Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Book Review: "Exhalation" by Ted Chiang

Exhalation (2019)
Ted Chiang (1967)
350 pages

Science fiction has a reputation of being mostly space opera adventures – entertaining diversions, but nothing to be taken too seriously. Such a simplistic characterization, however, ignores a host of writers who have used the genre to explore, with compelling effectiveness, the many and varied questions that arise from the intersection of our technological development and our cultural, social, economic and political realities.

Some novels of this latter type imagine how our present civilization will evolve into the future, such as Kim Stanley Robinson’s expansive vision of humankind’s evolution – both genetically and culturally – in 2312 (and other of his works), or Alfred Bester’s disturbing prognosis from the 1950’s in The Stars My Destination of the eventual consequence of the continuing shift toward a corporatocracy as a seemingly inevitable outcome of the fundamental precepts of capitalism. Others present a dystopic view of our future, whether the classic – and powerfully disturbing – novel of nuclear destruction On the Beach by Nevil Shute, or Jeff VanderMeer’s tale in Southern Reach Trilogy of nature rising up to avenge damaging human disregard of the environment, to name a couple. And then there are those who look outward, to our place in the universe, such as Cixin Liu’s eye-opening answer to the Fermi Paradox – why we have not found evidence of extraterrestrial civilizations despite the seemingly high likelihood they should exist – in his Three Body Problem trilogy. What all of these stories have in common is the combination of a thought-provoking premise and a captivating plot. (Reviews of these novels and other wonderful examples can be found here, in the sections dedicated to Science Fiction.)

Add now to this kind of thoughtful writing the beautiful short stories of Ted Chiang’s book Exhalation. In the nine tales of his collection, he employs an engaging mix of science fiction themes – from future technological developments on Earth to alternative histories to alien civilizations – to reveal and reflect on the fundamental hopes and fears that characterize our passage through life, from the debilitating frailties we desperately try to hide to the strengths of resolve we display at the most unexpected moments; from the afflictions we weather to the blessings we receive.

The first story, The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate, sets the tone for those that follow. Opening in the Baghdad of perhaps a thousand years ago, we are introduced to the alchemist of the title, who has invented a gate that allows a person to pass through to the same place twenty years earlier. Out of this simple conceit unfold a delicately-spun set of intricately woven tales that evolve around the basic human desire to change fate, whether out of a wish to improve – or enrich – our future destiny, or to assuage a guilty conscious, by attempting to change something that’s happened in the past. A merchant who happens upon the alchemist’s shop and is shown the device seizes the opportunity to go back to counsel his younger self, in the hopes of changing a traumatic event. He comes to discover that fate is a force not easily diverted.

Chiang explores a variation on this theme of fate and free will in Anxiety is the Dizziness of Freedom, in which he imagines the impact on humanity of a device – based on the principles of quantum probability – that when activated generates the two possible outcomes of a quantum measurement. The device causes two parallel realities to be created, and allows communication for a fixed period of time between these two then diverging timelines, allowing people to learn the alternative outcomes of a decision they make. Despite the inherent restrictions of the short story format, Chiang creates a realistic history of the technical evolution of the device, as well as its evolving impact on people’s behavior, even as he builds up a drama around specific characters dealing with the ramifications of this capability. How would people react to being able to know the outcome of decisions they have made? And, if seemingly all possible outcomes exist and play out in some parallel universe, does it really matter what one does in any particular timeline?

In the title story, Chiang imagines an alien world of mechanical beings who get the ‘air’ they need to live (argon in their case) from two tanks in their body that must be swapped out daily for a fresh, full pair. (The commonplace distinction in defining “flesh-and-blood” as life and “Mechanical” as not becomes a question of perspective as one gets deeper into the story, though Chiang doesn’t address this distinction directly.) Death in this world turns out to only occur in the extremely rare cases of a catastrophic failure of the tanks, an event that ends up largely destroying the body. For that reason, as well as an unwillingness to hazard invasive procedures on living beings, the science of anatomy has had little opportunity to develop more than wild suppositions regarding the functioning of the brain. When one scientist is finally prompted by an unexplainable set of coincidences to perform a risky experiment to learn how the brain actually works, his learnings lead to an existential crisis for the civilization. A more transcendent and sublime exploration of the inexorable process of entropy has surely never been written.

And so it is with the remaining stories. In the novella length The Lifecycle of Software Objects, the plot develops unhurriedly, like a life, to become a delicate examination of what it takes to become a conscious entity. Omphalos, meanwhile, looks at the concept and implications of creationism in the context of an alternative history. These and the remaining stories demonstrate Chiang’s delicate touch as he explores fundamental questions of our human condition through the lens of the impact of science and technology.

When I bought this book – attracted to it by the cover design and sold on it by the cover flap description of the stories – I hadn’t yet heard of Ted Chiang. But the employee who rang up the sale mentioned that she had loved also his first book of short stories, titled Stories of Your Life and Others. After reading this current collection, I’m looking forward to checking that one out – look for a review of it to appear here sometime in the not too distant future.


Other reviews / information:

Some links to information on the Fermi Paradox: SETI, QuantaMagazine, and, an earlier of my blog posts.

Finally got around to reading Chiang's earlier collection Stories of Your Life and Others, and I enjoyed it as much as I did Exhalation.  My review at right, in which I mention that
Although wildly different in themes, the two sets of stories share a distinctive sensibility, as well as a dedication to the wonders and mysteries of science and ancient traditions, stretched and bent just a bit through Chiang’s imagination to create marvelously engaging works that explore our human condition.


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Book Review: "Homeland" by Fernando Aramburu

Homeland  (Patria) (2019)
Fernando Aramburu (1959)
Translated from the Spanish by Alfred MacAdam
592 pages

The complex social dynamics of internecine conflicts can often remain profoundly inscrutable to those not directly impacted. Though the broad outlines of the political motivations may be clear, the intensity of the resulting violence and the ability, despite that ongoing violence, of a relatively small core group to maintain the support over decades of the broader community in which they operate can seem nearly incomprehensible to those not intimately involved. And all this can be particularly perplexing given the apparent desire of the vast majority of people to want to simply live in peace, going about the quotidian business their lives.

As a case in point, the Basque separatist movement in north-eastern Spain, along the Atlantic coast around the border with France has stood out – a bewildering tragedy mostly reported on internationally in the wake of a deadly attack. Led for over half-a-century by ETA (Basque Homeland and Liberty), the main political goal of the group was relatively straightforward: a desire to separate from Spain and form an independent Basque homeland. Less clear is how they continued to maintain local support over such a long period as the violence – involving executions and bombings – expanded from attacks on government officials and the security forces, to include business people and others in the private sector, and even targeted Basques not felt to be sufficiently supportive of the movement; then, too, the violence also inevitably led to ever more aggressive reactions within these communities from national security forces.

