the ramble dump
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The Play's the Thing, Sometimes
Last semester I took a module on playwriting. It probably isn't something I'd have picked had I more of a choice (we had to pick a 'drama' module), but I'm glad that I did it. It was interesting.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
The fact remains that theatre is the most vigorous way of telling a story. How could it be otherwise? It is theatre that combines all the best parts of those other media we also enjoy.A strange conclusion for someone who has pointed out himself the kinds of things that prose and film can do that theatre cannot. The fact that film can hit us with an emotionally charged close-up is surely the best thing about it. The fact that in prose the whole world can be constructed from simmering, bubbling metaphor with an inconceivably subtle interplay between the meanings of every single word is surely the best thing about that. Those are the strengths of these media respectively. Theatre can do neither.
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
Labels: films, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, plays, shakespeare
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Titus Alone
Reviews of Titus Alone are usually prefaced with a note about Peake's decline in mental health at the time of writing, and the consequent deterioration in the quality of the novel compared to its predecessors. Thus, when I had finished the fantasticalness that was the first two books, I didn't really know what to expect of this third book. On the one hand, I wanted to save Titus Alone for later reading anyway because it would be something to look forward to; but on the other hand, the fact that many fans of Peake had seemed to treat it like some withered limb attached to an otherwise fine body of work, its mention tacked on to the end of their reviews as a hasty afterthought, made me slightly afraid that it had all gone horribly wrong. I know from experience that a bad sequel can taint the memory of a good original. But just as the year was coming to a close, in the face of all reasons to put it off, I succumbed to the urge to read it.
Is it, in my opinion, as satisfying, thrilling, fulfilling, lavishly detailed and imaginatively awe-inspiring as the first two books? In all honesty, no; it isn't.
But is it then, in my opinion, a horrible withered limb that ought to be discarded and forgotten? Not at all. In fact, in a trilogy of appallingly underrated books, I think Titus Alone is maybe the most underrated of them all.
The main problem many readers will have with Titus Alone, despite being published in a volume perhaps misguidingly titled the Gormenghast Trilogy, is its lack of Gormenghast: the scale and detail of the surroundings; the immersive gothic atmosphere, grand yet claustrophobic; and, above all, many of the denizens we've grown to love and hate. Titus Groan has left Gormenghast for a fresh start in a very different world, a jarring transition that might leave the reader feeling just as disorientated as the protagonist. Suddenly there are cars, planes, floating mechanical globes, death-rays, and fish-eye screens that allow long-distance communication. After living in the winding, dream-like rabbit-hole of the archaic Gormenghast, this intrusion of unspecifiably advanced technology is almost offensive to our corridor-dwelling sensibilities. Colour me Barquentine, but the change more than once left me grumbling and yearning for a return to the castle.
The new world that we are shown of cities and technology still has plenty of room for its own strains of the dark and macabre, especially in places like the Under-River, but it never achieves quite the same level of immersion. Above all else, the world in Titus Alone suffers from lack of detail. The level of technology is unclear, as are the intentions and explanations of the Scientist, his factories and his strange, gliding, helmeted men. Whether these were left deliberately mysterious for some reason or other is hard to tell. We are only offered small glimpses of this new cityworld. Peake had spent much time delving deep into the world of Gormenghast, never needing to explain every last technical detail but at least giving us the impression of the castle's expansiveness. The impression of the cityworld, on the other hand, is only vague and patchy.
The other thing about this change is that it is sharp enough to seem like it's trying to sever itself from its prequels and to make room for a new series of characters and stories, but at the same time Titus Alone can't quite stand on its own. It isn't a withered limb, but it is very much a sequel, despite the drastic differences between the books. Much like Titus himself, and through his struggles to establish his own identity, Titus Alone is constantly referring back to the people and events of the previous two books, and Gormenghast plays an increasingly significant, almost overly contrived role in the preoccupations of not just Titus but of the new characters around him. The result is that Titus Alone is more of a 'Gormenghast' book than it first appears, but also that, while this apparent conflict in its intentions does a good job of mirroring Titus' own confusion, the third book in the series ends up as something of an odd creature.
Despite all this, however, the most important aspect of Peake's writing, the depth and complexity of the characters, is still there. While it felt like there were a few too many 'mysterious' characters who could have done with some elaboration, such as the Scientist, the Scientist's wife, the helmeted men and 'Anchor', the main featuring characters are described very fully. If anything, I found Titus to be a more interesting character than he had been previously, mostly because of the dynamic between himself and the other most notable characters: Muzzlehatch, Juno and Cheeta. As Titus enters their lives, we are given detailed insights into their idiosyncratic thoughts and feelings, emotions and drives in the same way that made the previous books so interesting, especially in relation to how these characters affect each other. Titus' complete bluntness with the other characters is fascinating to read, and to say that it gets him into a bit of trouble would be an understatement.
Muzzlehatch has to be one of the most compelling characters of the entire trilogy, and Peake draws his relationships with the others in a way that feels very genuine -- especially with Juno, through whom Peake creates a very dignified, sympathetic and human character. Cheeta, the Scientist's daughter, feels a little less real in her designs than the others, and her transition over the course of the story feels less believable and sometimes a little hurried. She does, however, set the stage well for the finale of the book, which serves as both a narrative and thematic convergence, and sufficiently satisfies the stories of the majority of the characters, giving some sense of closure even if we never find out what happens to Titus next.
As I already mentioned, the way the story revolves around Titus sometimes feels a bit contrived, especially when every character becomes strangely fixated with him, including some of the Under-River dwellers who hardly have anything to do with him. There is, however, a lot to like about Titus Alone, and although it does feel like an incomplete, sketchy work in some respects, Peake remains in top form in others. But for the bizarrely brief chapter breaks which can largely be ignored, there is actually surprisingly little to distract and give the impression that Peake's health was in decline at all. I'd say Titus Alone still definitely worth a read.
Is it, in my opinion, as satisfying, thrilling, fulfilling, lavishly detailed and imaginatively awe-inspiring as the first two books? In all honesty, no; it isn't.
But is it then, in my opinion, a horrible withered limb that ought to be discarded and forgotten? Not at all. In fact, in a trilogy of appallingly underrated books, I think Titus Alone is maybe the most underrated of them all.
