Clarke’s Utopian Vision

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]his week’s novel is Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End. In his 1953 novel, Clarke does what he does best: examines the evolution of humanity through two lenses: one of science and one of mysticism. I’m late coming to this work, but I’m reminded of his main theme in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968); i.e., the consequences of humanity’s ever-increasing technological sophistication and its place in the universe. Both novels deal with the next phase of humanity’s evolution, precipitated by alien forces that aren’t quite comprehensible; however, while I have always seen the latter work as an optimistic view of this inevitability, Childhood’s End is sombre and lugubrious at best.

When Clarke wrote the novel, World War 2 had just ended with a bang. The hydrogen bomb was at once the symbol of humanity’s greatest technological ingenuity while also a harbinger of its potential for self-annihilation. Clarke’s novel positions humanity at this crucial time in its history, while its fate could still go either way. Childhood’s End predicts the space race, something that wouldn’t come to the international stage until a decade later, but its main driving force begins when humanity’s choice in its own fate is removed by the coming of the Overlords.

Now, I have to say, I find Childhood’s End reads a bit like a technical manual. The prose is often mechanical; the characters are stiff at best and robotic at worst. I don’t understand the “jokes” that he points out to me, and the narratorial voice is like a effete academic after a bit too much claret. The novel is expansive in scope — the action takes place over about a century-and-a-half — and the setting is primarily on Earth, though there is some space travel and astro-projection. The scenes of dialog were often difficult to read — the characters seemed to be little more than stereotypes in the middle of the novel, bracketed by scientists and the Overlords. To me, the most interesting parts of the novel were the future histories: the third-person narrator became the voice of exposition, telling the facts of human development after the coming of the Overlords. In many ways, Childhood’s End is a test case for humanity: what happens when human conflict comes to an end? Indeed, as a colleague and I were discussing the other day, would we even remain human if we ended violence and war? Is conflict an integral aspect of humanity?

It sounds as if I’m being too hard on Clarke’s writing. Maybe. However, I might also suggest that Clarke meant to write his characters this way. After all, the most tedious parts of the novel were the dramatic scenes in the middle, called “The Golden Age.” Middles are often tedious. The “Earth and the Overloads” shows the coming of the aliens and humanity’s initial reactions, and “The Last Generation” plays out the drama. Perhaps Clarke is illustrating his difficulty with utopia in “The Golden Age”: with no contention, life begins to become stagnant, lacking adventure and challenge: “When the Overlords had abolished war and hunger and disease, they had also abolished adventure” (92-93). Add to that Karellen’s injunction about man’s place in the universe: it is only on the Earth and does not include space travel. He states:

[quote]Your race, in its present stage of evolution, cannot face that stupendous task. One of my duties has been to protect you from the powers and forces that lie among the stars–forces beyond anything you can imagine. [. . .] It is a bitter thought, but you must face it. The planets you may one day possess. But the stars are not for Man. (137)[/quote]

The key word in his speech is “evolution.” Clarke’s novel seems to posit that humanity’s ability to cope with the environment is determined by that environment. That is, in its current form, humanity is not capable of moving too far beyond Earth, or its natural environment. In order to leave the Earth in any appreciable way, humans must evolve. This means, it seems, losing our humanity.

Now, 2001 is not like that. It is an odyssey, and in an odyssey, the final stop is always home. True to form, the last scene in both the film and novel, the Star-Child returns to Earth, ushering in the next evolutionary step of humanity. One could argue the definition of “home” has changed, too, like in Homer’s original Odyssey. “Home” for the Star-Child is now larger than a single planet or solar system; it must led the way for humanity. However, the last chapter of Childhood’s End has the newly evolved post-humans leaving Earth for the stars. Not only do they leave, but Earth disintegrates, as if by the exodus of the children she produced, the Earth no longer has a purpose in the cosmos. By the end of the novel, humanity, in its current form, is extinct.

Therefore, Clarke’s exposition of humanity’s utopia in “The Golden Age” is necessarily a reflection of what humanity has been evolving toward. It is necessarily imperfect because the nature that created humanity is local, finite, and imperfect itself. Whatever humanity creates might help its position on the Earth, but ultimately, perhaps, humans cannot make the next transition alone.

