Life Imitates Art?

In Remainder, the injured man seems to be of the opinion that life imitates art and is, therefore, inauthentic. For example, he sees movies as "authentic," because the actors appear to be one with their actions. In other words, he does not believe an intricate thought process is needed to create action, as is needed whenever he himself does any actions now after his accident. I think that is why he becomes so enamored with these flashes of "memory." They occur to him without conscious effort. Also, I am toying with the idea that that is why his "re-enactors" strike him as authentic: because they do not have to think about their actions. They are given a part, an action, a line of dialogue, and they just do it.

Power trumps recreation

Despite his apparent focus on the importance of recreation for the sake of gaining clarity or some sort of grasp on his past, I think that the evidence in Remainder indicates that the narrator actually holds control to be more important.
On pg 158, he discovers that his hired piano player has been playing a recording instead of playing live. The recording is a reproduction of his playing, just as his playing is a reproduction of the original player's playing. At first it seems possible that the problem is that he is trying to insert a reproduction of a reproduction and that the extra layer is the source of concern. This theory is debunked however, just a few pages later when he requests that a model be built of his little compound. This of course is a reproduction of a reproduction as well, but because he commanded it to be built it seems to serve some purpose for him, even to the extent of distracting his attention from the full-scale model that he has built around him.
The importance of power to the whole scheme becomes apparent when he begins moving his little action figures around in the model and then calls Naz, who he instructs to direct the movements of the actors in the full scale model in such a way as to play out the fantasy that he creates in the smaller model. The fact that he uses Naz as an intermediary to exercise this control is further evidence that his problem with the piano player does not stem with his introduction of another layer, but with the subversion of his orders. He himself introduces another layer, not only with his small model of the larger recreation but his use of Naz to exercise his control introduces another layer, even within the exercise of power that is of ultimate importance to him.

On Memory

One thing that struck me as I was reading Remainder and thinking back to Never Let Me Go is the concept of memory and collecting in each of these novels.

Kathy only mentions the collections the Hailsham kids a few times, and references how few of them kept them once they left Hailsham, and even more so how little purpose they served in the world outside of it. It's almost as if the Hailsham children didn't have use for memory, that their lives are only moving in one future direction, and mementos only serve as painful reminders of what they no longer have access to.

The concept is flipped in Remainder. The narrator uses his wealth to recreate and build back his memories, in doing so collecting people and things in order to rebuild his life.It also comes off as a very selfish desire, though somewhat understandable.

This makes me wonder then, what about memory is so important, and how different situations cast different lights on memory and its usefulness.

When I first began reading this novel, I honestly felt true and deep sympathy for this guy.  Being about my age, I felt somewhat of a connection to him and began to imagine what it would be like to lose all of my memories and past experiences and I got quite sad.  I mean, thirty years old is rather young and being that he is not married or does not have any children, he literally has his whole life ahead of him.  I felt incredibly bad for him as he was essentially robbed of his life.  Sure, he had little flashbacks of fairly insignificant occurrences from his past but these moments did not last.  All he had to look forward to was the tingling sensation these flashbacks brought on and those moments of happiness were fleeting.  So, while I did think his entire plan for a production of reenactment was rather bizarre, to say the least, I felt for the guy and at least understood where he was coming from.

Now, fast-forward a little bit......  I started to really dislike this guy when he began using his financial gains as an excuse to treat people as disposable rubbish.  I think this disgust first began to brew inside of me as he surveyed the possible actors for his enormous charade.  The way he pointed out a few "possibles" for his project and then dismissed the hundreds of other hopefuls with the flick of a wrist really irritated me.  However, I can still remember the way my blood boiled at the instant I realized I truly loathed this guy: "At a loss rate of three every two days, I'd say quite an amount.  A rolling supply.  Just keep putting them up there" (156).  Talk about a total disregard for existence!  Personally, I'm not someone you would call a "cat person" exactly.  I love dogs, but that doesn't mean I don't have sympathy for these furry little felines.  He throws them away like the old liver lady with her rubbish bag.  His accident did not only take his memories, but it also took his ability to feel empathy for others as well.

The way he walked around with a sense of complete entitlement made me crazy!  I have absolutely no tolerance for people like this.  Now, don't get me wrong.  He is absolutely entitled to the feelings that result from his accident.  It is, after all, life-changing.  However, he is certainly not entitled to treat the people around him the way he does.  While these "actors" may have had lives of their own before enlisting in his reenactment, to him, they are no more than pawns in his twisted little game.  What I found most troubling about this entire reenactment was its authenticity.  For someone who hated inauthentic people and actions with the passion that he did, the reenactments are exactly that: inauthentic.  Honestly, I found him to be quite hypocritical. 

Begging for Reality

I found the passage where the narrator is begging for change. It is right after he leaves Daubenay's office and is headed towards the stock broker. He just got this huge sum of money, and hasn't blown it on fantasy yet, and he chooses to stand on the side of the street and passively beg. He starts this facade because it makes him feel "intense" (44). That language, I believe, is indicating that he feels more than fake at that moment. His actions to beg are making him feel placed. He says how "I just wanted to be in that particular space, right then, doing that particular action" (44), but what does that particular place and action gain him? What can he feel or imagine as real from this? He can feel "so serene and intense that I felt almost real" (44). Something that he does not know yet but will consume him later on. He has a connection to all the people milling about and passing to work, a tangible monetary connection. The begging is allowing him to feel himself and the people around him based on the fact that they could give him money; he is attempting to occupy a "space," as he calls it, in which the community supports him which in turn dictates that he belongs to a community.

Some Remainders about "Remainder"

            McCarthy's narrator in Remainder suffered from an extremely traumatic event.  In effect, this event establishes a sort of barrier in the life of the narrator; events before the accident are only remembered in part, and the narrator is constantly searching to reproduce the feeling of events that took place before his accident.  This interests me for a few reasons.  First, there is the ubiquitous question:  Can we (as Humans) have authentic experiences?  Second, I think the narrator's traumatic barrier is only partially related to the physicality of his injuries.

            The first question is definitely a universal, philosophical question that Remainder tries to answer, but what I find most interesting is this barrier that the narrator has between experiences he has before the accident, while trying to reproduce those experiences (and feelings) after the accident.  I have known a few people, who have not been victim to any sort of physical trauma, that have been driven by the same sort of search for authenticity that the narrator is looking for.  In fact, after a massively traumatic event in our lives, it seems only Human that we might seek comfort in how we remember we felt before the event, and to even seek out how to recreate that feeling--it's just that most of us don't have millions of dollars to throw around (and we realize that moving on is a powerful thing, hopefully).  Why is it that some people seem obsessed with re-creating the past?  Whether it's the spouse who cheats on their partner and wants to put the pieces back together, or the accident victim wanting to recover portions of lost memory, or someone with PTSD who is tormented by the past, but can't seem to escape reliving it--for some it seems like something they cannot control.

            I also wanted to talk about Naz.  On an authorial level, what a brilliant device to enable the narrator to carry out these grandiose plans.  But despite McCarthy's genius using Naz to facilitate all this crazy stuff, I'm a little perplexed by his character.  He's introduced as a Brahmin, traditionally the highest caste in India, but was also the priest caste; only Brahmins can traditionally become clergy.  I find that pretty interesting since Naz is able to arrange or acquire virtually anything the narrator wants--even offering to arrange having people killed.  What might McCarthy be trying to say about religion and divinity by very intentionally tying Naz to priesthood?

Remaining Sane in Remainder

At first I was fascinated... then I was bored... and when the re-enacting turned into a scene he wasn't even originally in... I got irritated.

Not only are these "re-enacted" experiences not authentic, but his ACTUAL experiences can't be authentic because he's looking to re-enact them! He just seems like a stubborn, indulgent, and rich man who certainly got used to having a lot of money pretty quickly! Once he realizes he can hire people to manage, and do anything he wishes, he gets absolutely out of control. I don't understand how he can still get the tingling experience he's looking for when he does the same thing over and over repeatedly - like when he repeats going past the liver woman multiple times in the same time period. The "fakeness" is obvious, so how does that illusion for him still take hold?
Why does he decide has has to re-enact the tyre shop experience? Is it that moment of a "miracle" that wasn't a miracle?
(Did anyone else think about the poor actor who had to get that blue liquid splashed on him all day?)

And I'm with Christina... the moment he said to just get more cats after they were dying from falling off the roof.... Done with this guy.

Simulacra Land

First, Any one else want to slap this guy or is it just me? If I was reading this book for leisure I would've put it down after he said he didn't care if the cats died, as long as it looked right! And that poor old liver lady! Making her do the same thing again and again just for his enjoyment? Yeah, he's right up there on my list of least favorite literary characters with Holden Caulfield and Billy Pilgrim.  Alright now on to the serious part of the post...