The main problem many readers will have with Titus Alone, despite being published in a volume perhaps misguidingly titled the Gormenghast Trilogy, is its lack of Gormenghast: the scale and detail of the surroundings; the immersive gothic atmosphere, grand yet claustrophobic; and, above all, many of the denizens we've grown to love and hate. Titus Groan has left Gormenghast for a fresh start in a very different world, a jarring transition that might leave the reader feeling just as disorientated as the protagonist. Suddenly there are cars, planes, floating mechanical globes, death-rays, and fish-eye screens that allow long-distance communication. After living in the winding, dream-like rabbit-hole of the archaic Gormenghast, this intrusion of unspecifiably advanced technology is almost offensive to our corridor-dwelling sensibilities. Colour me Barquentine, but the change more than once left me grumbling and yearning for a return to the castle.
The new world that we are shown of cities and technology still has plenty of room for its own strains of the dark and macabre, especially in places like the Under-River, but it never achieves quite the same level of immersion. Above all else, the world in Titus Alone suffers from lack of detail. The level of technology is unclear, as are the intentions and explanations of the Scientist, his factories and his strange, gliding, helmeted men. Whether these were left deliberately mysterious for some reason or other is hard to tell. We are only offered small glimpses of this new cityworld. Peake had spent much time delving deep into the world of Gormenghast, never needing to explain every last technical detail but at least giving us the impression of the castle's expansiveness. The impression of the cityworld, on the other hand, is only vague and patchy.
The other thing about this change is that it is sharp enough to seem like it's trying to sever itself from its prequels and to make room for a new series of characters and stories, but at the same time Titus Alone can't quite stand on its own. It isn't a withered limb, but it is very much a sequel, despite the drastic differences between the books. Much like Titus himself, and through his struggles to establish his own identity, Titus Alone is constantly referring back to the people and events of the previous two books, and Gormenghast plays an increasingly significant, almost overly contrived role in the preoccupations of not just Titus but of the new characters around him. The result is that Titus Alone is more of a 'Gormenghast' book than it first appears, but also that, while this apparent conflict in its intentions does a good job of mirroring Titus' own confusion, the third book in the series ends up as something of an odd creature.
Despite all this, however, the most important aspect of Peake's writing, the depth and complexity of the characters, is still there. While it felt like there were a few too many 'mysterious' characters who could have done with some elaboration, such as the Scientist, the Scientist's wife, the helmeted men and 'Anchor', the main featuring characters are described very fully. If anything, I found Titus to be a more interesting character than he had been previously, mostly because of the dynamic between himself and the other most notable characters: Muzzlehatch, Juno and Cheeta. As Titus enters their lives, we are given detailed insights into their idiosyncratic thoughts and feelings, emotions and drives in the same way that made the previous books so interesting, especially in relation to how these characters affect each other. Titus' complete bluntness with the other characters is fascinating to read, and to say that it gets him into a bit of trouble would be an understatement.
Muzzlehatch has to be one of the most compelling characters of the entire trilogy, and Peake draws his relationships with the others in a way that feels very genuine -- especially with Juno, through whom Peake creates a very dignified, sympathetic and human character. Cheeta, the Scientist's daughter, feels a little less real in her designs than the others, and her transition over the course of the story feels less believable and sometimes a little hurried. She does, however, set the stage well for the finale of the book, which serves as both a narrative and thematic convergence, and sufficiently satisfies the stories of the majority of the characters, giving some sense of closure even if we never find out what happens to Titus next.
As I already mentioned, the way the story revolves around Titus sometimes feels a bit contrived, especially when every character becomes strangely fixated with him, including some of the Under-River dwellers who hardly have anything to do with him. There is, however, a lot to like about Titus Alone, and although it does feel like an incomplete, sketchy work in some respects, Peake remains in top form in others. But for the bizarrely brief chapter breaks which can largely be ignored, there is actually surprisingly little to distract and give the impression that Peake's health was in decline at all. I'd say Titus Alone still definitely worth a read.
Labels: gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Friday, January 18, 2008
Battle for Literature, Continued (Part 2)
In fending off the accusations of uselessness, in talking about how literature can make you think and make important suggestions, I haven't really said much about the other side of it: the side that is where literature holds most of its power. That is the aspect of literature, and all art, which has that emotional connection. 'What it means to us' doesn't just involve what it means to us in a general, philosophical sense, but what it means to us individually and subjectively.
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
Had there been a clear understanding of Style as the living body of thought, and not its 'dress', which might be more or less ornamental, the error I am noticing would not have spread so widely. But, naturally, when regarded the grace of style as mere grace of manner, and not as the delicate precision giving form and relief to matter--as mere ornament, stuck on to arrest incurious eyes, and not as effective expression--their sense of the deeper value of matter made them despise such aid. A clearer conception would have rectified this error. The matter is confluent with the manner; and only through the style can thought reach the reader's mind.--George Henry Lewes, Principles of Success in Literature (1865)
Labels: dreams, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Battle for Literature, Continued (Part 1)
It returned to that same old fight, as it always does after a few drinks. I was arguing that literature can change the way people look at the world. Then one friend asked me something interesting. She asked, 'But has there really been a book that's done that? What novel has changed your life?'
I paused. The honest answer was that no single novel had ever radically changed my outlook on life. I told her that. But then I told her that literature doesn't need to radically change anything. It only has to make you think.
We talked about Orwell's 1984. It was her own choice of example, presumably because it has had the label of 'great novel' attached to it. She seemed to view it as some kind of paranoid manifesto against government and surveillance and declared it unlikely. I countered that it served as a warning. Maybe it was unlikely to happen, but it wasn't just about how many CCTV cameras we get captured on every day. I told her it was about the potential dangers of a controlling government, refuting as I usually do the line of thought that 'if you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', because that entirely depends on what the government considers to be 'wrong'. If you have a Big Brother character whose main aim is to stay in power, 'wrong' could be anything that is felt to be a threat to that power. This threat could even be the ability of people to think for themselves: while we were so busy arguing over surveillance, we both completely forgot to mention anything about doublethink, about dumbing down the language, about how this language can be used to control...
1984 isn't important because it makes us go around pointing the accusing finger at every sign of government we see. It's not seeking revolution through paranoia. It's there to make us think. It is there to make us aware of the potential issues, however much we might feel they apply to our own lives, our own government, our own whatever.
No single book has ever completely changed how I look at the world, but countless novels have, for better or for worse, caused countless small shifts in my perspective. Like all art, literature can still have massive influence on the way we think. I think it's worth taking seriously just for that.