To better understand situations such as this one, an outsider could turn to history books that explore in detail a movement’s political motivations, the violence it perpetrated and the social and economic consequences for local communities. But that kind of factual analysis can struggle to give an appreciation for the complexity of the cultural and psychological dynamics that lead young people into such groups and that underpin the support these groups get from so many in the local population – whether from ‘true believers’ or from the larger set of those cowed into silence despite their reservations. And the profound impact on those touched – directly or indirectly – by the ongoing violence of such conflicts can also be difficult to make evident. For a deeper understanding of these aspects, one can often more profitably turn to fictional accounts that explore the situation up close, from the perspective of individuals caught up in the unfolding calamity. The best such works provide a clear-eyed depiction of the whole through a nuanced portrait of the details.

Just such a feat regarding the history of the impact of ETA’s violent role in the Basque conflict of the past half century has been accomplished by the Spanish writer Fernando Aramburu, with his amazing novel Homeland. Through the experiences of two families in a small town south of San Sebastián (in Basque: Donostia), the capital city of one of the provinces of the Basque Autonomous Community of Spain, he explores the social complexities that arose from how deeply embedded the ETA movement was into daily life in the local communities of the Basque region.

At the heart of the story are the matriarchs of the two families, Bittori and Miren. Inseparable childhood friends who in their youth had considered entering a convent together, they ended up instead marrying, and their husbands over time also become best friends, regularly found together at the local pub drinking and playing cards, as well as riding with the local community bicycle touring club. Eventually Bittori has a son and a daughter, and Miren two boys and a girl, and the families end up spending significant time together as the children grow up, including attending local festivals and events.

But as the children grow into early adulthood, differences creep into the families’ relationship, differences that, as is so often the case, can be papered over when things are going well but become festering wounds when conflict arises. For one, Bittori’s husband Txato becomes a relatively well-off businessman in the small town as the owner of a trucking company while Miren’s husband remains a poor factory worker. Although Bittori and Txato don’t intentionally flaunt the wealth they’ve acquired, every vacation they mention and every trinket they buy for their friends’ children makes a tiny, but enduring and corrosive mark on Miren’s pride.

Then, in a community in which ETA has a strong presence, and even those who are not supporters attend the rallies and demonstrations out of a distinct fear of standing out if they don’t show up, one of Miren’s sons gradually becomes involved with the organization. Slowly, inexorably, he graduates without conscious commitment from participating in demonstrations with his friends, to acting out, to more serious violence – before suddenly being forced to escape the police by taking the only path he knows: entering more deeply into ETA. Thus, while Bittori and her family view the organization with disdain, Miren confronts a more complex reality.

All this eventually comes to a head some years later, when graffiti begins appearing on the walls around town accusing Txato of being a police informant and traitor to the Basque cause. He and his family suddenly become ostracized by the townspeople as none are willing to risk the wrath of ETA, especially in such a small town in which everyone knows one another. To Bittori and her family’s shock, this rejection comes also from Miren, for whom the fact of having a son in ETA has led her to harden her heart – her mother’s love allowing no doubts to exist in her mind about her son and his cause. As we learn already in the opening chapters, a crushing moment of violence sends both families spinning wildly apart, each on their own destructive trajectory; and yet their deeply intertwined past leaves them with seemingly unbreakable ties that continue to weigh heavily on them. Can they find peace, forgive the seemingly unforgiveable?

For readers not directly connected to Spain and the Basque conflict, hearing about the unremitting series of deadly attacks – whether in this novel or in the news – for what seems like a political dispute can leave one with a clear judgement of ETA as the more guilty party in what occurs. Certainly the words of Christopher Hitchens in his essay Letters to a Young Contrarian seem both relevant and reasonable:
In some ways I feel sorry for … fanatics, because they so much miss the point of being human, and deserve a sort of pity. But then I harden my heart, and decide to hate them all the more, because of the misery they inflict and because of the contemptible excuses they advance for doing so. (109)
In that vein, it can be easy to view the Basque conflict in a simple dichotomy of good and evil, and for an author to write a story with characters similarly sharply defined.

But Aramburu has done readers the immense favor of foreswearing a simplistic perspective on the situation as he explores it through his novel. In Homeland he presents his characters as deeply flawed and vulnerable: some react with merciless anger and spite, while others try to ignore the reality by turning inward or leaving home behind. But he demonstrates that these same characters can eventually grow and learn and change, rising above their past feelings to find some measure of understanding, mercy and forgiveness in their hearts. In short, he presents them as human beings, with all the complexity that that entails. The result is a story that provides a nuanced portrait of the conflict, of youth caught up in the violent program of a pitiless organization, a community impacted by its presence and its acts, and the victimization that results on all sides.

Through his story he demonstrates that it is possible to understand, to strive to understand, the reasons for why someone does something – anything, really – without necessarily countenancing their behavior.

To be clear, however, Aramburu does not trivialize the violence, or excuse the community that, through their silence, tolerates it and allows it to happen. Late in the novel, in response to the brutal event at the heart of the story, a character notes:
In my village people are probably saying in low voices so no one hears them that this is savagery, useless bloodshed, you don’t build a nation that way. But no one will lift a finger. By now they’re already hosed down the street so there won’t be a trace of the crime. And tomorrow there will be whispering in the air, but deep down it will be business as usual. People will turn out for the next demonstration in favor of ETA, knowing that they’d better be seen with the rest of the herd. That’s the price you pay to live in peace in the land of the silent. (426)

And, in fact, among the many heartrending aspects of the story – the senseless violence against an innocent, the seemingly inexorable radicalization of a young man, the heart-breaking dissolution of lifetime friendships – perhaps the most disturbing and dispiriting is the recognition of the culpability “of the herd” and “the price you pay to live in peace in the land of the silent.” The power of a few radicals willing to resort at any moment to brutal violence cows many if not most into quiet, compliant submission in the community. Easy enough for a reader to condemn in the abstract context of a distant conflict, but each must wonder what our reaction would be, if confronted by the same circumstances, the same decisions.

In constructing his novel, Aramburu has used a particularly effective structure – splitting the story into 125 chapters of a few pages each, and moving back and forth in time within the several decades covered by the story. Thus a reader often comes to learn of consequences before detailed causes, gets brief glimpses into each character’s life before shifting again to the next one, and so only slowly over the course of the book comes to see and understand the full complexity of their lives, of their relationships with one another, and the variety and challenges of their experience. His approach teaches – forces – readers to withhold judgement, to wait until more of the puzzle pieces are in place, before drawing final conclusions about motivations and intent.

And so ultimately this book about the Basque conflict is really a story about humanity, wherever we may live. We must each confront our own choices and motivations, in the face of the injustice and inequality we see around us, of whatever form.


