Review of "Grendel" by John Gardner

"Tedium is the worst pain. The mind lays out the world in block, and the hushed blood wits for revenge. All order, I've come to understand, is theoretical, unreal--a harmless, sensible, smiling mask men slide between the two great, dark realities, the self and the world--two snakepits. The watchful mind lies, cunning and swift, about the dark blood's lust, lies and lies and lies until, weary of talk, the watchman sleeps. Then sudden and swift the enemy strikes from nowhere, the cavernous heart."

(p. 157)

The possibility of expanding upon a previous well-known work in order to open up new possibilities for exploration had ocurred to me even as a young man. I can recall lunches way back when I was in junior high school when I would gather with a small group of friends to expand and offer alternative scenarios for works we were all reading. It was fun to take the viewpoint of another character and explore more fully his (it was rarely her with us) role, even though we lacked the rigor to carry it out systematically.

In this novel, published over forty years ago, Gardner offers the mythical monster Grendel's viewpoint from the epic work of Old English literature, Beowolf. I have to admit, it has been a considerable period of time since I read the original, and recall very little of it. But it was a book I was bound to read because of the numerous references I have encountered to this work lately.

I was fascinated by the way in which the monster is given a voice that contrasts with that we would associate with the monster. In the same way, Frankenstein's monster in the original Mary Shelley novel was a character who seemed to possess a hightened sensibility, one who fulfilled the parameters of a romantic figure. I also recall that Frankenstein's monster has also spent part of his time spying on a family and wishing earnestly to become a part of that unit, expressing a heightened sensibility. He was cursed to play, however, the role of the monster, one who was tormented by loneliness and rejection, and who thus was forced into the role of persecutor of his creator.

In this case, we have a sly and witty take on that role of the voyeur. Grendel also has a heightened sensibility, and seems to chafe at his role. He lives in a deep cave with his mother, a wordless creature who he seems to disregard at the same time that he recognizes and relies on her role as a protective figure. This Grendel is especially susceptible to the power of poetry, and he is tormented continually by the Shaper, that old poet who has joined the household of his nemesis Hrothgar, the old and wily king, and who sings songs that weave meaning into a story of mercenary predation on the part of this human figure.

For Hrothgar is not a character who evokes much sympathy. He is an astute figure who slowly expands his realm by trickery and political maneouvers, and as his kingdom grows, Grendel becomes more and more hostile to him. Grendel is the creature who reflects upon morality and the significance of his interactions with this world. Is there a world seperate from him? It would appear to him not, for he muses, "I understood that, finally and absolutely, I alone exist. All the rest, I saw, is merely what pushes me, or what I push against, blindly--as blindly as all that is not myself pushes back. I create the whole universe, blink by blink. --An ugly god pitifully dying in a tree!" (p. 22)

But in a future encounter he is given to understand the power of narrative, and this shakes him to the core. He will scoff at this "fiction", insisting repeatedly that he knows the truth, that he has the priviledged vantage point as an outsider, that he has seen the true motivations and the true nature of those other beings that he insists on observing, that world that fascinates him so much. He will come to understand the power of narrative that takes the form of mythology, one that assigns, implacably, roles. And he has a role assigned to him as well.

Incidentally, in the course of this education, he will have a comical but also unnerving dialogue with a dragon, one who proclaims his epistemological certainty and who reminds me very much of a surly college professor. This dragon teases and taunts Grendel, and attempts to teach him, but ulimately dismisses the monster, choosing to watch jealously over his treasure. The dragon's explanations verge on the impenetrable, and constitute another attempt at deception, which is the same reaction that I experienced in my own interactions with these sly professors who scalded me as well.
Grendel will scoff continually on the fictions that are elaborated to support the role assigned both to himself as well as to Hrothgar. This is, after all, a metatextual exercise in which the characters, or at least Grendel and the furious warrior Unferth who asserts that he cares little if he is killed if it means he will be immortalized in song, reflect on their roles. Of course, Grendel will not accomodate Unferth, refusing either to be killed by him or to kill him, thus humiliating him thoroughly.

The monster will embark on nightly depredations, keeping to his role as a deadly antagonist. Why could he not be a protagonist? Why does he not have a Shaper (a poet) to sing his praises? It is enought that while he can kill Hrothgar's men easily, he must also resign himself to the immortality as the deadly antagonist that is thrust on him like the bull who attacks him early in the book, when Grendel is stuck in a tree and is unable to extricate himself. And Grendel is never able to extricate himself from his role, acknowledging and feeling frustration over the power of these roles, and characters such as the sister to the challenger, a woman who is sacrificed in order to save her brother.

"Then, at last, moving slowly, as if walking in a dream, a woman in a robe of threaded silver came gliding from the hall. Her smooth long hair was as red as fire and soft as the ruddy sheen on dragon's gold. Her face was gentle, mysteriously calm. The night became more still." (p. 100)

An entrance and a first impression that is, more than improbably (and Grendel is always proclaiming to be a realist), is suspiciously manipulative, like the epic songs of the Shaper, and all the more enfuriating because they seem, percisely, so tawdry and cheap, like the baubles guarded by the dragon. Is is enfuriating, but Grendel can't help but be seduced by her power, and humilated by his own vulnerability.

In the end, Grendel continues his depredations until he witnesses the arrival of the strangers, the Geats from across the sea, who are lead by a warrior who is impossibly muscled, a "He-man" cartoon figure who radiates calm assurance and confidence, and who evokes fear in Grendel. It is just such an encounter that Grendel's mother, in her wordless anxiety, has anticipated, and yet she has been powerless to stop her son, the monster who insists on testing the power of this narrative. Is there any "reality" outside of narrative? It would appear that Grendel is continually forced to recognize and acknowledge the obtuseness of a story that will grind and devour him.