The nameless narrator of Tom McCarthy's Remainder is a bit out there. In a real world he would have never been able to accomplish the things he did. To set up reenactments and hire people to reenact his weird memories all so that he can have a "real" experience. It is ironic that what  he believes is a real experience is how Robert Di Nero acted in the movie when movies are scripted down to the very last detail, much like what the narrator decides to do with his building.
He is constantly searching for a true aesthetic experience through the creation of his mad little world. I could not understand how anyone in the novel would have listen to him for more than five seconds before heading out the door. To control people the way one controls dolls is more than a little creepy.
In terms of Post-modernism, which we discussed in the beginning of class as valuing manufactured nostalgia, depthlessness, and culture within a society, I would have to say that our narrator has created a Post-Modernist dream land. His constructed apartment building therefore can be seen merely as a form of simulacra. The whole building appears real in the way he has dressed it, ordered it, and hired the people to preform within it, but it is a fake. A construction in the head of a crazy man bend on creating the perfect human experience, yet going about it the entirely wrong way.
In addressing these elements of Post-Modernism, I believe McCarthy is asking the reader to question what is real in the world? All of the scene we see are manufactured and manipulated by the narrator in his quest for something "real." What can this tell us about the fate of true aesthetic experiences in the world? Are there any left? Or are all the things we experience recreations of other events, stories, and historical moments? 

Biopower and You Owe Us Your Organs

I am interested in the idea of what one is "supposed to do" or "made to do." This seems to be a recurring theme among the clones in Never Let Me Go. I don't think the interconnectedness we see in Hotel World and Ghostwritten, which imply that we all play a part and affect each other in some way, no matter how minor, has far to go to get to the idea that we are have a given purpose or part to play. I think this is the progression from systems of control and discipline to biopower that implies that we each have some sort of role or part to play, nothing as overt as, "You are clone; you owe us your organs." It's something more subliminal. After all, once you have been categorized, doesn't it make it that much easier to give you a role?

WANTED: PEOPLE AND CATS WILLING TO BE ZOMBIES IN SISYPHEAN DRAMAS, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY, MUST BE WILLING TO WEAR HOCKEY MASK AND HAVE GOOD CONTROL OF PERSONAL MUSCULATURE FOR SLOW MOVEMENTS, LONG HOURS, EXCELLENT PAY. BONUS IF YOU CAN SMELL CORDITE ON EVERYTHING.

Well, what to say about this book. The nameless narrator is a sick man and we get to see him slowly descend into madness. He transforms from a hapless OCD person into a narcissistic lunatic who will kill to keep the “game” going (234). It’s not surprising he doesn’t care about the cats – by this time we see that he’s a madman who needs these reenactments like a drug, an opioid to help him feel that tingle so he knows he’s alive, authentic. But what’s worse is that Naz continues to supply cats even though he questions the morality. Yet he still does it because money buys everything – even loads of cats destined to become cat pizza. From there it’s not a huge leap to buying people destined to become people pizza.

The narrator’s existential search is painfully detailed in minimalist language. There are many references to the narrator’s desire to feel that tingle, which starts when he asks for spare change. He loves that rush from doing something he isn’t supposed to do and from there he wants to reenact reality which was actually never reality because much of the initial “experiences” were from inside his head. So he’s making inauthentic experiences into authentic so he can feel authentic.

From the start everything smells like cordite, a slow-burning modern substitute for gun powder. That was certainly a clue that we were headed, inexorably and slowly, for a major explosion. In the end everything does explode – bodies, planes, and the mind. Of the many questions left lingering, one that sticks in my mind is: Who bought the bullets and loaded the guns? It must be Naz because the crazy dude can’t do anything. It speaks volumes about Naz and the seductive power of money.

The insanity heats up in chapter 8:

Page 160: He spends hours and hours analyzing the properties of the oil spot.

Page 161: He practices the shirt maneuver for an entire day and then with the building in the “on” mode.

Page 162: The poor liver lady gets no rest.

Page 164: He has the motorbike dude kneel on the swing. Now he’s pushing the model swing at the same time. Very creepy. Norman Bates-type creepy.

Page 176: I suppose the kids need employment but this is really nuts. Naz hesitates but he does it. Again. And another hockey mask in the scene. It’s a horror story. A scene from the Twilight Zone, a passel of tyre zombies, a Sisyphean task, hell.

Page 178: Hilarious but sick. Crazy person says the gushing of the liquid onto the driver and the amount of stain on the boy’s clothes weren’t quite right but notes that it was okay because it was “minor.”

Page 186: He’s studying forensics. He can’t wait for the reenactment: “I think I’d have gone mad otherwise…” Hmmmm…

Page 188: He’s mentioning a blimp. Would he…?

Page 189: Uh oh. Guns.

Page 199: He thinks he’s an enlightened being.

Page 207: He would have tried out the Uzi but “didn’t want to get all self-indulgent.”

Page 224: He wants the concierge to do nothing but do it slower, to think slower, and he believes he will be able to know that.

Page 220: We learn that lab animals will seek trauma to get a fix from the body’s opioids. Interesting.

Page 225: Crazy and funny at the same time: He’s too bored to do it slowly.

Page 228: We’re going military now with a “deserted camp” and “massing troops of darkness”; now the sun is not cooperating.

Page 232: Now he wants to reenact a reenacted moment.

Page 233-308. We learn that he feels an orgasmic tingle during the real reenactment in the bank with the real deaths (293). It’s all downhill from here. Literally. That figure 8 is also the symbol for infinity. He wants to see everything from above, the models and the reenactments, as if he were a god. His money gives him that power to create life experiences and to end lives as well. And with the palms facing up, well that's a Jesus reference, it seems to me. 

Remainder--What a Schmeckel Head!

I got an idea pretty early on when "I"(do we ever learn his name?) would not let people use the loo at party despite them begging and banging on the door so he could draw that stupid crack.  Is there a more odious behavior?

I was making notes about the connectedness of things until I ran out of room:  telephone wires, the tube, streets, the stock market--all things that link people, one way or another.  And then the patterns that kept drawing him in:  the sports field, tyre marks, floors, carpets--the details of the world that make it authentic.  Which is the same for the sounds:  Hoover, piano,

"I" had not authenticity himself.  "I" didn't know who he was and had to create a world.  Here's where the total control of other's comes in.  "I" hired people to act exactly how he wanted them to act, even to the point of the speed of their actions.  The re-enactors were at his whim day and night.  The building was either in "on" or "off" mode.  At times re-enactors could stand down.  Re-enactments took place when "I" wasn't there to watch.  It gave "I" a thrill to know that the re-enactment was going on over and over.  The re-enactors had no control over their lives--no agency.  Their acting was bought--they were commodified and there seemed to be no complaining--a silent workforce almost enslaved. The poor piano player took a couple afternoons off and left a tape.  "I" didn't even realize it was a tape until he caught him sneaking back in.  What is authentic and what is not is blurred throughout.

All the situations created were not authentic.  The re-enactments and stages and props were based on "I's" crazy ideas.  The production by the workforce was a total waste. Their efforts produced nothing of value other than amusing "I."  The re-enactors had nothing to show for their labor; their could be no pride in work produced.  

Eventually it wasn't enough to re-enact a killing, "I" got his jollies by seeing one of his re-enactors shot and bleeding out.  Then "I" shot one himself for the thrill.

"I" kept going and going.  The last we see of  "I" is banking and re-banking in the private jet.

What was it all about--the productions costing tons of money, the hours and hours of labor to produce nothing.

"I" was a schmeckel head (pardon my Yiddish).




 

Fetishism in NLMG

I was thinking about those things that the kids were able to get on trading days--or whatever they were called and then kept them in their own boxes.  These, aside from clothes, were the only personal items they had.  Somehow I think they were probably things that Oxfam couldn't sell.  But to the clones, they became treasured.  Is it going too far to say they became fetishes?  I think that cheesy ping pencil case was one especially with the magical quality that Kathy ascribed to it by letting the other girls think Miss Lucy had given it to her.

?

Teleology

And that is the best explanation of the phrase, "and Bob's your uncle" as I have ever heard.

P.S.  Isn't in nice we have this blog forum so I don't have to interject my silly remarks during class discussion and interrupt the flow?

Oh Commodification... how I think I understand you, maybe?

