I remember Angels in America primarily because I have changed houses so many times. After all the AIDS and the Mormonism, the bizarre sex stuff and the dramatic visitations by the celestial and the deceased in this utterly wild ride of a two-part play, what I remember is that one of the titular angels’ primary goals was to stop humans from moving around so much. I interpret this to mean that my wife and I, having moved several times within the past decade, are particularly excelsior queers.
I’m aware that this is a dumb reading of the play. I feel I’ve earned a little harmless sophomorism. For the past month, my wife and I have bent every free minute to the service of our living space. We’ve primped it, preened it, touched up the paint, and tightened the doorknobs. Now we just need Condorella to make a good impression on some lucky prince at the showing, which will probably occur in a couple weeks. We’ve been here for about two years. I can just see the angels burying their beautiful heads in their hands.
The housing market in our area is currently way, way out of control. This is one reason that we’re selling. With the likelihood of a recession lurking around 50% according to a notorious finance company, it seems like a good time to cash in. The other is that we just don’t like the town. We’re a bad fit here and we miss the place we were living before. Our main concern is that we won’t be able to leave if the market really tanks before we can close with a buyer.
The upshot of this situation is that we’ve either got to buy a new house within the thirty to ninety days after we accept an offer on our current place or we’ve got to temporarily move into a sublet. As we prepare for the possibility of renting, I’m watching John Oliver’s takedown of the current landlord ecosystem. One thing that he doesn’t discuss is why property owners seem to be such jerks to tenants these days. I’m of the school of thought that nobody is “just mean.” There’s always something under that. Sometimes this involves some internal lying or self-delusion, sometimes there’s some arrogance or insecurity in there. It goes without saying that money is the MacGuffin.
In eastern Massachusetts, people and companies are snapping up buildings like trading cards. For landlords who intend to generate income from the property long-term, this means buying high and consequently renting high. The laws of rent calculation are even stricter for people who purchase the gorgeous but rickety 200-year-old houses that make New England such a desirable setting for Halloween movies. Many, like our last landlord, have absolutely no idea what they’re in for in terms of maintenance. Think custom-sized glass for hand-crafted windows. I suspect that many of them end up swamped in houses that don’t pay for themselves, at which point they sell. For a higher price, of course. Then the cycle begins again.
For companies that intend to trade up these properties to satisfy investors, it seems to me that there’s almost no point in renting some of them. Renters will just mess up the pristine walls and toilets and incur those ever-pesky maintenance costs. If you’re just going to wait for the market to inflate even more and then sell the building like a stock, why worry about tenants? There are buildings in New York that have rearranged the whole city’s skyline, but remain completely unoccupied aside from a few highly choice clients. I wonder about that. The line can’t go up forever, and if I, a humble writer and librarian, can tell that the fun’s going to end someday, then I’m sure that the very well-educated investors building, selling, and paying for these high-end condos are already aware.
But most people would never live in luxury high-rises anyway. Their solution would be affordable housing, which is a wonderful option if you discount the NIMBYs. Today, I drove through two different communities where residents are fighting affordable housing projects. The arguments range from the environmental to the aesthetic, but none of them hold much water. (The yard signs alone were probably uglier than the proposed buildings would be.) These communities just want to remain exclusive to the wealthy. That’s something that John Oliver didn’t address.
As their rents rise beyond what they can handle, where will middle-class people in the GBA go? Small midwest towns? Vans that look great on Instagram and nowhere else? Detroit?
We don’t consider leaving the area an option just because we know exactly where we want to live. It’s expensive as hell, but if we can pull it off, we’ll get what we pay for: home. But as I browse Zillow for living spaces starting at under half a million, I realize that there’s a lot of privilege in attaching that word to a place.
We’ve been lucky. We’ve been unusually well-informed. We’ve been flexible. Let’s hope that will be enough.
As a professional librarian, sometime writer, and all-the-time member of the LGBTQ community, I’m inclined to become incensed at talk of censorship. Lately Texas, Florida, and a few other places appear to have come to the conclusion that they can will queers and people of color out of existence if they can scrub their books hard enough. Out, out damn rainbow!
However, unlike the unjustly maligned Lady Macbeth (hey, she had limited options for advancement) these folks might be capable of actually rinsing racial tolerance and acceptance of diversity out of their kids’ heads. A washing of the brain, if you will. There’s probably a better word for that.
And I think that’s why I find the censorship of books so ominous. Books are made mystical by our associations with them. It’s true: they’re beautiful and lend themselves to beauty and contemplation and insight and thought. But a book is just a person who has put a bit of their soul between two pieces of cardboard. Someone decided that this was the best way to share themselves with the world.
But at the same time, they themselves don’t stop existing. They remain in the world, the original manuscript, the source, walking around and forgetting their keys and buying potatoes with the intention of making soup that they never get to. The books can be removed. They can be imprisoned in boxes, pulped and turned into pornographic magazines, burned to make s’mores, used for paper mache projects. They can be not read. But a person can’t be not read. The person who donated a bit of their soul to that book, be it a math textbook or an antiracist manifesto, can’t be not read. They can be imprisoned, sure, but someone will know they exist. They can be killed, but their skin and bodies will keep telling their story after the person’s gone. Their memory can be banned, kind of, but there’s a kind of historical Streisand effect that happens when you try too hard there – look at Akhenaten and Pope Joan.