I paused. The honest answer was that no single novel had ever radically changed my outlook on life. I told her that. But then I told her that literature doesn't need to radically change anything. It only has to make you think.
We talked about Orwell's 1984. It was her own choice of example, presumably because it has had the label of 'great novel' attached to it. She seemed to view it as some kind of paranoid manifesto against government and surveillance and declared it unlikely. I countered that it served as a warning. Maybe it was unlikely to happen, but it wasn't just about how many CCTV cameras we get captured on every day. I told her it was about the potential dangers of a controlling government, refuting as I usually do the line of thought that 'if you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', because that entirely depends on what the government considers to be 'wrong'. If you have a Big Brother character whose main aim is to stay in power, 'wrong' could be anything that is felt to be a threat to that power. This threat could even be the ability of people to think for themselves: while we were so busy arguing over surveillance, we both completely forgot to mention anything about doublethink, about dumbing down the language, about how this language can be used to control...
1984 isn't important because it makes us go around pointing the accusing finger at every sign of government we see. It's not seeking revolution through paranoia. It's there to make us think. It is there to make us aware of the potential issues, however much we might feel they apply to our own lives, our own government, our own whatever.
No single book has ever completely changed how I look at the world, but countless novels have, for better or for worse, caused countless small shifts in my perspective. Like all art, literature can still have massive influence on the way we think. I think it's worth taking seriously just for that.
Labels: censorship, i am the ramblemaster, literature, morality, orwell
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Snobbery of the Scientists
[Note: this was majorly revised 19/08/08. Before that, it was very unclear and underdeveloped and made quite a few leaps in logic that didn't entirely make sense. I'm kind of hoping that nobody ever saw it, and that this new version is a bit more acceptable.]
I am an English student. English has always been my favourite subject. When my brother trotted off to Manchester to do Physics, we used to butt heads over it all the time. My main argument was that Physics was boring; his was that English, and later Philosophy, were wishy-washy subjects, and that Physics encompassed everything, and that Physics was therefore the most important. I continued to argue that Physics was boring. And it was, back in school.
I know that this was a pretty immature view for me to take of Physics, but I still object to the kind of claims that my brother made. Here at the University of Nottingham, I've been faced with attitudes along similar lines. Certain physicists have declared the study of literature pointless. Clans of scientifically-minded people have tittered and guffawed when they have realised they were in the midst of a Philosophy class. It is massively uncalled for.
The main argument around science-the-subjects versus, specifically, English-the-subject seems to be one of usefulness, and how students of the former are dismissing the latter on the basis of, say, a novel being subjective and fictional and therefore a complete waste of time in spending a degree on. On the other hand, science is supposedly much more sensible and worthwhile because it strives to be objective. Much of physics, for example, is grounded in mathematics and supported by empirical evidence, which gives it the apparent prestige of being pure, solid facts about the universe. Right, so. As it's mostly the physicists I know who seem so rested on their pedestals, I'm going to use them as my main example while I attempt to call such individuals out for being close-minded.
Let's first address the objectivity versus subjectivity deal. Maths, as a form of logic, is extremely useful. Empirical evidence is also valuable, and when this logic is applied to it, we can attempt to construct some pretty coherent theories about the universe. Yes, these theories try to be based on objectivity, but however much they may be supported by validating evidence, how many of these theories contain speculation, educated guesses and offered interpretations of the universe? How far could science get if they didn't? And, pause for thought: how is this so different from literature? By this I mean that both fundamentally require the construction of a narrative based on human observation, whatever logic or specific methodology you may use to support it. The same is true of philosophy, of history, of many other subjects. Both science and literature involve the construction of such narratives from the human perspective: they are, in their different ways, based on human experience--so to begin with, it's worth bearing in mind that science will never be completely objective because we're essentially working from a subjective starting point: our own minds. The evidence may be actually out there, but the whole concept of empirical evidence is that we're verifying its existence based on our own experiences with it--our own observations.
The pursuit of scientific truth, physical truth, is a noble endeavour and has proved to be incredibly useful, but any scientist who really understands his or her subject has to acknowledge the part that subjectivity and storytelling play in the construction of theories, and that establishing 'facts' is always contingent on the reliability of such empirical evidence. I know that rigorous checks can be made to ensure that such evidence is reliable as possible, but science is an ongoing thing and in the meantime, as has been demonstrated countless times, theories of the world can be very coherent and seemingly much supported, but all it takes is the tiniest bit of new evidence to show that what was previously considered fact was actually a not-quite-accurate fiction based on the limits of human perspective up until that point.
This does not, of course, validate the practice of literary analysis in any way. Literature employs no such rigorous scientific methodology, and for whatever part temporary fictions might play in the scientific process, it would be ridiculous to claim that literature is valuable or useful in the same ways as science. But they're different subjects for a reason. Science, as mentioned, strives for objectivity, whereas literature and literary theory do to much less of an extent, if at all--but this is because they're searching for different kinds of meaning. When we come to analyse literature, the entire methodology is different because we're looking for something different--applying to a novel the scientific method, or the quantitative logic of mathematics, may indeed get you nowhere, but makes no sense to require from literature, or any of the arts, scientific meaning. Science can, to an ever-increasing extent, explain the how and the why of the universe. It may explain its origins, our origins, why we act the way we act -- but it can't explain what any of this means to us. That's the realm of the arts and humanities.* This isn't to say that a scientific approach towards literature is always going to be useless--a science fiction novel that speculates the possibility of a future world could be evaluated for likelihood based on our current scientific knowledge. But to insist on a solely scientific approach to literature is...well, missing the point. In Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, for example, it's not the fact that magic corrupts to which we can attribute much meaning, in relation to our own world--it's the suggestion that power does. The meaning in a world of fiction, or a work of art, will always be figurative. It is representative, rather than physical.
And again, the lack of scientifically verifiable truth in these representations does not mean they are academically worthless--even though it's still an illustration rather than anything physically real. To claim that is like dismissing an illustration or a diagram in a physics textbook. It might be a simplified or distorted or exaggerated representation of the universe, but that doesn't mean it's useless. And that's what literary criticism is all about: deciding whether something that the book or poem represents is oversimplified, biased or distorted, or if it does offer us a useful way of looking at something, maybe even encouraging us to look at this thing in a way that we haven't done before. None of it can establish fact, but it can make important suggestions, ones that we can still apply to our own lives in a way that might apply to our view of humanity in general or our own feelings specifically. Science is the discipline for determining the 'truth' of a physical universe--but if you're going to insist on looking for physical truth in a novel or a painting, it's your own fault if you get nothing out of it.
