This semester, I am teaching an on-line literature course. We just finished Gulliver's Travels, which we are now discussing. I read Gulliver's Travels in college. Rereading it was pretty much the same experience: an interesting (and surprisingly fast) read in the first two parts (surprising because the WHOLE thing is exposition); a rather tedious and long-winded read in the last two parts (which is why almost every movie about Gulliver concentrates on the first two parts).
What surprised me was my reaction to the last part, the Houyhnhnms. The Houyhnhnms are the horses who live in a, supposedly, ideal society. At the end of Gulliver's Travels when Gulliver is forced to return to human (Yahoo) society, he is broken-hearted. He is disgusted by other humans (Yahoos) and keeps comparing humans unfavorably to the Houyhnhnms.
I knew Gulliver considered Houyhnhnms the ideal society. I'm not a big fan of ideal societies, so my attitude, when I started reading, was "Ho hum, I hope this ends soon." (I disliked this part the first time too.)
And then it occured to me--Swift is fairly negative about all the places Gulliver visits but not unreasonable. That is, up until the Houyhnhnms, Gulliver is a nice guy with a passive yet objective mindset. He doesn't squash the Lilliputians. He keeps trying to impress the Brob . . . the Giants. He gets more caustic as he goes on, but he tries to see both sides of the society he is stuck in. The Houyhnhnms are the first society he doesn't objectively evaluate (although he is consistently snide and sarcastic about human society wherever he goes).
So what if Swift's point wasn't (just) that human society stinks what with its imperialism and bribery, etc. etc.? What if Swift's point was (rather) that idealistic societies don't really prepare people for the real world? Or, to be more precise, idealistic expectations kind of ruin a person for the real world?
I don't know; my knowledge of Swift is admittedly limited to stuff like "A Modest Proposal." However, I wouldn't put it past him to be that sneaky. Gulliver doesn't come back from the Houyhnhnms a nicer, more compassionate, more understanding person. He comes back, as one of my students claimed, "Rude and cruel."
So, perhaps, idealism is, in its own way, flawed.
I think this is a valid point. One quality that I often associate with T.O.A.Ds, although it isn't a toad-like quality necessarily, is the insistence that the world should or ought to work in a certain, ideal way. They honestly believe that stuff like communism will work because they honestly believe that idealism is imposed rather than chosen and all you have to do is have the right system or tell off enough people or throw enough temper tantrums about how rotten leaders and institutions are (which is kind of what Gulliver does at the end of the novel), and everyone will say, "Oh, absolutely, you are SOOO right. We shouldn't act this way" and will stop behaving corruptly and self-interestedly (after all, the T.O.A.Ds certainly aren't behaving corruptly or self-interestedly). Sure, and children shouldn't hit each other with toys, but they often do despite parental supervision. (And even though it hurts.)
It's the sort of thing that makes you appreciate religions that insist that sin is a real constant. Okay, okay, I'm not into the "human nature is completely evil and this world stinks" form of sin, but I appreciate the insistence that human beings are not capable of unrelenting idealism, no matter what the system, and that any institution, family, group, organization will have its problems. (It isn't anything to get all surprised over.)
In the section on Houyhnhnms, Swift goes out of his way to identify the Yahoos with all seven of the deadly sins: Greed, Lust, Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath. And I always assumed his point was, Humans stink! But what if his point was, This is part of human reality. Don't ignore it when you try to fix stuff.
Makes you wonder if he was friends with Adam Smith.
After a tiny bit of Wikipedia research: Probably not--There's an overlap but not much of one. But he could have influenced Adam Smith.
BOOKS
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
B is for Bizarrely Sweet (Balzac)
What I read: Novellas by Balzac.
For no reason whatsoever, I'd always assumed Balzac was a long-winded "profound" writer—a French James Joyce. I'd also assumed he was really, really depressing; I guess I saw too many depressing French films in college.
He isn't—depressing, that is. And the first novella I read, "The Secrets of the Princess De Cadignan," had an unbelievably sweet ending. I thought it was headed towards Yes, Prime Minister type cynicism, and then, whammy, an ending which completely surprised and touched me.