You can’t ban the source of the book. It’s not possible. But people have tried. I think that’s the scary thing about book banning. Removal of the word is a slide toward removal of the speaker. That can start out looking like a protection of tender eyes, but that leads to the idea that the people who informed the books, the raw deal, should just as well be removed from view. This isn’t as hard as it sounds. First you don’t have to employ trans folks if you’re concerned that they’ll upset your customers. Easy peasy, they’re barely protected by law anyway. Then maybe parents have the right to remove kids from classes taught by queer people in public schools too. Maybe upstanding citizens win the right to know if a business where they might take their family is staffed with any LGBTQ people, leading to a chilling effect on hiring. I’m not saying there’s a direct path to reeducation camps and gulags here, but your society doesn’t have to be that bad to be bad. And let’s not forget that things really were like that until fairly recently.
But that’s what you’ve got to do if you ban books, because banning books isn’t enough to get the knowledge, the idea out of your hegemonic gestalt brain. If you’re going to go this far to protect the children from knowledge of queer and Black people, then you’re already in for a penny.
And that’s why it’s so obvious that the politicians pushing book censorship aren’t acting in good faith. They’re chasing this car because they want a handful of their most extreme voters to see that they’re big good guard dogs who can really show a motor vehicle what for. They’re also smart enough to know that actually catching it would be a problem for them. Where I think they’re mistaken is in how close that voter bloc wants them to get.
About 5% of all humans are queer. That’s 1 in 20 people. Intersex conditions are as common as red hair (for real!) and we’re still finding new ones. About 41% of the U.S. is made up of people who are something other than white. Banning books about these groups isn’t going to stop kids from learning about them. What it will do is allow those kids to develop the idea that you don’t have to know things that you don’t want to know. You don’t have to deal with people who aren’t like you. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can mistreat it, delete it, defeat it. It tells them that there are people who deserve to not be discussed, people who are forbiddable. People who, by simple dint of who they are, deserve to be banned.
I got Alpha Bots: A Feminist Dystopian Novel as a free ARC from Netgalley. Oh, Netgalley! I sing your praises, even as I remain woefully behind on my backlog of your bounty. Originally, I grabbed it because it was supposed to be a Fight Club/Stepford Wives mashup by way of The Feminine Mystique. That was always going to be a problematic mix, but done right, it could have been good. Alas, it didn’t meet its potential, and I was dissatisfied.
Plot summary time! If you came here for this, then voila, I live to serve. The main character, Cookie, is an experimental android wife living in the town of New Stepford with other advanced female AI slaves. Their husbands go to work at the “gold mine” during the day and come home in the evening to…be husbands. In fact, these dubiously fortunate gentlemen are alpha testers for the beings I would prefer to call Automatrons. (Their actual designation is “womanoids,” which sounds too much like the incel pejorative “femoids” to my ears. I won’t be using it.) They engage their vastly underused potential by making and taking psychedelics. When corrupt AI policewoman Maggie and tall, dark, and handsome mystery man Wayne appear on the scene, they teach Cookie and her friends to “wake up” by fighting with each other. (“I want you to hit me” etc comes up several times.) However, Maggie is a leering power-tripper with a complicated love-hate relationship to Cookie that starts at the jump and is eventually explained by (SPOILER ALERT) man drama. ANOTHER SPOILER: this whole book comes down to man drama. It’s not actually that feminist at its core, and I suspect that the writer may have some inaccurate ideas about what feminism is. At very least, they need to read more. The concept was interesting, but even a piece of fiction requires a foundation of research.
Although I normally wouldn’t worry about reviewing this tepid book, it did embody many of the pitfalls of half-baked pseudo-feminist sci-fi window dressing that I’ve long disliked. This, I think, is a valuable opportunity to discuss what was problematic here and why. So pull up your e-reader and shuffle along, because we’re going to review! This! Book!
Starting with the end.
Ending with the man
I always look skeptically about any book that both claims to be feminist and rejects female friendship. In this case, there can be no friends for Cookie. Every woman she’s close to who doesn’t turn against her dies a lonely and grotesque death. Her only equal is her foil Maggie, who is basically Evil Cookie (Fight Club homage all the way) and steals her man and turns New Stepford into a death cult.
The book seems to have no conception of the possibility that Cookie would make new friends in the army of rebels. The other women are just a big, faceless, collective blur of people who stick together and dislike Cookie – robots in every way. Wayne, on the other hand, proves himself a mensch in the end. Wayne loves Cookie because he made her for himself. Wayne is a…
Wait. Rewind. Pause. Wayne made Cookie for himself. Not for her to be free. Not for her to ever reject him or defy him or decide she wanted something else. For him. This is yet another Pygmalion situation, with none of the rewarding self-awareness of a work like Ex Machina. She’s his creature from the beginning and never wavers from that throughout the book, even when Wayne is a dick with poor character consistency. If this book is about Cookie’s progression toward true autonomy, then it fails by basically passing her to another guy for whom she must essentially be a thing – a thing he made because he wanted it.
What I’d really like from the next book in this series – which I may or may not read, depending on how I feel when I’m done with this review – is for Cookie to realize that Wayne is her Pygmalion and she’s the nameless statue.
Gail Simone defined the concept of fridging after a Green Lantern arc wherein a villain butchers Kyle Raynor’s girlfriend and stuffs her into the household refrigerator. This provides Kyle with the motivation to rise to the challenge of becoming a Green Lantern – because after all, a woman’s death is a small price to pay for a man’s achievement. In any case where a female character is killed, tortured, maimed, or otherwise critically damaged to motivate the hero, that character can be said to have been fridged.