As for my brother's claim (made a couple of years ago now, whether he still believes this or not) that the 'humanities' are, by definition, too limited for focusing only on humanity--can it really be argued anyway that the aims of science don't ultimately come back to ourselves? Even if science, say, sketches out an aim of preserving an animal species, it comes back to issues of our responsibility. It makes no sense to sever the human aspect from the aims of science. If you're going to argue for the 'usefulness' or 'importance' of science, surely you can't be referring to the construction of some abstract realm of knowledge that just sits there. In this case, therefore, the argument against the focus on humanity doesn't really apply.
I do think it's also worth pursuing knowledge for the sake of itself, purely because we find the world around us interesting. That's part of life too, and the arts do it by the moundful. But it remains true that some questions of science -- for example, facts about distant galaxies -- might be considered academically interesting while arguably having no bearing whatsoever on how we live our lives. Not everything has to be about the direct utilitarianism of something, and there are loads of different functions and purposes to all the different subjects that this rant won't have covered -- more than anything else, I do the subject 'English' because I enjoy it -- but my point is that in terms of this direct 'usefulness' or 'importance' that some of my sciency friends seem to argue for, science can't always claim the highground. Literature, the arts, philosophy...they're all about human interpretion of the universe, which makes them, as already argued, in a way not so different from science. But in often being more focused on what is important to us, they are not only, as a whole, just as relevant as the sciences, but I would argue sometimes even more so. Having everything explained in purely technical terms isn't necessarily meaningful or useful, and it definitely isn't all-encompassing.*
And for all those people who think that literary criticism is just about making stuff up: yes, literature and literary theory can be self-indulgent waffle. Art can be pretentious; but science can be quack. The fact that meaning can be subjective in art, and derived from a novel, say, even if it wasn't explicitly intended by the author (and a lot of literary theory examines precisely this idea), does not mean that it can't be meaningful at all. If, however, someone writes an essay and they are consciously making the whole thing up, or trying to be overly academic or obtuse, and if there really is nothing to it, then the practise of literary theory will, or at least should, reject it as the pretentious crap it is.
I'm hoping it's clear enough that I'm not trying to put science down. I mean, I love science. Some of my best friends are scientists. But those of them who seek to dismiss the arts have so far not been able to do so on valid or non-hypocritical grounds. Science isn't more important than the arts and the arts aren't more important than the sciences. They are complementary, and the distinction between them is overexaggerated anyway.* The arts have often been lampooned for their multitude of pretentious twats, and probably with good reason. But I think the snobs among the scientists need to get over themselves too.
* This fat footnote exists just to bring together those three statements that have been asterisk'd. For the first asterisk, in relation to 'what it means to us', here's an example: the study of biology and evolutionary psychology may go a long way to explaining how and why we came to feel an emotion like sympathy, but as soon as you start talking about the implications of this technical explanation on how we are now forced to view ourselves, we're into the area of philosophy. At this point, to reinforce asterisk two, it has then gone beyond a purely technical account. Literature might then come in as somebody's chosen form of expression for such an idea.
As for asterisk three, I would argue that the division between the subjects is partially arbitrary anyway: even between the sciences themselves, physics can only explain so far before it becomes a matter of chemistry, and in turn, biology. In this vast spectrum of human endeavour, the sciences would gradually become social studies, which would in turn become the humanities. The arts can operate as media of expression for all of the above. In any case, each offer very specific areas of study. Even if you argue that chemistry and biology could be counted as subcategories of physics, as an area of academic study -- as 'Physics' -- this is just not true. It stops short or has limited overlap before it becomes something that you are not studying, while the Chemists and Biologists are. Likewise, Literature could not exist without Linguistics, but the study of Linguistics does not encompass Literature. No subject has dominion.
Labels: i am the ramblemaster, literature, science, tolkien
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Don Quixote, Part I
'Now I must tear my garments, scatter my armour and dash my head against these rocks, and perform other similar actions that will amaze you.'
Don Quixote, or, in full, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, is a novel of approximately 1,000 pages published by Miguel de Cervantes in two parts, the first in 1605 and the second in 1615. It charts the escapades and misadventures of, as the title says, the Spanish Hidalgo Don Quixote, who suffers from a strange sort of madness brought about by reading too many chivalry books. The deluded Don Quixote firmly believes that he is a knight errant and that the universe must work according to the laws of chivalry as he has read them, to the point that he imagines such things as a local farmgirl as a lady, princess and the subject of his affections despite never having seen her; an inn as a castle; and, most famously, the windmills of La Mancha as ferocious giants.
It's taken me about a month to read the first part. The book has followed me across Europe on my own adventures to London, Venice and Lake Garda. I finished it yesterday, and decided, because I had so much to say about it already, that today I'd write about what I've read so far.
Don Quixote begins as a simple, farcical parody of the chivalric romance genre that had been popular not long before the book was first published. It is episodic in format (like the books it parodies), chronicling various humorous encounters that Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho Panza, have as they venture out and in his deluded way Quixote mistakes things for things that they are not. Characters and events more true to reality are forever conflicting with the archetypes of his books, triggering predictable but entertaining conflicts which usually end in the knight and his squire getting beaten to within an inch of their lives.
Cervantes writes a bit like Shakespeare in the way that the language flourishes, befitting of Don Quixote's lengthy declarations of the convoluted specifics of knight-errantry, but also just as impressive when Cervantes is being less tongue-in-cheek. No doubt credit is due also to John Rutherford, whose translation I read. The sentences are always lengthy, especially in dialogue, but even when Don Quixote is talking complete rubbish it can be absurdly captivating, flowing like a strange but fascinating dream, and sometimes I found myself just as caught up in it as the often staggeringly simple and naïve Sancho, who goes along, though often reluctantly, with everything that his master does and says.
As much as I was enjoying it, I did begin to wonder if its episodic format could really last for 1,000 or even 500 pages. But Cervantes, probably realising the same thing, soon introduces fresh ways to poke fun. The first is through having multiple narrators, supposedly historians who are recounting Don Quixote's life. One sequence stops suddenly half-way through as the narrator claims to have reached the end of the written records available, only for it to be continued by another in the next part, who introduces it with his account of how he is someone who enjoyed reading about the adventures so far and was disappointed that they didn't continue, only to then come across further writings by chance while out shopping, which themselves are supposedly written by some Moorish historian, which he then got translated. The story then continues just as it had done, but with Cervantes now able to play with the potential unreliability and conflict that different narrators might result in.