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Read quotes from this book

The priest in Aramburu’s story comes across as particularly compliant to ETA and its power in the community. At one point, trying to comfort Miren, he tells her that:
[God] made us Basques the way we are, tenacious in our purposes, hardworking, and firm in the idea of a sovereign nation. For that reason, I would go so far as to assert that on us has fallen the Christian mission of defending our identity, therefore our culture, and above all our language. … I say to you, completely honestly, our struggle isn’t only just. It’s necessary… (286)
The priest’s claim that the Basques have “the Christian mission of defending our identity”, and that by implication the violent means ETA uses “isn’t only just … it’s necessary,” reminds me of the preacher in Mark Twain’s The War Prayer, who, as his congregation’s sons march off to war claims God’s preference for his countrymen, beseeching
Lord our God,
Father and Protector
of our land and flag!
Arambaru’s priest needs a visit from the “aged stranger” who then enters the church as the preacher completes his lecture, stands before the congregation, and once the preacher finishes, says
I come from the Throne –
bearing a message from Almighty God!
He tells the congregation the other side of what they and their preachers are requesting, the violent destruction they are wishing on their enemies, who, he reminds them, are also God’s creatures.

But, of course, Twain’s story concludes: “It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.”  And, so it would likely go with someone trying to convince the priest and his congregation in the small town to reconsider their stand.

(My review of Twain’s story The War Prayer here.)



Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Book Review: "The Black Sheep and Other Fables" by Augusto Monterroso

The Black Sheep and other fables (1969)
(La Oveja Negra y demás fábulas)
Augusto Monterroso (1921-2003)
79 pages


Exploring human foibles and frailties through stories with animal protagonists has a long history in literature, with perhaps the most famous example being Aesop’s fables, believed to have originated some six centuries BCE. By having characters based on animals, writers can assume that readers will readily visualize the animal characters with a minimum of description, but, more importantly, their animals characters can take on human traits without implying to readers a particular nationality or race.

With his book The Black Sheep and other fables (La Oveja Negra y demás fábulas), Honduran author Augusto Monterroso has followed in this tradition, introducing his intent already in his choice of epigraph: “Animals appear to be so similar to humans that at times it is impossible to distinguish them.” (“Los animales se parecen tanto al hombre que a veces es imposible distinguuirlos de éste.”) And in fact this collection of stories, each from a few paragraphs to a few pages long, mostly feature animals acting out human behaviors, though a few deviate from that motif by, for example, invoking incarnations of good and evil in human form, or involving humans observing animal behavior.

That said, these are most assuredly not the morality tales of Aesop. Instead, Monterroso has written deeply satirical stories that poke fun at human habits and behaviors, exploring the weaknesses and blind spots in our thinking and actions that we generally try to pretend aren’t present. He hints at the tone he takes already in the epigraph quoted above: it is attributed to one K’nyo Mobutu, listed in the Index of Names and Places (Ídice onomástico and geográfico) at the back of the book, as an anthropophagus (antropófago); one can find the word anthropophagus described in Merriam-Webster as “man-eater, cannibal.”  Thus this evidently fictional character and his ‘profession’ give another level of meaning to Monterroso’s epigraph – the English expression ‘it tastes like chicken’ works in Spanish too...

In the story The Monkey Who Wanted to be a Writer of Satires (El Mono que quiso ser escritor satirico), Monterroso perhaps self-references his choice of using fables of animals as a basis to satirize humans. The titular monkey spends a long time studying human behavior, eventually becoming an expert at the many and varied aspects of it that he observes. But once he decides he has learned enough to begin writing, he struggles to select particular animal species to represent the behavior he wishes to satirize in each story, loathe to insult his friends among whichever species he might choose – certainly an abiding challenge of the satirist.

Several of the more trenchant fables address idiosyncrasies of religious belief. One such story, Faith and Mountains, plays off the ancient conviction that faith can move mountains; in it, Montrorroso takes a literal view of the metaphor, writing that “in the beginning Faith would move mountains only when it was absolutely necessary” (“al principio la Fe movía montañas sólo cuandao era absolutamente necesario”), and so for many millennia the countryside remained stable:
but when Faith began to become more widespread and people found the idea of moving mountains entertaining, they wouldn’t do it without changing the location of the mountains, and it became more and more difficult to find mountains in the place where one had left them the night before…
For that reason, good people abandoned Faith and now the mountains generally stay permanently in their place.
When on a road there is a cave-in from which several travelers die, it’s because someone …has had an ever so brief flickering of faith.

(Pero cuando la Fe comenzó a propargarse y a la gente le pareció divertida la idea de mover montañas, éstas no hacían sino cambiar de sitio, y cada vez era más difícil enconrarlas en el lugar en que uno las había dejado la noche anterior…
La Buena gente prefirió entonces abandoner la Fe y ahora las montañas permanecen por lo general en su sitio.
Cuando en la carretera se produce un derrumbe bajo el cual mueren verios viajeros, es que alguien … tuvo un ligerísimo atisbo de Fe.) (16)

In a similar vein, The Repentant Apostate (El apóstata arrepentido) makes a pointed distinction sure to offend many:
It is said that there was once a catholic (according to some), or a protestant (according to others), who in far off times and assailed by doubts, began to seriously consider becoming again a Christian; but out of fear that his neighbors would believe that he had done it only to appear witty, or to call attention to himself, he renounced his outrageous feebleness and intention.

(Se dice que habiá una vez un católico, según unos, o un protestante, según otros, que en tiempos muy lejanos y asaltado por las dudas comenzó a pensar seriamente en volverse cristiano; pero el temor de que sus vecinos imaginaran que lo hacía para pasar por gracioso, o por llamar la atención, lo hizo renunciar a su extravagante debilidad y propósito.) (29) 
His stories on Good and Evil also take up this theme of people creating enormous distinctions – with often violent implications – out of differences that a dispassionate observe finds minor or even inconsequential.

Ultimately, however, Monterroso is an equal opportunity satirist, with also scientists being fair game for his focus. In Rabbit and Lion (El Conejo y el León), “a celebrated psychoanalyst” finds himself lost in a jungle and, climbing a tree to find his way out, happens to observe a lion and a rabbit approach one another, unaware of each other’s presence. When the two animals finally cross paths, the lion roars and the rabbit freezes for a moment, looking it in the eye, before running off, and
Upon returning to the city the celebrated psychoanalyst made public … his famous treatise in which he demonstrated that the lion is the most childish and cowardly animal of the jungle, and the rabbit the most valiant and mature: the lion roars and gestures and threatens the universe out of fear; the rabbit notices this, recognizes his own strength and withdraws before it might lose its patience and finish off that outrageous and out of control being, which it understands and which after all it hadn’t done anything to.

De regreso a la ciudad el célebre Psicoanalista publicó … su famoso tratado en que demuestra que el León es el animal más infantile y cobarde de la Selva, y el Conejo el más valiente y maduro: el León ruge y hace gestos y amenaza al Universo movido por el miedo; el Conejo advierte esto, conoce su propia fuerza y se retira antes de perder la paciencia y acabar con aquel ser extravagante y fuera de sí, al que comprende y que después de todo no le ha hecho nada. (10)

Taken together the stories of this collection form a bit of an uneven mix, with some being mere trifles – cute and good for a chuckle, but little more. In many of them, however, Monterroso provides readers with biting commentaries on the human condition; these engaging tales both entertain us and, at the same time, give us pause for thought about the unspoken assumptions and expertly concealed contradictions of our natures and our beliefs.