Rita is an excellent example of a fridged woman. She’s nominally a friend of Cookie’s, but it’s hard to be friends with a cardboard cutout. Rita is a completely flat character with one trait: an overwhelming desire to be thin. Because she is a robot, she cannot possibly lose weight by starving herself, so this becomes a source of much pathos. As soon as Rita gains control over her body, she carves off the “excess” in a pitiable and ultimately futile attempt to woo her cruel husband. Rita broadcasts this tragic autophagology to the rest of the network, which becomes the tipping point for the other Automatrons (I’m making it happen) to join Maggie’s army of rebels. Ta da! A fridge case! And a super gross one too! (I’ll talk more about Rita in the next section because I find her disproportionately fascinating.)
The book fridges Paula as well. She’s probably Cookie’s only real buddy in the entire book and her own suspicious death motivates Cookie’s rebellion against the rebellion. Nobody else cares about that death, of course, because Paula is meant to motivate only Cookie. After all, Paula loved all the same things that Cookie did – drugs, sci-fi. That’s…pretty much all there is about Paula. Other than the programming that makes all the Automatrons want to serve men, we have little idea about her personality or hopes or likes or anything. Oh, to be a two-dimensional character whose entire purpose is to die.
Most writers who flirt with the fridge try to overcome it by making their doomed character robust and interesting so that their death is as meaningful to the reader as it is to the protagonist. It doesn’t always work, but you get a couple points for effort there. Alpha Bots could have accomplished this by making the book a multiple-perspective story, for example. This would have made the Fight Club homage trickier, but not impossible, and I’m a big fan of tossing a cute gimmick in favor of better writing.
More About Rita
I don’t think Rita gets enough attention, so I’m going to talk about her a little more. Specifically, I want to talk about why I think she’s actually the most valuable character in this book on account of her capacity for suffering.
Other than her existence as a commodity, Rita’s life is not valuable except in its relative usefulness to others. She exists to be an anorexic stereotype and, ultimately, a throwaway bid at a shallow and generally uninspected statement on how men perpetuate body anxiety. In fact, because her husband enjoys torturing her over her appearance, much of her value beyond her resale value is in her pain. It isn’t her image that her husband despises – he admits that he purposely requested a fat android because he likes fat women – but instead her discomfort. Maybe he, like many men who appreciate larger women, even finds torturing her an antidote to his own shame over having a thing for curvy girls. In that case, she fulfills for him a psychological function that objectifies her in a darker and more complicated way than the book’s treatment of her anorexia suggests.
Ultimately, Rita’s husband asked for her because he valued her ability to suffer for him. And suffer she does, starving herself and enduring his abuse even as she damages herself beyond repair. A woman’s ability to martyrously endure and sometimes die – to submit – has long been considered an honorable feminine trait. All you ex-Catholics out there know what I’m talking about. If not, Consider Saint Maria Goretti, who was canonized after she allegedly died forgiving her attempted rapist and actual murderer on her deathbed. She was twelve, BTW, and she was killed in 1902.
Rita submits to hubby Dan’s wishes with saintly martyrousness that would doubtless earn her a place with the angels if she hadn’t also been a suicide. I do like that she ultimately digests herself. It’s interesting, different, and possible to interpret from several different points of view. I like the complex interplay between Rita’s choice to suffer for her husband, her programming that forces her to suffer for her husband, and her husband’s role in invoking that programming. Really, this book shouldn’t have been about Cookie. It should have been about Rita. As it was, I respect what the author was trying to do here, I just think it would have worked better if Rita had, I don’t know, dreams of becoming an expert on Renaissance painters or something. Anything to round her out a little more. (Actually, she would have been a perfect Catholic.)
Who was that sexy gender rebel? Only a mirage
Personally, because I am a Sapphic and because I notice these things, I always take it badly when a book dangles lesbianism as a titillation factor. Cookie’s attraction to Maggie falls squarely into this category, a sexual thrill that never comes to anything, affects the plot, assists in character development, or has any other discernible purpose in this book. Fine, says I, with a mighty eyeroll. Lesbian exploitation. Super feminist. Tres cool. I see it so much that I’m willing to gloss over it once. Not twice, though; it happened again when two ladybots kissed, a device whose purpose was to make Cookie jealous for a minute. My buzz was terminally harshed. I can’t completely describe how irritating I find it when LGBTQ representation exists in sci-fi just to serve straight people – and this piece of work was supposed to be feminist, so it loses extra points. How hard would it have been to have one lousy actual real lesbian relationship in this book? Using dykes as props is lazy, and it indicates a lack of sincerity on the part of the author. Clearly, they weren’t interested in actual representation so much as a convenient and fetishy tool. (Consider that Cookie would have been no less jealous if Paula and Crissy had been having an obviously good time baking together. Every time you see lesbianism represented in fiction, grade it by mentally subbing in a good baking session and seeing if that would have served the plot just as well.)
Things get worse when the author tries to tackle asexuality and non-binary gender representation. In one case, a pack of gender-neutral monster kittens bodily consume a doctor. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but this is still a problematic use of non-binary people as more things than people, and as freaks to boot. Later, an Automatron transforms into a genderless asexual form to deal with sexual trauma. Do I really need to go into why this is bad? The myth that people reject gender because a man hurt them is as old as balls. I’ve heard it said about lesbians and non-binary AFAB people alike, and I think the root of the idea is that women (and AFAB people) are incapable of acting without the motivation of a man. Aside from being a dumb idea, this doesn’t pass the smell test. Plenty of women get assaulted every year, but there are only a handful of NBs and asexuals out there. If trauma caused people to affect non-binary presentation and reject sex, you’d think there would be more genderless individuals wandering around talking about how great it is to not be in bed with someone.