In this way and others, Cervantes plays with the literary conventions themselves as much as playing with the characters. This occurs on many levels, from satirical sonnets in his direct parody of chivalric romance, to detailed reviews by characters of invidivual chivalric books (and later other things); to constant switching between different sidestories, arrived at through the accounts of the people they meet (sometimes hopping between different people for different perspectives) or manuscripts they find - all continually distracting from Don Quixote's adventures and giving the novel a meta sort of dimension. These sidestories are often surprisingly sober compared to Don Quixote's misadventures, and most of the time seem to follow very conventional chivalric or romantic themes, with probably all of them involving some incredibly beautiful and virtuous woman and the conflicts of the men who have fallen in love with her, to the point that the beautiful women start to feel very generic and the stories a bit ridiculous, which is possibly what Cervantes intended. While all these sidestories appear to be delivered in a straight-faced way, it all gets very farcical when, through amazing coincidence, about half a dozen of the stories and their characters converge at an inn and are brought to their happy conclusions, following which the attention of all the characters is then brought back to the madness of Don Quixote.
This occasional sobriety also emerges in speeches made by the characters themselves. Towards the end of Part I, the priest and the canon discuss Don Quixote's madness, which leads them on to their shared loathing of chivalry books, which itself then leads on to deep discussion of theatrical plays (the new popular thing during Cervantes' time), in which the priest describes why he dislikes such popular things because they are made for the ignorant masses at the expense of real, intelligent, thought-provoking art. The fact that the novel so suddenly veers off into this expansive, philosophical conjecturing is something tongue-in-cheek in itself because Cervantes must know he's being so blatant in using his characters to put forward these opinions (in the same way that he cheekily reviewed other chivalric books at the start). They're still thought-provoking moments, though, and in the discussion of theatre it seems as though Cervantes is trying to make a serious point, although it's not always as clear if it's Cervantes' own opinion or if he's just playing devil's advocate.
Probably the most surprisingly lucid comments of all came from Don Quixote himself. In Chapter XXXVIII, as part of another lengthy speech on chivalry, he had this to say:
'A blessing on those happy ages that did not know the dreadful fury of these devilish instruments of artillery, whose inventor is, I feel sure, being rewarded in hell for his diabolical creation, by which he made it possible for an infamous and cowardly hand to take away the life of a brave knight as, in the heat of the courage and resolution that fires and animates the gallant breast, a stray bullet appears, nobody knows how or from where - fired perhaps by some fellow who took fright at the flash of the fiendish contraption, and fled - and in an instant puts an end to the life and loves of one who deserved to live for many a long age. And when I think about this I am tempted to say that it grieves me to the depths of my soul that I ever took up this profession of knight-errantry in such a detestable age as this one in which we are living, because even though there is no danger that can strike fear into me I am concerned when I think that gunpowder and lead might deprive me of the opportunity to make myself famous all over the face of the earth and by the might of my arm and the blade of my sword. But let heaven do what it pleases, for I shall be more highly esteemed, if I accomplish my aim, for having exposed myself to dangers greater than were ever faced by knights errant of centuries past.'
Don Quixote is clearly still under some illusion about the worth of his chivalric acts, and likely misguided with his quest to make himself 'famous all over the face of the earth', but the slightly frightening thing is that after reading that, I suddenly sort of understood his madness. Most of us like to feel that things have some sort of meaning; that we as people have meaning and that we can stand for something, which is increasingly difficult the more impersonal the world feels. The chivalric, noble values and the kind of honour that Don Quixote believes in may well be ridiculous and empty, but so is a world where you and your actions mean nothing and where personal responsibility, dignity or character seem to count for far less, and as Don Quixote (or Cervantes) himself points out, there's a feeling of some injustice in the kind of world that Don Quixote regretted to live in. There's always the danger that we can place too much importance on, and become deluded by, the overly romantic notions or ideals of traditions or past ways of life; but at the same time that Don Quixote's ambitions sound ridiculous, I felt, in this instance, that there was something, if not noble1, honourable2, admirable or praiseworthy, then at least in some way understandable - or even, dare I say it, reasonable - about the fact that he is trying anyway.
Finally, despite starting out as a simple episodic parody written for popular consumption3, through the development of its characters and exploration of its themes, Don Quixote exists as a good example that what can start out as the subject of a few laughs can soon go much deeper than first imagined, and although it is not the most tightly written of novels and of considerable length, it has remained interesting and enjoyable throughout. I'll be reading Part II before long.
1 2Both nobility and honour are themselves vague ideas and prone to romantic illusions of grandeur.
3 Interestingly enough, according to Oscar Wilde, this would prevent Don Quixote from counting as 'art', yet later on, the priest's discussion of popular theatre highlights some views of art that match very closely and specifically with Wilde's own.
Labels: don quixote, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, oscar wilde, rabbit-hole theory, shakespeare
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Boy Who Sold Millions
And so, like many other things this year, the Harry Potter series has come to an end. I finished Book 7 last night. In many ways, it is my favourite.
As you may have noticed, a lot of hype surrounds the Harry Potter franchise. I got into the series when I was nine or ten or thereabouts, when two, possibly three, of the books were out. It's hard to place where exactly Harry Potter became a phenomenon. It just sort of...happened. The hype has worked in an odd sort of way for me, putting me off slightly as the franchise began to reach public saturation point, but at the same time I wonder if, after all this time, I would have followed the series to the end of it wasn't so culturally prominent.
Elsewhere, hype's had the effect it always has. Something good has been blown out of all reasonable proportion by fans, publishers, journalists and critics alike, reaching fever pitch as Warner Bros get their sticky fingers into it. Insensible amounts of both merchandise and fanfic have been produced. The backlash follows, the slightly peevish detractors hastening to point out that Potter isn't really deserving of quite so much hysteria, but that's the way hype works. Critical scrutiny intensifies, a few start to pull apart and denounce the the books; the screaming mass of young fans reacts, accusing all who dare to utter a word against J.K. Holy as bitter or jealous or both. And so on and so forth.