Alright, so it's no secret that I have clearly had difficulty grasping commodification.  I read this Marxist section (and re-read it, and looked it up) and now I think I have it.  So I'm writing this to work out the kinks for myself, but I'm also writing this for confirmation from you all to see if I'm actually correct in this assertion.  So, I thought I would work this out first by saying that according to Mars, commidification happens in three parts.  The first is recognizing that the object in question is a function of the human organism, that it is is physiologically altered by a human.  The second is that the quantitative determination of value is the quantity of labor that goes into an altered object.  The last is that labor assumes a social form because social value is ascribed to the product and that value is based on exhangability.  So I thought the best way to describe this is bringing it back to the conversation we had about a month ago regarding a piece of artwork that Dr. Karl called a pure commodity.  The artwork is a function of the human organism because it is altered physiologically by a human.  The artwork is then given a value due to the amount of labor time exerted during the production of that piece of art, however it is also given its value because of the social relationship of the producers to other producers.  So, this is where I became a bit confused.  If a commodity is given its value based on other producers that are presumably producing similar products (or products that are ascribed the same labor value) then how can  a piece of artwork ever really have a value?  Because wouldn't that labor value (quantity of labor) be based on amount of time it takes to produce the work, as opposed to social connotations of the artist's work?  Although, if the artwork gains commodification (or value) status based on the third part (social value- value based on other producers), then the social status of a producer should be taken into account with the value attached to the object.  So then a piece of art is not an object of utility (such as the queen Anne chair that we talked about in conjunction with artwork), but has virtually no utility, making it an object produced for the purposes of being a commodity.  Which is how, I believe, a piece of art can be described as a pure commodity.  So now here's my question, is this right?  Is this what everyone else got out of the Marx reading?

Only the self aware

Never Let Me Go is disturbing. I think we can all agree on that. But one of the things that bothered me the most was the absolute subservience of the clones, especially reflected in how Tommy was "different" and "othered" by the students. I kept waiting and waiting in the novel for a anecdote of a clone hooking up with a normal and somehow escaping the system, or even for Kath and Tommy to get it into their heads to try and run away. The only glimmer we get is Tommy raging in an empty field, then getting sullen and complying. I found that totally disappointing and ultimately quite depressing. It made me wonder if they had somehow been engineered to not really think for themselves. I can see that making sense, given we know that they have been sterilized, yet are fully functional as sexual creatures. I also wondered why sexual organs aren't considered vital organs, especially for infertile "normal" couples. There must be some line drawn in the sand regarding genetics. I wonder just how successful the novel becomes then with its tenuous ties to reality. It feels like it could happen. Maybe even is happening in some dark, secret underworld we don't know about, but the science behind the novel just isn't real enough for me to be fully on board with it.  That's why I had so much hope for Tommy, and his just being on the brink of finding out the truth, and really wanted him to figure it out, break out, and disappear into the crowd.

How much do I love this book? Let me count the ways...

How much do I love this book?  Let me count the ways...

1.  This was an honest-to-goodness absolute page-turner!  In all of my Graduate studies, I can't say that I ever across a novel that I honestly couldn't put down.  With each chapter I found myself wanting more, despite how incredibly tired I was at the time.  Each mystery kept my interest peeked and I finished reading this novel in just two sessions, both of which I was quite sad to end.

2.  The characters are so incredibly well-developed.  From Tommy and his "temper tantrums" to Ruth and her "know-it-all" no-excuses attitude to Kathy with her sincere demeanor and her ability to swallow her pride for the ultimate benefit of others, I loved each and every one of them.

3.  Ishiguro's way of inviting the reader into his world is captivating.  I truly felt as though I was just another "student" at Hailsham and that I too was going through each trial, tribulation, and emotion that each character experienced.

4.  The plot was incredibly believable, despite the scientific possibilities of it ever truly happening.  But honestly, even as I write this sentence, I question: "Could it REALLY happen?  Maybe."  Even though the process of cloning and donating were not explained in detail, the way Ishiguro alluded to the procedures made me honestly believe it could and actually may happen in the future.

5.  Miss Lucy.  What a fantastic, compassionate, naive, lovable character.  Enough said.

6.  The relationship between Tommy and Kathy.  In my opinion, THIS is a true love story.  It is one thing to date someone when you are young and go through all of the typical "puppy-love" stages, but it is completely another to have a friendship stand the test of time, trials, and other romantic relationships and to come out stronger on the other end.  Tommy and Kathy were truly meant to be, and I noticed it from the very beginning.  The hopeless romantic inside of my desperately wanted them to get the "deferral," but I think in the end, I respected the way in which their love story ended.  Even though they were never able to be truly alone together, they were also never given the opportunity to hurt one another the way that relationships sometimes force people to do.

7.  Ishiguro gives us a female leading lady who does not melt at the sight of a man or wither at the first instance of fear.  Kathy is strong, determined, and the way in which she puts others before herself does not cause the reader to pity her, but rather, to respect and admire her on a level far beyond understanding.  She is not a pathetic, lovesick teenager who abandons all of her hopes and aspirations for a romantic relationship.  She is woman, hear her roar.

8.  The pacing of this book was not only appreciated, but completely appropriate as well.

9.  The final encounter with Tommy, Kathy, miss Emily, and Madame Marie-Claude is not just heartbreaking, but also reminded me of "The Sweatshop Sublime."

"The world didn't want to be reminded how the donation programme really worked.  They didn't want to think about you students, or about the conditions you were brought up in.  In other words, my dears, they wanted you back in the shadows" (Ishiguro 264-265).

This section made me immediately think of how as consumers, we do not want to think about the conditions that are behind the clothing that we wear; we would much rather forget about the women and children who work for pennies a day and relax comfortably in our luxurious sweaters.

10.  Hands-down: Best novel I have read in quite a long time!

Perfectly Unsettling

As has been mentioned, I also found the choice of words to create this other world very interesting - "completed", "carer", etc. This is what I love about a dystopian novel, Everything seems so much like our world except for this one oddity that has its own terms and there is acceptance of it by the characters. The idea of cloning and donors is especially a bit haunting because I can see it being part of the future (a far future, but still, I can see it).
The idea of Hailsham is both very idyllic as well as unsettling. There is the beautiful boarding school setting with close friends (though not the greatest of friendships... who wants to be friends with Ruth as a kid?) and it all just seems the perfect way to spend a childhood. But then, the unsettling moments with the guardians, Kathy's feeling of knowing something isn't right. Knowing you're different but not being sure what exactly that all entails. Not having truly personal relationships, everyone seems to be on the edge. It's an odd tone I can't quite put my finger on.
I am definitely still set on Hogwarts for my fantasy English boarding school. No thanks, Hailsham.

Ishiguro's world building through langauge

In the first half of the book, Ishiguro carefully controls the language used to withhold information from the reader.  In essence, Ishiguro creates his own vocabulary by giving words like "carer," "donor," and "completed" new Never Let Me Go-specific meanings.  Ishiguro does not explain these meanings directly, he introduces them organically through Kathy in the narrative.  Kathy speaks to the reader as if the reader should be familiar with what these words mean (in her world), but of course the reader does not know the special meanings which these words carry until much later on in the narrative.  I think this does two very interesting things.  First, this reproduces the "flashback" journey of Kathy, Ruth and Tommy as they learn who and what they are; Ishiguro creates the opportunity for a reader-response scenario where the reader's discovery emulates that of the characters.  Second, and maybe more importantly, Ishiguro's use of language is part of "world building."  Just as important as the concept that Ishiguro created additional meaning for words within Never Let Me Go is his choice of the words themselves.  "Complete(d)," "carer," and "donor" are all rather innocuous words in themselves, but they are also generally positive words.  Caring for someone is seen as a noble thing, as is donating.  Complete suggests a positive end to something, though it has more potential than the other two words for negative connotation.  These are supposed to be good words, but Ishiguro uses them to signify things that, in plain terms, would be dark and disturbing to people.  Because, for most readers, these words have a mostly positive connotation associated with them, and Ishiguro uses them to represent such ugly things in the world he builds, it says something about that world and the people that live in it--that it is deceptive.  

Clones as Guardians

I found it to be an interesting choice to use "regular" people as Guardians, rather than keeping the entire cloning system a bit more self-contained by filling those roles with clones. The clones at no point (at least through the first 19 chapters) seem to have any will to change their role in the world. The only attempt at subversion that is demonstrated throughout most of the book is by Miss Lucy, a non-clone. The clones do seem to have all of the other responses of "normal" people, with the exception of an utter willingness to accept their pre-determined lot. By making this so easy for the clones to accept, does it make it easier for us as readers to accept as well? So far the book has not really evoked any sympathy in me for the clones; their lives are odd and sad but their own lack of any attempt at change has left me feeling like more of a detached viewer than Miss Lucy struck me as. (We'll see if something in the last few chapters changes this for me this afternoon.)

I just realized that I may not have been explicit in my main point which is: If the clones offer no resistance to the accepted order, I think we could argue that even if they were placed in the (distasteful?) role of Guardians, they would still be unlikely to make an attempt to change the way things are.

Who are you talking to Kath?