Once again, I’d be OK with the presence of a damaged person abandoning sexual activity, but that’s not asexuality. The author could have avoided this mess by including actual asexuals and NBs in this book just being normal folks. Then they could function as a control group, a true representation of a group that occurs naturally and without tragic injury.
Once again, the author needed to do way more research before putting pen to paper. Whether they intended to or not, they appear to be making a statement about LGBTQIA identity and gender presentation that is not flattering to them intellectually. Hiring a sensitivity reader might have been a good idea, too. (Why doesn’t everyone just do this from now on?)
You can’t talk about feminism without talking about queerness, and we know this because people have tried and it didn’t work. Without queer inclusivity, the feminist conversation can’t proceed. This is not a queer inclusive conversation. It’s a couple of side remarks by a straight person about what they think queerness is, and those remarks are clearly being made for color. Aside from reinforcing irritating straight assumptions, this treatment is nowhere near as nuanced or as interesting as it could be. Anyone who doesn’t think that a well-rounded queerio is more interesting than a two-dimensional chop job has no queer friends. (Or they’re just lazy. Considering how little work went into this book, I do wonder if perhaps the author just didn’t bother.)
What did we learn?
Do your frickin’ homework. People notice.
Also, a poorly delivered message can make or break an otherwise mediocre book. With the right nuance, this could have been more than a decent read. Unfortunately, it was significant mainly for its missed marks, and that knocked it down to a two-star book at best. I will remember it for embodying some of the tropes that make me sigh the deepest, but I probably won’t read that sequel.
Still with me? Not done with Dhalgrenyet in the critical sense? Could it be that Dhalgren is not yet done with you? Are you being actively observed? Are you sure that you exist??
Whatever the circumstances, awesome! I knew I wasn’t riding this roller coaster alone. Welcome back, sciencefictionados!
Here’s Part 1 of my DHALGREN review. In case, y’know, you’re new to this epic madness.
We talked about perception in the last post. Art is one way that people make themselves known in Bellona, so you can look at it as kind of an attempt to shape their own personas and identities, or as a grab at self-preservation as Bellona faces down a rolling existential crisis.
But what happens when people don’t bother to examine that art? I’m mainly talking about the public’s reaction to the Kid’s debut poetry book, BRASS ORCHIDS. Everybody reads this thing, but even the sole critical jerk who the Kid talks to is reading it in search of references to themselves. (The critical jerk is internally comparing it to his own book of poetry, so y’know. Still self-referential.) As we talked about in the last post, everybody in Bellona needs to be seen – possibly, they need to be seen to exist.
But many of them don’t have the ability, confidence, or motivation to make themselves visible through art. Granted, art isn’t the only way you can be visible in Bellona – Madame Brown provides therapy, for example. But one person in particular produces nothing, does nothing, and secludes themselves from most of the rest of Bellona, even by reputation. I’m talking about Mary Richards, whose main accomplishment is the facade of normalcy that she maintains over the Richards family.
Her husband and kids help validate her existence, of course, even as she refuses to validate the existence of Bellona’s transformation by observing it. But she’s really a leech – without her family and her pet artists to observe her, she flirts with meaninglessness, and therefore the void. That’s why she kind of collects intelligent people with whom to surround herself. The gang members, on the other hand, don’t need to make art because they can cultivate notoriety. They’re all awed by a famous person and curious about their own depictions in art, but neither have nor need any sophisticated understanding of the meaning behind the poetry. Why duplicate effort? They’re famous and feared and consistently make it into the paper. Plus, there are enough of them that they can observe one another, no art needed. Their continued existence in Bellona is assured.
The Kid doesn’t completely understand his own poetry either, but that does bother him, possibly because he senses that there should be a reason for it. And isn’t his reason the same as everyone’s? We’ll all die someday and the memories about us will disintegrate faster than our hollowed-out bones, but if we do something meaningful, and then write it down, we achieve some kind of immortality. People still talk about Homer. The Kid is grappling with what might be an immediate loss of existence in a place that’s existentially unstable, but that’s really just a short-term metaphor for what will eventually happen anyway.
Frustrated by his own lack of insight, and possibly concerned that anything he does will qualify him as delusional, the Kid tries to glean the quality of his poetry from others, even asking the established poet Ernest Newboy if they’re “good.” Almost nobody gives him any solid answers. Many say that they like the poems, but the only useful critical feedback he receives is brutal and unreliable. And, for what it’s worth, probably accurate. The Kid himself points out that people are partially enamoured of his poetry because they like the idea of a young poet. (Most of the Bellonans seem to think that the Kid is around 17, even though he’s closer to 30.) It would follow that the poetry is stylistically immature to support the misconception.
This begs an important question: how much of the Kid’s art is a lie? Half of BRASS ORCHIDS wasn’t even written by him, and he never finds the author. We may get the most genuine version of the Kid’s artistic expression when the narrative switches to the first-person perspective in the final part. Even there, he edits his version of reality and discusses his relative ability to recall and fabricate conversations with Lanya. This, my dear Watson, is important because gradually we only see Bellona through the Kid’s eyes. It may as well not exist if he’s not telling us about it because he is the storyteller.