One of the cheesiest scenes in Childhood’s End is the post-party Ouija board seance. I remember hearing this scene (I listened to the novel for the first time last summer) while driving though Kentucky or Tennessee. I was unimpressed, but the whole rest of the novel centers around the mystical revelations of this pivotal scene: Jan’s non-scientific confirmation of the Overlords’ star, and Jean’s “paraphysical” connection with the Overmind. The novel — scientific, sociological, political, and factual up until this point — becomes more mystical, “supernormal,” and occult. Looking at it allegorically, the Overlords seem to represent the products of pure science. They are the masters of all that is tangible — space travel, politics, psychology, etc. There is the Overmind, something that exists beyond the physical realities of this universe, yet has certain mystical connections with it. Then there are humans: they seem to be products of the measurable, quantifiable world, but heading along an evolutionary path that aligns some of them with the Overmind, not the Overlords.

In fact, one of the more poignant parts of the novel lies near the end, when Karellan explains to Jan, now the last human, that the name “Overlords” is tinged with irony: they, too, are products of a certain evolutionary path that will never know the Overmind:

[quote]At the end of one path were the Overlords. They had preserved their individuality, their independent egos: they possessed self-awareness and the pronoun “I” had a meaning in their language. They had emotions, some at least of which were shared by humanity. But they were trapped, Jan realized now, in a cul-de-sac from which they could never escape. Their minds were ten–perhaps a hundred–times as powerful as men’s. It made no difference in that final reckoning. They were equally helpless, equally overwhelmed by the unimaginable complexity of a galaxy of a hundred thousand million suns, and a cosmos of a hundred thousand million galaxies. (205)[/quote]

The ending is bittersweet. The Overlords cannot help feeling sorry for the current humans that they helped to civilize and evolve, but at the same time they envy humanity’s ability to grow beyond the measurable galaxy. They exist in their current form, and they have the knowledge that they have reached the pinnacle of their evolution. Perhaps this is Clarke’s equivalent of lacking wonder beyond the real.

I think that ultimately Childhood’s End is a successful novel. Yet, its end is one of pathos, more of a sense that something is lost. Perhaps more accurately, it’s a sense that we humans, in our current evolutionary form, are so limited. We will be lucky to survive self-annihilation, to grow beyond greed and materialism, to achieve equality, and to live in peace. I’m left with the feeling that even if we do succeed in these Earthly endeavors, there is something we, in our “present state of evolution,” will never achieve.

[box type=”note”]Image: “Leaving Madrid” by Chuck Gumpert, part of his Childhood’s End sequence.[/box]

 

What’s It Gonna Be Then, Eh?

This weekend, we went out, and I prepped for class. So, I didn’t get any writing finished. OK, that’s bull. I finished “Every You, Every Me” on Friday. It took me most of the day, and it probably should have taken me two days. Writing takes a lot out of me: to do it right takes concentration and persistence. I can usually muster about three hours of that a day before my brain turns to cheesy grits. I blew my whole creative wad for the weekend on Friday. That’s OK, since I had course prep to do, anyway. Besides Saturday was so beautiful, it was impossible to stay inside.

I have two more short story ideas lined up. One will be a quick write, I hope, maybe a couple days and not more than 2000 words. The other will be a bit longer and incorporate ideas from the first, but project them 3000 years in the future. It’ll be a good ol’ space adventure story. I’m psyched to get to both. Maybe this week, if teaching doesn’t get in the way. Autumn helped me with some awesome names last night, so I gotta get started soon.

I read much of Lawrence Lessig‘s Remix and Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange this weekend. I’m teaching both this week, though not in the same class. I’ve taught both before, and I’ve read the Burgess at least four times.

Lessig’s a smart dude, and probably the most insightful and sober voice on intellectual property today. His Remix discusses the disparity between RO (read-only, professionals) and RW (read-write, amateurs) culture: copyright laws favor the former and criminalize the latter. For no good reason. He supports and sees the value of both types, and argues that both need to be protected. However, the way current copyright law is written, it supports an old fashioned economy based on dead media — you know, the tape deck or VCR collecting dust in your attic. Laws that governed copies were easy to enforce in a world where technology made it difficult if not impossible to copy. This has changed, but copyright has not. Therefore, we are criminalizing a generation of copiers, remixers, and computer users — amateur RW culture. Lessig’s a moderate in his thinking, so he should appeal to most thoughtful readers.

