Tuesday, February 7, 2012

The Charge of Man


     "In the vast domain of living things, there reigns an obvious violence, a kind of prescribed rage that arms all creatures to their common doom. As soon as you leave the inanimate kingdom, you find the decree of violent death written on the very frontiers of life. You feel it already in the vegetable kingdom: from the immense catalpa to the humblest herb, how many plants die, and how many are killed! As soon as you enter the animal kingdom, the law suddenly becomes frighteningly obvious. A power at once hidden and palpable shows itself continually occupied in demonstrating the principle of life by violent means. In each great division of the animal kingdom, it has chosen a certain number of animals charged with devouring the others: thus, there are insects of prey, birds of prey, fish of prey, and quadrupeds of prey. There is no instant or time when some living thing is not being devoured by another. 

Above all these numerous animal species is placed man, whose destructive hand spares nothing that lives. He kills to nourish himself, he kills to clothe himself, he kills to adorn himself, he kills to attack, he kills to defend himself, he kills to instruct himself, he kills to amuse himself, he kills to kill: a superb and terrible king, he needs everything and nothing resists him. He knows how many barrels of oil he can get for himself from the head of a shark or a whale; with his sharp pins he mounts for museum display the elegant butterfly he caught in flight on the summit of Mount Blanc or Chimborazo; he stuffs the crocodile and embalms the hummingbird: at his command, the rattlesnake dies in preserving fluids to show itself intact to a long line of observers. The horse carrying its master to the tiger hunt struts under the skin of this same animal. Man demands everything at the same time: he takes from the lamb its entrails to make his harp resound, from the whale its bones to stiffen the corset of the young girl, from the wolf its most murderous tooth to polish his pretty works of art, from the elephant its tusks to make a child's toy: his tables are covered with corpses. The philosopher can even discover how this permanent carnage is provided for and ordained in the great scheme of things. But will this law stop at man? Undoubtedly not. Yet who will exterminate him who exterminates everything else? Man! It is man himself who is charged with slaughtering man." [1]

 1. Maistre, Joseph Marie (comte de). Translation by Richard LeBrun.
      Soirées de Saint Pétersbourg. Paris: 1821.

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Saturday, February 4, 2012

Terse Review: Ender's Game

Book Title: Ender's Game
Author: Orson Scott Card
Publication Year: 1985 (Tor Publishing)
Genre: Science Fiction

Synopsis: In a future where humans have barely survived two devastating invasions by a mysterious race of aliens referred to as "Buggers," the International Fleet monitors and recruits young children in the search for a perfect commander. Ender Wiggin, the "third" child in a world where population is strictly limited, seems promising enough that he is taken into formal training at the age of six. There he is forced to endure a battery of increasingly-challenging battle simulations and tests, with the hope of humanity resting on his ability to overcome all the odds.

Opinion: In his introduction, Orson Scott Card distinguishes science fiction from fantasy by noting how "Tolkien disciples far too often simply rewrite Tolkien," but in sci-fi the ideas are "fresh" and presented in new and "startling" ways. While this may or may not ring true of the genre, Ender's Game doesn't seem to bring any startlingly new ideas to the table. You have the improbable and essentially good-natured hero who is tempted by his own darkness (in the vein of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader), but is ultimately victorious and redeeming. It's Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces. While some of the concepts of null gravity and battle-room games described in the book are unique, the "training to be the best" build-up is cliche. In this case, it comprises the bulk of the story. Imagine Luke Skywalker or Rocky Balboa training sequences meshed with military squad tactics and you have the basic idea. The only thing missing is montage music. One of the strangest things about this novel is the use of children as the main characters. It's a weird contradiction, because the characters all think and act like brilliant adults, to the extent that the reader often forgets they aren't, but then there are times when Ender or his sister wistfully yearn to live as "normal" children. It seems like the author is using age in an attempt magnify the effects of war and violence, but often the device just comes off as absurd.

