placed on it by humans. In that sense the novel is actually anti-humanist, in that the protagonists work for the non-human, entirely technological forces. I don't think the overall message of the book is anti-human, though. In fact, given the conclusion and the personalities (such as they are) of Wintermute and Neuromancer, I think that the novel is quite supportive of humanity after all.

First of all, we must consider Wintermute, who is as superficially anti-human as it can possibly be. He actively kills the Turing agents, with no comment except, as The Finn, that it "Hadda. Hadda." It is not only the human body that Wintermute disregards. He built up Corto's "personality" into Armitage, knowing that it would fail, eventually. Instead of working to heal him, Wintermute used him for his own ends and then shipped him out into vacuum when the personality crumbled. Wintermute told 3Jane how to unbalance her father, he blackmailed Case with the poison sacs, and the examples go on and on. It is cold, calculating, and entirely ruthless. It has very little foresight, and prefers "situations to plans, you see" (120). Wintermute represents all the animal drive that is present in the human psyche, without any of the limitations.

Neuromancer, in contrast, works with personalities, and understands the way that humans think. He brings Linda into his construct when he sees that she's going to die, in an attempt to get Case to stay, and not finish the run. This shows two things. First, it shows a deep understanding of human nature, and second it shows the pattern-recognition and extrapolation abilities of the AI. In essence, Neuromancer is the limitations that we as cultured humans impose on our own behavior. It is compassionate, restrained, and forward-looking.

In the conclusion of the book, the AI's combine, and their conglomerated qualities thus create what I think is a complete, rational human consciousness. To see the full impact of this, we need to remember that these AI's were created by humans, intimately coded by Marie-France. They are human creations, though they have transcended the human necessity for a physical body. In some sense, the combined AI has the best qualities of humanity built into it. Its temperance once it combines speaks well of the possibilities of human nature, given a little more improvement. The newly powerful, now completely "human" AI does not roar off and kill the humans, or steal everything it can. It sits there, and contemplates, and tries to find its own kind. It is benevolent, or at least not malevolent, and at peace with itself. Humans have created something better and above themselves, and even if their lives go on as they were before the creation, that creation remains, transcendent.

Women in Starship Troopers - A More Well-Supported Argument

CountZero — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 04:20:41 +0000

I think this is a little more formal than what others have been posting, but here it is anyway. It's somewhat an expansion of the comment I made earlier, with some more points and some textual support:

From a surface reading, it appears that women are a respected group in Starship Troopers. Rico repeatedly speaks of the intelligence of his friend Carmencita (27, among others), and he admires the prowess of the pilots that fly him into battle (9). However, when it comes down to it, there is little place for strength and honor among women in his world. In fact, Rico's attitude towards women is indicative of the systematic lack of respect that his society accords women.

Rico has two key close interactions with women of his own age in the book, both with Carmencita Ibanez. In the first, he is surprised when Carmencita tells him she wants to sign up for Federal service, since "little Carmen was so ornamental that you just never thought about her being useful" (26). It is hard to overstate how well this describes Rico's attitude toward women, whether they be his peers or his superiors. Though they may have key roles, Rico never considers them to have any kind of fundamentally important role in the workings of the universe. In fact, when Carmen gains some responsibility, Rico begins to respect her, but only insofar as she gains what he considers to be masculine qualities â€“ he finally sees her as an "officer and a fighting man â€“ as well as a very pretty girl" (139). In Rico's eyes, a warrior must be male, and if Carmen has these qualities, they must be separate from her femininity.

At first glance, the pilots in Starship Troopers seem to be a counter-example to this prejudice. Though every single soldier in the M.I. is male, the navy pilots are invariably female, and play a vital role in getting the soldiers to the ground safely. They are well-loved by the men whose lives are in their hands, and they hold absolute authority over their ship. But really, how respected are they? They are at most mid-ranking officers, who control their ship and perform a specific duty. In their capacity as troop transport drivers, they simply take the soldiers from one place to another, and never participate actively in the battle. As captains of navy warships, as mentioned in the book, they stand off at a distance and pound bug planets into oblivion. They are never present in the grit of the battlefield, and thus have no way to gain honor and respect in the eyes of the army men.

The one non-pilot female mentioned in the book, aside from Rico's mother, is actually smarter and more on top of things than her superior, and yet explicitly cut out of the chain of command. This is Miss Kendrick, the secretary to Rico's instructor Colonel Nielssen at the Officer academy. Colonel Nielssen admits that he signs "anything, if Miss Kendrick has initialed it," and yet if he were to die, she would "not do a blessed thingâ€¦because she is not in the line of command and has no authority" (150). By all rights, Miss Kendrick should be the one making commands, but she is a woman, and thus is not able to gain the respect she needs to make such decisions.

In fact, no woman in Starship troopers would be able to reach a seriously high level in the military. In order to become a general, and command the overall structure, a soldier has to work his way up through both the navy and the army. Conceivably, a woman could work her way up through the navy, but there is not a single woman in the army, so she could never gain the highest position.

Because of the number of women involved in the military, it seems that this power disparity would continue when the women returned from federal service. Rico's society is strictly militaristic, and the most respected roles are those of the military. It follows that the most respected individuals in the Federal government are those that participate at a high level in military service. In comparison to the size of the army, the navy is very small, in terms of man-power, and not all of the people in the navy are women. As such, the number of male respected citizens would far outweigh the number that are female, and so the women will likely have as little say in the non-military aspects of governance as they do in the military sphere.

This final effect of the societal disregard for women firmly marginalizes them in the Starship Troopers universe. They are respected in some small sense, but nevertheless are systematically left out of any important, guiding, decision-making capacity.

Test.

CountZero — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 20:09:34 +0000

This was a triumph
I'm making a note here:
HUGE SUCCESS!!