I guess I am still thinking about narration after the past week of Darkmans talk. One thing that kept creeping up on me while I read Never Let Me Go was when Kathy says "I don't know what it was like where you were" several times through the novel. I wish I could find where because I forgot to mark it. Regardless it is an interesting device in the narration. She is either directly addressing someone whom she is caring for or someone in the proximity. Perhaps even more disturbingly she could be addressing us, the readers, as if we were in this world. The first time I read it I felt less connected to the narration because of it, like someone was trying to co-opt me into a certain state which I did not want to be in. This was before I knew about the clones and every time after that reveal this phrase became more and more concerning to me. It is based upon the fact that we have knowledge of he world, of its inner workings. If I am able to understand the meaning behind her examples then that means that I am either a clone being harvested or a citizen willing to stand by and let these people be harvested. Regardless this narrative choice by Ishiguro is haunting.

The Commodification of the "Human" Body

Spoiler Alert! Don't read if you haven't finished the novel completely. I don't want to give anything away!

In Kazuo Ishiguro's novel Never Let Me Go, the main characters Kath, Ruth, and Tommy are raised in a mysterious boarding school somewhere in the English countryside. Through the novel, which is told in flashback's through Kath's perspective, they develop from children into adults. They go about their lives knowing they are meant for something greater and knowing that someday they will begin donating their vital organs to others. By the way did I forget to mention they are clones?!
Throughout the novel, Kath and her friends only attain so much knowledge about their true purpose and at the end, they still do not obtain all of the facts about why they were created and why they are treated the why they are.
The issue of commodities and commodification comes in to play when we think about Kath, Ruth, and Tommy as commodities themselves. According to Marx commodities comes into existence through two reasons, one, to satisfy a human need and two, due to the effort of human labor (664). He also states that, "the products of labor become commodities, social things whose qualities are at the same time perceptible and imperceptible" (664). Using these two ideas from Marx, I wish to discuss Kath and friends in terms of commodities.
As a product of human labor, a clone, and having been created to fulfill a societal need, organ donation, Kath and her companions would qualify as commodities according to Marx. However, unlike a table, which is inanimate, Ishiguro's reoccurring question of the humanity of clones like Kath, complicates Marx's theory and evokes millions of questions, which the novel debates, as to what is makes us human?
If it is our abilities to produce products through hours of labor which are relevant to society, than would not Kath and her friends, through the production of vital organs be considered as human? Because the can "create" something that society needs?
Another point would be in regards to the art work the Hailsham students are prompted to create. While the aesthetic pleasure of viewing art is not a commodity; the fact that Kath creates something through labor and that it is valued based on the system at Hailsham cannot be overlooked. The question it implies however, is whether this example is a "mock" or created system which mirrors the production of commodities in the real world? Does Ishiguro use the Hailsham Exchanges as symbolic of the real life system which commodifies the bodies of Kath and the other clones?

It's All in Our Minds

Never Let Me Go is the pinnacle of dystopian fiction. What could be more awful than creating humans to be used for spare parts for other humans? I’m not sure why anyone would think the clones might not have a soul but we are never told exactly how these clones were created. This cloning idea is the latest 1984-like scheme that we already know has the potential to become true.

Probably the saddest part of the book is at the very end when Kath learns that Tommy has “completed” (287). It’s an interesting choice of language. Ishiguro could have used the word “died” but that would be too human-like. These clones are part of a business transaction so it’s appropriate that the language would be business-like. Even Kath calls the cloned people “donors,” which identifies them solely by their functions as human beings(3). While Kath is a “carer,” it’s a title similar to nurse so it isn’t such a loaded term even though we know she will eventually become a donor (3). It’s interesting that they are given first names and only the first initial of the last name, as if they don’t really have a true identity, which I guess they don’t.

Other thoughts: the “sales” are the only connection the characters have with the outside world, which is interesting because they are actually the commodities and that will eventually become their primary/sole connection with the outside world. Ishiguro’s style is muted and plain – there are no incredibly emotional scenes. There is an overall melancholic feel to the narration; if it were a color it would be beige.

Most curious to me is the submissiveness of the characters, their acceptance of their fate with no thought of escaping even though they have some freedom as they get older. It’s very creepy that they are so accepting of their fate. So what keeps them so powerless? Is it a physiological characteristic bred into them? Is it drugs? They have freedom but don’t exercise it even when they know they could find some happiness by living as couples. It seems to emphasize that the greatest barriers we have as humans are the ones we construct in our own minds.

Never Let Me Go: An Argument for Veganism

Humans are cloned, raised, and then slaughtered (in stages) for their body parts.  Then the novel continues with the argument, are they really human?  Do they have souls?

Hailsham, an enlightened stock yard, encourages the livestock to be creative--to show that they do have souls.  How else could they be creative?

And then love.  Bulls and cows enjoy sexual relations--recreational, not affirmational.  But some do form romantic--"love"--attachments.  There is even a rumor that the authorities will put of the trip to the abatoir for three years if they can prove they are in love.  This, of course, is not true.

The sensitive reader will conclude that despite the live stocks' cloned conception, they are human. We see the full spectrum of humanity in their daily lives  However, they are raised for a purpose and, as much as one might be squeamish about the business of the farmyard, the public sees the benefits of this peculiar arrangement--it will save the life of someone dear, or important.

The enlightened stock yards are dismissed and the livestock are continued to be raised in what we are given to believe are horrific conditions.

Authenticity and (re)production:

Are they any less authentic/human because of the reason for their creation?  Their production is based on science--cloning, life created with out love--or at least some level of passion.  And they are not allowed to reproduce-have children--themselves.  They are reproduced on an assembly line basis.

Let's not forget the ban on smoking to keep the meat in good condition.

Anyone for a nice big steak?

Cheerio,

Wayne

 

I'm Sure You All Are Wondering

I first blog on Darkmans was that it was not a cohesive, organic work.  So many parts of it seemed to have no relation to other parts.  When I was finished, I wondered, what the hell was that?  Now, it still does not make much sense when looked at as one entity but, as we have taken it apart on the blogs here and in class, the parts are comprehensible, it's putting them together that is the problem.

Cheers

"edges"

While reading Ghostwritten and Darkmans, I have noticed the idea of liminality arising over and over again. Particularly, I have noticed the recurrence of edges, like quasars on the edges of black holes. "Gaffar's father had been born in Sinjar, on the Syrian/Iraqi border (it was the Kurdish lot to be born on the edge of things, the perimeter, to be squeezed into the outer reaches; at worst to be persecuted, at best loathed and ignored)" (Barker 66). I am beginning to see edges as a part of globalization. Biopower, for example, by categorizing everything, must have many "edges." I am curious as to why these edges would be come so prevalent in globalization. I realize that there was an "acceptable" and a "other," before biopower, large groups with which persons could identify. Now that nothing is "other," and everything is classified, is labeled, does this greatly increase marginalization?

Feet

I have been thinking about the recurrent theme of feet in this.

Now, after reading Julies post about the mutation of language, I wonder about the mutation of feet and shoes.

Kane's mother, we assume, was born with normal feet but then through her career as a dancer, her feet became deformed by overuse.  Yet, she created beauty through dance that resulted in the destruction and ugliness of her feet.

And then there are the pointed toes.  In Beede's dream he looks down at his feet, "- were tightly encased in a pair of  tiny, leather shoes; ornate leather pumps, dramatically pointed.  And the toes - (320).

Later Kane--in some kind of state--is thinking that he is putting soil in his shoes, "His tiny, hand-made, exquisitely stitched, ludicrously pointed boots . . ." (572).

Were these Medieval shoes and they were both channeling John Scogin?

More about shoes is the discussion between Elen and Kane about his feet.  Kane believes he has "unnaturally large feet" but Elen tells him, "'You have perfectly normal-sized feet.'" (394). They embark on a discussion of Doc Martens and, though "'Manufactured in the UK [...] They don't depend on the exploitation of third world labour.'" But Kane says '''there may be serious Human Rights issues in the country - or countries - where they source their rubber . . .'" (395).

I think here we have "The Sweatshop Sublime."

And please don't think I have a foot fetish.

Cheers,

Wayne

The narration of Darkmans is still something that I am grappling with. I want to find meaning in the spaces and endless parenthetical statements. Like we were discussing in class last week the narration breaks on the page give the reader a wide breadth of signals on the page. What I have noticed is that on the pages where there are breaks it reads, to me at least, like the narrator is being cut off and being thrown from the narrative for a few seconds. It only takes that long for you to read the small pieces of Kane's thoughts on page 71 but what strikes me is how at each cut there is a "-" behind and in front the narration. Kane is forcefully interjecting his thoughts into the lines of narration at these points. The narrator is not finished speaking but Kane's words come in and break apart the way it should look. Kane's unwillingness to let the narrator narrate then devalues the narration. If the one telling the story cannot get a word in edge-wise then why should we listen? I believe that is the reason that it takes so much effort to read this novel, we are constantly seeing a struggle between the story trying to tell itself and the characters being uncooperative. On page 240 it seems as though Kane and the narrator are both trying to do the same job, which makes it difficult for the reader to identify important information. In this passage there is a perfect example of how Kane is butting in on the narrator's expertise, 

"Wasn't it simply giving him carte blanche to think about - to dwell on - to linger . . . 