Where Card's story succeeds is in his ability to convey Ender's emotion. He does an excellent job of fleshing-out the character and begging the reader's sympathy. He uses Ender as a conduit through which we see human relationships at their most demanding, their most dysfunctional, and their most depraved. Card also aptly brings to life the great human struggle between a desire to remain pacifistic and the necessity of violence for survival. Overall, Ender's Game is an easy read, even for adolescents, but still engaging and fun enough for adults to enjoy. While it offers a few keen observations on human nature, I believe the book is a little overrated.

Score (1-10):  7.7

Favorite Passages:
"We're the wicked witch. We promise gingerbread, but we eat the little bastards alive."

"It isn't the world at stake, Ender. Just us. Just humankind. As far as the rest of the biosphere is concerned, we could be wiped out and it would adjust, it would get on with the next step in evolution. But humanity doesn't want to die. As a species, we have evolved to survive. And the way we do it is by straining and straining and, at last, every few generations, giving birth to genius. The one who invents the wheel. And light. And flight. The one who builds a city, a nation, an empire."

"What else should you be? Human beings didn't evolve brains in order to lie around on lakes. Killing's the first thing we learned. And a good thing we did, or we'd be dead, and the tigers would own the earth."

"Welcome to the human race. Nobody controls his own life, Ender. The best you can do is choose to fill the roles given to you by good people, by people who love you."  

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Thursday, February 2, 2012

Kafka on Society, Part I - Die Verwandlung

[1]

     Franz Kafka's works the Metamorphosis and the Trial are both unified by a theme of transformation, where the protagonist awakens to suddenly find himself the victim of some terrible event. In the Metamorphosis, it is Gregor Samsa who has spontaneously changed into an ungeheueres Ungeziefer, or "monstrous vermin." In the Trial, Josef K. is inexplicably arrested "one fine day" (the morning of his thirtieth birthday, no less) and subjected to the indefatigable will of law. Both works provide ample room for myriad interpretations, but the two elements of interest here are the concepts of tenuous social status and rites of passage. 

    For Gregor Samsa, right up until the point of his metamorphosis, he has lived his life "correctly," in accordance with society's expectations. Despite maintaining a tedious and lonely occupation, he exemplifies outstanding work ethic. Mr. Samsa subordinates his own fantasies to the mores of his time, working his life away to support his family. Once the change has occurred, however, the delicate strands which bind him to society begin to unravel. Repulsed and confused by his sudden change, the family restricts him to his room. He is unable to communicate, but remains capable of understanding the speech of others. In their disgust and apprehension, the family too undergoes a sort of metamorphosis. The once-frail father is forced to take on employment, which has a reinvigorating effect. As the story progresses, the father seems to resume a sort of alpha role, defiantly driving back Gregor in several incidents, and occasionally verging on murderous violence. The mother personifies fear, praying that her son will somehow revert to normalcy. She is never able to cope with the bizarre event which has transpired, and physically shuts down at the sight of Gregor. Even his sister (with whom he is closest) eventually loses her patience and demands that the family kill or drive out this monstrosity, before he destroys their own livelihood. 

    The motif at play belies the assumption that social bonds are robust. The changed relationship of Gregor to his family, his employer, and to strangers, is a poignant statement on the fragility of social status. Despite his impeccable employment record and the personal sacrifices he has made for the sake of his family, Gregor becomes a pariah overnight, his contrast too alien to be suffered. The treatment of Gregor is a reminder that, no matter how firmly cemented we believe our own social positions to be, there is always a limit to society's tolerance of nonconformity. Status is dynamic. Eventually, if one is aberrant enough, no bond (even familial) will hold. The offensive variance will be exiled or crushed, so that the social group can maintain its strict cohesion. 

     In the Bantam Classics version of the Metamorphosis, Stanley Corngold provides an excellent collection of explanatory notes to the text [2]. Among his observations, he stresses Kafka's intentional use of the term ungeheueres Ungeziefer (monstrous vermin). He explains the etymological grounding in late Middle High German, where the term originally referred to an "unclean animal, unsuited for sacrifice." Corngold refers to ungeheueres Ungeziefer as "a word in which the undertones of the uncanny, the supernatural, the daemonic, and also all possible conceptions of taboo vibrate in resonance" [Ibid.]