And such is the case, Grendel attacks, and is overcome, and is humilated, forced to flee after having had his arm ripped off by this human. No longer is he immune, for it doesn't suit the story any longer, and we are all imprisoned by stories. The Shaper is the one who, on his deathbed, had anticipated the arrival of the strangers, and who had affirmed even in death the power of the story. And this story can't help but seem implacable to the reader as well, who after a fashion, had come to identify with Grendel, seing in him certainly a much more expansive and reflective individual that the one-dimensional humans in this epic of long ago.


Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013

Review of "The Farthest Shore" by Ursula K. Le Guin

“The first lesson on Roke, and the last, is Do what is needful. And no more!”     (p. 133)

A foundational motif in Ursula K. Le Guin’s  Earthsea novels is the idea of the balance. It occurs frequently in ruminations about power, and it is manifestly on display in reflections on the limits of power as wielded by wizards. To be able to weave spells and be able to change appearance, to change the weather, to compel people to act in certain ways and to be forced to protect one’s true name lest it be misused in these spells illustrates the risks that accrue to the inhabitants of this world. Who will protect us from any ill-intentioned individual with training who may use this power for private ends, to gain wealth, to exact revenge, to become a ruler? It is something that occurred to me thirty years ago as a young teenager when I first encountered these and other fantasy novels, and I reflected on the possibility of abuse while at the same time being fascinated by the dramatic and fundamentally romantic vision (romantic in the sense of giving expression to one’s desires while unimpeded by society) of men of power and their adventures.

These gaudy displays of power seem to have obsessed the young wizard Ged when he left to pursue his training in Roke Island. He wanted to leave a deep imprint on his world, burdened as he was by anxiety and by his own insecurities. It was something I deeply understood, but at the same time, I was both puzzled as well as horrified by this character’s wounded pride and the destructive acts that it led him to commit. As we recall, in the first book of this series, A Wizard of Earthsea, he wove a spell that opened up a conduit to the other side, and brought forth a shadow that was to pursue him for the rest of the novel. It was as such a cautionary tale as well as a rite of passage, for the young man learned the danger of his ambition as he sought reconciliation with the consequences of his acts.

In the last novel of the original series, The Farthest Shore, we encounter the wizard as an old man. He has been Archmage for five years, and has a long series of successfully completed quests that have given him fame as well as offering hope to Earthsea. And yet this is a novel that follows the original mold offered in the first book, for it Is also a rite of passage as we are introduced to a new character, a descendent of the legendary ruler Morred and a heir to the throne. His name is Arren, and he is sent to Roke to deliver disconcerting news about changes that have been noted on the outer reaches of the worldly domain.

These changes are always evident on the frontier, and one gains the sense of unknown forces that threaten order and stability and, in a fundamental way, the sense of meaning evident in cultural practices. People in far-flung lands are losing the ability to practice magic, and are seemingly becoming bewildered because their sense of order is being destroyed. It is, thus, not a matter of simple magic that is disappearing, for one would have to believe that such an occurrence might be wield such a big impact on populations in which there are limited practitioners of this lore. I tried to compare it to the sense of native elites in conquered realms who are supplanted, and how this very probably led to a bewildering loss of cultural integrity and order in societies such as those of the Americas. In this case, this construct is impacting all sectors in general, and it is affecting not only commerce (the weavers of Hort town can no longer produce quality silk nor can the dyers of Lorbanery produce the colors for which they have been renowned, among many other examples) but also in the loss of the songs that constitute such a distinctive element of their identity. Crops are not tended, families become alienated and apathetic, and instances of sustained and inexplicable violence and destruction are growing.

The Archmage Sparrowhawk meets with Arren, and from the beginning we see that the young messenger and heir to the throne will be entering into an apprenticeship. He will accompany the wizard as he ventures out to the western lands to investigate this phenomenon and try to address what appears, from the very beginning, to be a threat to the “Balance” that should prevail.

It is noteworthy, once again, that we will encounter another narrative in which familiar issues of trust and honesty will manifest themselves. In this fictional world the author has always sought to assert that there are many ways of knowing, and that silence and observations constitute powers ways of interacting and being, contrasting with the dynamic impulses of action and saying. This companionship, in which the apprentice Arren will frequently be wracked by doubt and will be frustrated by the lack of communication offered by his mentor, will echo once again the troubled apprenticeship of Ged with the wizard Ogion of Gont. As we recall, Ged was a character who felt the urge to action, and was singularly impatient and desperate to prove himself, and ultimately left his master in order to complete his training in Roke. He wasn’t ready, in other words, for what Ogion was able to teach him, that which he desperately needed to learn. This was self-control.

Arren, on the other hand, was born to power and responsibility. He is a heir to the throne, and has been trained from an early age, but has not been tested. He has observed and been obeyed, but he will need to similarly restrain himself and try to learn the many lessons that he will be taught by Ged/Sparrowhawk. These will be hard lessons, and will manifest time and again the real dangers that are offered by this world, but also, the value of trust.

As they proceed on their trek to the West, they encounter many dangers. They are ambushed, and Arren has to be rescued after he is taken prisoner by slavers. They will also be hounded in other locales, and after being attacked while trying to land on the island of Obehol, they will float helplessly for days on the open sea, with a wounded Sparrowhawk unable to offer guidance.