They are, say I, good books. They're no works of art, and their main virtue is being so very readable, but while some critics have diminished it to being simply 'useful' or 'saleable' prose, I think that unduly discredits the fact that J.K. Rowling can spin a very good story. She strikes a happy medium between descriptive and natural prose with the result of a style that is charming enough to keep us hooked, just like the world she writes about. It might not have the same quaint, stilted and respectfully 'literary' charm as an author like Enid Blyton, but as a coming-of-age story, the more natural approach is probably more meaningful to the modern, non-gingerbeer drinking reader.
Rowling's appeal comes not from her magical world as such, which is only as original as any other magical world, but the fact that she makes it into such a parallel of our own, with the principles behind even the most fantastical elements or the darkest magic grounded firmly in this world (love, greed, power, death etc: problems, experiences and temptations we all have to deal with). Then there's the chocolate frogs with collectible cards, Quidditch, Apparition tests, and a dozen other direct parallels, which, while not especially imaginative, are interesting enough takes on the norm and make the wizards more like real people, and the students like real students. There are times when the similarity to our own world becomes almost bleak and depressing, as with the bureaucratic Ministry of Magic; and it's the older, dustier Hogwartian magic that really holds the interest of the reader and the characters, because that's where the adventures, dangers, twists and turns occur. And all the while, Harry suffers real, teenaged problems too. Which are, truthfully, the less interesting bits for me, but their inclusion is understandable and Rowling usually manages to strike a good balance (although it very nearly tips in Book 5).
One of the best things about the books is Rowling's ability to create warm and fuzzy moments when portraying friends and family, especially with little things like Mrs Weasley and her Christmas jumpers. In a way, these boardingschoolish portrayals do sometimes feel like they're harking back to some cosy, bygone time, but it doesn't make them feel any less genuine. One thing my sister pointed out was how the writing style has changed over the course of the series: in the earlier books, Rowling hadn't quite managed to shake off the tone of traditional children's literature, and some of the dialogue was very Blytonesque, but this helped to add to the charm, novelty and wonder experienced by the characters at that age. As the kids got older, this would probably have started to feel a bit inappropriate, and the writing has accordingly become increasingly natural, increasingly dark and, at times, increasingly soapy.
Sometimes the dark, danger or peril does seem a bit forced, as with the lake of dead people at the end of Book 6 (which distractedly reminded me of a similar scene in The Two Towers anyway), or the death count of significant characters in the final battle for Hogwarts in Book 7, but for the most part Rowling deals with these things with a little more narrative subtlety (despite the extremely irritating 'Someone dies in this book!' promotion that's been used). Rowling also writes some fantastically animated action scenes, one of my favourites being the chaotic Quidditch World Cup match in Book 4, and Book 7 provided a series of brilliantly action-packed excursions to various places. Again, though, that final Hogwarts battle may have benefited from a little more restraint, but having what seemed like every single surviving character returning into the fray was just as awesome as it was ridiculous.
Another strong point in the series has been the complex plotting and character development through revelations and backstory, which returned spectacularly in Book 7 after a rather linear Book 6. Just like having everyone returning for that last battle, it was a nice touch having obscurely mentioned characters like Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot and the Grey Lady suddenly playing significant roles, but again there was the feeling that it was very nearly approaching the line between being neat and being overly convenient. Tie too many things directly into each other and the world starts shrinking.
I think the epilogue is best not mentioned, but other than that, Deathly Hallows was an excellent end to a series that I've now been following for years. And whatever I might feel about the films and the rest of the franchise, Harry Potter is definitely a lot more deserving of its attention than certain other recent literary phenomena.
As you may have noticed, a lot of hype surrounds the Harry Potter franchise. I got into the series when I was nine or ten or thereabouts, when two, possibly three, of the books were out. It's hard to place where exactly Harry Potter became a phenomenon. It just sort of...happened. The hype has worked in an odd sort of way for me, putting me off slightly as the franchise began to reach public saturation point, but at the same time I wonder if, after all this time, I would have followed the series to the end of it wasn't so culturally prominent.
Elsewhere, hype's had the effect it always has. Something good has been blown out of all reasonable proportion by fans, publishers, journalists and critics alike, reaching fever pitch as Warner Bros get their sticky fingers into it. Insensible amounts of both merchandise and fanfic have been produced. The backlash follows, the slightly peevish detractors hastening to point out that Potter isn't really deserving of quite so much hysteria, but that's the way hype works. Critical scrutiny intensifies, a few start to pull apart and denounce the the books; the screaming mass of young fans reacts, accusing all who dare to utter a word against J.K. Holy as bitter or jealous or both. And so on and so forth.
They are, say I, good books. They're no works of art, and their main virtue is being so very readable, but while some critics have diminished it to being simply 'useful' or 'saleable' prose, I think that unduly discredits the fact that J.K. Rowling can spin a very good story. She strikes a happy medium between descriptive and natural prose with the result of a style that is charming enough to keep us hooked, just like the world she writes about. It might not have the same quaint, stilted and respectfully 'literary' charm as an author like Enid Blyton, but as a coming-of-age story, the more natural approach is probably more meaningful to the modern, non-gingerbeer drinking reader.
Rowling's appeal comes not from her magical world as such, which is only as original as any other magical world, but the fact that she makes it into such a parallel of our own, with the principles behind even the most fantastical elements or the darkest magic grounded firmly in this world (love, greed, power, death etc: problems, experiences and temptations we all have to deal with). Then there's the chocolate frogs with collectible cards, Quidditch, Apparition tests, and a dozen other direct parallels, which, while not especially imaginative, are interesting enough takes on the norm and make the wizards more like real people, and the students like real students. There are times when the similarity to our own world becomes almost bleak and depressing, as with the bureaucratic Ministry of Magic; and it's the older, dustier Hogwartian magic that really holds the interest of the reader and the characters, because that's where the adventures, dangers, twists and turns occur. And all the while, Harry suffers real, teenaged problems too. Which are, truthfully, the less interesting bits for me, but their inclusion is understandable and Rowling usually manages to strike a good balance (although it very nearly tips in Book 5).
One of the best things about the books is Rowling's ability to create warm and fuzzy moments when portraying friends and family, especially with little things like Mrs Weasley and her Christmas jumpers. In a way, these boardingschoolish portrayals do sometimes feel like they're harking back to some cosy, bygone time, but it doesn't make them feel any less genuine. One thing my sister pointed out was how the writing style has changed over the course of the series: in the earlier books, Rowling hadn't quite managed to shake off the tone of traditional children's literature, and some of the dialogue was very Blytonesque, but this helped to add to the charm, novelty and wonder experienced by the characters at that age. As the kids got older, this would probably have started to feel a bit inappropriate, and the writing has accordingly become increasingly natural, increasingly dark and, at times, increasingly soapy.