He’s controlling Bellona in a whole new way. The Kid levels up creatively in Part 5, even though that advancement is clearly not meant for any eyes but…his own? Lanya’s? The scholars’? Ours? Maybe he means it to be a record for his lucid self in case he loses awareness again. If that’s the case, then Katy bar the door. We know nothing about non-lucid Kid except that lucid Kid is terrified of him. That guy, if he exists, could have an entirely different priority set than the Kid we read about in parts 1 through 4. We don’t know if he experiences continuity with lucid Kid’s actions at all and there’s no telling how truthful his representation of Bellona is.
That said, the diary references things that have value to lucid Kid. There’s a good chance that the lost time that we discussed earlier was actual lost time in a real sense rather than a memory break. It’s tantalizing to imagine that we might be dealing with an unreal or unreliable version of the Kid in Part 5, (god, so tantalizing) but I consider it a stretch.
Call me blind, but it seems like the Kid doesn’t intend for the diary to ever see publication, even though he does edit his word choice as though the diary is creative writing. (Hell, maybe it is!) It’s also got to be a distinct work from his second book of poetry because that one goes up in flames prior to publication, whereas this one ends up being examined and annotated by scholars.
The Kid’s shift from publishing his poetry to keeping them (and his diary) a secret may indicate his progression from needing others to validate him to being capable of observing himself – developing the ability to navel-gaze. His ultimate progression to the monastery, with its meditative associations, suggests that he’s forming a sturdier sense of self.
Now we’re getting into the juicy stuff! Blood! Beatings! Gangs! Violence!
Except that violence in this book is kind of an unusual event. When it appears, it’s an artifact of the general chaos, sort of a side effect of being in the city. Sometimes, it’s how people acquire optical chains, as when June kills her brother and takes his. It also tends to appear at moments of transition, but isn’t that true for the outside world as well?
The Kid’s introduction to Bellona includes a random beating by some Scorpions, but afterward, he generally doesn’t encounter trouble unless he goes looking for it. This is true even after he takes over the gang himself. The exception is the book’s conclusion, where he’s chased out of the city by worsening fires. Kid enters, gets beaten. Kid gets beaten, and leaves. HMMM. Maybe Bellona is pushing him out of the nest now that he can fly. Maybe the Kid is running into a new challenge: actual reality, where he’ll probably need to wear shoes on both of his feet.
That’s not to say that the Kid’s presence in the city is unmarked by violence. In fact, he experiences (and causes) his fair share. He hears about even more, often racially motivated or rumored to be so. The people who hole up with guns in the department store are one example, as is the mass shooter. But for all of Captain Kamp’s nervousness about the city, for all of Mary Richards’s terror, for all that the city is known far and wide for its violence, Bellona doesn’t seem to be too much more dangerous than New York in general.
I do think that it’s interesting how everybody in Bellona walks around armed with orchids when firearms and ammo are abundantly available. Any weapon will tie up one of your hands, but the orchid literally cages it. Lanya is fond of slipping her fingers through the blades to reach the Kid’s actual, ugly hand and hold it. Metaphor? If so, it’s oddly clunky for this book. It strikes me as more important that the Kid often finds the orchid on his hand despite his having not consciously donned it. In some cases, it’s impossible for him to have put it on given the circumstances – it just appears there, ready for action. As the novel continues, and the Kid self-actualizes, he walks around with it hanging from his optical chain more and more often. It randomly appears on his hand less and less.
But it’s not even really his orchid, is it? The Kid gets it from someone who’s leaving Bellona when he enters, and when he leaves, he gives it to someone else. Is the orchid power? Influence? Insecurity? It’s a cage, so it could represent the way that the Kid is imprisoned by his own methods, not only of violence, but of generating any influence, notoriety, fear. His desire to save himself from harm, which in Bellona requires him to take off the orchid and take up the pencil.
The Kid’s poetry derives from the wounding of Bellona as a city by the strange disaster that has made it as it is. The poetry that helps to manifest the city and cement its reality is a result of its very instability, and it is the observation of this strange town that may just be keeping it alive. It’s a GODEL, ESCHER, BACH eternal golden braid recursive creativity situation, an Escheresque rendering of reality and its denizens locked in a delicate existential balancing act – and no, I’m not even going to try and review that book. You do it.
Originally I was going to talk about sex and sexuality here, but I’m preoccupied with my weekend plans and not likely to do a good job with that topic right now. So I’m saving that (and race) for the next part, the part I’ll write after my dear visiting relation is happily on their way back to where they came from. Mmkay? (Also, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m at work right now and I’d prefer that my boss didn’t see what I have to say about George and June.)
There are a number of items that appear in the book which seem to be unique to Bellona. The orchids are an excellent example. The light shields that the Scorpions use are another one, and of course, the optical chains appear to only exist within and near the city. Bellona also features frightening red eyecaps and a kind of color-changing fabric that Tak turns into a dress for Lanya. We can infer that these are Bellona-specific items by context. When the Kid gets his optical chain, he’s not quite in Bellona yet, but his acquisition is uniquely Bellonan and he later asks Madame Brown what the chains mean. Speculation about that is rampant, but I suspect that they’re indications of trauma.
At no point does the Kid ask “what is this,” even when gifted an orchid or finding the optical chain in a cave. Certain items awe him or freak him out, but he doesn’t really question them in the moment. He never seems to have seen a light shield before, for example, but just accepts that it’s a thing the first time he sees one. From a techie perspective, those little boxes are really interesting. They’d have to be extremely advanced technology even by 21st century standards. Not only do they project a freaking hologram, but they project a freaking unbroken, wraparound hologram from a single point located on the wearer’s chest. Including behind their back! It must be capable of bending light itself. That’s next to miraculous! Even so, these marvels of engineering are light, battery-operated, and turn up all over the place. Considering that nobody in Bellona knows what the exact date is, I think the existence of light shields help make the case that Bellona is actually located in a postapocalyptic future. More on that later.