They are making their journey to the west for they have encountered a recurring story about a dark figure who promises immortality. This figure is draining the vitality of this world and of its inhabitants, and threatening the equilibrium that is so important. The narrative offers, as do so many of Le Guin’s stories and novels, passages of sheer poetic beauty, as they describe encounters with different cultures, from the sea peoples of the South to the culture of the ancient dragons of the west. One can never forget that Le Guin’s father was an anthropologist at Berkeley, and that this anthropological concern has been a mainstay in her fiction. And yet, there is something inscrutable in these cultures that defies understanding, a hidden element that always lies beneath the surface, and that harks over and over to the idea of what is not perceived, what is not obtainable unless it results from a deeply felt sense of communion with the Other. The sea peoples may seem to lead an idyllic life that harks to a prehistoric epoch, lacking as they do writing or any formal economy, but they preserve a certain wisdom that is sorely tempting to those who have tired of the Western narrative of struggle, rationality and progress. She is feeding into a disaffection that many of her readers have with the world as we know it, with our urge to return to a simpler time, one offering less deception.

There are many challenges, and at first, Arren judges himself harshly. He seems unable to measure up to the Archmage who occupies for him an almost mythical position, one that is shared with his legendary ancestor, the mage Morred. Arren is no wizard, and feels that this fact is a liability, and yet he felt sure that he could contribute to this venture, and assist Sparrowhawk as they tried to find the source of this imbalance that is threatening the world.

And this reflection on his own vulnerability and fears is echoed, in a work that plays on these interconnections, in the story of Cob, a wizard who was an adept of the hidden and disreputable lore of Paln, and who was able to call up the dead at will. This wizard was terrified of death and thus abused his power, seeking a way to overcome these limitations to help free him from fear. It is this wizard who is draining the world of order, who is dissociating the words from any element of power they may have held, who is causing amnesia and a dispiriting loss of hope. With the aid of the venerable dragon Orm Embar, they will be led to the westernmost island of Selidor, where they will encounter this wizard, and venture into the land of the dead to help repair the breach that has been opened. The parallelism is striking, for in the first novel Ged had opened up a similar breach that ended up costing the life of the Archmage Nemmerle, and here one suspects that Ged is still doing penance for this act.

What follows is a mesmerizing but also terrifying description of a journey through the Dry Lands, this being the land of the dead. They cross the stone wall that separates the realms and journey ever deeper, a journey that was begin in the living world on the ocean but that continues in a world in which there is no water whatsoever. The description of the dead would seem to validate the fears of Cob, for it is terrifying, a land of shadow in which no emotions attachments survive.

“Instead of fear, then, great pity rose up in Arren, and if fear underlay it, it was not for himself, but for all people. For he saw the mother and child who had died together, and they were in the dark land together; but the child did not run, nor did it cry, and the mother did not hold it or ever look at it. And those who had died for love passed each other in the streets.” (p. 173)

Only the names survive as empty visages, futile memories that can never evolve, never generate new memories, and are condemned to an eternal stasis.

In this journey Arren will exhibit extraordinary courage as he learns to accept his instincts and extend his trust to himself, and not only to his powerful mentor. He will play a crucial part in overcoming Cob by guiding Ged, an encounter which necessarily represents an end for both wizards. Cob will be divested of his fear and, in an act that would seem to echo an earlier episode in which Sparrowhawk had given a new name to a tormented witch, will seemingly be renamed and will retreat into the society of the dead. And Ged will spend the last of his power closing the breach, needing the help of Arren to undertake a journey through the Mountains of Pain to return to the world.

It is thus that we close a cycle in the story of apprenticeships in which Ged, in the closing novel of this trilogy, relinquishes his authority and ushers in an era in which Arren, whose true name is Lebannen, will return to claim the throne of Earthsea, fulfilling thus a long-ago prophecy. A price will have to be paid, and yet, the balance serves as the perfect metaphor to describe not only a transaction but also an equilibrium that has been an eternal concern of humanity itself. I would venture to say that this journey also will teach the new king a lesson in the perils of abuse, by expanding his perspective and, as with any rite of passage, showing him a broader world. This lesson is developed in the metaphor of the wave:

“That selfhood which is our torment, and our treasure, and our humanity, does not endure. It changes, it is gone, a wave on the sea. Would you have the sea grow still and the tides cease, to save one wave, to save yourself? Would you give up the craft of your hands, and the passion of your heart, and the light of sunrise and sunset, to buy safety for yourself—safety forever?” (p. 122)

The illusion of eternal safety is tempting but, once can’t help feel, also perilously close to the description offered of the dead lands, an illusion that is devoid of vitality, that is dry and stale and pitiful, that represents a closed realm.

Although I can’t help but think that these urges represent an almost primal instinct. Who is not afraid of the dark, who does not fear loneliness and the threat of violence, in whatever form it may take, whether it be economic, political, emotional, etc.? Is this not one of the fundamental attractions of order, the ability to rely on constraint and security from risk, to hedge bets, to use the language of Wall Street? (I am writing this at a moment in which another investment firm, J.P. Morgan, has admitted to the loss of two billion dollars in a scheme to reduce risk that backfired dramatically, and that recalls the many abuses committed by the banking sector during the first decade of this present century, leading to a prolonged recession that is still hurting the country.) For all the wisdom gained by this character, I can’t help but feel that there are institutional vulnerabilities that are much more worrisome, even in this fictionalized and simplified setting. Any concentrated authority necessarily holds the seeds of abuse, and prophecies in this setting serve as a tool by which to limit the scope of oversight, for what is prophecied would seem to allude to the will of a higher authority that we can’t challenge.