I moved on to "Gobseck" which was interesting mainly because it proved to me that Balzac is a good writer—I'm always impressed by a writer who can effortlessly present a story told by a narrator who includes, in his narration, a story told by another character: all without losing me.
Then I tried "The Vicar of Tours" and that was cynical, so I stopped. One thing Balzac does supremely well is characterization. I cared far too much about the poor, vacuous Abbé Birotteau to endure what I knew was coming (and no, "The Vicar of Tours" does not have a surprise sweet ending)—although Abbé Troubert is a great "bad" guy; I put "bad" in quotation marks because I'm not sure Balzac created any completely bad guys, but then my exposure, as you can see, has been limited.
Still, Balzac reinforces what I essentially believe, even if no one else does any more: truly great writers generally deserve their great reputations. I don't understand all the history stuff in Balzac but the prose is pretty impressive. (He is yet another author who illustrates that throwing readers into the deep end doesn't mean abandoning them there--see "'A' is for Awkward".)
For no reason whatsoever, I'd always assumed Balzac was a long-winded "profound" writer—a French James Joyce. I'd also assumed he was really, really depressing; I guess I saw too many depressing French films in college.
He isn't—depressing, that is. And the first novella I read, "The Secrets of the Princess De Cadignan," had an unbelievably sweet ending. I thought it was headed towards Yes, Prime Minister type cynicism, and then, whammy, an ending which completely surprised and touched me.
I moved on to "Gobseck" which was interesting mainly because it proved to me that Balzac is a good writer—I'm always impressed by a writer who can effortlessly present a story told by a narrator who includes, in his narration, a story told by another character: all without losing me.
Then I tried "The Vicar of Tours" and that was cynical, so I stopped. One thing Balzac does supremely well is characterization. I cared far too much about the poor, vacuous Abbé Birotteau to endure what I knew was coming (and no, "The Vicar of Tours" does not have a surprise sweet ending)—although Abbé Troubert is a great "bad" guy; I put "bad" in quotation marks because I'm not sure Balzac created any completely bad guys, but then my exposure, as you can see, has been limited.
Still, Balzac reinforces what I essentially believe, even if no one else does any more: truly great writers generally deserve their great reputations. I don't understand all the history stuff in Balzac but the prose is pretty impressive. (He is yet another author who illustrates that throwing readers into the deep end doesn't mean abandoning them there--see "'A' is for Awkward".)
Monday, March 9, 2009
A is for Awkward (Anderson)
Everybody's doing it! Everybody's reading stuff—the Encyclopedia Britannica, the Bible, the Guinness Book of World Records, 100 books in one year—and then reporting on their experiences, so I'm going to do it too!
I'm going to try to read a book from each letter of the alphabet by an author that I have never read before.
The first book I tried to read was The Day of Their Return (1974) by Poul Anderson.
My Science-Fiction Encyclopedia (ed. John Clute) includes Poul Anderson under its 1950s time period. It states "no other SF author . . . has produced as much high-quality work, with such variety, and with such continued verve, for anything approaching the half century of constant endeavor that Anderson can boast" and "Anderson has written one of two bad books in his time, but then, he can afford to."
I guess I tried to read one of the bad ones.
Now, when it comes to fantasy and science-fiction, there is a debate between how much exposition one should give the reader upfront. Should one just dump the reader into the story or should one provide the reader with massive upfront exposition?
In The Day of Their Return, Poul Anderson opts for the "here's the deep end, have fun!" approach. And I respect that. But I didn't get so much as a life preserver for four chapters, and I really can't tread water for that long. In terms of pure incomprehensibility (who ARE these people?), The Day of Their Return makes War & Peace look like a "Dick and Jane" book.
I will grant that I'm not much for world fantasy or science-fiction, which The Day of Their Return is, but just compare Anderson to C.J. Cherryh (who does do world fantasy and science-fiction plus everything else). As far as I'm concerned, there's no contest. In her Foreigner series, Cherryh also throws you into the deep end, but she then tows you, subtly, with enormous expertise, through fascinating circumstances towards a fascinating denouement: clear and lucid--if only The Day of Their Return could say as much.
I'm going to try to read a book from each letter of the alphabet by an author that I have never read before.
The first book I tried to read was The Day of Their Return (1974) by Poul Anderson.