On her? 

Elen?

Or... 

God -

Worse still (standing quietly behind her, almost eclipsed by her shadow / 

Beede?

No.

No It was the foot." (240). 

Kane supersedes what would have been accomplished in narration to let his thoughts in. When the narrator finishes the firsts sentence in this section by saying "linger" it's even hard to tell if that is Kane's thoughts or the narrator's description because it is italicized. Then at the end they echo each other's thought, that it cannot be Elen or Beede, just the wart. They are both attempting to realize the same thoughts and words and they come out simultaneously.

Shifting Identity and a cup-o-noodles

I couldn't help but jump on Chang and Voge's website while reading Walkowdtz's "Close Reading in an Age of Global Writing."  As she went through the various examples I decided to watch the ones she was talking about.  She wrote of Chang and Voge that "In their work translation helps generate solidarities both smaller and larger than the nation" and that was certainly true for me as I watched "Morning of the Mongoloids."  The latest version is in German/English, so I wasn't able to watch the Porteguese one that she watched but I think that I may have experienced a similar result.  I related everything back to myself, my language, and my country.  At first, with the translated language being German, I thought that this clearly must be a German man.  Once he left the apartment and speculated as to where he was and suspected Chinatown, I thought he must have been transmigrated to one of the Chinatowns in the states, because after all, part of this story is relayed in English, right?  After I finished and the last two shots are that he is eating a cup-o-noodles which is great for a hangover, and then it just hangs on the last screen. I don't know if anyone else watched these, and if they got a huge laugh at the end because (not only is it true that cup-o-noodles are a very enjoyable hangover food) I knew I was duped.  I knew as soon as I read that last line that I was ascribed a degree of drama and intensity to this story that was uncalled for.  There is a degree of error in translating and in confusing details, but what was so great about both Walkowdtz's piece and the website was that in the end, global write is translatable.  A story that although in English, really does show the solidarity between a presumably European man, myself (an American woman) and this manifested Korean identity.  Furthermore, the actual story indicates that the identity of any of these traits (European, American, Korean, man, woman) are constructed based on various factors that are constantly at risk of shifting.

iiny-ieny-eeny...

So a few other people have mentioned the use of language in Darkmans. But I don't think anyone has pointed out the fascinating tracing of English becoming English, and how skillfully Barker plays with the transformation of words.

In my undergrad studies I did a fair bit of work in linguistics and old and middle English. Though I didn't love everything about Darkmans one thing I did really enjoy was watching the characters take Middle English (sometimes even middle French and German) and Germanic words and work the sounds out until they became recognizable modern English. I've always enjoyed tracing how our language came to be and particularly pointing out what's a Germanic word, what's a French word and how they mushed together to get English. As far as I know, I no longer have the OED in full online, as I believe it is restricted to institutions or paying members. So I'm not sure if the words I'm looking at in this passage are truly "old worlds."

So I'm pretty sure that these words that are coming to the characters stem from John Scogin's supposed possession and influence on the characters, being that he is a learned scholar of the times, living in I think France. (I was never really sure where he came from, but that he was an educated jester, which seems unlikely as it is. So suspend some belief there). When Beede wakes up in the shower in chapter 12, he's totally disoriented, and his thoughts are in a different language. The first instance that isn't just reactionary sounds is "pen" and "penna." In Latin, penna specifically means "feather." So either Beede is thinking rather haltingly or Barker is playing with her words, since a "penna" could also be considered a quill, or a pen. From there he switches to "feder" which sounds like it's a bastardization of "feather" to English speakers, but really it's the German word for "feather."  Interestingly, "feder" also is a Latinate root from "fidere" for words that have a trustworthy connotation, such as federation or as the sound gets warped fidelity. (http://www.english-for-students.com/feder.html). I wonder just how deeply Barker looked at these word plays, since Beede is in no position at this state, particularly with his warped sense of reality to be trusting things. Particularly black feathers in his shower.

The section goes on. Beede eventually goes through several permutations of words until he uses his blood as ink for the quill, really showing how Barker is playing with her reader.

This word play happens all over the book, but really only with Kane, Beede and Dory, the three who are most affected by the "possession" and with Kane only in his dreams. I'm not quite sure what that means for the difference between Beede and Kane, perhaps a generational thing, but for Dory it's more obvious because he's already bilingual, so it makes sense that he'd think of words in another language until he came across the one he was looking for.

For me, there's not a lot in this book that's really very engaging, but this was one aspect that I really enjoyed, probably because I felt a little smug when I noticed it.

What is Literature?

I know that there are a number of answers to the question, “What is literature?” To wit: (1) it is anything written, (2) it is writing that is deemed to be superior in quality and of lasting value, (3) it is whatever you think it is, and (4) no one really knows because it is one of those unanswerable questions.

Rebecca Walkowitz in this week’s article goes by definition number 3 and approaches it as anything that involves words. I think she’s right about world literature being redefined by globalization but I wonder about the choice she made in deciding to do some close reading of the material produced by Young-hae Chang Heavy Industries.

The people behind the website describe themselves as artists and they produce something that to me seems to be more performance art than literature. Flashing words at the viewer, even if the words do form sentences eventually, is not literature in my book. I’m not saying it has no value; I found it all very interesting but after the fourth chapter(??) I could “read” no more because I was afraid I might have a seizure and that would be especially upsetting as I am not normally prone to seizures. It seems to me that the Chang-Voge work is the kind that belongs on the fourth floor at MOMA along with the artwork featuring a record player scratching along on an album or with the artwork of mirrors sticking up willy-nilly out of globs of what looks like dryer lint or with the white wall with black letters that say “A WALL PITTED BY A SINGLE AIR RIFLE SHOT” (the museum explains that they decided against actually shooting the wall so they settled on just writing the explanation of what the artist did). I like all kinds of art even though some of the more outlandish stuff on the fourth floor is beyond my ken.

So, when Walkowitz tries to do some close reading of the new type of world literature I wonder why she chose the Chang-Voge stuff. Was it the most outrageous example of “literature” she could find? I know that someday there will be only electronic stuff to read and that the Chang-Voge work is apparently “distinctive,” but I wonder how typical that style will become as opposed to stories that will be “born-digital” and “born-translated” but won’t be flashed at the reader.

I get her point about how the definition of world literature is changing in so many ways (translated immediately, available immediately, etc.), but I’m not sure what these new close-reading strategies are that she concludes are needed in the “Age of Global Writing.” I question whether the “writing” that Chang and Voge do can even be classified as writing and how representative it is of storytelling in our increasingly digital world. Does this mean that “A WALL PITTED BY A SINGLE AIR RIFLE SHOT” is literature too?

P.S. (Apparently I am rather thick because I don't really see any new close reading strategies outlined in her article, which she delivered to audiences all over the country. As I am doing the presentation on this reading, I will read this a few more times so perhaps by Thursday I will figure out the strategies. Nevertheless, I will still question the definition of "literature."

And you thought YOUR family was dysfunctional?!

How does one talk about Darkmans without addressing the completely dysfunctional relationship between Beede and Kane?  One need not venture far to smell that there is certainly something rotten in Denmark.  Out of the astounding 838 pages, it only takes a handful before the reader realizes that this father-son duo is in absolute shambles.  I mean, what son happens to run into their father at a coffee shop and demands, "Beede, why the f*** are you here?" (17)?  Aside from the colorfully disrespectful language, shouldn't this random meeting be considered more of a happy coincidence rather than a dreaded fate?  Don't get me wrong, there are certainly times being on the other side of the globe isn't far enough away from certain unnamed relatives, but the banter between this gruesome twosome certainly does not give off the fuzziest of feelings.  As uncomfortable as their relationship made me feel at times, it never appeared to faze them.  Their interactions with one another were completely normal and par for their twisted course.  It is as if they fed off of each other.  It is as if they yearned for it.  I believe that there is an absolutely perfect selection that so precisely sums up their relationship: "And because Beede, his father, was so exquisitely dull (celebrated a kind of immaculate dullness-he was the Virgin Mary of the Long Hour) Kane had gradually engineered himself into his father's anti.  If Beede had ever sought to underpin the community then Kane had always sought to undermine it.  If Beede lived like a monk, then Kane revelled in smut and degeneracy.  If Beede felt the burden of life's weight (and heaven knows, he felt it), then Kane consciously rejected worldly care" (20).   This strained relationship is paramount to the "plot" of this novel and without it, we would sadly miss the je ne sais quoi that these lovely lads possess.  I wonder though, would they be equally interesting if they were on their own?  Would they demand as much attention or consideration if they did not interact with one another?  I seriously think not.  Beede without Kane is like peanut butter without jelly.  Kane without Beede is like Batman without Robin.  It just wouldn't work.  I'm certainly not saying that I desire this type of relationship with my parental units, but I am saying that there is a definite and dare say, required amount of dysfunction in every relationship for it to function on a normal level.