(Dedicated to Jesús)
 

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Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, August 24, 2019

Book Review: "The Man They Wanted Me to Be" by Jared Yates Sexton

The Man They Wanted Me to Be (2019)
Jared Yates Sexton (1981)
255 pages


In the wake of the 2016 US presidential election, wide-spread soul-searching occurred around the failure to have anticipated the outcome. Though many seemed inclined to settle on a particular cause they felt had ‘swung the vote,’ in an election decided by some 80 thousand votes across five states most any of the myriad reasons put forward could have been sufficient to provide the margin of victory.

That said, there has been one explanation that has appeared particularly frequently, and that can be summarized as: frustration over stagnant wages and lost jobs, particularly in manufacturing and heavy industries, has led to a growing existential uncertainty among people in communities across the country about their position in society, their future, and the possibilities for their children. In reaction to this uncertainty, the narrative goes, working class voters have blamed globalization and immigration as the primary sources of these disruptions, and, finding little concrete support for their concerns among traditional Democrats and Republicans, were open to a populist-sounding candidate who bashed the entire system. In this line of thinking Trump hit all the right buttons, making it acceptable to disparage in the harshest possible language not only global trade agreements and alliances, but also any group identified as a scapegoat for working class dissatisfaction – such as immigrants and minorities – as counter to American interests, whatever the reality.


And that line – of the working class feeling disenfranchised and abandoned – has been accompanied by an implication, sometimes more explicitly expressed than others, that the political and social elite had failed to recognize and acknowledge what has been lost in these communities, and that given what’s been lost, it’s perhaps understandable, goes that line of thinking, that so many working class voters supported Trump.

Journalist and author Jared Yates Sexton begs to differ with this narrative and its conclusions.

In his book The Man They Wanted Me to Be, he argues that a core part of the social and cultural structure that working class Trump voters fear losing deserves, in fact, to be left behind. He argues that some of the current working class frustration has originated not directly from the losses of the jobs themselves, but from the threat such economic challenges have posed to a deeply engrained – and in his view profoundly harmful – way of life, one based on what he describes as a
white patriarchal masculinity, an especially potent and toxic system of power and control that has subjugated women and minorities for generations via methodical and organized actions powered by misogyny and racism, a unique brand of maleness that held sway over the United States of America since before its founding. (9)

Though identifying this system of white male patriarchy as leading to socially disruptive and destructive behavior, Sexton actually characterizes the men who have both benefited from its existence and perpetrated its violent consequences as themselves among its victims. From childhood they have been taught, he argues, to assume as their birthright a wide-ranging set of privileges, in particular with respect to women and minorities, as well as expectations for how they are to behave as white men. Unable now, as a result of ongoing economic disruption, to fulfill what have become for them psychologically fundamental entitlements and obligations, they are experiencing a growing frustration, which has led to aggressive reactions that are having a profound impact on the internal lives of families and communities, as well as more broadly on our culture and politics.

Thus, Sexton argues, the current political dysfunction does not originate directly out of the economic disruptions of globalization; rather those economic disruptions have exposed a long-standing and corrosive social compact, the death-throes of which now savage our social cohesiveness. In language that leaves no doubt about his sentiments, he spotlights
the current political impasse we find ourselves in where fragile white men with fragile manhoods have stalled social progress and propelled into the White House a tough-talking, thin-skinned vulgarian who embodies, more than anyone else, toxic American masculinity. (10)

And Sexton makes clear from the opening pages his own intimate familiarity with the experience and impact of this toxic masculinity, having “grow[n] up in a dirt-poor factory family in southern Indiana.” (3) As he covered that “rolling disaster” of the Trump campaign, “what [he] eventually found, at the dark heart of it all, was white men.” (3) And this realization struck a chord deep within him, recalling the challenges and experiences of his own upbringing, and the long, difficult, never-quite-over-it road he has taken to get out from under the lessons the men of his childhood forcibly pushed on him. Out of that self-recognition on the Trump campaign trail came a desire on Sexton's part to understand the origins of the system of white male patriarchy, the precise contours of what it demanded of men, and the implications for both white men themselves, and our broader society.

Sexton’s view of the current social and political dysfunction he has witnessed within his own family and while covering the Trump presidential campaign as arising out of a frustrated reaction to the unachievable expectations of the system of white male patriarchy, with white “men refusing to come to terms with their situation because to be a white man in America is to expect everything to already be on your terms” (29), resonates strongly with comments by the historian Vincent Harding from a 2011 interview he had with Krista Tippett on her program On Being, in which he said
I have a feeling that one of the deeper transformations that’s going on now is that for the white community of America, there is an uncertainty growing about its own role, its own control, its own capacity to name the realities, that it has moved into a realm of uncertainty that I did not allow itself to face before.

Up to now, uncertainty was the experience of the weak, the poor, the people of color, that that was our realm. But now, for all kinds of political, economic reasons, for all kinds of psychological reasons, that uncertainty, and unknowingness, is permeating what was the dominant, so-called, society. That breaking apart is for me more likely the source of the anxiety, the fear, the anger, the unwillingness to give in, the need to have something that they can hold on to and say, this is the way and it's got to be our way or we will all die.

For Sexton, the “refusing to come to terms with their situation” – Harding’s “our way or we will all die” – has particular poignancy because the white patriarchal structure was a “lie … always destined to fail.” (29) Misled by “the mass culture and capitalistic system of the country” the last several generations of men “were destined to come up short and rage against everyone and everything but the system that had let them down in the first place.” (29, italics mine)

Sexton’s book, then, details his path of discovery and understanding of the concept of toxic masculinity, of his own personal ongoing – and inescapable – relationship to it, and of its complicity in the social divisiveness of the past several years. He finds sympathy for the generations of white men raised on the emotionally crippling expectations of a social structure that was never beneficial to white men, and that has now become increasingly untenable in the face of dramatic social and economic changes.

But his sympathy does not extend to accepting that the system must continue.  Rather, he argues that we must find a new message to transmit to boys as they grow up, one that both gives them better, more achievable goals and reduces their tendency to act out with violence, and so makes them better men. Only then can our society begin to repair itself, and so prepare to confront the complex and difficult challenges facing us in the coming decades.



Post-script: Here I include a more detailed look at the book, including several extended – and startlingly illuminating – quotes that reflect Sexton’s ability to submerge himself into the subculture he explores, and so to observe and report on it up close.

Sexton traces the roots of white male patriarchy in the US back to well before the country even formally existed, but he identifies the period after the “apocalyptic” Civil War as the moment when “our modern definition of masculinity was forged.” (22)  He writes of the consequences of the economic upheaval caused by the Civil War that “The men who would comprise my family and countless others were laborers who toiled in workplaces devoid of joy and rampant with safety hazards. Before the advent of unions and labor rights movements, these were jobs where men were overworked, underpaid, and maimed regularly. It was hellish, and in order to go to work every day the laborer had to adapt both himself and his expectations to survive his harsh reality.
Faced with a job that paid just enough to keep a family afloat, and sometimes not even that, the American man adapted his idea of self-worth to depend on his identity as a laborer as opposed to his fulfillment of the American Dream. Callused hands and tired bones became indicators of self-worth and proof of an attempt, however futile, to do the necessary work to survive, if not advance.