Make no mistake: the light shields are products. Someone’s manufacturing them. Tak, who might be the only person in the city who actually knows what’s going on, shows the Kid a warehouse full of orchids, optical chain, red eyecaps, color-changing fabric, and – yes – light shields. It’s not clear whether they’re being shipped in or were made in Bellona prior to the disaster, but in many cases, they’re all that the Bellonans actually own. And there is enough stuff in that warehouse to keep many, many more Bellonans stocked with the essentials.
We know that the city, originally meant to hold millions, now houses only thousands, but what a weird assortment of things to sell to an ordinary urban populace! Banks and banks of eccentric handheld bladed weapons? Wearable holograms that obscure your identity? No city in the world would stand for that kind of thing. We’d see it being imported if it was being manufactured outside, despite the “Made In” tags on the optical chains, and since nobody in Bellona has a job, their source is a mystery on a mystery. The orchids and light shields, at least, may be metaphorical for the deceptions and perceptions that limit our engagement with the world. Then again, I might be overthinking it.
The stuff might also represent Bellona levels. Think video games. The Kid levels up when he gets an optical chain because he sets his intention to go to Bellona, then again when he enters Bellona and acquires an orchid, then again when he takes action with the Scorpions and gets a light shield. Every Bellona object he gets seems to be some kind of reward. But he never finds the eyecaps that Tak wears, and nor does he ever take advantage of Lanya’s color-shifting fabric himself. Does that mean that Tak and Lanya are on different quests? They’re certainly among the most realized characters in DHALGREN, aside from the Kid, and either could populate their own Bellona book with no trouble. (Mr. Delaney, if you’re reading…) It makes me wonder if there are other Bellona-specific things that they’re encountering that the Kid is not. If I could get one thing for Christmas, it would be a DHALGREN video game where I can puzzle out the rules. That, or another Bellona book so I could start to triangulate the references in this one and expand my fan theories. (Mr. Delaney?)
Other than these items, Bellonans treat general consumer goods with utilitarian disrespect or a casual lack thereof. The Scorpions just like to smash things, for example, and the Kid actually urinates on his notebook of poetry at once point. Mary Richards is the exception to this rule. Her non-Bellona consumer goods aren’t just important to her, they’re her tether. I find it significant that her daughter kills her son with one of Mary’s pointless decor objects, a rolled-up rug. Of all the people we meet in Bellona, Mary’s the only one who has a relationship to her stuff that’s not utilitarian or artistic, and that relationship is toxic as all get-out.
In a place where nobody uses money, consumer goods are pointless. In a place where the only objects of value come to you on a meritorious basis, it’s action that’s currency. It makes me want to plunge into the economic aspect of DHALGREN, because of course that’s a thing. (This is the man who wrote Nova.) But I already promised to get into the sexin’ next, and it’s been 2700 words, so here I’ll leave you.
Have a lovely weekend, sciencfictionados!
Reviewing Dhalgren is going to be a thing. When I say a thing, I mean that it’s going to take several posts to cover this baby. It may be the most significant and problematic piece of science fiction I’ve ever read. I’m going to address it in chunks based on its many themes. If you’re here for a graduate-level thesis on this graduate-level book, you’re in the wrong place. I am but a humble librarian/writer/book person, and these thoughts are the best that my humble librarian/writer/book person brain can produce. That said, if you are at my level, this might be useful to you. If nothing else, we can console each other now that this monster book has ripped out our egos.
A few notes first.
- I will not be using racial slurs. Dhalgren uses the N-word very liberally and actually expanded my vocabulary somewhat as far as other racist language goes. I’m not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, it’s good that I know. On the other, I feel uncomfortable with that knowledge. I didn’t like hearing the N-word so much and I think that was the reason that the author made that choice. I will attempt to discuss race in the context of this book, and I will do so to the best of my Italian-Irish-Plain-White-Bread-American abilites, but I won’t be using those words.
- Speaking of, I’m going to screw up the conversation about race. How could I not? I’ve never lived a Black life and while I can do my best to understand, I’m positive that there are things about Blackness and the Black experience that will remain beyond me no matter how much Ta-Nahesi Coates I read. That goes triple for this particular title, which was written 50 years ago by a Black man. I’m going to do my best because ignoring race in this book would be a disservice to it; as in broader American society, race in Bellona is inextricable from all of its other issues. If you feel like calling me out when I screw up, I encourage you to do so. If you’d rather not educate me, but still want to read my review, race will have its own subheading so you’ll have a heads-up to handle that section however you consider appropriate.
- I am not going to get this “right.” If you have opinions about DHALGREN that differ from mine, great. There’s a comments section. Have at it! But unless you’re Samuel R. Delaney, know that I don’t believe you’re going to get it “right” either. I don’t think correctness applies to this particular work. If you are Samuel R. Delaney, then I’m truly sorry for the mess I’m about to make of your incredible book.
If you haven’t read the book yet, there are also a few things you’re going to need to know about before we delve in.
- An orchid is a type of handheld weapon unique to Bellona. Think of a flower made of metal that you wear like a mitten. Failing that, think of a cage around your hand with sharp points poking out.
- Bellona is one of the twelve largest cities in the U.S. and is probably located somewhere in Kansas.