My Science-Fiction Encyclopedia (ed. John Clute) includes Poul Anderson under its 1950s time period. It states "no other SF author . . . has produced as much high-quality work, with such variety, and with such continued verve, for anything approaching the half century of constant endeavor that Anderson can boast" and "Anderson has written one of two bad books in his time, but then, he can afford to."
I guess I tried to read one of the bad ones.
Now, when it comes to fantasy and science-fiction, there is a debate between how much exposition one should give the reader upfront. Should one just dump the reader into the story or should one provide the reader with massive upfront exposition?
In The Day of Their Return, Poul Anderson opts for the "here's the deep end, have fun!" approach. And I respect that. But I didn't get so much as a life preserver for four chapters, and I really can't tread water for that long. In terms of pure incomprehensibility (who ARE these people?), The Day of Their Return makes War & Peace look like a "Dick and Jane" book.
I will grant that I'm not much for world fantasy or science-fiction, which The Day of Their Return is, but just compare Anderson to C.J. Cherryh (who does do world fantasy and science-fiction plus everything else). As far as I'm concerned, there's no contest. In her Foreigner series, Cherryh also throws you into the deep end, but she then tows you, subtly, with enormous expertise, through fascinating circumstances towards a fascinating denouement: clear and lucid--if only The Day of Their Return could say as much.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Problems of Romance Heroes
In genre romances, the hero usually has two problems:
1. He hasn't been able to commit to one woman. In Regency parlance, he is a rake. He has slept around; he is an expert in love-making; he has seen it all, done it all. He just hasn't found the right woman. When the right woman comes along, he will change his rake-making ways and become monogamous.
2. An external or internal distress. Modern romance writers have expanded this distress to the psychological. The hero's problem isn't just boredom or a war wound or a displeased father. His problem is depression, mood swings, etc.
Both problems have to be solved and/or confronted in the course of the novel. Usually, the heroine's appearance is the catalyst that solves both problems.
I consider the first problem somewhat more solvable than the second. Granted, it is hard to credit that a promiscuous man will automatically stop being promiscuous just because a wonderful woman shows up in his life. On the other hand, I think a large number of men find the dating/courting/flirting game rather tedious. Some men do enjoy the chase; Scott Petersen obviously enjoyed wooing women more than actually settling down and having children with them. However, I would argue that many (if not most) men would far prefer an available, committed, and agreeable woman on tap than scores of hypothetical women that have to be pursued and sometimes persuaded.
The only snag here, romance-novel-wise, is that so many of the heroes are described as insatiable sex-machines who enjoy displaying their great sexual prowess (they are almost always Alpha males). A good insatiable man might be monogamous; he also might come up with a few excellent reasons he should be allowed to marry several wives (and yes, I am writing that as the product of polygamous ancestors).
However, committing the hero to monogamy still seems a more solvable problem--especially since romance heroines, no matter how virginal, become instant experts in this department--than fixing the hero's distress, particularly if the distress is psychological. I particularly balk at the typical romance-novel solution of the "good woman." Anyone who has been in a psychologically traumatic relationship or has read about Charles & Diana knows that trying to solve other people's psychological problems is a really, really bad idea and trying to solve other people's psychological problems by being "good" for them is a lesson in masochism.
I'm not talking about showing love and support and putting up with the other person's bad side. I'm talking about trying to fix things that now-a-days get a person medicated. Specifically, I'm talking about trying to make another person happy; this, I maintain, is a complete impossibility. A positive relationship can be a source of strength and happiness, but it is the relationship that supplies the strength, not one person taking on the emotional baggage of the other person (i.e., fixing the other person).
That being said, I understand the fantasy: in the romance novel, the heroine who "makes" her hero happy (cures his distress) becomes indispensable. He needs her. It's the sort of thing that makes (some) feminists, me included, nervous: here is this woman subordinating herself all over the place in order to make a man happy. But our nervousness kind of misses the point--basic biology is at work here. An indispensable woman will keep her man and therefore, her security.