What made this exchange possible was the laborer’s status as a white male, a privileged position that, regardless of station or worth, prioritized him above women, minorities, homosexuals, and immigrants. He may have failed to advance or conquer the world as the Gods of Industry had, but society was in his favor and at home he was still king. (22) 

Through two world wars and the Great Depression this situation persisted. And then, during the years following WWII, the capitalist economy blossomed, with assembly lines pumping out a dizzying array of consumer goods and modern advertising methods developed to keep the demand high. But, Sexton notes, “with the advent of mass media and anxiety fostered by advertising, [men and women’s] insecurities and fear of failure were multiplied.” (25) The good economic times made life easier, but also further raised both expectations and the specter of not fulfilling them.

Defeat in Vietnam and the associated rise of the progressive counter-culture crashed the party, Sexton argues, beginning a long series of challenges to the system of white male patriarchy, led by fundamental socio-economic changes, such as the introduction of increasing numbers of women and minorities to the workforce. Threatened by these changes, white men aggressively opposed them in ways that “created a stagnant atmosphere in which rusted and regressive technologies and culture stayed well past their expiration dates. … [Then they] saw the mess they had made, and asked how things had gotten so bad.” (28-29) When they eventually found that no one would answer that question to their satisfaction, they ended up on the inexorable path to supporting a Trump presidency.

To illustrate more concretely the pathologies that white men have been raised to believe and embody as a result of the system of white male patriarchy, and the destructive implications for these men’s own lives, for those closest to them, and for society more broadly, Sexton turns to his own family and upbringing to illustrate how it has looked from the inside.

Though the book nominally follows a timeline from his birth, Sexton also looks farther back, to the experiences of his father and his father’s generation as they grew up during the radical economic and social transformation that occurred in American society as the growth economy of the 1950’s evaporated in the 1960’s and the Vietnam war took its toll on social cohesiveness – these changes together breaking apart the hegemony of the white male in US society.

Key to the story of his father, and his own upbringing at his father’s hand, was an expectation that any emotion must be suppressed, any weakness hidden – that, come what may, whether at home, at work or in public, a dominant and unshaken front must be maintained. Sexton points out that these expectations had been reinforced by the performance of the Greatest Generation, and their success in WWII. But, over the course of the 1960’s the economic boom of the previous decade faltered, leaving men’s pay insufficient to support their family without their wives working; at the same time, social reforms such as civil rights and women’s rights advanced the status of non-white-males both socially and economically.  As a result of these changes, the expectations of the white male patriarchy became unfulfillable.

In reaction, white fathers, unwilling and, in fact, unable to give up the expectations of their upbringing, experienced a profound and debilitating frustration, and doubled down on what they knew, becoming ever more unforgiving of any signs of weakness they might see in their sons, or any sign of their wives or girlfriends becoming too independent, any displays by minorities of assuming an equal footing in the community or at work. And, as this frustration deepened, it gradually morphed into ever more aggressive language, and eventually actual violence – against sons, wives, girlfriends, and minorities.

In brutally honest language, Sexton details the struggles he had growing up and trying to fit into the mold created for him, first from his father, and then from a series of step-dad’s as his mother sought to create an economically viable home situation for him. Even once he grows up, escapes home to college, and begins to understand what has happened to him, he finds it difficult to resist the core lessons on manhood that he experienced from the men in his life. He repeatedly slides back into the dark lessons of his childhood, and it’s clear he feels their pull even today.

Out of his attempts to explore and come to grips with his upbringing come, however, important background lessons for his understanding of the phenomenon of the Trump campaign. The ugliness Sexton witnessed during the campaign rallies he attended was for him all too familiar from his own upbringing and what he saw within his own family: “While the 2016 presidential election raged and brought to surface all the frustrations and wrath that had been simmering for decades, thus ensuring Donald Trump would gain purchase, home haunted me with new meaning.” (31)

As an example, he recounts a moment from the early 2000’s, in which he goes with his dad deep into the countryside, where they meet up with other men, each bringing piles of guns and ammunition, to do target shooting. After they are done, they gather around their trucks, and conversation begins, and:
idle chitchat gave way to more pressing matters. I’d caught glimpses of this in the past when my male relatives sat in a room empty of women, in a dingy locker room, and later this setting would be re-created at every Donald Trump rally. The guns had jostled something in them. Studies I’d come across later would explain that handling guns actually increases testosterone in men and they were definitely more aggressive, and more than willing to voice their opinions. All of their words were soaked with doom. They talked about war, especially the one raging in Iraq, and soon they were liberally exchanging racial slurs, calling Arabs “camel jockeys,” “sand niggers,” and “towelheads,” many of the men wishing they could go overseas and kill some themselves as their eyes lingered over the guns. One fantasized about lining up a bunch of Iraqis, soldiers or citizens, one was just as bad as the other, and seeing how many he could kill with a single bullet.

Their anger wasn’t just reserved for Muslims, though. Soon it turned to African Americans who needed to be taught a lesson, and then Mexicans flooding over the border and stealing jobs. Somebody mentioned a group of migrant workers who’d moved into the area and the man next to me laughed and reminisced about the “old days” when the Ku Klux Klan controlled the town and the homes of immigrants would’ve been set on fire in the middle of the night.

But that wasn’t it. They moved onto conspiracies and even though they’d been so keen on slaughtering Muslims for retribution, it seemed agreed upon around the truck that 9/11 had been an inside job, that a group they called the New World Order was behind September 11, as well as getting minorities and women riled up about rights, fixing elections, and even spreading HIV/AIDS, which, one of my dad’s friends explained, had been engineered in a lab to reduce the population before the coming apocalyptic battle between good and evil. (154) 

These same opinions come out into the open as part of the groundswell of support that lifted Trump to victory in 2016, notes Sexton. Describing a Trump rally that he attended in June 2016, he writes:
What I witnessed that night was one of the most blatant displays of offensive, fascistic behavior I’d seen since my days in the locker room. It was like all of the troubling, frightening things that’d been saved for private spaces, kept behind locked doors, had suddenly exploded into the public arena. Society had kept these people at bay for years, or at least mostly contained by the threat of consequence, but Trump’s candidacy had sprung the lock and given them safety in the daylight. My reporting was among the first to sound the alarm as to just what had begun taking shape. Up until that point the criticism of Trump was that he was offensive, sure, unacceptable, certainly, but no one in their right mind thought he’d actually get elected. That rally, and the ones that followed, proved these thoughts to be depressingly misguided, and the certainty had only allowed his base of deplorables to take root. (123)

Though Hillary Clinton may have made a political blunder in her use of the word “deplorables” in a speech to describe Trump supporters, Sexton owns the term, and makes it clear that for the attendees he saw at Trump rallies – who reminded him of his family and the community he grew up in – it was the right word. Not surprisingly, his reporting made him an uncomfortable visitor to family gatherings; more broadly, he reports that “white supremacists threatened to murder me in my home [and] people … tried to break into my house.” (31)