Will King Arren/Lebannen remain noble? Will this world regain stability and enter into a new world order that promises peace and prosperity for everyone? If my questions elicits a gut reaction in the negative, it is only because I have chosen catch words the refer to those applied to our real world, one that was to be inaugurated by the New World Order of the post-Cold War period, in which Globalization and Neo-liberalism promised prosperity for all, but in which we continue to live with renewed sources of strife. Such is doubtless the case in this fictional setting as well, if the history of Earthsea, as related in this book and others, is to be heeded. There have been many episodes of wizards, warlords,  tyrants and other imperialist agents abusing their powers, causing strife between lands and periods of destruction that range from many petty wars to the disappearance of an entire island, an occurrence that I take as the metaphorical equivalent of nuclear or terrorist-inspired holocaust. What assurance do we have that the “Balance” will hold? None, of course, and I am left to reflect on how these fables remind us of the many perilous journeys of self-discovery that are unavoidably ours to undertake as well.



Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013

Review of "Another Earth" - An allegory of redemption

I’ve been putting it off for several weeks. I’ve had this movie available, and remembered having heard positive things about this movie since last year when it was released. It was described as an engaging, deeply-felt and haunting meditation on life and regret, and it was furthermore incorporated a science fiction motif. But I’ve been disappointed by these types of movies before, and in general, Hollywood does not tend to fulfill the promise of this genre.

The move is called “Another Earth”, and it has a contemporary setting. The story involves two characters, Rhoda and John, and their attempt at reconciliation after a painful incident that left both of them devastated. Both are lonely characters, and both are left bereft, looking to mend a past and setting their hopes on the possibility of somehow turning the clock back.

This is not a time travel story such as Stephen King’s 11/22/63, a novel I read recently. It is not a work that relies on technology as well, to harken back to the critic Eric Rabkin’s idea that science fiction is a literature of the technological imagination. (A definition that is far too limited, in my opinion.) This movie is characterized by all manner of mirrors and reflective devices that reveal a deep preoccupation with the self. These take all manner of shapes, from windows to water to glass bottles to white snow and, finally, to the appearance in the sky of another planet, a mirror-image of the Earth.

This planet, which touts as well its own accompanying moon, is remarkably similar to our planet. It seems to appear out of the sky suddenly, and it draws steadily closer until it looms above the sky, a fascinating facsimile of the Earth as viewed from orbit. The way in which this object is received, not to mention the physics of such an encounter, are manifestly impervious to logic.

No worldwide panic seems to ensue. The world, while fascinated by this encounter, seems to follow normal rhythms, people continue to work, and there seem to be no major disruptions. The town that serves as the setting for this story is one of those small places located on the Eastern coast, surrounded by trees, and the predominant season seems to be either winter or fall.

One would think, as well, that the approach of such an enormous object would necessarily result in major physical perturbations on Earth. Why do the seasons seems not to be disrupted? Why has the orbit of the Moon not been altered, why are the tides not affected, why are there no seismological consequences that should necessarily accompany the sudden proximity of such an enormous gravitational object?

The answer is that this is a movie that is not grounded in scientific rigor but instead on psychological concerns that have to do with the fear as well as necessity of self-discovery. The two characters are also brought together by mysterious circumstances, in this case, the car crash that is occasioned when a drunk Rhoda, celebrating as she has been her admission to MIT, kills the family of John Burroughs (yes, Burroughs, a name that can’t help but resonate with the fantasies of Edgar Rice Burroughs), plunging him into a four year coma while she finds herself imprisoned in a shiningly white prison cell.

She approaches him hesitantly after hearing that he has awoken from his coma. She has now lost the sense of destiny and associated overconfidence that had characterized her before, having been a young and beautiful and extraordinarily gifted student. She is consumed by guilt and by what she perceives is the loss of this bright future, and she ventures out to the isolated house located in a barren field which is where John resides, mourning as he is the loss of his family.

Without confessing her intention or identity, she slowly builds a relationship with him, and helps him to withdraw from his shell. They discuss the whole exciting idea of contact and discovery, projecting their hopes as well as fears on this analogue of the Earth that has been dubbed “Earth 2”. They feel like discoverers, and in what is an utterly unlikely scenario that seems to defy the usual logic but is completely in accord with dreamlike experiences, they are astounded to find out that this Earth is so much like their own planet that they even have people who are almost the exact analogues of themselves. It is an allegory, in other words, couched as a science fiction fable, in which the protagonist are looking into a mirror and dreaming of encountering themselves to hopefully find an element of understanding.

If you could talk to yourself, what would you say? Would your analogue have made the same mistakes that you did? Could you hope to commune with this person who was and who is not yourself? This is a question that has been brought to the fore many times, and is part of the whole idea of the “Many Worlds” hypothesis in which, at each instance, many distinct realities branch off depending on the many decisions that we make at any particular moment.

For example, now I am lying on my bed and writing this review on my laptop. What if I were to stop right here and venture out to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee, or step outside for a breath of fresh air, or stand up and flex my legs? Each of these actions would result, ultimately, in a different reality the effects of which would be magnified and result in changes on a grander scale, in accord with the whole idea of the “Butterfly” effect that was discussed in science fiction stories such as Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder” and, most recently, in the Stephen King novel I mentioned.

Well, in this movie we posit the possibility of encountering a different line of reality, one that has diverged but only slightly. It may be that in “Earth 2” Rhoda did not crash into John Burrough’s car, and his loved ones live, and she has gone on to fulfill the promise of a bright future instead of having to settle (by her choice, in large part) on a lonely career as a janitor at a local high school. (Do they allow people with felony convictions who have served time work in public institutions? I doubt it, but that is only one of many logical holes in this movie.)

And thus, by a seemingly improbably chain of circumstances, she wins a trip to this alternate Earth. A private company is paying for a rocket that it will launch, but after having been informed of her trip, and after a devastating scene in which she reveals her identity to John, she decides to pass on to him this chance at traveling to this alternate Earth. Her hopes are still tied up with the possibility of redemption, and this obsession is what ties her to her place, punishing herself by accepting her continued isolation after she has lost John.