And Back to the Scotland Vote

In The New York Review of Books, 11/6/14 there is an article on the Scottish vote for independence (Ian Jack, 48-9).  He reports that the most votes for "Yes" were in Dundee and Glasgow.  In his analysis of the voting, Ian Jack reports:

"[I]n Glasgow and its formerly industrial hinterland--if the referendum was to be won. Together with newly formed socialist groups in the Yes campaign, it stressed the misery that neo-liberalism and the UK government's austerity policy was bringing to many areas that were already poor and rundown, particularly the towns and settlements around Glasgow that until forty years ago rolled steel, made ships, and dug coal.  Yes campaigners reproached the London government for benefit cuts, food banks (the modern equivalent of soup kitchens), and alleged threats of to funding of the National Health Service, and envisaged a happier future in which a more generous welfare system would be sustained by tax revenues from North Sea oil" (49).

Sounds like some of our class discussions and blogs, doesn't it.

Wayne

Update

After posting my initial blog, a brief but honest view of the novel,  have indeed looked at what all y'all have written and now have been able to make more sense of Darkmans.  This is not to say that I like it any better.  And this from someone who enjoys and identifies to some extent with the weird in this world.  I did like the Dina Broad and thought her last name an apt description of her persona.

Cheerio,

Wayne

Harvey and His Stuff

While I was reading Darkmans there was one section that I really thought connected to the ideas and critical theories we have been reading in class. In Part 2 the chapter called "Abacus Builders LTD" we get a full description of Harvey Broad. And by description all I mean is a list of the products that he has coated himself in, this man is nothing but a walking commercial for useless construction themed paraphernalia. From his "builder's buddy" which is a "kind of  construction worker's gun holster" to his flashlight, "totally water and shock resistant. Blasts out 500 Lumens"  and cost $392 (175). So I have never worked construction but if you need a flashlight that can resist shocks, someone probably didn't do their job right. The flashlight is also military grade, or so it is marketed. Not only s he decked out in ridiculous gear but he is obsessed with the fact that it all relates to American products. His wrap around sunglasses are from QVC and his truck has been modified by Bob Chandler, "a folk hero of the American car industry" (176). Harvey identifies with the idea of rampant consumerism intrinsic to the world's view of America. Not once does the narrator stop to give us a glance at what Harvey actually looks like, he is only defined by the products he has and how luxurious, or difficult they were to achieve. This man truly exists in the sweatshop, but not once does he stop to think about the origin of his products. Those QVC sunglasses were most likely made in a factory in China with grueling conditions and hours. His flashlight claims to be the "first choice of the American military" (175) but I would wager it just said that on the front of the box (although it would make sense that the government would spend that crazy amount of money on a so-so torch) to entice consumers with some small connection to the military. He does not even say what branch, just "the military" and how "they don't screw around" (175). This is a man that capitalism has possessed, he is only the value of the things on him, or the narrator only sees fit to define him by what he can purchase.

Darkmans, language and style

            Let me start out by saying I was not a big fan of Darkmans.  Some of my dislike has to do with style, but mostly I just found that I didn't like it on some grander level.  Despite this, I appreciate some of the things Barker does, even if I didn't really enjoy the novel all that much. 

            Already mentioned was Barker's grammatical style, and it is both brilliant and terrible at the same time.  Some might even argue with my choice to describe it as "grammatical" style, because she eschews so many "rules" of traditional grammar.  This is not something new to us in Contemporary British Literature, but in some ways Barker's style choices seem almost more egregious than, say, Kelman, because we can almost excuse the latter as stream-of-consciousness with Kelman making appropriate grammatical choices to express this specific mode.  Barker, on the other hand, sporadically departs from traditional grammatical forms for a more subtle, pinpoint effect.  Barker's italicizing, bolding, and loose (at times) punctuation and paragraphing all have authorial intention behind them to create a specific effect in the reader.  Occasionally Barker's stylistic choices can be confusing, but the underlying idea behind her choices--to add another layer to the text through grammar--is a concept that has a lot of potential for writers.

            Barker's other admirable achievement in Darkmans lies in the novel's preoccupation with language.  We have talked before about language being an arbitrary relationship between signs and signifiers, and Barker seems keenly aware of this.  Darkmans is laced with double-meanings and authorial influence attempting to influence how the reader makes meaning of the language employed.  What I'll call "language control" begins with the first sentence of the novel ". . . Ashford; the gateway to Europe."  It is very strange that Barker describes Ashford in relation to another place, and yet stranger that Barker assigns that other place to be "Europe."  Ashford is in the county (?) of Kent, in England (Britain or the United Kingdom), part of the continent of Europe, on the planet of Earth, et. cetera.  Barker's choice to use "Europe" in her description of Ashford is significant and intentional, and representative of the type of language control Barker employs on almost any given page of Darkmans.

Tangled and Incomprehensible Web

Oh Ms. Barker, what an infuriatingly tangled web you weave.

After Dr. Karl said something to the effect of: "Well, a lot of my students have hated this book, but I hope some of you will love it," I was absolutely determined that I would find a way to at least like it.  Sadly, however--after much tenacious effort, mind you--I did not like it.  Actually, and please forgive my candor for saying so, I can now be successfully added to the group of past students who have also hated it. 

Perhaps what I found most troubling and annoying was the lack of a coherent plot or even, a plot at all.  Sure, there is a central cast of characters whom we follow throughout the 838 pages, but the only person who seems to have any real motive or purpose is Beede.  In Beede's quest to "right the wrongs" that have been done to him as a result of the theft of his precious antique tiles, the so-called "plot" becomes even further complicated.  We meet even more people whose motives are unclear.  I honestly began to feel like I was a detective assigned the impossible task of uncovering mysterious clues that did not even exist.  There were moments in the midst of my sheer and utter bewilderment that I could almost hear the demonic cackle of The Darkmans himself making fun of me. 

Aside from the exceptionally disjointed storyline, Barker's use of language threw me for yet another loop.  In reference to Gaffar's Turkish/broken English, I'm embarrassed to even admit how long it took me to realize what the bold faced type was meant to symbolize.  In addition, the ways in which Kane switches from eloquent and comprehensible English to suddenly relaying his thoughts through broken and incomplete sentences was also rather jarring.  Although Peta says this condescendingly, I believe that there is a great deal of truth in relation to the language gaps I found in reading this novel: "...the absurd idea that language has these gaps in it and that lives can somehow just tumble through (825).

Alright, I know I may be coming off as a bit harsh, but don't get me wrong though, I totally appreciate the epic creativity that went into Barker's efforts.  In order to produce characters and language with such depth and interest, there is a certain amount of je ne sais quoi that only a brilliantly skilled author can possess.  Although I was utterly confused and frustrated to no end in my reading of this novel, there is a certain amount of credit Barker is deserved.  And as much as I personally didn't like the novel, perhaps she can be labeled as a kind of literary genius (albeit possibly wacky) in her own right.  After all, hasn't it been said that some of the most profound literary works were created by people a little off their rockers?  Wasn't it Sylvia Plath who infamously stuck her head in an oven?

Jobs in Darkmans

Throughout Darkmans, many of the characters are identified specifically with reference to their professions. The chiropodist and the unemployed mother seem to stand out to me in this regard. While they do not seem to be pigeonholed into categories based solely upon these professions, there does seem to be a preoccupation with them.
In light of this, I think that Dory's observation that Harvey was operating three distinct businesses and that he carried a different cell phone for each one, is significant. I think that the correlation between a character and his or her profession is made explicit by the narrator's comment: "And he certainly didn't know (how could he?) that each business represented a different 'side' to Harvey (in much the same way that different outfits and accessories represented a different 'side' to Barbie)."
It seems that the novel expands upon the idea of businesses as representative of the people that engage in them by allowing the reader to engage in a bit of stereotyping and formulating assumptions (which often prove to be true, as in the case of the unemployed mother) about the characters based upon where they fit into the economics of society.

Darkmans as Teacher?

Darkmans has a pretty informal tone throughout the book. The point of view switches back and forth between characters, and even during the narrative focuses on both the narrative, and internal thoughts of the characters as they are reacting to what is taking place on the narrative. But something that struck me was points in the novel where Barker just flat out uses her characters to dictate political opinions and it very much pulled me out of the novel.

