Archive for the 'post-apocalyptic book club' Category

Post Apocalyptic Book Club: Earth Abides

Sharon October 22nd, 2008

Ok, things have been shifting so fast that it almost seems as though it isn’t nearly as fun to read post-apocalyptic novels anymore ;-) .  I’ve fallen down on the job pretty badly – but am finally catching up on Hunter-Gatherer month.  So let’s talk a bit about George Stewart’s classic novel _Earth Abides_.

This month’s works have the pleasure of fairly high quality writing.  Stewart’s narrative is, I think, quite gracefully done, and watching Ish navigate through the process of discovery, of grief and its stages, the slow discovery of what he wants and a future for himself, the recognition that he doesn’t fit with everyone who has survived - in a sense, I think Stewart may have narrated the process of adapting to disaster better than almost anyone else.   

The book was written in 1949, and it contains some gender and racial issues from those periods, some of the same things we’ll see in Alas Babylon, written less than a decade later.  But like Alas Babylon, the book tries very hard not to stretch past that viewpoint.  Ish often assumes he’s smarter than his wife since he thinks mostly about things like the future of civilization, and she tends to focus on practicalities, but the book shows over and over again that Em is actually more attuned to the present than Ish is.  It is she who points out that they need a sense of time more than the retention of high culture. 

“Again he thought that was like a woman, to put even such an all-important thing as the very date in terms of her unborn child. But yet, as so often, her instinct was right – a great pity if the historical record should be broken at some point!  Doubtless in the long run, archaeologists could restore the continuity by means of varves or dendrochronology, but it would save a lot of work if someone merely kept the tradition.” (123)

Ish cannot but think in terms of maintaining the past – but the future reshapes itself, and shows his fixation on the past as a failure, a limitation in the end. In fact, it turns out that once they find a way to track time, the way they track time reshapes the narrative – the “Quick Years” section of the book picks up the way that time changes for them.

The book chooses to imply that the fact that the children lose literacy is mostly an inevitability – Ish tries, at least casually, to teach the children, but it never works, and soon, literacy becomes less and less relevant to them.  This part of the narrative seems the most unlikely to me – there are so many ways in which literacy might have had direct relevance – in which parents might have discovered new things in books, and transmitted them.  The idea that all the parents except Ish casually dismiss the value of literacy in life that  does not seem overly laborious seems strange and unlikely to me.  The idea that Joey is the single potential carrier of literacy too, seems strange.

In this case, I think Stewart needed to strip literacy off his society, and chose to do so in a rather inadequate way.  But it is a fascinating narrative, this loss of literacy and of civilization.  Ish tries to hold on, and we cannot but sympathize with his attempts – but neither does the book allow us to see them as right or true in all respects.  In the end, Ezra says that what those who survived had was what was most needed,

Why each of them survived the Great Disaster – that I still do not know.  but I think I can see why each of them survived the shock that came afterwards, when so many went under.  George and Maurine and perhaps Molly too, they lived on and did not go crazy because they were stolid and had no imagination.  And Jean survived because she had her temper and fought back at life; and I, because I went out from myself and shared the lives of other people.  And you and Em…”

But here Ezra paused, so that Ish himself could speak.

“Yes,” said Ish, “you are right, I think….And I, I could live because I stood at one side and watched what was happening.  And as for Em….”

There he too paused, and Ezra spoke again.

“Well, as we were, so The Tribe will be.  It will not be brilliant, because we were not like that.  Perhaps the brilliant ones were not suited to survive….But as for Em, there is no need to explain, for we know that she was the strongest of us all.  Yes, we needed many things.  We needed George and his carpentry, and we needed your foresight, and perhaps we needed my knack of making one person work better with another, even thought I did little by myself.  But most of all, I think, we needed Em, for she gave us courage, and without courage there is only a slow dying, not life.”

This reminds me of Annie LaMott’s claim that one of the lessons of life is that the people who are here are the right people.  The narrative claim is not so much that any of the characters was perfect, but that their collective strength was sufficient, and it made a people that were shaped, if not controlled, by their origins.

Ultimately, given the parameters the author sets out, I find the book both compelling and fascinating.  I don’t necessarily think that the outcome – the stripping of civilization, loss of literacy and most (not all – we are told that patrilineal descent among other things, is retained because people are still too American to make the shift) of prior culture could happen nearly as quickly as Stewart suggests, but the accelleration is, in part, a narrative quirk in itself – its pathos is increased by having a unified narrator tell the whole story.