- Many people in Bellona acquire and wear optical chains, which are long lengths of brass chain set with mirrors and pieces of glass. The experience of acquiring them is usually traumatic. They cannot be bought or taken by force, but can be removed from a dead body.
- The Scorpions are a loose gang. They’re intimidating and sometimes dangerous.
That’s nowhere near all the background that you need to know, but it’s the best I can do without turning this piece into a listicle. Let’s forge ahead anyway. To Bellona!
I was originally going to call this section Mental Health, but that doesn’t begin to encompass the subject. In Bellona, the division between mind and reality is perilously blurry and it is not at all clear which one affects the other more.
The Kid has a history of mental health problems, and nothing frightens him more than the possibility of a relapse. Of all the places in the world that he could have ended up, this city of shifting realities is probably the worst. And the best, maybe. There seem to be holes in time in Bellona, and when we first discover this, they’re presented as holes in the Kid’s memory. This kicks off Kid’s self-perpetuating anxiety about whether or not he is crazy or will return to a state where he has no awareness of what he’s doing.
But Kid’s mental health problems predate Bellona, so we know that they don’t proceed from there. His loss of his real name and habit of wearing one shoe are both artifacts from the wider world – the one he fit into so poorly. In Bellona, he receives validation from his girlfriend, Lanya, that he’s lost considerable chunks of time. But has he? Lanya later admits that there are hours of her own for which she can’t account. Fires that should consume the city in days continue unabated for weeks, and certain food stores appear to restock themselves as though trapped in a loop. Couple that with the episodic nature of DHALGREN and you have the makings of a place that’s profoundly unmoored in time. It begs the question of how people narrate their lives when reality itself isn’t certain.
It also suggests that nothing happening in Bellona is real. But there are things that happen there, like the appearance of the Kid’s debut poetry collection, BRASS ORCHIDS, that must have some relationship to the wider world. People come in, too, so someone must be reporting across the bridge. Bellona is tethered to reality, at least, and throughout the book, the Kid’s biggest concerns seem to revolve around maintaining that tether in at least an operative sense. He gets a job even though nobody uses money. He joins a gang even though he doesn’t need protection. He publishes a book of poetry even though he’s not sure he wants to be a poet. He can’t just be. If he resorted to that, he’d have no continuity at all and no way to mark either time or his own significance in it. He’d have no way of knowing if he really were crazy or not. Sanity is the perception of purpose, a self-delusion that’s necessary for measuring, and therefore adequately observing, life.
The way you look at something really can affect its state. Consider subatomic particles that must be waves and particles…until they’re observed. These little specks are unknowable, mutable as Bellona itself. To perceive them is to fix them in a definable space, but only as long as you are actively watching. Bellona is the same way, and to a great extent, so are the people who live there.
And you thought this wasn’t real science fiction!
Whether the Kid’s existence itself matters depends on how he agrees to perceive reality. Whether in poetry or in action, he’s always got to move. Moreover, he’s got to move in the perceptions of others or he seems to disappear, or at least move to a state where he has no self-awareness or control over his actions. His biggest, most frightening loss of time happens when he’s sleeping in the open with Lanya and not doing much. She leaves, and when she comes back, he’s gone. For the Kid’s part, he perceives himself waking up and immediately heading to a Scorpion raid, after which he’s increasingly in the company of a large crowd of fellow gang members. Their observation of him seems to prevent more large lapses, but prior to that, when he loses Lanya, she reports that he’s been active for days outside of her perception.
The critical point here is that the Kid can’t observe himself reliably, even to the extent that he can remain self-aware. He needs to see himself being observed by others, and through their eyes, know he is real. His book’s popularity in particular appears to ground him, despite his ambivalence about being a poet.
Everything in Bellona seems to be a charm against lack of perception. Otherwise pointless baubles like the optical chains and the light shields exist to alter and enhance the wearer’s presentation to the world. The Scorpions maintain their fearsome reputation by smashing stuff up, but there are no rival gangs to intimidate and they rarely accomplish anything notable. Nevertheless, Calkin’s paper (which prints a different random date every day) reports on them. It makes them famous, just as Calkin makes the Kid famous by printing his book.
We almost never see Calkin. Isn’t that interesting? Everyone is highly aware of him because of the paper, his mansion, his parties, his power. He is the man with all the words and the power to control what others know about their local luminaries. All Bellona seems to know what the Kid is up to all the time, presumably because they’re reading it in the paper, but the Kid himself is increasingly flummoxed by that effect as the book progresses. His self-perception comes through Lanya, Denny, the Scorpions. It’s unclear how the perception of others affects the Kid’s state of awareness. With Calkin’s publication and very wide distribution of the Kid’s book, not to mention his control of the narrative of Kid’s publicity, it would stand to reason that Calkin gains a measure of control over the Kid’s identity too. People certainly treat the Kid with more respect once he becomes a news item and artiste, even though most of them only read his poems to see if he wrote anything about them.
Like the Kid, the other Bellonans need to be perceived to be real. But not all of them are perceived. Even Lanya seems to fall into existential holes now and then.
This effect doesn’t just extend to people. Things that everyone agrees upon seem to have the strongest presence as reality. Effects like the double moon and the enormous sun are observed in concert, their details becoming hazy when reported on an individual level. The fear and wonder that they inspire may be the fuel that keeps Bellona aware. Once the second moon appears, everyone shares the experience of checking for it, naming it after George, discussing it. The giant sun inspires the universally shared experience of terror and fatalism. These are critical pins of the Bellona experience. Without them, who’s to say that the city itself would remain a distinct entity? If Bellona were a person, these would be its performances, its attempts to cling to reality by remaining remarkable.