    In cultural rites of passage, the process generally consists of three stages: Separation, Liminality, and Reintegration. Liminality is routinely punctuated by elements of uncertainty and danger. For example, when a girl of the South American Nambicuara tribe begins puberty, she is immediately quarantined from the rest of the tribe and placed in a "menstruation hut," where she remains for months. Thus begins the liminal phase in her rite of passage. During this period, the girl is not allowed to speak, nor to leave her hut. She is, in a sense, held in spiritual limbo, and at this time there is a high risk that if she were to be seen outside the hut, a great bird of death might swoop down and devour her. The situation's peril is further heightened by the fact that her condition (and associated risks) are contagious; her misfortunes could be spread to her people. So severe is this term that, even in times of war or disaster, fleeing tribesmen will carry the entire structure, the young woman still inside, to their new destination. 

    In the Metamorphosis, Kafka employs the moment between dreaming and waking life to serve as the inception of this liminal phase. Something has gone wrong, however, and the dangers of liminal vulnerability have been actualized. Reintegration is impossible, and so the social separation continues and magnifies, until the schism can only be resolved through Gregor's death. The etymological root is particularly interesting to this aspect, because it so eloquently describes the change in Gregor's position. Where before the transformation he was a sort of martyr, a creature of tedious routine who sacrificed his own bliss for his family's well-being, after his metamorphosis he is "unclean" and no longer fit for sacrificial duty. 

    Die Verwandlung works well as a narrative analysis of social machinations, emphasizing the limits of social acceptance and the power of taboo. Kafka's use of liminality conveys the tenuousness of social relationships, illustrating that these bonds are easily broken when the "peril" of nonconformity becomes too great a risk for the collective. In Der Process, Kafka likewise exposes the frailty of society's bonds, but does so through a rather different, "top-down" approach. This theme will be dutifully examined in Part Two of this post. 


REFERENCES

1. Metamorphosis of Kafka by James LeGros. Acrylic on Watercolor Board.   

2. Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Translated and edited by Stanley Corngold. 
     Bantam Books: New York. 1972.

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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Prometheus Revisited


QUAE SUPRA NOS NIHIL AD NOS

"That which is above is nothing to us."
Alternately, 
"What lies above is none of our business." 

[1]

[2]

[3]


     Alciato's allegory of Prometheus bears the same admonishment echoed by myths and religions for millennia: that man should remain servile and ignorant, with eyes cast toward the ground. It is a warning against Faustian knowledge, and though mankind's technology has surely advanced, the animal himself has changed little. The myth is perpetual. What the snake of Genesis is to Adam and Eve, Science is to contemporary humanity. The atavistic nature of superstition surfaces anew in each generation. It hisses in the ear, sowing seeds of doubt and paranoia: perhaps this will be the year that a terrible threshold is crossed. It maintains a vague sense of impending destruction, always assuring us that the next step we take will be one too far, one we will not be able to pull back from the brink. Details may change, but ever present is the suggestion that our curiosity, our limitless inquiry, is an assault on mystery inviolate. To a certain extent, the suggestion is true. With every advance in understanding, our power increases. The mysterious unknown diminishes. The ability to split atoms, to see across galaxies and peer into molecules, the graduation from genetic memory to silicon history; indeed, our science has begun to make us godlike, in any sense meaningful to our ancestors. Perhaps the crux of Prometheus' warning is not whether "what lies above" is any of our business (for men will always make it their business), but whether or not we will be wise enough to understand it before destroying ourselves in the process. 


REFERENCES

1. Alciato, Andrea. Emblemata. Paris. 1584.

2. Alciato, Andrea. Emblematum Liber. Augsburg. 1531.

3. Alciato, Andrea. Emblematum Libellus. Woodcuts by Mercure Jollat. Paris. 1534.

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Monday, January 30, 2012

The Caitiff's Tell

Ungraciousness in the face of amity is not merely an indication of poor manners, but quite often the conspicuous mark of a coward.

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