And I can understand the impulse to chase after such security even if I don't believe it is possible. It is, frankly, terrifying to enter a relationship knowing that the other person is not under one's control--and yes, I know that sounds vaguely psychopathic. But this lack of control is the risk of relationships: love is not a guarantee, only a hope. In a way, guaranteed love is what makes genre romances not only satisfying to read but also rather fascinating--can the writers solve the hero's problems in such a way that the heroine will still remain indispensable? Contrawise, can the problems be solved without leaving the reader with the impression, "Boy, that marriage is doomed!"?
In one novel (Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas), the hero agrees to marry the heroine for money. He then, of course, discovers that she is beautiful and charming and witty and great in bed (not necessarily in that order) although his distress--cash shortage and unhappiness/boredom--is still a factor. However, part of his new wife's dowry is her father's club, which has fallen on hard times. Our hero becomes fascinated by the club. To protect his assets, he becomes directly involved in running the club and subsequently discovers he has a knack for business. 150+ years later, the guy would get an MBA and buy up a bunch of resorts: same principle.
I found it rather satisfyingly believable on a psychological level. Running a club is a bit low-class, but the guy has nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking charge. His motivation is also believable: his lovely wife doesn't inspire him to take an interest; he takes an interest because he (initially) wants to sell the club at a good price. The impulse comes from him, not her endearing example. (In other words, he works to find a purpose for himself in life; he doesn't wait around for his wife to nudge him into finding a purpose--I suppose the latter works for some couples, but generally, I think being someone's personal standby pep rally sounds enormously tiring.)
I will state now that I found another of Kleypas' books much less satisfying: there are only so many romance plots out there, and some of them are pretty darn silly (and what's up with the obsession with Scotland? For some reason, a stunning number of romance novels take place in Scotland and the Wild, Wild West. The first choice makes me feel cold; the second choice makes me feel itchy--not terribly romantic).
One reason Devil in Winter works is because the problems are reasonably solvable--this, however, immediately moves the spousal relationship back onto voluntary grounds. The woman is no longer indispensable (especially since the relationship is, relatively speaking, about two seconds old). In order to keep a heroine of a romance indispensable, the hero's problems must be solvable only in the short term except romance writers want us to believe that the problems are entirely solvable in the short and long term. Yet the woman must remain indispensable. How is that done?
She has a kid.
A number of feminists figured out a long time ago that romances are about the most conservative fiction on the market, and I have to agree. Setting aside the explicit sex (and the odd lack of social--forget religious--guilt), the plots are entirely aimed at creating or obtaining a marriage in which men get jobs, protect their wives, and take care of their children.
Interestingly enough, the female characters express a sense of freedom within this arrangement that is entirely authentic to their writers' voices. So Phyllis Schaefly wins! But why she wins is something all feminists should pay attention to. Frankly, anyone who thinks a well-functioning patriarchy doesn't benefit women to some extent is a fool. However, what those benefits are exactly and what should/can take their place if/when patriarchy falls should be closely examined before babies get thrown out with bathwater.
But I'm not going to do that today.
1. He hasn't been able to commit to one woman. In Regency parlance, he is a rake. He has slept around; he is an expert in love-making; he has seen it all, done it all. He just hasn't found the right woman. When the right woman comes along, he will change his rake-making ways and become monogamous.
2. An external or internal distress. Modern romance writers have expanded this distress to the psychological. The hero's problem isn't just boredom or a war wound or a displeased father. His problem is depression, mood swings, etc.
Both problems have to be solved and/or confronted in the course of the novel. Usually, the heroine's appearance is the catalyst that solves both problems.
I consider the first problem somewhat more solvable than the second. Granted, it is hard to credit that a promiscuous man will automatically stop being promiscuous just because a wonderful woman shows up in his life. On the other hand, I think a large number of men find the dating/courting/flirting game rather tedious. Some men do enjoy the chase; Scott Petersen obviously enjoyed wooing women more than actually settling down and having children with them. However, I would argue that many (if not most) men would far prefer an available, committed, and agreeable woman on tap than scores of hypothetical women that have to be pursued and sometimes persuaded.
The only snag here, romance-novel-wise, is that so many of the heroes are described as insatiable sex-machines who enjoy displaying their great sexual prowess (they are almost always Alpha males). A good insatiable man might be monogamous; he also might come up with a few excellent reasons he should be allowed to marry several wives (and yes, I am writing that as the product of polygamous ancestors).