What did you think of the book?

The Dog Ate My Homework or Why the PA Novel Discussion Will be Delayed

Sharon September 21st, 2008

Due to technical difficulties (ie, my copy of “After the Crash” was unreadable and has to be replaced), the PA discussion will have to proceed without me until I can a. get my copy of the book and b. read it.  So y’all go ahead – I’ll post a proper discussion ASAP.

 Sharon

Past and Future – Post-Apocalyptic Novel Discussion

Sharon September 16th, 2008

The Horses
 
  Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listen, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
‘They’ll molder away and be like other loam.’
We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers’ land.
And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.Edwin Muir

Just a reminder to everyone – next week we’ll begin Caryl Johnston’s Peak Oil novel _After the Crash_ which is available here in downloadable form: http://www.lulu.com/content/2033772.  Now back to SM Stirling – and to Edwin Muir.  My friend George Franklin calls Muir’s poem the “happiest post-apocalyptic writing ever.”  And that’s precisely why I think it might be a useful way to explore the underlying fantasy in our fears of energy apocalypse.

This is a subject near to my heart – I wrote a good chunk of my doctoral dissertation about the black death in the 17th century and the fears and anxieties that writers expressed about an emptying world.  One of the things I found in the texts of Shakespeare, Marlowe, Jonson and others who lived in a depopulated, partly emptied world, was that people’s fears of apocalypse were intertwined, even as they lived the danger, with their fantasies of apocalypse – that in some senses, our fears of utter disaster are the same as our fantasies.  In a way, our fears are our fantasies – we find, in some senses, that we have to go through the darkest territory of our anxieties to play out the pleasures of the fantasy of depopulation and transformation.

I think this linking of anxiety and fantasy is true both in the world of those who have undergone real disaster and in the world of some good fiction - in both Stirling’s novel and the above poem, and really in all the novels we’ve read, underlying the fear and violence is the fantasy – the pleasure of imagining a depopulated, de-technologized world in which all the structures that make people powerless are erased, and people suddenly are down to essentials, and powerful again.   But it isn’t just that.  Both texts are preoccupied with the past, with history, and about what parts of history are and are not reclaimable on the other side of disaster.

If you’ve read Naomi Klein’s marvellous book _The Shock Doctrine_ this idea of reclaiming the past shouldn’t be too surprising – traumatized survivors of disaster want familiarity, and to rebuild what they value out of what they once had.  Underlying both Stirling and Muir (and not them alone – we’ve already seen it in Tepper, and will see it in Walter Miller and several others) is this question – how far back into the past, and what parts of the past do we find inhabitable, based up on our circumstances.  Where do we have to go to find an even-partly familiar place we can inhabit again – or rather, how do we bring the past forward, and integrate it with what is left of the present.

 The most brilliant part of Stirling, I think is that where we go isn’t just into the past, but into the past of common narrative – that is of Tolkein novels, middle earth, Celtic paganism and other British folkways (we learn in the third book in this series that Prince Charles went completely batty and made everyone wear old English style smocks, thatch their houses and start Morris dancing).  That is, the familiar land isn’t really British medieval history, but a combination of what was, what an Oxford Prof transmitted in a novel to a bunch of teenagers and some realities, tempered by the present.  I find this both creative and likely – that is, whatever culture follows will probably resemble parts of the past – but filtered through our losses, our new knowledge, our hybridizations, our popular cultures.

For Muir, the trip back is shorter, but in some ways more fraught.  The return of the horses comes not as part of a story those living in a new world sought, but they come unbidden.  They are a reminder of a long past, not a moment in time, but the fact that the present was unusually separate from something that had been quite ordinary.  The line “far past our father’s land” is both a reminder of the distance from here to the world where horses pulled plows, and the proximity to it – it isn’t even our grandfather’s land we’re far past, but only our father’s.

IMHO, this shouldn’t be seen as only nostalgia – there is an element of nostalgia, of course, a strong one in both narratives.  And there’s a level of self-indulgence in both the writing and the reading of that nostalgia.  But there’s also a fascinating question there – how far removed are we really from our own past?

There have been times and places in history where our sense of our past has been very strong – and nearly every time and place in human history has had a stronger connection to its past than 21st century America.  That is, the accusation of nostalgia is often a way of suggesting that ties to the past are cheap and easy, and have little value outside that.  Often, those of us who insist on living a lower-energy life are accused of nostalgia, or willful archaism – and there’s some truth in that – but it isn’t all the truth.

Some other piece of the truth is this – industrial society operates to create a barrier between past and present that is greater than perhaps any prior cultural barrier between one’s history and one’s present – that is, the rapid pace at which ways of doing things change, and the cultural distaste for anything that seems old fashioned or poor (except in sanitized, highly self-consciously aestheticized, wealthy ways, such as antique collecting or Martha Stewart style craftiness) keeps us from looking back – or even sideways, to the billions of people in the world who live a non-industrial, or only barely industrial life.  We are unlike them.  They are far past our father’s land, the land of myth and story, not anything real, or inhabitable by us.

What is fascinating about how rapidly the past comes back in Stirling and in Muir is that both of them implicitly reject the idea that anything stands between us and our old ways other than technology – take the technology away, and the horses and the clan return rapidly.  Take the energy out of the story, and we’re still the same people, roughly – within less than a generation, the old world starts to feel strange and unreal.

And I suspect there’s actually something to that – that is, most human beings have been contiguous with their past in ways that we have not.  Some of us still are – and often, those who are are part of deliberately archaic cultures, ones struggling to find a way to retain ties to their past.  Often the extremely orthodox members of faiths, or small ethnic communities that fight to retain their identities – the Amish, the Chasidim, ultra-orthodox Muslims, the Hmong and others – for them, the past always seems close, alive, recent – in ways that it doesn’t for those who are fully integrated in industrial society.

And if it is our energies that stand as a barrier to this relationship to our past, the question becomes what price the energies have exacted, and whether there ways to get some of the price of admission to industrial society back without silencing all the radios, the electronic transmission lines and the guns.  Stirling and Muir both seem to suggest that with some leadership help, it would all come flowing back to us.  But what?  The texts we read offer suggestions, but it is hard to imagine that they’ve gotten a whole grip on what it would mean to live a life where a grandchild’s experience was contiguous with her grandmother, and the distant past didn’t seem so far away, and so uninhabitable.

What do you think? 

Sharon

Post-Apocalyptic Novel – Dies the Fire

Sharon September 8th, 2008

Welcome to “Energy Apocalypse” Month, always a subject near and dear to my heart, of course.  And SM Stirling’s _Dies the Fire_ to me always seems like a cookie of a book – flat, sweet, the occasional delicious chocolate chip, the occasional weird, slightly off-raisin ;-) .  It suffers from “apocalyptic novel disease” in which the apocalypse itself, dramatic as it is, is insufficient to keep the story going, so we have to have a cartoon bad guy too.  You’d think that the survival of our two small plucky bands, and the taking over of the world by the SCA would be sufficient for a novel, but no, Stirling gets bored with that right out, and we move on to the evil dude and the evil dude’s machinations.  Stirling even makes fun of his own evil dude, saying that no one is really that evil, but goes on to write three books about him and his doings, and of course, his defeat by our plucky bands of allies.

 Of course, I’m mostly interested in the “how do we adapt to the fact that all gizmos plus guns don’t work” goes.  While I think few of us have to worry much about “Alien Space Bats” changing the laws of physics, it does offer a fun bit of fantasy about a low (or rather, no) power world. 

Some things I think are probably right were the (unlikely) transition from a high tech to a low tech society to happen quite quickly:

1. The the nuclear family is simply too small – organizations are at the tribe/clan/community institution/warlord level. If you want to expand, you need to figure out how to have an autonomous subgroup with formal alliances.  But fundamentally, in a very low energy world, small groups of a few dozen to a few hundred make a lot more sense that large state-sized organizations or small nuclear families. 

2. Organizational motifs vary quite a lot, but they tend to have strong narrative/story/religious components – that is, people will need to create a history and a story about who they are and why.  Thus, the book of the bear clan, the religious culture of Juniper’s group, etc…

Things I think would be damned unlikely, even if thing otherwise occurred as Stirling projects.

 1. That the SCA would take over the earth.  No offense to the SCA, but while some people join just because they want to do medieval style stuff, most participants I’ve met (and I’ve met quite a few) find the SCA to be a geek subculture.  This is not bad – I participate in several geek subcultures myself, although not that one.  But generally the sorting process that gets people engaged into geek subcultures and out of mainstream ones is partly preferential, but also includes a hefty dose of well, geekiness.  It isn’t terribly unlikely that the SCA could produce a few mainstream leaders, but “few” would be the operative term.  I’ve heard someone refer to this book as “self-indulgent” and I think that pretty much covers it in a host of ways.

 2. That self-organization would in fact, occur quite so quickly – warlords get the idea right off, the bearkillers start recruiting and their long march (and no one dies, except the inconvenient mother figure, who was toasted anyway).  Everyone figures everything out right away, everyone has immediate occasion to try and fire their guns (because of course, there are so many bad guys roaming around Oregon) – this seems very unrealistic to me.  Much more likely is that the pace of understanding, and unfolding occurs much more slowly. 

The books are fun, but I admit, I get bored by the bad guys, and bored by the wargames bits.  What did the rest of you think?

 Sharon

Finally – The Gate To Women's Country

Sharon August 29th, 2008

Ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I’m a bad blogger.  It has been one of those weeks.  And before I get into the book, one more delay – just in case you want to hear my interview yesterday it is here: http://www.publicbroadcasting.net/kuer/news/news.newsmain?action=article&ARTICLE_ID=1351317&sectionID=184

Ok – today’s question.  Should we try and breed docility into just men?  Is that the only way (or any way) of avoiding the apocalypse?  I admit, I’m sort of fascinated by the idea that you can completely reshape human behavior by working with only half of the human race (Tepper’s Margot does admit that they also sterilize women if they prove to be unfit breeders, but her own daughter, Myra, is allowed to give birth 3 times, so they aren’t very good at it.)  Yes, the ram is half the herd and all that, and clearly those servitors are working pretty hard but ummm….

I’ve tried to read any number of Tepper novels over the years, ranging from _Grass_ which I read right after _The Gate to Women’s Country_ to a recent flirtation with _The Margarets_, and every time I read any of them, with the exception of this one, I find myself wondering how Tepper sells books. She’s smart, but such a tendentious, heavy, grotesque writer that I find it hard to explain how popular she obviously is.

This book is the exception for me – and it isn’t that isn’t troubling, or in some places awful.  But it is at least critical, as Tepper’s other books don’t seem to be, of the gender politics she partly endorses.  It does have Morgot admitting eventually that they do sterilize women too, that those who are breeding a new, non-violent future are damned, and it does allow Stavia to ask whether Myra’s limitations are partly because of the rigors of Women’s Country, whether she might have been different if she could have just danced,  not because of her genetic limitations (although we eventually learn those trump everything, since her father was Chernon’s father).

Backed up against the narrative is “Iphigenia at Ilium” which is really a revised version of Euripedes amazing _The Trojan Women_ (btw, there’s an astoundingly good 1970s era version of this play with Katherine Hepburn and Genevieve Bujold – really worth seeing) – including some interesting toss-ins from Sartre’s version of Euripedes and some of Tepper’s.  Quite honestly, without this, I think the book would not be worth the read.  But the overlay of this history of women’s experience of apocalypse – the recognition that this is routine, historical, repeated, almost – not sufficiently – but almost – makes us respect the deep misandry that underlies the text, IMHO.

The problem for me is that the narrative rings fundamentally false.  The violence of men towards women is described as inevitable, biological and innate, which can and must be bred out.  The only alternate society is “The Holylanders” who make the Taliban look like rays of sunshine, and who enact that violence on a total and societal scale.  They of course, prove that without this mechanism, violence against women is inevitable – they and the machinations of the warriors.

But the machinations of the warriors are always biological, not created by the bizarre configuration of their society, and in reality, we know that all women who obey the rather repressive rules are safe – that is, women are breeding out a trait they have successfully constrained anyway, repressing other women and killing men in order to prevent something they’ve successfully prevented (we learn in the story) for centuries.  That is, women are learning that men kill and destroy women, we have the apocalypse in the background – and that justifies any action in the present, no matter how deferred or unrealistic the threat.  There is a troublingly masturbatory quality to the Holylander scenes and the use of _The Trojan Women_ – that is, they are there to provide a big shiny pile of violence to justify the quieter, more discrete violence in the novel.

 I wish I could say that Tepper is merely playing with an idea, but having read a bunch of her other novels, I think she really thinks this – that her vision of maleness and femaleness really is this stark.  And that’s why I think of her as the logical parallel, in many ways, to someone like Kunstler – her world has as narrow and unthoughtful a view of men as his does of women.  

Women’s Country looks like a pretty tolerable place to live after an apocalypse – the trains run on time, the ordinary details seem to work, there are sexually available servitors (or at least their sperm) content in their special place in society.  But I admit, I don’t think I’ll be designing my own.

What about the rest of you? 

Sharon

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