A Clockwork Orange is a postmodern classic about choosing to do the right (or wrong) things, being young, and learning the importance of community, morality, and expression. Its appeal for me lies in its proto-cyberpunk style: it’s gritty, unapologetic, and ultraviolent, with plenty of the old in-out-in-out. It’s also a cautionary tale of youth and its relationship to the larger social order, about growing up and ultimately choosing to be a responsible member of society. Burgess’ novel ends on an optimistic note (perhaps it was the influence of the 60s when it was written?): Alec grows up. Famously, that’s where Kubrick differed with Burgess and why the film is ultimately more sinister: Alec doesn’t grow up. The monster is free again at the end, making Kubrick’s vision much more pessimistic. For Burgess, redemption is possible; for Kubrick, maybe not.

We were able to hang out on the porch Saturday night, something Autumn and I have not done together in a while. Saturday was a beautiful spring day, and Dan and Monica invited us over for a few drinks and some conversation. Creighton was there, and I even go to see Anna (more on her soon). We had a great time; we need to do this more often, especially now that the weather is getting nice.

The weekend saw some tragic news, too. A colleague-friend’s son passed this weekend. When an unexpected death occurs, we are all left looking for answers, shocked that we’re ultimately so fragile and helpless. My heart goes out to her and her family. I just wish there was more I could do. I’d even say a prayer if I thought it would do any good at all. I could quote some poetry or say something inspirational, but ultimately death comes down to silence, confusion, and impotence. I’m so sorry.

Burgess’ novel constantly asks “What’s it going to be then, eh?” He means to prod us into answering — into moving — into making a bloody choice. The responsibility is in our hands, ultimately. Yeah, it’s a shitty world sometimes, but as long as we have hands, a heart, and a brain, we must act — keep moving. Even if we do the wrong thing. We can blame others, society, even the gods, but, like Oedipus learns: Apollo ordained his fate, but it was his hands that finally fulfilled it.

That’s a good question to ask at the beginning of each day: “What’s it gonna be then, eh?”

Rainy and Random

The rain’s been keeping me inside. Not that staying inside is a bad thing, necessarily. Autumn spent yesterday with her family in Warner Robins, and I made some 15-bean soup, worked on some photos from last weekend’s wedding, read some of McDevitt’s Time Travelers Never Die, finished the crappy bourbon I bought last week, and wrote.

Autumn and I bought a pressure cooker a couple of weeks ago. It’s turned out to be one of the best kitchen purchases we’ve ever made. Put everything in the pot, and you have soup, beans, risotto, whatever in fifteen minutes. I made a split pea soup two days ago that would likely stand up to any soup I’ve ever made. Yesterday’s bean soup is good, but the cupboards were bare. It turned out to be one of those random concoctions: you know, when you collect all the ingredients that you have left, just so you can get rid of them before they go south. I had a bag-o’-beans replete with “Cajun” seasoning packet, a can of tomato sauce, a yellow onion, two small carrots, two larger celery stalks, hot sauce, and water. I put in garlic powder, basil, thyme, a couple of bay leaves, Worcestershire sauce, salt, and pepper. I let the pressure cooker do its thing. I missed the fresh garlic. We always have fresh garlic around the house, so when we’re out, I know it’s time to go to the store.

We’re also out of booze. I stopped in the Depot Package Store on Pio Nono last week to pick up some Maker’s Mark. I’ve been drinking good bourbon lately for a couple of reasons. One, I love beer; however, I’m trying not to take in any extra calories these days, and beer’s loaded with those. Two, I can sip a good bourbon over ice for a while. It’s tasty and not hasty. One glass warms me up, so a small bottle of Maker’s will last me a while. I usually keep Evan Williams around when I’m craving Manhattans.

My regular liquor store is on Vineville near Moe’s, but a train was blocking my way that day. I’m not sure what it was doing, but I had to turn around and take a back road down to Pio Nono. I was too lazy and tired to backtrack up Vineville in 5 o’clock traffic, so I stopped at the Depot Package Store. Either the place had been burgled, or they were going out of business. The shelves were empty, particularly in the bourbon section. They had no Maker’s, nor did they have any Evan. They had plenty of that watery Canadian whiskey, but none my usuals from Kentucky. The dude at the counter watched me stare at the empty aisle: “Can I help you?”