Sometimes the dark, danger or peril does seem a bit forced, as with the lake of dead people at the end of Book 6 (which distractedly reminded me of a similar scene in The Two Towers anyway), or the death count of significant characters in the final battle for Hogwarts in Book 7, but for the most part Rowling deals with these things with a little more narrative subtlety (despite the extremely irritating 'Someone dies in this book!' promotion that's been used). Rowling also writes some fantastically animated action scenes, one of my favourites being the chaotic Quidditch World Cup match in Book 4, and Book 7 provided a series of brilliantly action-packed excursions to various places. Again, though, that final Hogwarts battle may have benefited from a little more restraint, but having what seemed like every single surviving character returning into the fray was just as awesome as it was ridiculous.
Another strong point in the series has been the complex plotting and character development through revelations and backstory, which returned spectacularly in Book 7 after a rather linear Book 6. Just like having everyone returning for that last battle, it was a nice touch having obscurely mentioned characters like Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot and the Grey Lady suddenly playing significant roles, but again there was the feeling that it was very nearly approaching the line between being neat and being overly convenient. Tie too many things directly into each other and the world starts shrinking.
I think the epilogue is best not mentioned, but other than that, Deathly Hallows was an excellent end to a series that I've now been following for years. And whatever I might feel about the films and the rest of the franchise, Harry Potter is definitely a lot more deserving of its attention than certain other recent literary phenomena.
Labels: harry potter, i am the ramblemaster, literature, rabbit-hole theory, tolkien
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Gormenghast
Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake, is a masterpiece. It is literary masterpiece and a work of art. I don't think I've ever read anything else in which the characters and the setting have been painted so vividly. And as most other reviews will tell you, the massive, sprawling stone castle in which it all takes place (in the two books that I've read) is a character in itself.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Labels: gormenghast, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The Cyberpunk Aesthetic
Cyberpunk: high tech, low life. That seems to work as a good summary, although I don't know whose summary it is. People living in a society deeply affected by rapid technological development, usually on its underside.
As a political outlook--from what I can tell after having a little look around this thing we call cyberspace--it's a bit dubious. By nature of living in an increasingly technological world, upon which we are becoming ever more dependent, we must be wary of authority and hidden information. Fair enough. We're all digitally recorded in various ways about a gazillion times each day; my school, for example, has a CCTV network that means I'm caught on at least twenty different cameras moving from one end to the other. It's enough to make me paranoid. And whenever anyone says 'If you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', I always think of 1984.
But then, those who call themselves cyberpunks push for anarchy over democracy as well as totalitarianism, and anarchy for people who have a penchant for shiny weapons is probably something to be wary of. They seem too willing to throw themselves into a technological future where technology and humanity will inevitably (and literally) merge, which as likely as it may be...well, that's got to conflict with any ideals of independence. While you're refusing to submit to the government, you're just submitting yourself, gratuitously, to something else. They shamelessly admit style over substance, and in fact seem to promote it. There's lots of emphasis on attitude and Fighting The Power. Indeedy, it seems more like a teenaged sort of attitude problem in the guise of a political conscience than anything else.
It's hard to tell if they're being serious. Maybe they aren't. Mostly it just seems like people having some obscure kind of fun. Whatever subcultures or so-called cyberpunk manifestos have formed on the internet, though, as a genre, cyberpunk still holds a lot of interest, independent of those trying to make a coherent political outlook out of the genre's features.
Cyberpunk as a genre has a lot of style. It's a grungey sort of style, written with noir elements and an edge that reflects a sense of aesthetics and cool and the fascination of possibilities of the world it writes about, while at the same time reflecting the whole 'low life' thing, the technological chaos, the danger and violence of the lives of characters living on the edge. Dependence on technology and existence of virtual worlds are major themes that have become ever more relevant in recent years, and many cyberpunk novels have already proven to be somewhat prophetic. So for all its distinct style, cyberpunk is also stirring because it's really not that far from being a reality.
While The Matrix trilogy had a little bit of naff and a whole lot of bloated allegory, I still liked it because it had that cyberpunk aesthetic, especially the first film. It had the virtual world; the characters' dependence on technology and machinery; the noir feel; the grungey, gloomy, decaying urban settings; and a sense that the characters were living on the edge, struggling for an existence and finding themselves in violent situations (not that Hollywood would have it any other way).
After taking a renewed interest in the genre, I recently bought William Gibson's Neuromancer, one of the original cyberpunk novels. Its vision of the future is over twenty years old, but still feels very believable. And aside from that, it's just a lot of fun to read. Before long I'll be getting the others in the trilogy.
There's charm and intrigue to the urban decay and perverse technology of cyberpunk, as paradoxical as that sounds. There's a fascination to these worlds that draws you in, both thrilling and disturbing, and the way in which all the questions about what it is to be human are amplified.
As a political outlook--from what I can tell after having a little look around this thing we call cyberspace--it's a bit dubious. By nature of living in an increasingly technological world, upon which we are becoming ever more dependent, we must be wary of authority and hidden information. Fair enough. We're all digitally recorded in various ways about a gazillion times each day; my school, for example, has a CCTV network that means I'm caught on at least twenty different cameras moving from one end to the other. It's enough to make me paranoid. And whenever anyone says 'If you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', I always think of 1984.
But then, those who call themselves cyberpunks push for anarchy over democracy as well as totalitarianism, and anarchy for people who have a penchant for shiny weapons is probably something to be wary of. They seem too willing to throw themselves into a technological future where technology and humanity will inevitably (and literally) merge, which as likely as it may be...well, that's got to conflict with any ideals of independence. While you're refusing to submit to the government, you're just submitting yourself, gratuitously, to something else. They shamelessly admit style over substance, and in fact seem to promote it. There's lots of emphasis on attitude and Fighting The Power. Indeedy, it seems more like a teenaged sort of attitude problem in the guise of a political conscience than anything else.
It's hard to tell if they're being serious. Maybe they aren't. Mostly it just seems like people having some obscure kind of fun. Whatever subcultures or so-called cyberpunk manifestos have formed on the internet, though, as a genre, cyberpunk still holds a lot of interest, independent of those trying to make a coherent political outlook out of the genre's features.