This movie is, then, an allegory for encounters both with the self as well as with destiny. Why should the planet have been detected on that wild night in which she was celebrating the virtual certainty of a promising career? What is it if not a projection, one that is rooted in a deep-seated guilt as well as a reflection on the seeming randomness of life that can frustrate this sense of purpose and bring her life to a standstill? It is an attempt to find meaning, and in the end, in that final encounter with her alternate self who appears suddenly, we are left similarly breathless as we reflect on how we, ourselves, also harbor a myriad number of selves within us, who look out and who reflect on our actions and on life in general. We are none of us as consistent and unitary as we might have believed. (But Freud showed us that almost 100 years ago.) We all have within us complete solar systems, worlds to be explored, with discoveries both frightening as well as exhilarating.  

 

 

Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013

The World at a Glance

A few weeks ago I discovered the work of graphic illustrator and animator Guy Delisle. During the past few years, in addition to working at various animation studios, he has accompanied his wife, who is a member of the international group Doctors without Borders, to several fascinating international outposts, and has published graphic works that are autobiographical in nature.

For example, the first work that I read details his experiences in North Korea. Given that this country is notorious for its closed society, and for harboring a repressive regime led by the Sung dynasty (the world’s only Communist dynasty), I couldn’t help but be attracted to this work. He promised, after all, an unflinching glimpse into this country, part of George W. Bush’s “Axis of Evil”, and a country that furthermore has undergone a leadership transition to the third generation of this dynasty.

What he offers in this work, as well as in others, are short episodic narratives that chronicle his own experiences as he attempts to adjust to life in what are inevitably short-term posts. It must be emphasized over and over that he has the luxury of being able to escape whenever he feels like it, and he is furthermore exempt from the limitations and barriers that are enforced among the native citizens. As such, I feel at times that his works devolve into a type of tourism narrative that never fully delves into the complexities of these respective societies, whether they be North Korea, or China, or in the case of his latest work, Israel and the occupied West Bank.

Delisle offers narratives that follow a familiar trajectory. For example, his arrival, with the accompanying first impressions. Since his spouse, once again, is a member of a prestigious NGO, he typically is able to secure housing in areas as well as edifices that are guaranteed, from the outset, to isolate him from the bulk of the population. Part of this is due to a conscious strategy on the part of the authorities, as is the case in North Korea, where foreigners are concentrated in specific building with the understanding that they will be easier to monitor, but part of this is also dictated by his own understandable concerns with obtaining lodgings that will provide a level of comfort suited to someone from a Western country. There are no multi-generational households here. And this thus can’t help but inevitably constrain him, as I feel it must, for not only do linguistic and cultural barriers come into play, but also economic and class differences. He and his family, once again, are not forced to confront and understand the true dynamics at play in these respective societies.

The type of drawing in these books is one that is characterized by a linear style that emphasizes strong lines and little to no shading or color. These are drawings, and he portrays himself as a character with a prominent jaw and sharp nose, earnest, young, in a clean drawing style. Such is also the case with the other characters he encounters, although from time to time the setting is rendered with more texture. Such is particularly the case with the drawing of the monumental and imposing central tower that is found in Pyong-yang, a building that is meant to be North Korea’s equivalent to the prestige buildings that were erected in other Communist societies (such as the Fernsehtür in East Berlin), but that in this case has become this forbidding and uninhabitable structure that is slowly crumbling. One can’t help but view it as a symbol of the Sung dynasty, and the monstrous scale of the building is rendered in a memorable way.

This rendering of the landscape is also evident in the depiction of holy sites in Jerusalem. During his family’s stay in this area, the author lived in the West Bank, and he undertook to travel and sketch not only the dividing wall but also the many famous landmarks that range from the Wailing Wall to St. Lazarus’s Tomb. They are depicted in what seems an authentic style that can be summed up as a pictorial snapshot, for the way that they are framed in pleasing perspectives that would seem to be in accord with the priviledged gaze of the viewer who seeks harmony and a pleasing composition.  And therein lies another of my concerns, for Guy DeLisle is too much of an commercially-oriented illustrator and storyteller and this limits as well his perspective. He approaches these narratives as a traditional artist would approach a composition, trying to portray an organic whole while at the same time missing the jarring elements that one gets the sense are being self-censored.

I wouldn’t claim to say that he is consciously censoring his material, only that the view seems at times too superficial, and conforms too much to the formulas of a conventional travel narrative. In his book detailing his experiences in Burma, for example, he gives us episodes that would seek to describe Buddhist customs in that country. The monks who circulate with their bowls from house to house, receiving gifts of food the giving of which is considered both an honor as well as a duty on the part of average citizens, or the festivities such as the water-drenching that accompanies the celebration of the new year.

In the case of the West Bank, given that he chose very specifically to live in a house owned by a Palestinian, I was hoping that he would venture from his traditional mode and focus more on the dynamic of cultural as well as political conflict that is in play. I wasn’t looking for a description of Muslim customs among the Sunni majority, or of the political strategies of the Fatah party, but more of an openness to see the jarring elements that are evident. And yet, he seems to concentrate once more on places, on buildings and landmarks and on his interactions with other expatriates or with groups who seem more culturally similar.

The settler movement and the tactic of expropriating buildings is relayed in several episodes, but he never truly tries to contact any members of this group to elicit an explanation of their goals or a recognition of the way in which this movement has impacted the peace process so negatively. His explorations seem, once again, to be all to brief and solitary, as are many of his journeys, and when seeing and reading these episodes where he recounts once again driving out into the barren desert, or being stuck in traffic, I can’t help but think that he has chosen to concentrate on the most superficial elements of his experience in these places.

I suppose it would be unfair to expect that he engage in a form of journalism, but as a graphic animator who specializes in a visual as well as narrative mode that compresses symbols and manipulates them in accord with a special vocabulary that stresses concision, one that at times  breaks modes of static perception, I was looking for narratives that would delve deeper into the respective countries in which he found himself. Narratives that would not end, as they do so frequently, as gags do, with a prompt and simplistic termination that highlights a disparity or ironic element, but one instead that leads to a breakthrough in perception.

Such was undoubtedly the case with Art Spiegelman’s “Maus”, his narrative of the persecution of the Jews in World War Two. The point of view is clear, and the persecutors are portrayed as merciless, grotesque and predatory cats in Nazi unforms, preying on the mice who are unable to defend themselves. This conceit would seem to hark to Kafka’s “The Transformation”, with the portrayal of the salesman who is turned into a cockroach, but it has an ancient history in Western civilization, and it harks back to the earliest fables and myths of classical society, the epics of Homer and the religions of the ancient Middle East. This pictorial language, in other words, refers to an ideological order, and is used to frame stories that seek to question not only the logic of these social and political structures, these being subject to bewildering transformations, but they invite new insights.

Such was very much the case in another graphic work that I recently read, this being the “Illustrated Book of Genesis” that was published by famed counter-culture artist Robert Crumb. In this work, we are treated once again to the hallmarks of a visual style that is able to portray this dynamic, multi-layered approach to representation.  Characters are portrayed with a certain distorted realism, one that seems to inevitably emphasize instincts and impulses that are irrational and as such uncontrollable, and thus we have characters who are at times impossibly sexualized, women who are graced with bursting curves and exhuberant mouthes, as well as those who are gangly and defenceless and awkward, or those that are comical because of the clash in the symbolic language used to represent them (for example, Mr. Natural, the short and impulsive old man with the flowing beard of a biblical patriarch). There are codes that play once again on transitional modes of representation, and these are brought to bear on this work which illustrates the first book of the bible, injecting a note of cynicism and at times irony that can also be viewed as poetic. Graphic representation, to state the obvious, is by no means literalism.

 

In the case of Guy Delisle’s works, and most recently, of “Jerusalem”, one garners the impression of encountering a work that details experiences that are ultimately inconsequential. They are too fragmentary, they are to post-modern, they reveal more of the biases of the author than they do of the experiences and motivations of the people who live in the West Bank, and the motivations that underscore the perennial conflict in this area. Perhaps it is part of the intention of the author not to offer narratives that conform to a distinct ideological program, and instead let the reader thread the bits that are offered here, but what happens is that one feels at times that the bits that are offered never truly penetrate the surface, and instead, what we have in this narrative as we have in so many narratives of Western explorers in travel literature dating back for several centuries, are experiences that fall back on a portrayal of the inscrutable nature of these exotic places. The veil of the Muslim women who occasionally attend his seminars serves to exclude the artist, and it is here, at times, in one memorable episode, that we see how the author is able to communicate his frustration, while offering a critique of a society and culture that does not conform to Western modes of equality of opportunity.

After all, if he has chosen to write and illustrate a book that details his experiences in a region that has been characterized by one of the most intractable conflicts of the modern era, he would do well to focus on the dynamic of power at play, and not to limit himself to what at times seems to be a self-centered narrative of inconsequential episodes that inevitably are concluded with a semi-ironic observation.  This is part of the frustration that I have come to feel with these works, although I appreciate them as individual chronicles that, while signaling no individual transformation as provoked by an unexpected insight, nonetheless offer an engaging look at the surface of what will remain inscrutable societies.

 

Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013

Wistful Time-travel (Review of Stephen King's 11/22/63)

The theme of time travel has proved perdurable in science fiction. As we imagine the pageant of time, with the list of noteworthy events and individuals, we are led to believe that our history textbooks in some way have captured the essential moments that constitute the backbone, so to speak, of history. Little do we appreciate that there is more to the past than we imagine, and that is it instead a dynamic web of processes, operating within a matrix of conditions that we can’t really isolate. I am reminded of a quote by Stephen Jay Gould, who said that, if we could turn the tape back several hundreds of millions of years ago, it would be highly improbably that the “movie” of history would repeat itself the way it had. He was referring to evolution, but we can just as fruitfully apply it to the events of human history.

It has been over a year since I read Stephen King’s novel “11/22/63”. It was fairly well received when it was released in 2011, and I remember putting myself on the wait list at our local library to borrow this book. It represented an exercise in nostalgia for many, for the date, of course, was indelibly marked in the consciousness of so many Americans. It is the date in which President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

We all have certainly entertained the fantasy that is distilled in the question, “What if?”. It is grounded, of course, in the fallacies of history alluded to in the first paragraph, the idea that, if we knew then what we know now, perhaps we could have changed history. Failing that, if we could travel back into the past, then maybe, just maybe, we could have avoided this national trauma and rescued ourselves from the difficulties in which we currently find ourselves. Be these personal or public, if only we could go back and prevent or change such and such an action, then maybe, just maybe, things would be immeasurably better. Maybe we would still have intact families, maybe we would have saved a loved one, and maybe our country would be on a more positive course. Who is to say, however, that anyone in the past would have bothered to listen to us? And not to be a Pangloss, in reference to Voltaire’s character in his novel Candide, who proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds, who is to say that our world would not be worse?

This novel is rooted, I believe, in a form of liberal nostalgia about the Kennedy years. It is a sentiment that I have noticed in a certain sector of our population, the idea that in the last four decades, our country has been fallen prey to the machinations of conservative groups, and that is has become a more divided nation. What if we could somehow avoid this process, and what if we could return to a more hopeful period, to the Camelot that is associated with the fateful presidency of a youthful John F. Kennedy?

Of course, the idea seems foolish. Events are not driven by individuals, that persist fallacy that consumes so many of us, but are instead driven by processes, to adopt a Structuralist point of view that focuses as much on economics and culture as on the role of institutions. This is not to deny the role of individuals, only minimize it to point to the fact that there is a grander dynamic at play. The Kennedy assassination haunts the imagination of liberals (in the modern sense, of course, and not in the classical conception of liberals in the 19^th century), because they view that event as a turning point, one that set the stage for the more energized conservative movement that was supposedly to shift this country to the right.

Stephen King uses this conceit in his novel, one in which he imagines that it is possible for his protagonist to return to the past. As such, his influence would be outsized, because he would be privy to secret knowledge that would change the course of the world, but also, because it represents also what may be termed a quixotic venture. Yes, quixotic, for it is motivated by an impossible idealism, a desire to turn the clock back, and to set in motion new processes. It also represents a novel of encounters, for it gives the author the opportunity to recreate the feel of a period of time that strikes me as incredibly wistful and personal.

There were many experiences during the 60s. It was different for the middle classes, for those who lived in the cities, for those who were members of ethnic minorities, for those who were women and, of course, for those children, to name just a few. As the years pass by, we tend to idealize the period that pertains to our youth, and in my case, this period corresponds to the 70s, a decade that it became customary to dismiss. For the protagonist, a divorced teacher by the name of Jacob Epping, he is able to travel to this period by means of a mysterious transport mechanism that is located in a storage space located in the back of a small and unobtrusive restaurant. We don’t need to speculate on the actual mechanism, because this isn’t important to the story. It is simply there, and the protagonist, a high school teacher, is convinced by the restaurant owner to undertake a mission, that of preventing Lee Harvey Oswald from assassinating President Kennedy.

The evocation of the times is one that is invested in a powerful sense of nostalgia. Yes, there are certain stereotypes about this period that are given play in this novel, the sense that we lived in a more cohesive culture, that people were much more trusting and open, that there was more of a business-friendly outlook, but also, behind all of this, the feeling that the international political situation was heating up and that, at any moment, conflict might break out with the socialist block of countries.

But more than just imagining a return to this era, what I found most mesmerizing was the depiction of the character of Lee Harvey Oswald, the unstable, violent, ne’er-do-well loner who moved within different circles, and was able to somehow engineer his defection to the Soviet Union before returning once again. There have been so many conspiracy theories advanced with regards to this individual and the training and help he may or may not have received, in addition to that fact that, so many years later, something within us refuses to believe that such an individual could have carried out his plan to completion. He himself said that he was a “patsy”, alluding to the help of other mysterious entities, but this connection has never been adequately proved and we are left to consider the spectacle of a belligerent and unstable loner who was able to carry out this assassination.

The protagonist feels distinctly like a secondary character when we compare him with the assassin. Jacob Epping follows Oswald, and each time we see the future assassin, there is a certain visceral thrill that I imagine we all feel, this feeling that we are viewing a monster at work, however small and petty he may seem. But the real monster, of course, is another, and it is a testament to Stephen King’s prowess as an author of thrillers and horror novels that he suggests this from an early stage.

The idea is, of course, grounded in our understandable need to protect and cherish our most valuable illusions. These correspond to our past, of course, but in this case, the protagonist finds himself seduced by another character, a female teacher by the name of Sadie Dunhill, fleeing a failing relationship, and by an entire small town by the name of Jodie, located in Texas. It is the idea of something that is fleeting, of something more vulnerable than a candle in a gale force storm, of something to which he grows more and more attached to the point that he begins to question his original rationale for traveling to the past. If may be that, for him, his individual interest outweigh those of a certain liberal nostalgia that seems much too abstract when compared to the corporeality of a vulnerable lover who offers him the protection and warmth and companionship he didn’t have in his own future. Is this not the case of a nostalgic idealization? I would have to believe so.

There is another threat that haunts Jacob, and this is the entity that is known as the “Jimla”. The phrase is first heard at a high school football game, and he takes it to refer to the star quarterback, but it resonates with him for it suggests a menace that lurks behind the corners, at the edge of perception, a menace slowly creeping up on him. It is, once again, a testimony to the mastery of the author that the precise nature of this menace is not revealed until the final section of the book, and it has to do, perhaps, with an idea of self-absorption. The Jimla is, indeed, a haunting entity, and it is driven by loss as well, in a way in which we may personify the loss that is felt by many who still mourn the death of an ideal, the destruction of Camelot.

I am fascinated by this attempt to recreate a lost period, one that, furthermore, is not too distant in the past but that is different enough so that it seems more haunting. I can’t imagine us being able to idealize the present year 2013 in the same way, and the presidency of Barack Obama, one that has proven so disappointing to many of us progressives who were hoping for so much more. But then again, this idealization needs the intervention of time, and if our world comes to seem more disorienting and bewildering than it already is, then this period, because it is a period that will come to an artificial conclusion, may be ripe for idealization.

In the novel, we are in for one further treat: we are able to imagine a world in which President Kennedy had not been assassinated on that fateful day. What are the consequences? The author imagines a nightmare scenario that gives much for thought for thought, as if he were purposely trampling the cherished notion that things would be better. The horror of this alternative world, one in which nuclear bombs have actually been exploded in the United States, and in which the country is on the verge of coming apart, is furthermore augmented by a giant “ripping” sound in the fabric of the sky, as if this scenario were so unstable and horrifying that the author were anxious to bring it to a close, to rip up the pages and crumple them, in a sort of metaliterary intervention that is delicious to contemplate.