In the final section of the book Sexton focuses in more detail on the political calculations that have contributed to supporting the continuation of this lie, to maintaining the righteousness of the system of white male patriarchy, despite the resulting crisis of masculinity and its violent consequences. He begins by noting, crucially, that
besides his most obvious lies … Trump’s message has resonated with large swathes of the country because there is, at its heart, a kernel of truth. The America he’s speaking to, that of my family and others like them, is indeed suffering. (216)

This suffering – the result of the patriarchal structure that white men are brought up to internalize and the social and economic changes of the past half century that have made the expectations that come with it untenable – has been exploited and manipulated, he argues, by the Republican Party and its supporters in the media.  He views these groups as actively working to distract white males from shaking off these damaging expectations and instead pursue a path of “cooperation between the demographics pitted against each other.”  Instead, they are “trained by conservative media to feel attacked.” (217)

In a series of paragraphs that express both the deep sympathy and the profound anger Sexton feels about what he has learned, he cleaves to the heart of his story.  Beginning with those raised on the tenets of white male patriarchy, and trapped in their upbringing, he makes clear that
They’re justified in feeling that something has changed. The world really is transforming around them, and with those changes their advantages are rapidly evaporating. Industry is giving way to a new economy that favors creativity and communication while rewarding empathy and education, which men are taught to oppose. The future is geared for so-called feminine values, and the education and the democratization of mass culture does mean that minorities who have been held back in the past are now realizing more social and economic potential. (217)

For those, however, who have sought to hold onto their power and wealth by manipulating men into continuing to cling to the social structures of the past his critique is withering and merciless.  He pulls no punches in stating that
Republicans lied to men by telling them their factories were coming back. They lied to them by telling them the mines they worked in were going to be reopened. They told them to resist even the most commonsense gun control as their children were murdered in their classrooms. They told them to hate higher learning when all the studies and all the books told the same story: the times were changing and you’d better change with them.

Even more tragically, change has always been in their best interest. The occupations they cling to so desperately—the factory jobs, the mining jobs, the manual labor jobs—were awful in the first place. Men who toil in these careers are underpaid and miserable. They suffer horrific injuries, die prematurely, and are exploited by companies that hardly ever reward their labor or loyalty. But men have long fallen for the great myth of American capitalism. They strive to make it and when they fail they find solace, no matter how dismal, in their pursuit and their work. (218) 

The result has been that white men have doubled down on defending what they were raised to believe was their birthright.  And the consequence has been the the ugliness of the past years, as
we watched men attack women as opportunists, as being too unattractive to be violated, as motivated by political and economic ends, because each conflict was another battle in the escalating war in the crisis of masculinity. No ground can be given to the forces of progress here because with each case of men being held accountable for their actions the whole house of cards could come tumbling down.” (218) 
Sexton argues that men actually have much to gain from the cultural changes underway, but he at the same time makes clear, based on his own experiences and struggles, that the unwinding of the grip that the indoctrination of his upbringing in how a man should behave, what a man should believe, as part of the white male patriarchal system is not a simple feat.

He describes in detail how for every step he himself has taken forward in his personal battle on this front, he has then too often slid backwards – finding himself trying to prove his manhood through descents into drinking, and picking meaningless fights – experiences that have led him to the edge of suicide, when he finds that he can neither live up to the unrealistic expectations nor free himself of them.

With this book Sexton looks into his own heart, and that of the men of his family and his community, to explore the system of white male patriarchy that he feels has been so destructive for both white men and our broader society.

Other reviews / information:

Sexton notes (quoted more fully above) that men
suffer horrific injuries, die prematurely, and are exploited by companies that hardly ever reward their labor or loyalty. But men have long fallen for the great myth of American capitalism.
This recalls the analysis of the philosopher Martin Hägglund, in his book This Life, in which he argues that such exploitation is inherent, and in fact unavoidable, in capitalism, because capitalism values not the time of the individual to pursue what they desire out of life, but rather values the labor time of individuals, and so attempts to maximize that labor time while minimizing the associated cost of it.  (My review of Hägglund's book here.)


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf
 

Monday, August 5, 2019

Book Review: "Pilgrim" by David Whyte

Pilgrim (2014)
David Whyte (1955)
95 pages

Although I occasionally pick up books of poetry, I’ve generally found that I struggle to connect with them. Most likely it’s a personal failing – an insufficient patience perhaps, or a too strong desire for directness. But too often they have felt to me like an incomprehensible slog.

And yet.

Sometimes serendipity has struck, and my world has been exploded by a particular poem – or perhaps just a stanza – that I’ve stumble across, and that feels like a revelation. One of the earliest times I recall this happening was years ago, when I came across these lines from William Wordsworth’s Odes: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood: 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Words that can define a life.

Since discovering that poem, I’ve occasionally had similar experiences with other poetry I’ve encountered. This happened most recently last fall when, on a podcast episode of the program On Being, I heard the poet David Whyte recite and discuss several of his poems. The podcast was from an event called the On Being Gathering, and Whyte had been invited to both open and close the proceedings with his poetry.  Listening to his presentation that day, time seemed to stop; it was breath-taking, his words speaking directly to my heart.


Among the works he chose to read were a few from his book Pilgrim. In that collection he explores the idea that we pass through life as pilgrims, on a lifelong journey during which we seek – whether dimly or concretely acknowledged – to create a comprehensible meaning for our lives.

The book opens with two poems that focus directly on the idea of life as a path along which we journey with a mixture of hope and expectation, never sure what we will discover and learn next. In Traveller he writes that we, as pilgrims, see and understand ourselves
only in looking back,
always 
just about
to find
a home,
always a
hairsbreadth
from
arrival,
always about
to find
the arms
that will never
fall away (6)  
For Whyte the primary interest clearly lies in the mysteries present in the path itself, not in in the destination.

The next group of poems in the book come under the heading Camino, and relate to one of the most famous pilgrimages in the world, the Camino de Santiago, which passes from east to west through northern Spain, ending in Galicia, on the Atlantic Coast. These poems highlight experiences of walking the path of that pilgrim’s trail, including Refuge, Rest, and Night Traveller, but through them Whyte identifies important aspects of our path through life. Thus, in the poem Santiago he observes the uncertainty fundamental to any journey, any life:
the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,
no matter that it sometimes took our promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way.” (22)

In the profoundly moving poems of this section, Whyte captures the beauty and heartbreak that come with creating our path through life.  