“Do you have any Maker’s?”

“Nerp. Only what you see.”

Hm. They had a small section of small-batch bourbons. I’ve always had mixed luck with these, but I chose one that was not too expensive. Elijah Craig. A Kentucky Jew? It looked a bit darker than I’m used to, but I don’t discriminate based on color. Besides a 12-year-old, small batch whiskey should be fine.

“What’s up with no Maker’s,” I asked at the register. “You guys shutting down?”

The attendant shook his head: “The owner’s cuttin’ back.”

“Cutting way back, I guess, if there’s no Maker’s or Evan.”

“Twenty-one, nineteen, sir.”

Elijah turned out to be a bit too smoky and oaky for my taste. At least now I can go back to Maker’s by not going back to the Depot Package Store and its enthusiastic attendant.

Last weekend, Autumn and I photographed the wedding of a young couple. Rudy is the son of a colleague of Autumn’s, so my wife got us this gig. We spent over six hours with Rudy, Christian, and their friends and family on Friday and Saturday, snapping about 1200 photos. Since Sunday, I’ve post-processed about half. My deadline is Sunday; I’d like to have all the photos posted before I go back to class next week. Out of the 1200, I’ll post the best 250 for them to look at. Then, I’ll create their album and video. Some of the shots came out  very well. I’ll have examples posted on my photog site in a couple of days.

I also want to finish reading Time Travelers by Monday. I’ve been into McDevitt’s work for a couple of weeks now. He was such a nice guy at the Crossroads: very generous to spend time with me. In fact, listening to him speak inspired me. Not only am I keeping up with my blogging — thanks for the positive feedback, everyone — but I’ve decided to try my hand at writing science fiction.

I’ve begun outlining what will likely be two novels. I also have two solid plots for short stories. I even started writing one last night. I’m pretty excited about this, so much so, I couldn’t sleep. I hope to have my first ever sf short story done by the end of the weekend!

Who says rainy days aren’t good for anything?

Insomniac

I hate when I can’t sleep. It seems like it happens more frequently these days. I can usually feel it coming on, too. I lay in bed, earplugs securely in, and a random thought occurs like, am I sure my second session class begins on Thursday, and not today? Maybe I missed it? As my mind works, I can actually hear my heart begin to beat faster as my breathing gets shallow and rapid. One thought invariably leads to another; my anxiety rises, forcing my eyes open. To me, it sounds like my breathing and heartbeat are as loud as a percussion section in a Tchaikovsky symphony. Nothing to do but go to the couch.

Nothing like a distraction to help cure insomnia. The web is full of distractions. What’ll it be first? Facebook? Flickr? Maybe I’ll just go through my neglected RSS feeds. I start from left to right.

Facebook is the new high school. I was never that popular in high school, nor am I popular on Facebook. Some of my friends 249 “friends” are — you know, the ones who were popular in high school. I like when I post a link to a political story or an interesting photo or a funny YouTube video, I rarely get a response. Yet, one of the populars posts the same damn thing, and people seem to fall over themselves to be the first to offer a bon mot, a snarky response, or some other slithering obsequiousness. Facebook changes its interface every three days, too. You’d think this would be for the better, but it usually amounts to what the campus IT guys call an “upgrade” — you know, something that helps them as administrators but makes the system worse for its users.

Flickr is not much better. I have less “friends” on Flickr, and they are a more gregarious community. However, the “photographers” who seem to get the most attention are the ones who post pictures of their lovely lady lumps. I might even go so far as to say that the most popular photogs on Flickr are young women self-portrait artists who don’t mind showing their boobs. They don’t even have to be good photographers to get a lot of comments. My favorites are the ones who try to analyze a technical proficiency that’s not there: “Excellent composition and attention to details.” What they really mean is “Nice boobies!” Even serious photogs turn into Beavis and Butthead when boobs are involved. Yours truly is no exception. Flickr used to be about growing as a photographer; now it’s about looking at boobs.