However, committing the hero to monogamy still seems a more solvable problem--especially since romance heroines, no matter how virginal, become instant experts in this department--than fixing the hero's distress, particularly if the distress is psychological. I particularly balk at the typical romance-novel solution of the "good woman." Anyone who has been in a psychologically traumatic relationship or has read about Charles & Diana knows that trying to solve other people's psychological problems is a really, really bad idea and trying to solve other people's psychological problems by being "good" for them is a lesson in masochism.
I'm not talking about showing love and support and putting up with the other person's bad side. I'm talking about trying to fix things that now-a-days get a person medicated. Specifically, I'm talking about trying to make another person happy; this, I maintain, is a complete impossibility. A positive relationship can be a source of strength and happiness, but it is the relationship that supplies the strength, not one person taking on the emotional baggage of the other person (i.e., fixing the other person).
That being said, I understand the fantasy: in the romance novel, the heroine who "makes" her hero happy (cures his distress) becomes indispensable. He needs her. It's the sort of thing that makes (some) feminists, me included, nervous: here is this woman subordinating herself all over the place in order to make a man happy. But our nervousness kind of misses the point--basic biology is at work here. An indispensable woman will keep her man and therefore, her security.
And I can understand the impulse to chase after such security even if I don't believe it is possible. It is, frankly, terrifying to enter a relationship knowing that the other person is not under one's control--and yes, I know that sounds vaguely psychopathic. But this lack of control is the risk of relationships: love is not a guarantee, only a hope. In a way, guaranteed love is what makes genre romances not only satisfying to read but also rather fascinating--can the writers solve the hero's problems in such a way that the heroine will still remain indispensable? Contrawise, can the problems be solved without leaving the reader with the impression, "Boy, that marriage is doomed!"?
In one novel (Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas), the hero agrees to marry the heroine for money. He then, of course, discovers that she is beautiful and charming and witty and great in bed (not necessarily in that order) although his distress--cash shortage and unhappiness/boredom--is still a factor. However, part of his new wife's dowry is her father's club, which has fallen on hard times. Our hero becomes fascinated by the club. To protect his assets, he becomes directly involved in running the club and subsequently discovers he has a knack for business. 150+ years later, the guy would get an MBA and buy up a bunch of resorts: same principle.
I found it rather satisfyingly believable on a psychological level. Running a club is a bit low-class, but the guy has nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking charge. His motivation is also believable: his lovely wife doesn't inspire him to take an interest; he takes an interest because he (initially) wants to sell the club at a good price. The impulse comes from him, not her endearing example. (In other words, he works to find a purpose for himself in life; he doesn't wait around for his wife to nudge him into finding a purpose--I suppose the latter works for some couples, but generally, I think being someone's personal standby pep rally sounds enormously tiring.)
I will state now that I found another of Kleypas' books much less satisfying: there are only so many romance plots out there, and some of them are pretty darn silly (and what's up with the obsession with Scotland? For some reason, a stunning number of romance novels take place in Scotland and the Wild, Wild West. The first choice makes me feel cold; the second choice makes me feel itchy--not terribly romantic).
One reason Devil in Winter works is because the problems are reasonably solvable--this, however, immediately moves the spousal relationship back onto voluntary grounds. The woman is no longer indispensable (especially since the relationship is, relatively speaking, about two seconds old). In order to keep a heroine of a romance indispensable, the hero's problems must be solvable only in the short term except romance writers want us to believe that the problems are entirely solvable in the short and long term. Yet the woman must remain indispensable. How is that done?
She has a kid.
A number of feminists figured out a long time ago that romances are about the most conservative fiction on the market, and I have to agree. Setting aside the explicit sex (and the odd lack of social--forget religious--guilt), the plots are entirely aimed at creating or obtaining a marriage in which men get jobs, protect their wives, and take care of their children.
Interestingly enough, the female characters express a sense of freedom within this arrangement that is entirely authentic to their writers' voices. So Phyllis Schaefly wins! But why she wins is something all feminists should pay attention to. Frankly, anyone who thinks a well-functioning patriarchy doesn't benefit women to some extent is a fool. However, what those benefits are exactly and what should/can take their place if/when patriarchy falls should be closely examined before babies get thrown out with bathwater.
But I'm not going to do that today.
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