The half-dozen poems of the section titled Companion explore the wonder and complexity of our relationships with those who accompany us along parts of our journey through life. These poems speak of brief loves that leave a lasting and beautiful mark, as well as the numbing grief of losing a dear friend, as in Requiem in which the narrator drives away from a funeral
still stunned
and immobile
at the thought of you
there
and the quiet rested
nobility of your form
left alone to sleep forever. (31) 

Beautiful images of western Ireland – green fields and mountains giving way at cliff edges to the Atlantic Ocean – fill the poems of the section The West. As Whyte writes in Thoor Anu, such encounters with the awe-inspiring mysteries of nature can have lasting impact, causing
an elemental undoing
you’d carry with you

in the city street
or the plane ride home (48) 

This section also includes a wonderful poem built upon snatches of conversation between two men at a local pub in western Ireland, with Whyte filling in the imagined details behind the kinship he witnesses in what he has heard.
So come and see me, calling out whatever you want,
calling me whatever you want, eeijit, brother, friend, you know
I have known you forever and you have known nothing

since you were born without knowing me.
I have loved you like another self since you were
the youngest thing when I use to put my arm around you

to nurse you home, the knees broken and the world
fallen in, the pushed bicycle a moving, clacking ruin,
and you leaning again me, as you still must now (57)
A lovely paean to an unbreakable bond of siblings. 

Finally, in a section titled Looking Back, Whyte seems to reflect on memories from the path he took to the poems in the book. Thus, in Winter Apple, he describes the simple yet profound image of an apple left on a tree to fully ripen, and so to
let winter come
and the first frost threaten,
and then wake
one morning
to see the breath
of winter
has haloed
its redness
with light (86)
Thus he examines the blessings that come from having the patience to let a thing fully mature, as he surely seems to have done with the many poems in this collection.

Filled with transcendent revelations about all we encounter on our path through life, Whyte’s slim volume of poetry in Pilgrim encourages us to look up from our daily lives and realize again with awe the beauty and mystery in our relationships and in the world around us. It makes clear too, the importance of recognizing both the profound responsibility we have for creating our life’s path, as well as the many uncertainties that are an inherent part of doing so.



Other reviews / information:

A wonderful CD of Whyte reading poems from Pilgrim is available. It includes most of the poems in the book, as well as some discussion about their origins and their meaning for him. When reading them he often repeats one or more lines, thereby inserting an emphasis at certain points that gives them even more depth and power. Whyte has an engaging and subtly powerful voice that speaks, as I wrote above, directly to the heart.



Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, July 20, 2019

Book Review: "The Stars My Destination" by Alfred Bester

The Stars My Destination (1956)
Alfred Bester (1913-1987)
244 pages

Alfred Bester’s rollicking science fiction novel “The Stars My Destination” features a brutally violent, though not entirely unsympathetic, anti-hero, Gully Foyle. As the story opens, an unknown event has left Foyle the only survivor in a heavily damaged spaceship floating through the asteroid belt. Confined to the one small closet of a room that remains intact, he has managed to survive for months by salvaging what he can, but with little hope of being rescued.

Finally, some five months in, another spaceship does pass by, and when it responds to his flares by pulling close enough to see him, he can scarcely believe his luck. But then, a few moments later, the spaceship moves on without him, and his disbelief galvanizes into a reason to not only survive but to make it back home to Earth: revenge. And so the Foyle we are first introduced to as a dull, uncaring, unmotivated oaf, transforms into an obsessed demon, willing to endure anything, learn anything, do anything to wreak his vengeance on those in that passing spaceship who made the decision to abandon him to his fate.

His first order of business, of course, becomes finding a way to escape the wrecked ship and find a way back to Earth. But, once he does finally make it home, he finds his plans for vengeance complicated by the social and political realities of his time.

Bester has set the story several centuries into our future, and imagines that humankind has spread throughout the solar system, including onto several moons of the outer system gas giants. In the decades before the story begins an earlier economic balance between the populations living in the inner system and those in colonies beyond the asteroid belt has been disrupted by the discovery of the ability of humans through a force of will to transfer themselves from one place to another instantaneously up to a range of 1000 miles – to “jaunte”, as it has come to be called, named after its accidental discoverer. The ability to jaunte has disrupted the economy in general, but most radically the balance that had existed between the inner and outer systems.  The result has been, as the novel opens, years of ever intensifying war, a conflict Foyle had largely ignored but now inadvertently lands in the middle of when he returns to Earth to carry out his ruthless intent.

Nothing will deter him from his goal, however, and he executes his plans with a violence of purpose that shows no mercy, whether toward the guilty or anyone standing in his way, and up to and including innocent bystanders and even those naively inclined to help him. In fact, Bester largely provides readers with no clear lines of good and evil in his characters; he imagines a world filled with people aggressively pursuing their personal interests and with little sympathy for anyone else. Certainly Foyle, despite the justifying facts of his abandonment, remains a difficult protagonist to sympathize with, particularly as the body count mounts. And, given the forces arrayed against him, readers familiar with Moby Dick can be forgiven for wondering whether Foyle will, like Melville’s Ahab, find his obsessive quest a fatal calling.

Bester’s novel, written in the mid-1950’s, carries a distinct flavor and tone of the US of that time, projected a few centuries forward. This is particularly apparent in the company names Bester makes reference to in the story. Some of the companies mentioned were giants in the 1950’s, but have since lost their prominence, or haven’t survived at all to the present day, much less lasted centuries longer – an inadvertent reminder to readers of the transient nature of what seems ‘too big to fail.’

It is perhaps not surprising when reading a decades old science fiction story set only a couple-few centuries into Earth’s future to come across predictions by the author that haven’t panned out, or clearly won’t. As I discussed in my review last year of Greg Bear’s Eon, written in 1985, this can be distracting in some cases – central to Bear’s story, for example, is that the cold war between the US and Soviet Union continued into the 21st century. (My review linked to at right.)
http://tertulia-moderna.blogspot.com/2018/11/book-review-eon-by-greg-bear.html 

In Bester’s story these corporate references initially set a mostly charming tone, reminders now of an overly idealized decade in US history, when at least one portion of the US population enjoyed a period of relative social stability and strong economic growth. As the story develops, however, the picture becomes darker, revealing the corporate leaders (apparently only men) of this future time to be essentially oligarchs, acting as a kind of nobility. They play a central role not only in the story, but, in fact, in ruling the solar system-wide society that Bester imagines. With the exception of the spy services, which seem largely independent of any control, the government exists only in the background of the story.

The oligarchs’ rise to power has coincided with the nearly complete submission of the general public into passive consumers, who are expected to enjoy what they are given in exchange for remaining docile and accepting of corporate control. Bester seems to anticipate that a trend already underway in the 1950’s, and certainly further advanced today, has seemingly come to complete fruition in the time setting of his novel.

The origins of this transformation lie in the immediate post-World War II period, when the era of the common man and the push of progressive populism that had characterized the pre-WWII political and social direction in the US and other democracies had been decisively crushed by corporate capitalist interests, as nicely summarized in a fascinating review of the life of composer Aaron Copeland on the radio program On The Media.  By 1961, only ten years after Bester’s novel was published, President Dwight D Eisenhower would warn of the rise of the military-industrial complex as a threat to democracy in his presidential farewell address. And current day concerns about the impact of the wide-spread corporate collection of personal data for marketing purposes, and the related phenomenon of the advancing degeneration of politic campaigns and debates into marketing campaigns, only reinforce the plausibility of Bester’s dark vision.

But, having established this trend as continuing to a dystopian future, Bester hints toward the end of his story that Foyle’s very personal and private pursuit of vengeance may evolve into a window for social change, an opportunity to awaken the population from their compliant stupor in the face of corporate domination.