I conclude with the original thought that I had written in my first note written last year. Nostalgia is, of course, dangerous, and we had best not hesitate or turn to look back, because, like Lot’s wife, we run the risk of turning into stone. And yet, I am immobilized by my own past, and my own “What ifs?”. I have so many regrets, but no time travel open to me other than the fanciful recounting of my own childhood with friends and family members who were with me, or with reruns that leave me trembling with sadness, or ultimately, with essays that I write in an effort to purge myself from the presence of the “Jimla” from which I might never be able to free myself if I were to allow it to capture me.

(Written on July 2, 2013)

 

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Original entry written on May 4, 2012:

It is almost 11:30 p.m., and I just finished reading Stephen King's novel "11/22/63". It was a book that had received much attention in preceding months, and I always intended to read it but somehow postponed my decision for a later day. Despite my early impressions, it turned out to be more emotionally resonant than I had expected. I'll write about it another day, but it does confirm a sentiment that has been obsessing me for the past few decades. Nostalgia is dangerous.
 

Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013

Too small to hope, too big to fail

I couldn't let Mayday pass without commenting on a film I had first seen several years ago. The title of this film is "Bread and Roses", and it depicts the fictionalized struggle of a group of janitors in Los Angeles to unionize. It thus takes its inspiration from the "Justice for Janitors" campaigns that arose almost 25 years ago, but introduces dramatic elements to make an appealing film that portrays a triumpth that is obtained against almost impossible odds.

As is typically the case with most films that deal with Latino life, it begins with the moment of crossing. Maya is smuggled across the border in a journey that, in light of the difficulties of contemporary crossings where the border has become increasingly militarized and the full weight of technology has been brought to bear, seems almost painless. It is still an arduous crossing carried out by dangerous individuals, but it isn't the odyssey that takes contemporary crossers through the scorching hot and barren terrains of Arizona and other border states, where casualty rates have risen dramatically.

The movie is premised on a series of conflicts that seem to succeed each other in rapid succession. Maya moves into her new job after having failed as a waitress and we get a chance to see working conditions that take a heavy spiritual toll. The supervisor or boss, played by George Lopez, is a loud and coarse and paternalistic individual, who browbeats his workers continually. He seems to fire workers almost at will, and revels in his power. While watching his performance I found it impossible to divorce it from his persona as the famous Chicano comedian who tells bitterly honest stories of his childhood, mainly because I don't wish to see him in the role of the "heavy". However, the dynamic is portrayed honestly, and the existence of abusive bosses who take advantage of their largely immigrant workforces is amply confirmed by experiences recounted to me by many friends and family members.

The revelations are paced according to the dictates of a movie that wishes to move the action along at a brisk pace. Maya quite frankly seems to seethe with rebellion, and yet she is tolerated by her boss who otherwise would not seem to tolerate any resistance. She takes the step and invites the labor organizer, Sam Shapiro, to come and address a group of workers that she gathers.

Their is a love triangle that somehow does not ring true. It is hard to believe that she and Sam could have a bout of flirtation, but the bonding that takes place between the workers somehow seems more plausible and, if we had to admit it, more emotionally satisfying. We see them progress from fear and disbelief and almost mute submission to a forthright and energizing hope that gives them confidence, even though they are still in the position of the figurative underdog battling long odds.

Other revelations and consequences ensue, but what strikes me as they proceed is that they don't quite capture the long grind of a process such as this one. The film is compressed to accord with artistic dictates, and in my experience, having lived in Los Angeles and preserving as I do a vague awareness of this struggle during the 90s, I seem to remember a long series of actions that were met with many reverses. The alternative press (The LA Weekly, a publication that is otherwise quick to proclaim conspiracies in the most hyperbolic terms) did devote some coverage to the movement, and it would appear as well from time to time in the regular media. It was a long grind, from what I remember, but in the film the desired result is achieved almost instanteously. Perhaps this serves as well to encourage what might be a misleading but well-intentioned goal, which is that of emphasizing the postive outcome that clearly was not obtained without prolonged pain. Many workers lost their positions, many lost the little security they had, and many quite simply were deported or were forced to leave of their own initiative. The casualties are missing in this film.

And yet, the film is appealing because of the uplifting nature of this narrative. While Maya may prove to be the only casualty of this battle, removed as she is from the group, we are left to harbor the hope that such a story can inspire others. But the climate in this country has turned very ugly in the last ten years, and what seemed plausible back in the 90s seems almost impossible now. Political rhetoric has become even more vitriolic against not only immigrant workers but also the labor movement, and this has served to engender a new nativist movement that, in the wake of the calamitous crash of the economy, has moved public opinion to favor the corporations that have systematically mismanaged our economy. We have this repressive movement now that wishes to remove all regulation, and we have the spectacle of more states such as North Carolina that, to follow the model of other states in the South, have enacted policies that undermine unions, proclaiming themselves "right to work" states. I am astounded at the hypocrisy of these corporations that have been undermining the economy and eliminating jobs for decades, and yet now claim that they should be saved from any regulation in order to allow them to create new jobs.

The problem is not cartoonish goons such as Mr. Perez. It is a system that seems as impregnable as ever, and has harnassed the power of fear on a wider scale, justifying the villification of workers as a hindrance to job creation, but failing to take the blame for their own unrestrained greed and mismanagement. We are more firmly under the control of corporations than ever before, and stories such as this one in which a small group of immigrant workers manage to unionize and gain concessions seems all the more unlikely.

Labor and workers are, as always, an afterthought. Dignity does not accrue to the service or white collar or public sector employees. Now, the Tea Party and other repressive movements have elevated once again the tycoons of business as the paragons of virtue, avators that mesmerize us with their power and their appetite and their unrestrained greed. And, whether they take the form of visionary leaders such as Steve Jobs or more shadowy figures such as the Koch brothers, it is ultimately dangerous to our democracy to invest any group of people with such authority.