One could learn a lot about me by seeing my RSS feeds. I use Fever as my reader of choice, installed at Jhary.com. Fever allows me to prioritize my feeds into “kindling” and “sparks”; the former are the essential sites I want to read, while the latter are supplemental and only influence what’s hot — i.e., what’s being talked about the most on all my feeds. While it’s expensive, I’ve been using Fever for almost a year now.

I usually begin my RSS perusal with technology news, like what’s up with Apple and Ubuntu. Since the iPad is coming out at the end of the month, it’s interesting to see what the lovers and haters have to say. There are plenty of both offering praise and condemnation for a device that hasn’t even come out yet. It looks like it might be bigger than the iPhone. I usually include Boing Boing, Slashdot, and LifeHacker as part of my tech browsing.

From tech, I look to photography, from Canon rumors and new equipment to advice about being a better photog to equipment reviews. Next, if I’m still awake, I check out what my favorite car company — Mini — is up to on Motoring File, and I might look at a couple of motorcycling feeds.

Yes, I have feeds on politics, arts, literature, and other news, but I generally don’t read these when I’m trying to fight off insomnia.

Last night I found something interesting on LifeHacker: 750 Words Clears Your Mind. It suggests a simple site, 750 Words, that encourages you to write 750 words a day. Now, I gotta say, I’m prime for this suggestion, having just met some great writers at the Crossroads Writers Conference, like Jack McDevitt. Now, I’ve never fooled myself into believing I was a writer, especially a creative one. Yes, I took a creative writing class as an undergrad, making Dr. Cole suffer through all my awful sonnets and short stories, but the only thing I really learned is that I’ll likely never write a novel. Still, it is a dream of mine. I’d love to write a series of science fiction novels.

Thsi is where 750 Words comes in: “The idea is that if you can get in the habit of writing three pages a day, that it will help clear your mind and get the ideas flowing for the rest of the day.” Well, the 750 Words web site is not taking any new accounts at the moment, but this entry is my first — up over 800 words by now. When I asked Jack McDevitt how many pages he writes a day, he told me six, about 1500 words. But, he’s a real, working novelist.

Maybe if I just get in the habit of writing, I can get better? At least it will give me something productive to do when I’m insomniac.

Standpedia

StandpediaAnother cool Web 2.0 site I discovered recently is Standpedia. On their FAQ, they call it a “wiki-style encyclopedia of controversy” where “tough questions are answered from a variety of perspectives, instead of a single ‘neutral point of view.'” What I like about the site is that they encourage users to problematize ideas, rather than answer them easily, thoughtlessly, or impetuously. For my purposes, it’s essentially a way that new college writers can begin visually and critically thinking about ideas.

Since I have been teaching critical thinking implicitly all semester, and now explicitly with Barnet and Badau’s book, Standpedia has great potential for me as an educator. I have come up with an initial assignment that my students are beginning today. We’ll see how they do soon enough.

Lessons

Sitting in the airport waiting to board a plane to Philadelphia, I can’t help but think about some advice I gave to my students this morning. Mostly, it’s the lack of a Wi-Fi connection and the realization that computers are not that interesting without a network connection that precipitated these thoughts. It concerns an activity that I should practice more often, something that takes a Promethean effort for me to do anymore, but something that I know is beneficial, both personally and professionally. Something that only a lack of a network connection and the disappointment that the terminal bookstore did not have Dawkin’s The God Delusion and the fact that I must save my iPod’s battery for the flight and my lack of foresight to bring magazines that I haven’t already read… Yes, I’m talking about writing, one of the most painful activities I know of, more painful than a paper cut under my fingernail.

My advice to my students likened writing to any other skill that requires daily practice and devotion, like playing the piano. Like the piano, you might understand what all the keys are called, what your hands and feet are supposed to do, and even how to read music, but you will never actually play the piano unless you practice that theoretical knowledge. Daily.

Sadly, it was this very reason why I quite playing the trumpet. I like to tell people that I was a very good mediocre trumpet player. I had an excellent tone, pretty good power, and the theoretical skills to most jobs done. However, I think it was my second semester in college as a music major when I realized that I needed to practice more and that I just didn’t want to. Music had ceased being fun, something I related to hanging out with friends, and started to become more of a chore, like cleaning the bathtub. I give myself the credit for realizing this on my own — I had become the best trumpet player I could be. I could not devote the extra time that I needed to become better. I had, as those guys who never quite make it to the top of Everest say, but who realize they will never go any higher: “I have summitted.”