Foyle, who we are introduced to when the story opens as an unmotivated simpleton, becomes transformed by his quest for revenge, coming to recognize that the possibility exists for others to similarly take responsibility for their own lives, and so find ways to shake-off the yoke of their imperious masters. And so, late in the story, he demands that there be “no more telling the [common man] what’s best for them to know.… Let’em all grow up. It’s about time.” (235) In reply, one of the ruling elite objects that “we’re forced to seize the responsibility that the average man shirks,” and another adds that “you can’t trust people … they don’t know enough for their own good.” (236) But Foyle will not be gainsaid: “Then let him stop shirking it. Let him stop tossing his duty and guilt onto the shoulders of the first freak who comes along grabbing at it.” (236)

A demand applicable already in this current future we inhabit, much less Bester’s world of some centuries hence.

Other reviews / information:

http://tertulia-moderna.blogspot.com/2017/12/book-review-revolt-of-masses-by-jos.htmlThe quotes included in the last paragraph above from the ruling elites in the book – “We’re force to seize the responsibility that the average man shirks,” and “you can’t trust people … they don’t know enough for their own good.” (236) – have strong resonance with what Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset wrote in his book from only a couple of decades earlier, in 1930. In The Revolt of the Masses he expresses just such concerns about the masses, and what he sees as the dire consequences of their suddenly rising up, as Foyle demands in Bester’s story:
the accession of the masses to complete social power … means Europe is suffering from the greatest crisis that can afflict peoples, nations, and civilizations. (11)


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, July 6, 2019

Connections: Pleasure versus Joy, and What it Means to be Entertained

https://www.npr.org/2015/01/30/382428335/are-we-having-fun-yet-new-book-explores-the-paradox-of-parentingAuthor and journalist Jennifer Senior was interviewed several years ago on the program Fresh Air (4 February 2014, linked to at right) regarding her book on parenting, All Joy and No Fun. During the interview she elaborated on the concept of joy in parenting, and how it differs in her view from describing parenting as having fun.
One of the remarkable things about joy is that it is sort of predicated on this idea of being very connected to somebody; I think Christopher Hitchens described having kids as 'your heart running around in somebody else's body,' and that feeling is so powerful it's almost scary, because there's almost like an implied sense of loss about it, it's like you love somebody so much that you are almost automatically afraid of losing them, that this connection is so deep that you can't think of that connection without thinking of that connection being broken. So, joy, in some ways, is almost a harder feeling to tolerate than sadness in some ways because it's so powerful and makes us so vulnerable but it's why it is also so profoundly special and what makes parenting to so many of us so huge and incomparable. 

Her description of joy in connection with parenting, particularly her comment that “joy is … predicated on this idea of being very connected to somebody” has echoes in the broader conception of the concept of joy elaborated by physicist David Deutsch in his interview with Sam Harris, on the Making Sense podcast titled Finding Our Way in the Cosmos (#52 released 16 November 2016, linked to at right). In Deutsch’s comments, he distinguishes between joy and pleasure, as well as joy and the idea of being entertained.
https://samharris.org/podcasts/finding-our-way-in-the-cosmos/
For Deutsch – as for Senior in the specific context of parenting – joy is distinct from pleasure (or fun to use Senior’s word) in that it is tied fundamentally to experiences, and in particular continually evolving experiences, that challenge us to engage and think. Deutsch argues that we do ourselves a significant disservice in not understanding this distinction between joy and pleasure, and so in settling for what he considers a superficial understanding of joy.
[DD] Pleasure isn’t joy. People can be trained by our culture and by their circumstances – for instance if they haven’t experienced much joy – to interpret pleasure as joy. But it doesn’t fulfill the same function in the mind, and it’s particularly insidious, because when you first experience [a particular activity] it might well be joy, because then you’re investigating a new experience and a new way of being and new sensations and so on, and that is interesting, and therefore can be joy. But once you’re doing this [particular experience] every day and it’s your way of life, then it gives you nothing. And, if you nevertheless interpret that nothing as being good, then, well, that’s like being dead, you know, it’s not a human state of mind. [55:50] 

In a similar sense, he argues that people tend to have a pernicious misunderstanding of the idea of being entertained. For Deutsch, entertainment is not about some external person or activity or thing entertaining us as passive participants, but instead relates to our personal engagement in what is happening. Again, the fundamental point is the need for our mind to be engaged…
[DD] I think there’s a concept of being entertained by other people, or by things, or by heroin, or by TV programs, or whatever, that is a mistake. We may subjectively feel, we may interpret what’s happening, as the other thing entertaining us, but really the only thing that entertains us is our own creative engagement with it. And, without that creative engagement, nothing can entertain us.


When people get this wrong idea about what entertainment is, that’s the kind of mistake where they think that something mechanical such as heroin, can entertain them. [There are] these clichéd situations where somebody wins the lottery and then is miserable; and I think that the generic trap that one can fall into, in this sort of situation, is by thinking that money can entertain you, not realizing that only you can entertain you. [1:02:15] 


Deutsch later expands on this idea of creative engagement, in response to questions from Harris. He makes clear that he has a broad understanding of the concept of one being creatively engaged, much more general than the typical image of creativity as applying to scientific or artistic pursuits. Particularly striking is his identification of the importance of our relationships in providing opportunities for such engagement, and so for finding joy.

DD: I think the only that actually makes you happy is actually creating.

SH: But, it’s understandable, coming from you [as a physicist], but it seems like a narrow definition of happiness that a scientist and an artist could easily sign on to, but many people who can still register differences in their happiness, changes in their well-being, would not really recognize. So, for instance, what has happened when you’re going along, you’re very happy, you’re as fulfilled as you’ve ever been, but then, your wife dies, or your child dies, and now you’re not as happy, for obvious reasons, but those reasons aren’t best summarized by a sudden lack of creativity on your part.

DD: I think they are. I think that the reason why you’re unhappy is that your previous methods of making progress in thinking were tied to these people who’ve died. And you can’t just instantly replace what you would’ve got from them by something else.

SH: What do you mean by progress?

DD: Well, remember, I’m not snobbish about what kinds of knowledge count as knowledge. All kinds of knowledge, any kind of state of mind which one regards as preferable to another state of mind, can’t be reached without creativity, and reaching it is kind of what happiness is.

So, somebody who isn’t interested in science and isn’t interested in art or any of the things usually regarded as progress or creativity might still be thinking about something; all it takes is for them to be a better person in regard to X, after the thought, than before. And X might be anything, might be something that’s impossible to name, it doesn’t have a name, because it’s not socially valued. But it might be a particular way of interacting with the family. But, they would have to be improving it, would have to, if they think back, they would think, yes, I could have done it better, and now I am doing it better. [1:21:41]

And so, in the realm of parenting, Deutsch’s ideas on the relationship between joy and creative engagement align directly with the thoughts of Senior: it is the involvement with one’s children, watching and helping them learn and grow, dealing with the moments of happiness as well as those of frustration, that brings true joy.