The first section that really bugged me was the section where Beede is talking to the cart collector at Tesco about his importance to the store and the chain of workers it takes to get a consumer their goods (particularly through home delivery). Of all the characters Beede is the most teacher-y, but his little diatribe in this section borders on uncharacteristic and really sounds like Barker just hashing out her economic opinions. And it goes on for pages: " 'But what if they're disabled?' Beede challenged him. 'Then they can get their shoppin' delivered on the internet. (delivered on the internet? what?)' 'And how many people are needed to facilitate that?' Brian shrugged. 'Well, let's count them off shall we? There's the person at the computer --for starters-- who receives the order, the person who goes out into the shop and collects the order, the person who stores it until delivery, the person whose job it is to coordinate the transport...' (352). Beede's little diatribe about the evil Tesco reads like a Plato discourse. I dunno, it's just something that really seemed a bit forced in the writing for me.

I was fine to let it go as just a one time kind of annoying thing, until it cropped up again, later in the book. The section with Kane and Peta felt very similar. Here's a couple of characters who were talking about forgery, and suddenly we're reading about branding and exploited workers. It seemed like Barker just took the novel and steered it in a completely different direction to air some personal grievances, then swerved back into the story. That section is even longer--a full ten pages of "lesson." (391-401).

It almost feels like most of the things we've been discussing in class can be summed up in those passages, but it's the way that they're written, and how it seems so shoehorned into the narrative that really bothers me. I guess it's the didactic nature of it, but also the way that it uses a character, then postulates and answers its own questions with a "lesser," learning character.  I found it fussy, and there could have been a better way to include these ideas in the narrative, or leave them out entirely, if they're only going to be used as "teaching moments." There are several other places where the novel does this, but these passages were the worst for me.

MY IQ EQUALS MY SHOE SIZE

When Garrison Keillor, one of my favorite writers, moved to Denmark with his new wife, he was unfamiliar with the Danish language. The New Yorker writer discovered that in Denmark his IQ now equaled his shoe size. He was able to contribute words like “yes,” “no,” and “I don’t know,” and phrases like “My luggage is at the train station” and “Where is Aunt Jane’s pencil?”

I thought of that as I read Darkmans, and was interested in the difference between what someone says in an unfamiliar language and what they would say in their fluent language. In a section of one passage Gaffar says the words “cat,” “bell,” and “fucking nuthouse.” In actuality, Gaffar is saying “Because it’s starting to weigh me down a little — the whole cat thing, the whole bell thing… First your father insinuates it, and then you do. Yeah? And I’m not entirely sure if the confusion that’s developing between us here is based on some fundamental linguistic or cultural difference, or if I’m living in a complete fucking nuthouse— but the fundamental facts of the matter—as I see them….” (507). The passage continues with Gaffar, in Kurdish, using vocabulary like voyeuristic and blithely.

It’s certainly easy to dismiss someone’s intelligence when he can barely string two words together. I found that aspect of the author’s experimentation with language and form interesting, but I admit that I was confused half the time during the story. I really thought that at the end the chiropodist (a new vocabulary word for me) would turn out to be evil. Maybe she is and I don’t realize it because the plot was so hard to follow.

As to some of her other experimentations, at first I got a kick out of the thought bubbles in which we hear what a character is thinking via an isolated word in italics, but then I found it tiresome. I felt the same way about the descriptions in parentheses. I liked them occasionally, such as: “The unmentionable hung between them like a dark canal (overrun by weed and scattered with litter—the used condoms, the bent tricycle, the old pram) (340). It was a gross but a vivid visual and I always appreciate visual writing. I did appreciate some of her other language. For example, when she describes the turkeys as “a posse of grey-suited prison guards;” Gaffar’s discomfort with vegetables, “…he was perky by the broccoli, tranquil by the onions, sanguine by the potatoes”; and Peta’s “dark, hand-painted brows which decorated her fine-boned face like two fabulous pieces of Chinese calligraphy” (362, 361, 368). 

Barker is certainly experimental and buries the English stereotype of stodgy. There is nothing stodgy about this novel. Oh, there is also some stuff about economics. I vote for Wayne to discuss that.

Expressing Language in Darkmans and Ghostwritten

Nicola Barker's Darkmans is a novel of pure experimentation. Everything from the absence of a coherent plot to the use of typical dialogue tags are different from the typical novel. Barker's form is highly experimental. we have already seen experimentation with "typical" form in several of the other novels in this class. Kelman's experimented with Sammy's language, Smith and Mitchell experimented with narration as well as language, and once again in Barker's novel we see this kind of experimentation. 
However, I want to draw a parallel between the representation in Barker's novel in relation to Mitchell's portrayal of language specifically.
As discussed in class, Mitchell's Ghostwritten employs the use of "transfer" to get his reader to understand, that although the text is written in English certain characters are actually speaking in other languages, such as Quasar in the first and final sections is supposedly speaking Japanese. However, Mitchell does not do anything other than tell his reader that this is how he wants them to read. Barker takes a different (and I believe a more successful) approach to this idea in her novel.
In Darkmans, the character of Gaffar is supposed to be Kurdish. Barker both tells us this through his physical description but also through his speech. Barker bold faces the text in his dialogue that is supposed to be Kurdish in order to make it stand out as different. For example, 'You're too, dman skinny already," Gaffar protested, "what do you want salad for? You need some good protien. Chicken. Steak. Lamb. Not salad. Salad's shit. Just water with a dash of color...' (Barker 221). Here Barker bold faces the words that are supposed to be in another language and does not bold the words that are supposed to be English. This provides the reader with a physical clue to the language in the novel, unlike in Mitchell's novel were we as readers just have to pretend. So in spite of the fact that all the words are in English, the bolded words suggest to the reader that Kelly only understand the non-bold words in Gaffar's lines of  dialogue. This is how Barker suggests/demonstrates language in her text more successfully than in Mitchell's novel, through her use of nontraditional and experimental writing techniques. 

Darkmans

I am looking forward to reading other people's blogs on Nicola Barker's Darkmans.  All the while I was reading it and after finishing, I pondered and cogitated over the meaning.  Having given a great deal of thought, I have come up with the following conclusion:

It don't make no sense!

Cheerio,

Wayne

Biopower--Outside it?

I was listening to the "Writer's Almanac" this morning on the wireless and Garrison Keillor recited this poem by W.S. Merwin:


To the Happy Few

Do you know who you are

O you forever listed
under some other heading
when you are listed at all

you whose address
when you have them
are never sold except
for another reason
something else that is
supposed to identify you

who carry no card
stating that you are--
what would it say you were
to someone turning it over
looking perhaps for
a date or for
anything to go by

you with no secret handshake
no proof of membership
no way to prove such a thing
even to yourselves

you without a word
of explanation
and only yourselves
as evidence

Warning!

Thank you, Dr. Karl, for assigning us to read Never Let Me Go.  I have had to double my daily dose of Prozac.

Cheerio,

Wayne

The players are all in...

I found it fascinating that Petersberg and London, with their adventurous narrators were back to back. In Petersberg we have Margarita, who is openly admitting that she takes "lovers" for personal gain.  For Margarita her sexual relationships don't always equate love, but power, until she falls for Rudi. I find it interesting that of all the men for her to really love, she loves the one who is most unavailable even though he is "hers." Between Rudi's drug use and his various "respectable" or  "club" women, he seems to be spending time with everyone but her. Tatyana's conversation with Margarita  also seems to be steering Margarita away from Rudi. The difference between Margarita and Marco is that though Margarita is a  monogamous relationship, she is still engaging in outside sexual activities for the good of the relationship, while Marco switches from a wider net to a monogamous relationship with Poppy.

At the beginning of Marco's chapter he is sorta kinda in an "open relationship"  with Poppy, the mother of his daughter. But he talks quite freely of his various conquests and bedmates. He seems to have a string of one-night stands or short stints of casual sex. I don't think it's right necessarily to label him as commitment phobic, but he seems to rely on his idea of fate and destiny to decide his actions. There are several different women and names he mentions in his chapter, each one a memory triggered by a thing or a place he sees, but he always seems to come back to Poppy or compare them. His luck in the casino, and the near miss of being very rich, then very dead, really pushes him to make an actual decision for himself. Unlike Margarita who's brush with death ends with Rudi being taken from her, Marco's near miss only serves to draw him closer to Poppy.

The two chapters almost serve as a moral foil. Margarita's crimes and relations though small until she kills Jerome, land her in jail. Marco's big mistakes and flustering nets him a wife. I think Margarita's crimes are worse, art theft is a big deal. But did she only do it for love? Marco's failure to settle on any one thing leads him various bad paths, broke, in debt, floundering, but it takes a scare to push him to decide. The two stories back to back have more power as a couple, than the would if they were spread out through the book.

The Novel as a Vehicle for Awareness in Current Society

Okay, so this is mainly speculative and hopefully the group presentation on Vermeulen will help clarify my thoughts on the subject of biopower. I was interested in the section of the article in which Vermeulen quotes Foucault saying, "'that there is a fundamental, essential kinship between tragedy and right...just as there is probably a kinship between the novel and the problem of the norm' (175)" (Vermeulen 388). I took Vermeulen's thoughts here to be in reference to reading the novel as a global or national literary device. So to say that the ideal "global/national" novel presents itself readers with a view of society and the world around them, which include the problems their society is facing. For example in Ghostwritten, as unethically as his organizations motives are for creating a racial pure world, Quasar does point out the problems current society is facing in relation to technology. At one point he says, "The usual red-and-white TV transmitter, was broadcasting the government's subliminal command frequencies" (Mitchell 4). Quasar's cult has taught him that technology is used by the government to spread lies to the population. He also believes that this is what makes the world outside of his cultist group "unclean."
So while, most people in current society do not share these beliefs, it does however point to a negative reputation of technology and its consuming influence on humanity today. I believe in this way, that Vermeulen's reference to Foucault can relate to the problems in our current society but addressing them through novels. Since novels reflect the conditions of the worlds in which they are written.

Close reading Zookeeper (and Bat)

            After the section break on page 386, as in numerous other places in the "Night Train" chapter, the new section opens with Bat doing his disk jockey spiel.  Interspersed with Bat's radio jargon, there are some interesting pieces of information hidden in the paragraph.  Bat talks about three musicians:  Thelonious Monk, Milton Nascimento and Joao Gilberto.  Monk is a celebrated American jazz musician, which makes perfect sense for Bat's show, but the other two don't seem to fit as well.  Notably, both Nascimento and Gilberto are both Brazilian musicians.  This choice of musicians by Mitchell does two distinct things within the novel:  First, it further establishes Bat's character as a lover of eclectic music, which makes sense given his role as a radio show host.  Secondly, the choice to reference musicians from outside the United States (or Britain), suggests at a very basic level the global society that Mitchell seems to be trying to portray.  It is important to note that Bat references many musicians and songs throughout the "Night Train" chapter, and it is possible that Mitchell uses these references as literary devices to accomplish different things at different times (for example, playing off of Dylan's "Jokerman" and Streisand's "Superman" earlier in the chapter for a different juxtaposing effect).

            On the following page, Zookeeper calls in for his second conversation with Bat.  Close reading Zookeeper is a nuanced affair, because Zookeeper seems to lack the subtleness and tact of a Human.  Bat seems interested in Zookeeper for the novelty factor; as a host he wants to keep this crazy--but entertaining--person talking, and as a result Bat seems to acquiesce not press Zookeeper too hard on any of the details that emerge.  Perhaps most interesting out of this exchange on 387 is when Bat asks Zookeeper about seeing the aurora from the inside, to which Zookeeper responds:  "The rules governing use of language are complex, and I lack practice in words.  Imagine being drunk on opals."  Despite seeming hesitant, possibly even avoidant, Zookeeper creates a beautiful metaphor for what it might be like to see the aurora from within.  (Well, let's not forget that it's Mitchell that creates this metaphor, but through the voice of Zookeeper).  For Zookeeper, this simple metaphor adds a level of complexity to his character.  Zookeeper may be a non-corporeal being, but he can see the beauty of the aurora, and more importantly, can engage in the art of crafting metaphors.  Both of these things suggest a depth of emotion to Zookeeper, who Mitchell seemed to design to be a cold, distant character. 

HIS HOLY CULTNESS, AND ONE MAN IS ACTUALLY AN ISLAND

I was intrigued with the first chapter on Quasar and his fervent beliefs. I have always found it fascinating that people can be so blind to what I see as the glaring contradictions in cult leader behavior, so I thought it interesting to read the thoughts of someone who was a believer. The entire chapter on Okinawa contains a plethora of biblical references, all pointing to “His Serendipity” as the savior and eternal god of light who will rule over the “New Earth” by Christmas, the birthday of the Christian savior (Mitchell 24). He will take control in a blaze of light – the comet. In the meantime, Quasar is trapped and isolated in Okinawa —he is not only literally on an island surrounded by an impossibly deep ocean but metaphorically as well because he is alone and surrounded by the unclean.

HIS SERENDIPITY AS A GOD: His name means good fortune and is capitalized just as Jesus’s name is capitalized in all references (noun and pronoun); he is revered like a god (5). He “prophetically” chooses Quasar’s name, as if His Serendipity is an omniscient prophet soon to return to save his people (5). He will “claim his kingdom,” just as Jesus did (5). The leader’s assistants are “Ministers” and he is their “Lord” (6, 28). He wears sandals, as Jesus did, and purple robes, the color of royalty/majesty (9). Quasar kneels and kisses the “holy ruby ring,” just as Catholics do in honoring bishops; and Quasar kisses the leader’s “mouth of eternal life” (9). He is “divine” and will one day gloriously “enter Jerusalem” as the savior (16). To the “unclean, he is “a devil from hell” (22). He is captured by a mob and jailed, similar to Jesus’s experience at the hands of the Romans (25).

BELIEVERS AND NONBELIEVERS: Quasar sees the non-cult members as beholden to the capitalist god and notes with disgust the girl with the pink Minnie Mouse hat, the trash on the beach, and department stores. He says the hotel clerk may not “believe” him and references people checking in “false” names (3). Clearly there are many believers/nonbelievers in the Bible and references to false idols and false disciples. It’s ironic that Quasar thinks the unclean are false when in fact he is giving false names. Quasar refers to non-cult people as “unclean”, “evil,” and sinners just as the Bible does in referring to people in need of grace (3, 19). To himself, he is one of the “faithful,” a “herald” (5, 6). He refers to the “unclean” government as “the voice of the snake charmer,” which makes him the snake but that’s the lesser of two evils (6). Quasar is one of the “chosen ministers of justice,” as if he were chosen in the way that God chose the Jews; he considers himself a holy man who makes a “sacrifice” and dispenses divine justice (6, 7). Quasar notes that previous cult members were “souls” (Biblical reference) who were “betrayed” (like Jesus) (8). The cult is a “family of the spirit” and members are “disciples” (9, 13). He is told by a dog (?!#*!) to eat eggs, the symbol of rebirth (28).

THEOLOGY:  The cult leader’s has numbered rules are called “Sacred Revelations[s],” one of which is “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out;” it is phrased as if it came from the King James Bible and its repeated references to “an eye for an eye” (Mitchell 7, 10) (Matthew 5:38). The organization is called “The Fellowship” (7).

JESUS-LIKE: All of this deceit bothers Quasar, who, once he utters the false name, records these feelings: “Pinpricking in the palms of my hands. Little thorns” (3). Clearly Quasar is referring to Jesus’s crown of thorns and the stigmata, though Jesus certainly suffered more than just pinpricks. So it seems he is comparing himself to Jesus and has been wronged by this process of having to deal with the unclean and tell lies in order to achieve his end of purifying the world. Quasar also has a “bandaged hand” (3). At the end of the chapter he keeps washing his hands because his palms seem to be permanently “blotchy” (25).

PLACES: The hotel corridors are “empty as catacombs,” which is what Quasar hopes to turn the hotel and world into – a giant catacomb (4). He also wishes to return the earth to its “virginal state,” a reference to the Virgin Mary and purity (5). The name of his cult is called “Sanctuary,” which to him is his place of comfort in this unclean world. He calls the department stores “windowless temples,” which seems as if these modern people worship capitalism as their ark of the covenant, which is stored in a temple (Mitchell 4). He walks among palm trees and there is a market with Mediterranean fruits and spices (8, 27). The post-apocalyptic world will be a “Paradise” (17).

LIGHT: He looks into “the eye of the sun,” which of course is the symbol for light (4). Jesus is often portrayed as having a face that shines like the sun and artists have often painted him with rays of light beaming from him on all sides. Of course the sun is in the heavens and the Bible contains numerous references to Jesus as “the light of the world” (Bible, John 8:12). The cult leader has “lit” Quasar’s life (Mitchell 5). The end of the world will be like “White Nights” (5). For now, Quasar is in the unclean world or “the darkness” (5). Quasar receives gamma waves; gamma is the Greek word for the numeral 3, also the number for the holy trinity (father, son and holy spirit), and it is the type of ray that is emitted from the brightness of an explosion. Once the cult leader is captured, the light is gone both literally and metaphorically: “Clouds began to ink out the stars, one by one” (32).

There are probably many more references. I'm tired now, though, so maybe I will have to comment on my own post tomorrow.