My point: writing take practice. Daily practice, if you ever hope to get any better, but also to maintain the altitude you’ve already climbed. Like the athlete who injures her ankle and isn’t able to run for two weeks, she falls and must work to bring herself back up to the level she was before she fell. The same is true for the writing muscle: the brain. If you don’t work it everyday, it become analogous to the runner’s muscles that have stopped exercising: it atrophies and loses its edge. Practice keeps the writing muscle honed. Daily practice.

This was the pith of my lesson today. Yet, it’s advice that I don’t follow. How can I expect my Freshmen to practice their writing everyday if I don’t myself? I’m lazy. It’s easier not to write, just like it’s easier not to run four miles a day, like I used to. It seems my mind is becoming as flabby as my waistline.

To continue this equally chubby metaphor, perhaps my writing is also suffering from lack of poignant input? To keep your stomach trim, it takes more than exercise, right? You also have to consider your diet. I used to be as devoted to my diet as I was to my exercise régime, but like my physical laziness, I have become culinarily lazy, too. I can only blame my homemade pizza so much. Finally, it just comes down to practicing what I know is good for me. What I know will make me more healthy, slimmer. This means I should be reading more. I can only blame cable teevee so much. I’m fond of saying that in order to be a strong writer, you must be a strong reader. I believe this. And I am a good reader, I just don’t read as much as I should. I find myself wondering if the consequences of not flexing my reading muscle is the same as not working my writing muscle. I have a suspicion it is.

These are things I know rationally are healthy for me, corresponding to the Greek logos. However, what seems to be lacking is the pathos, the feeling, or passion, for writing. I can only blame distractions so much. I have been interested in new media, photography, and other creative outlets. Surely, these activities work that writing muscle? Like reading/writing, surely photography is using similar skills: one must be able to analyze photographic compositions (reader) in order to be a good photographer (writer)? Maybe I’ve been writing more than I think?

As always, I can’t be sure my students heard anything I had to say today. However, maybe I was listening? At least I’m thinking about it, and it looks like I just wrote about 900 words. . . . I just heard that the plane is running “extremely late due to weather.” Crap. Maybe I’ll watch this big screen teevee for a while.

Writing Excellent Blog Entries

Lloyd Lemons links to B. L. Ochman’s “How to Write Killer Blog Posts and More Compelling Comments” on her What’s Next Blog. Ochman’s advice is some of the best I’ve read lately, suggesting the deliberate nature of blogging and stressing audience expectations. I can’t follow all of her advice all of the time, like limiting an entry to 250 words, but the general idea of writing less and more accurately matches Neilson’s guidelines. Maybe I like her entry because it gives strong writing advice. Good stuff: reminders that we can all use.

Isn’t It Ironic?

Well, maybe, but probably not. Zoe Williams’ article from the Guardian (leave it to the Brits) examines this popularly misused word in our ironically post-ironic culture. From the article:

But irony as part of the British literary tradition doesn’t, generally speaking, commence with Romantic irony, but rather with the device that has its roots in Socrates, viz, saying the opposite of what is true in order to underline the truth. So, from this you’d trace a line from Chaucer, through More, Sidney and Milton, arriving at Swift and Austen, where you can see a pleasing bifurcation of irony’s literary use. Austen uses irony as a means of being understated. Swift, by contrast, uses irony for polemical purposes, conjuring grotesque images ironically (babies being eaten, mankind enslaved to the morally superior horse) in order to state his case (that the Irish were starving, that humanity was going to the dogs) ever more forcefully.

It seems that her overall point is that irony is a trope of judgment strategically used to make a point about an issue or situation, from feigning ignorance about an issue to get your opponent to say something stupid, to a split perspective that allows one to hold two opposing views simultaneously (sounds more like a rhetorical question), to a Swiftian satire that implicates dominant ideologies and policies through a vehicle of fun, to the language of dissent. It seems to me that one problem with irony today is that people just don’t get it — many seem to be so literal-minded that any sophisticated arguments employing irony are lost. OK, I have to teach now, but I’m not done here, yet. . . .