Calkin immolates his own power when he enters the monastery near the end of the book. Immediately, Bellona experiences a spike in unpredictability. People get separated, fires worsen, and formerly powerful interpersonal ties break. Is this what happens when the person narrating the barely-real city stops holding it together with his words? Very possibly. This, too, is the moment when the Kid and some of his friends flee the city in an unplanned escape from the worsening fires and chaos.
And then, of course, the prose loops. The Kid’s exit parrots the exact dialogue from his entrance, only when he leaves, he himself takes on the role of the departing Bellonans. Makes you wonder if there will be another Calkins for the newcomer. How specific to the Kid was his experience? How much of Bellona did he personally observe into existence? His departure could be read in several different ways now, depending on how relatively unstable we think reality is in the city.
If the Kid’s perception influenced Bellona even a little, then his departure could be read as a state of mind, but even this leaves us with questions. Did Bellona become untenable when the Kid stopped perceiving it as a tolerable place to live, or did he finally lose sight of himself as an entity who made sense in Bellona’s context? His flight of self-preservation might have been more than an escape from fire. Without something to do in Bellona – something to be in Bellona – the Kid could very well be lost to literal obscurity. Did he lose the ability to control his awareness of the city with his art and actions? Conversely, did the city’s chaos naturally strip meaning from whatever agency the Kid ever had to alter his life with its greater shenanigans and vapidity of purpose? If our lives take on the meaning that we choose for them, then a place with yawning holes in time and physical properties that defy the laws of space and time would tend to defy our attempts to put our personal entropy in order. It’s hard to imagine anyone thriving that way for long.
Personally, I think the answer to the puzzle of perception and Bellona is intricately tied up with how Bellona’s residents relate to creativity. But it’s been 2200 words and I’m out of Dhalgren-related graphics for today. Tune in tomorrow for our next section: ART.
I’ve been a fan of Bryson’s since I was literally in middle school. My sisters and I listened to audiobooks together as a kind of collective bonding activity, especially during the rare moments during the summers when everyone was home from school, camp, work, and wherever else we were all constantly detained. A Walk in the Woods was one of our favorites, and I think I probably listened to it about 3.423 times. Not four, mind you – in fact, I doubt I ever finished it completely because whenever an errant sister returned from wherever she’d gone off to, we had to go back to the last place we’d all heard. Then there were some parts that were just lame, like any part where Bryson wasn’t doing dumb stuff in nature, so we eventually learned where those were and skipped those tapes. We listened to the bits we liked over and over, and the bits we particularly liked were the parts about Katz being an ass and saying “fuck” and Bryson being terrible at hiking. (I should mention that we were a hiking and camping family, as in *primitive* camping and hiking *for weeks.* We lived in a world where a child of ten could be trusted, even expected, to safely start a fire by themselves.)
That was the thing about A Walk In The Woods. There was some good info, particularly about the EPA, but the best part was listening to the author’s misadventures in Appalachia. Recently he’s departed somewhat from the personal approach, but in my opinion, that’s still his best writing.
It’s also my main objection to The Body: A Guide for Occupants. Bryson’s done a fine job with his research, especially for someone with no medical background, but there’s no hilarious personal experience here. It’s just a layperson’s rundown, punctuated by things about the human body that are baffling and unknown. Why do we sleep? Baffling! What does the appendix do? Unknown! Why do we need chromium? Baffling again! It’s a skim. The most interesting mysteries are left unexamined, and there’s not even any personal misadventures to distract us from those burning, unanswered questions.
I should mention that I listened to this book as an ALC I got from Libro.fm, my new bestest buddy on Earth. Because I’m a librarian and a Book Rioter, they’re giving me free advanced listener copies now, and because my commute consumes two hours of every single god-lovin’ weekday, I have plenty of time for listening. So listen I do! This is the first ALC I’ve tried, and I really do like the service. In my personal hagiography of book reading apps, it’s effectively competing with Libby and has blown Librivox clear out of the water.
Also, it allowed me to finish this book. If I didn’t chug through The Body in the car at double speed, I’d have stopped reading fifty pages in. It’s not that Bryson’s a bad writer. He’s still got it. The subject matter is interesting enough too. But this book has got very little of the funny above the level of incidentals and wordplay. It’s well-researched and entertaining enough for someone who knows practically nothing about their own horrifying body (vis a vis moi.) Still, I can’t help but wish I’d grabbed a newish Mary Roach instead. Incidentally, Bryson cites Roach twice and depends very much on other popsci and popmed nonfic as references. My reference librarian heart goes eehhhhhehhhhhhh.
Bryson is 66 years old now. Many of the people he discusses in the book, both historical figures and people of medical interest, have died around that age. Even though medical science will likely keep him alive for a good while yet, discussing death, as he does, appropriately, at the end, is a look straight in the face of the fact that human beings don’t last forever. I wonder how it felt for Bryson to pen this book. I know for a fact that it’d wig me out, and I’m still in my thirties. Here’s a story I’d have liked to read from this author: the body’s many fallacies and superpowers as seen through the lens of a well-regarded writer’s yet-distant but cresting mortality.
I’m not sorry that I got it. It’s a nice little repository of body trivia and now I know that you can actually put a catheter through your vein and guide it to all the way to your heart and actually touch your beating heart with it and your heart will not explode. Now off to give it a try!