Cyberpunk as a genre has a lot of style. It's a grungey sort of style, written with noir elements and an edge that reflects a sense of aesthetics and cool and the fascination of possibilities of the world it writes about, while at the same time reflecting the whole 'low life' thing, the technological chaos, the danger and violence of the lives of characters living on the edge. Dependence on technology and existence of virtual worlds are major themes that have become ever more relevant in recent years, and many cyberpunk novels have already proven to be somewhat prophetic. So for all its distinct style, cyberpunk is also stirring because it's really not that far from being a reality.
While The Matrix trilogy had a little bit of naff and a whole lot of bloated allegory, I still liked it because it had that cyberpunk aesthetic, especially the first film. It had the virtual world; the characters' dependence on technology and machinery; the noir feel; the grungey, gloomy, decaying urban settings; and a sense that the characters were living on the edge, struggling for an existence and finding themselves in violent situations (not that Hollywood would have it any other way).
After taking a renewed interest in the genre, I recently bought William Gibson's Neuromancer, one of the original cyberpunk novels. Its vision of the future is over twenty years old, but still feels very believable. And aside from that, it's just a lot of fun to read. Before long I'll be getting the others in the trilogy.
There's charm and intrigue to the urban decay and perverse technology of cyberpunk, as paradoxical as that sounds. There's a fascination to these worlds that draws you in, both thrilling and disturbing, and the way in which all the questions about what it is to be human are amplified.
Labels: cyberpunk, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, neuromancer, science, the matrix, william gibson
Saturday, March 17, 2007
How Allegorical
When I studied Orwell's Animal Farm in school at the age of about eleven or twelve, it was never a book I was particularly fond of, perhaps just because I found the subject matter so bleak. But it still held its status as a book of value and an important piece of satirical literature.
However, while being an obvious allegory may have been the whole point of it, when I found out that all the events and characters were supposed to represent different aspects of the Soviet Union and its history, with the pigs based on certain individuals and the horses representing the classes and the building of the windmill an analogy of the Soviet's Five-Year Plans and so on and so forth - I remember feeling a bit disappointed that it was so blatant. Sure, it's supposed to be like that; it's supposed to be a frank and direct criticism of the Soviet Union. But nevertheless, I felt there was something ungenuine about it, which took the shine off the book's prestige for me. Not that all this was consciously articulated in my twelve-year-old mind - back then it was just the slight feeling that I was being lectured and that I didn't much like it.
Many people have suggested that Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was an allegory for the World Wars. Tolkien responded to this in a foreword to the second edition:
Another real danger of allegories as well as this is that characters are too often reduced to abstractions. They're there to have some kind of meaning but can end up, as characters, a bit meaningless. A notorious example of this would be one from the world of recent cinema: the Matrix trilogy. The trilogy as a whole illustrates some fine and worthy philosophical issues (albeit not especially original ones), with regards to metaphysics at least. However, one of the criticisms of the sequels in particular was that they were convoluted, bloated on all the philosophy the Wachowski brothers were trying to cram into it.
A good deal of this was religious allegory. The allusions to Neo as Christ had been strong since the first film. The same was true of the allusions to Nietzsche's ubermensch. But the first film at least worked as a story independent of allegory going by the logic of the world presented. In the sequels, however, when they continued down this path, the story began to break down. After Neo lifts up his hand and fries the Sentinel at the end of Reloaded, we're never really given an explanation for it in the third film. Exchanges between characters which should have provided us with some explanation of what was happening were vague because they couldn't be any other way. Neo's powers have supposedly transcended the Matrix. He's supposedly connected to the Source. But really, how does that work when he's in the Real World? You can believe it at a stretch going by the logic of the world as it's been presented to you so far, but it's a long stretch and a sloppy explanation. Eventually it seems to break down to, 'Because it's an allegory of...' And all these characters who were vaguely interesting in the first film have been reduced to passive, dimensionless parts of it.
Of course, if I've missed something in my attempts to understand the trilogy, I'd be happy to hear it. But despite all these allusions and allegories that were piled on top of me, it ends up feeling a bit empty.
[Edit: amendment.]
However, while being an obvious allegory may have been the whole point of it, when I found out that all the events and characters were supposed to represent different aspects of the Soviet Union and its history, with the pigs based on certain individuals and the horses representing the classes and the building of the windmill an analogy of the Soviet's Five-Year Plans and so on and so forth - I remember feeling a bit disappointed that it was so blatant. Sure, it's supposed to be like that; it's supposed to be a frank and direct criticism of the Soviet Union. But nevertheless, I felt there was something ungenuine about it, which took the shine off the book's prestige for me. Not that all this was consciously articulated in my twelve-year-old mind - back then it was just the slight feeling that I was being lectured and that I didn't much like it.
Many people have suggested that Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was an allegory for the World Wars. Tolkien responded to this in a foreword to the second edition:
It is neither allegorical nor topical...I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse 'applicability' with 'allegory'; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.
Another real danger of allegories as well as this is that characters are too often reduced to abstractions. They're there to have some kind of meaning but can end up, as characters, a bit meaningless. A notorious example of this would be one from the world of recent cinema: the Matrix trilogy. The trilogy as a whole illustrates some fine and worthy philosophical issues (albeit not especially original ones), with regards to metaphysics at least. However, one of the criticisms of the sequels in particular was that they were convoluted, bloated on all the philosophy the Wachowski brothers were trying to cram into it.
A good deal of this was religious allegory. The allusions to Neo as Christ had been strong since the first film. The same was true of the allusions to Nietzsche's ubermensch. But the first film at least worked as a story independent of allegory going by the logic of the world presented. In the sequels, however, when they continued down this path, the story began to break down. After Neo lifts up his hand and fries the Sentinel at the end of Reloaded, we're never really given an explanation for it in the third film. Exchanges between characters which should have provided us with some explanation of what was happening were vague because they couldn't be any other way. Neo's powers have supposedly transcended the Matrix. He's supposedly connected to the Source. But really, how does that work when he's in the Real World? You can believe it at a stretch going by the logic of the world as it's been presented to you so far, but it's a long stretch and a sloppy explanation. Eventually it seems to break down to, 'Because it's an allegory of...' And all these characters who were vaguely interesting in the first film have been reduced to passive, dimensionless parts of it.
Of course, if I've missed something in my attempts to understand the trilogy, I'd be happy to hear it. But despite all these allusions and allegories that were piled on top of me, it ends up feeling a bit empty.
[Edit: amendment.]
Labels: allegory, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, morality, orwell, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien
