Читать книгу Absent Rebels: Criticism and Network Power in 21st Century Dystopian Fiction - Annika Gonnermann - Страница 12

Whoever aspires to the articulation of final absolute truth about man and society has already planted the seed of tyranny. (Milovan Djilas quoted in Gottlieb 33)

According to Fredric Jameson “[u]topia has always been a political issue” (Archaeologies xi). Although he concedes that this nexus constitutes “an unusual destiny for a literary form,” many definitions support exactly this classical connection, building their attempts to demarcate the genre through an analysis of content. Raymond Williams, for instance, concentrates on the nature of the society presented in dystopian works, before categorising the novels accordingly (cf. 95). Others have worked with the same mechanism to uncover a clear focus of the genre: dystopia’s traditional occupation is the topic of state power, and the abusive structures of authoritarian and totalitarian governments (cf. Suvin’s definition). Dystopia has been defined as “a fictional portrayal of a society in which evil, or negative social and political developments, have the upper hand,” dealing with “the quasi-omnipotence of a monolithic, totalitarian state demanding and normally exacting complete obedience from its citizens” (Claeys, “Origins” 107).1 The genre “articulates a specifically political agency” (Moylan quoted in Donawerth 30) and “describe[s] a variety of aspects and with some consistency an imaginary state or society” (J. Max Patrick quoted in Sargent 7). Accordingly, it has been described as a “draft of a state, based on a certain ideology […] [typically] an authoritarian, omnipotent state structure, which will triumph over individualism” (Layh 155, own translation), warning “of state structures, which reduce the individual to a marionette without will and consciousness” (Zeißler 9, own translation).2

This focus on the state as object of investigation is grounded in two aspects. Firstly, dystopia’s state preoccupation results from its close generic connection to eutopia, which “is inextricably linked to modernity and to the state-form” (cf. Tally Jr. 3).3 Secondly, according to Tom Moylan, this focus on politics has its roots in the origins of the genre, which “begins to sharpen as the modern state apparatus (in the Stalinist Soviet Union, Nazi Germany, social democratic welfare states, and right-wing oligarchies) is isolated as a primary engine of alienation and suffering” (Scraps xii). This focus on totalitarian states is evident in the classics of the genre, or the works of the “the big three” (Beauchamp 58), Huxley, Orwell, and Zamyatin, which “relied on a totalistic state to control time and space, history and memory, experiences and possibilities” (Stillman 377). Some 50 years after their publication they continue to define the genre’s standards and self-understanding (cf. Zeißler 9).

Classical dystopian fiction traditionally works within the parameters of external criticism. Its focus on totalitarianism and state policies predestines an external criticism approach that supports an alternative way of living. As a first step, these novels usually flesh out the totalitarian world in all its gruesome details, smattered with scenes of surveillance, hardship, violence, famine, war, indoctrination, public hangings or torture. Implying that these worlds are merely the logical conclusion of the current state of affairs, these novels warn that totalitarianism is just around the corner unless we change things now – a horrific image for readers whose cultural memory stores two world wars and the times thereafter. As Friedrich and Brzezinski argue, totalitarianism is defined by characteristics that deter and repel: a single, simplistic ideology encompassing all aspects of existence; a single mass party typically led by one individual turned dictator, supported by a fanatic hard-core following; a system of police control and surveillance, terrorising the public; and a centrally directed economy (cf. 9f). In The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), Hannah Arendt elaborates on this analysis by stressing the consequences for the individual: “[t]otalitarian domination […] aims at abolishing freedom, even at eliminating human spontaneity in general” (405; cf. also Voigts, “Totalitarian” 54). In order to condemn totalitarian societies, the great majority of dystopian novels advertises libertarian socialist ideas,4 that is to say, ideals informed by a militant anti-totalitarianism, in the form of humanistic maxims such as individuality, creativity, and freedom as expressed by both negative and positive freedom rights (cf. Jacoby, Imperfect xiii).5 As Terry Eagleton argues, alternative universes “have been largely the product of the left” (“Utopias”) and Ken Macleod even states that “the political philosophy of sf [and dystopia] is essentially liberal” (231). Darko Suvin, one of the most renowned science fiction scholars of all time, calls these works of fiction “Jeffersonian” (“Bust”), meaning that they demand the right to life, liberty, and happiness. Indeed, Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, Huxley’s Brave New World, and Zamyatin’s We clearly champion a libertarian perspective in the face of totalitarianism and state control and demand the introduction of a more liberal ideology based on humanist notions. External criticism here equals the substitution of totalitarianism (object of critique) by democracy (externally imposed standard).

Dystopia’s means of libertarian criticism are of a narrative nature; showcasing the most despicable features of totalitarianism, these novels and their critique are often wrapped up in a didactic set-up that leaves little if any room for ambiguity. Classical dystopian texts resort to a handful of genre characteristics that have proven to work well in a didactic context: the character structure of both main character and antagonist, the distribution of sympathy, a plot structure based on hegemony and resistance, and the location of hope (usually) outside of the text.

Usually, dystopian fiction employs an easily recognisable template in terms of character constellations. These novels usually include two (usually male) characters embodying the contradictory systems, thus using protagonist and antagonist as mouthpieces for certain abstract ideas and principles, personifying concepts and mental attitudes and not realistic people (cf. Zeißler 32).6 Orwell’s O’Brien, Huxley’s Mustapha Mond, and Zamyatin’s Benefactor are ciphers for totalitarianism employed to make the abstract system tangible. In We, the Benefactor rules the One State with the tyranny of the community over autonomy and individual choice. In Brave New World, Mustapha Mond explains to the reader a world grounded in “eugenic engineering, behavioral manipulation, and the subordination of all humanity to the machine and the firm belief in science” (K. Schmidt 238); and Nineteen Eighty-Four is unmistakeably marked as a commentary on the reality of the year 1948, through the exchange of the last two digits (cf. Firchow 115), exemplifying what happens if the state’s ideology infiltrates every aspect of private life: constant surveillance through telescreens, arranged marriages for the sole purpose of producing party members and the annihilation of memories, emotions and frankly, common sense, as best exemplified by O’Brien’s absurd claim that two and two make five (cf. Nineteen Eighty-Four 286f.).

Just as the antagonists are placeholders for certain totalitarian ideologies and beliefs, so are the protagonists. Winston Smith, whose name, a combination of a common British last name (Smith) and the first name of Britain’s war hero Winston Churchill, marks him a modern everyman (cf. Voigts, “Totalitarian” 48), pleads for universal human rights:

The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command. […] And yet he was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsupported fall towards the earth’s centre. With the feeling that he was speaking to O’Brien, and also that he was setting forth an important axiom, he wrote:

Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows. (Nineteen Eighty-Four 92f., my emphasis)

In this section, Winston clearly functions as an alternative to the system, personifying a decidedly liberal, Jeffersonian approach to human life coupled with reason and science. He is stylised as the Party’s antonym, not only by his use of pronouns (“I” versus “them”), which clearly mark him as a rebellious outsider, but also on a metaphysical level. Exclaiming “they were wrong and he was right,” Winston opposes the ruling elite, viewing himself as a supporter of truth that had “to be defended.” His form of life is equated to the unchangeable laws of physics, “stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsupported fall towards the earth’s centre,” and therefore defined as infinitely more natural and thus more just than the Party and its proposed way of life. In this excerpt, Winston clearly works within the methods of external criticism. He first identifies the object of his critique, the Party, constructs an alternative to their way of life, and then invests all his energy into making his vision of human life a reality. Consequently, the larger part of the novel is dedicated to the depiction of Winston’s revolution, as he grows ever more suspicious of the Party until he eventually joins a resistance movement, ready to destroy the Party with the help of guerrilla tactics.

Similarly, Huxley’s Savage functions as mouthpiece for a more libertarian perspective (cf. Troschitz 47). It is he who demands in a speech (not unlike the liberal, humanist appeal of Shylock in William Shakespeare’s drama The Merchant of Venice, 1605) the right to live a life undaunted by ideological deliberations and scientific modifications:

‘But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.’

‘In fact,’ said Mustapha Mond, ‘you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.’

‘All right, then,’ said the Savage defiantly, ‘I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.’

(Brave New World 211f.)

Demanding “the right to be unhappy,” the Savage, too, functions as mouthpiece for an alternative way of life that stands diametrically opposed to what the leaders of the totalitarian One State have to offer (cf. Tripp 40f.). The readers are presented with a clear dichotomy between the two approaches: God, i.e. spirituality, poetry, i.e. literature and arts, as well as freedom, goodness, and sin, i.e. emotions and consciousness – a cornucopia of positively connotated terms, which could be complemented by further associations such as beauty, passion, or friendship – are channelled into a libertarian form of life that stands opposed to an ideology that has robbed humans of their emotions, and thus of the quality that makes them human in the first place. The inner workings of this scene are similar to those in the paragraph quoted above from Nineteen Eighty-Four. Again, the dystopian dissident describes the totalitarian system in all its gory detail (cf. Brave New World 211), before sketching an alternative way of life ultimately declared to be superior.

Given the two options, an educated reader should of course identify with the Savage and his ideas about moral integrity, humanism, and the good life. Mustapha Mond and his apparent rejection of seemingly all that is good offers no platform for sympathy – a narrative trick with which classical dystopian fiction ensures the propagation of its libertarian message. While dystopia usually asks “readers [to] judge the projected society by the standards of their own” (Ferns 109), those immersed in the text are seldom left on their own to decipher the ‘message’ or ‘lesson’ of the text. Dystopian fiction places enormous emphasis on the distribution of sympathy, guaranteeing that readers arrive at the desired conclusion. Condemnable practices are introduced by the state and its personifications (cf. Zeißler 76; also Hug 39); the antagonists are usually defined by their inhuman, almost fanatic belief in the totalitarian system and their ruthless endeavour to stabilise it (including murder, brain surgery, torture, war atrocities, etc.). As Ferns maintains, “the horrors of dystopia guarantee a sympathetic reaction on the reader’s part” (118). O’Brien, for instance, tortures Winston by tapping into his childhood trauma (rats), crushing him mentally and physically. Contrarily, acceptable behaviour is usually attributed to the protagonist, to whom readers are drawn. Sympathetic protagonists are defined by their intelligence, both intellectually and emotionally. D-503’s position, for instance, is unique within the totalitarian system due to his love interest with I-330 and her positive influence on him. Through her, he eventually accepts the Christian doctrine of humans having a soul before he is captured and ‘healed,’ that is, brainwashed. Equally, Winston and John seem to be the only characters capable of experiencing genuine emotions in the form of love, joy, or happiness, and are thereby established as unique reference points for the audience. While Winston discovers his appreciation for art and beauty in the form of a coral paperweight and antiques, John reads Shakespeare and advocates genuine emotions. Also, his distinguishing feature is his superior command of the English language. Tellingly, his language abilities are woven into his emotional intelligence; he is set apart by his refusal to refer to his mother by her first name in order to spare her the embarrassment of being called “mother” – a derogatory term in a society in which age, illness, and other bodily functions like pregnancies are deemed embarrassing or even revolting. Furthermore, he insists on true love and monogamy – again something the Western reader can relate to while the polygamous inhabitants of the World State shrink away in dread. In summary, all three protagonists, Winston, D-503, and John are conceptually closer to the reader than any other character. The similarities in political views, cognitive capacities, and humanist education promote an identification process, which underscores the liberal, humanist ‘message’ of the texts. By identifying with them, the readers are encouraged to adopt the moral superiority of a libertarian ideology.

This distribution of sympathy is further cemented by a plot full of suspense, driven by the question of whether the rebellious protagonist will succeed in (usually) his attempt at overthrowing the state. According to Raffaella Baccolini, dystopia is “usually built around the construction of a narrative [of the hegemonic order] and a counter-narrative [of resistance]” (“Womb” 293): the protagonist “moves from apparent contentment into an experience of alienation and resistance” (Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 5),7 meaning that every protagonist of dystopian fiction is structurally designed within the narrative to critically assess the terrifying ‘harmonious’ stasis of totalitarian regimes. It is true to say that the subplot of resistance is usually considered the defining narrative trait as it guarantees both character development, action, and the projection of its message. As Shellie Michael puts its simply but accurately: “audiences like rebels” (“Downsizing”). Therefore, the typical trajectory of the protagonist has grown into a quite customised plot: what starts as critically questioning single instructions soon grows into active rejection of the entire system, often in the form of rebellion of any kind.8 The individual is positioned in opposition to a totalitarian state apparatus thus functioning as a symbol for a more liberal way of life (cf. Mohr, Worlds 32; also J. Schmidt 238). Accordingly, dystopian narratives are usually narratives of alienation, or even emancipation from a totalitarian structure and mode of living to finally achieve a more liberal life style achieved by rebelling against the status quo (cf. Moylan, “Moment” 136) – even if they (most of the time) show protagonists who fail.

To summarise, dystopian narratives place an immense amount of trust in the hands of their readers. As Ferns describes, “in resisting the authoritarian aspirations of the State, dystopian dissidents may be seen as offering, at a narrative level, an embodiment of the reader’s own resistance to the closure and over-determination which so often characterises the traditional utopia” (22). These novels trust their readers with the responsibility of transforming the world for the better – even if their own protagonists have failed. It is the readers who are burdened with the task of fighting for a better future, having been repulsed by the dystopian totalitarianism, and having been drawn in by the alternatives to which the text alludes. After all, the fictional worlds of Nineteen Eighty-Four or Brave New World are not only dominated by bleak and terrifying totalitarian systems. While they may end hopelessly, they nevertheless provide a silver lining in the form of alternative communities, in which people structure their lives according to the novel’s libertarian agenda: the Savage Reservation, the Forests, the countries of the other superpowers. Totalitarian rule in dystopian fiction is finite; when Zygmunt Bauman wrongly claims that there is no alternative present in neither Brave New World nor Nineteen Eighty-Four, he is misled by the fact that both novels only hint at alternatives to the system (cf. Freedom 92). Alternatives exist in the form of dissident protagonists or enclaves of eutopia, advocating libertarian forms of life devoid of state regulations and communitarian ideologies.