Question: Who is the happiest character in The Unbearable Lightness of Being?
Answer 1: Overall, Franz was the happiest character in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. In the beginning, Franz was a heavy character. He was leading an unhappy life, married to a woman he didn’t love (Marie-Claire), and confused about his relationship with Sabina. He was looking for a perfect woman, a woman who was like his mother. “His mother and the Platonic ideal of womanhood were one and the same.” (Kundera, 90) He thought he had found that or at least something closer to that, with Sabina. But then Sabina left him, and his worshipping the idea of Sabina made him lighter. As his life went on without the physical presence of Sabina, he got happier and happier. When he met the girl with the glasses, he finally became fully balanced and reached his maximum happiness. As seen in the following quote, one cannot be too heavy or too light and be happy at the same time. One needs to be equally balanced in both lightness and weight. “The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into the heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant.” (Kundera, 5)
Also, Franz lives with both his past, being his relationship with Sabina, and his present, being the girl in the glasses and his trip to Cambodia. This also balances him, for “When you live your life, it’s light, but when you remember your life it becomes heavy.” (Kalb, paraphrasing Jonah Lehrer Proust Was A Neuroscientist, 76) He and Marjane live in both the past and the present. Throughout Persepolis, Marjane remembers how her country used to be and reflects on its (then) current condition. Marjane respects revolutions, while Franz takes his respect a step further.
So why did Franz feel the need to go to Cambodia? He was a dreamer; He had gone to Cambodia for Sabina, whose eyes he felt on him the entire time. This was his original reason, but as he lay injured in bed he realized that that was not the thing he had come away with. “He had come to find out once and for all that neither parades nor Sabina but rather the girl with the glasses was his real life, his only real life! He had come to find out that reality was more than a dream, much more than a dream!” (Kundera, 274) And as we all know, "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that."(Rowling Sorcerer’s Stone, 214) And so, as Franz lay dying, he finally realized what happiness he had, and embraced it. Once he did so, his purpose in life was fulfilled, and so he died.
Answer 2: Overall, Karenin was the happiest character in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. As Kundera says, “Happiness is the longing for repetition.”(Kundera, 298) An animal is the happiest character in this book because “Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line.” (Kundera, 298) Perhaps animals (and, less commonly, humans) merely know their purpose and keep doing it repetitively and are not bothered by the fact that it is their sole purpose in life. They carry out their function, and are happy about it. For, as Aristotle says, “Perhaps [happiness] is best done by first ascertaining the proper function…” (Aristotle, 7) But they repeat their function because they need to practice it in a complete life. “For one swallow does not make a spring, nor does one sunny day; similarly, one day or a short time does not make a man blessed and happy.” (Aristotle, 8)[1] Also, the repetition is a form of security, and creates happiness in that way too.
Other characters knew their function, and so repeated it. One is the panther in A Hunger Artist, who “seemed to carry freedom around with it… and the joy of life streamed with… ardent passion…” (Kafka, 119)He knew his function was to stay in the circus and entertain the crowds. Even some human characters were able to achieve true happiness through repetition. Vera, for example, “…possessed [happiness] to the full when she was in her garden.”(Lavin, 45) and it was true repetition because she went into her garden whenever she was at the breaking point, and, as Father Hugh says, “It’s an unthinking happiness, though.” (Lavin, 45)
Karenin’s function in life was to make Tereza happy, to be her timepiece in order to distract her from Tomas’ laying around. “He was the timepiece of their lives. In periods of despair, she would remind herself she had to hold on because of him, because he was weaker than she, weaker than perhaps even than Dubcek and their abandoned homeland.” (Kundera, 74)Tereza was supposed to cheat on Tomas with Karenin so Tomas wouldn’t feel too horribly guilty as he cheated on her. And this worked for a while. But when they moved to the country, Tomas slowly stopped cheating on Tereza, merely because there was no one left to cheat with. As Tomas started becoming more and more faithful to Tereza Karenin got sicker and sicker. Karenin’s function was slowly being taken away from him, and he didn’t know how else to live and be happy, so he died.
Answer 3: Overall, Tomas was the happiest character in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Although the connection between love and happiness has been put to question many a time, I agree with Allan K. Chalmers, who said “The grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” This agrees with Aristotle’s function, but takes it a step further into a person’s poetic memory. Now, Tomas had this. His love for Tereza was so great that he would have denied his ideal woman for Tereza, as seen in his dream. “And he knows that time and again he will abandon the house of his happiness, and again abandon his paradise and the woman from his dream and betray the “Es muss sein!” of his love to go off with Tereza…” (Kundera, 239) Others besides Tereza tried to enter Tomas’ poetic memory. As one of his mistresses said, “It’s not sensual pleasure I’m after,” she would say, “it’s happiness. And pleasure without happiness is not pleasure.” (Kundera, 209)
So, Tomas had his love, but he also had to fulfill his function, almost against his will, and cater to his human nature. His function was to discover what made each woman unique, “what in each of them is unimaginable, obsessed, in other words, with the one-millionth part that makes a woman dissimilar to the others of her sex.” (Kundera, 200) But why did he have to have lain with them? Couldn’t he have just asked them “What makes you special?” No, because “only in sexuality does the millionth part dissimilarity become precious, because, not accessible to the public, it must be conquered.” (Kundera, 200) And so, you see why he had to sleep with them, even though he valued his relationship with Tereza so much. He didn’t see his affairs as betraying anything to her, because he didn’t let the other women into his poetic memory. This is one of the few aspects in his life that caused unhappiness; that he didn’t understand why Tereza was so hurt by his infidelity, and so that is why I tried to explain his perspective.
But when Tomas stopped working as a surgeon, it’s almost like he had completed his function, and since “Isn’t making love merely an eternal repetition of the same? Not at all.” (Kundera, 199) he couldn’t just keep doing what he had been doing. He was in the country, which aided in the appearance that he had discovered all the women possible for him. He had finally reached his function, and so started to fully appreciate Tereza. They started getting closer and closer, balancing each other out in weight and lightness. Because they reached their maximum happiness, they also died.
Conclusion: It’s not that they died happy; it’s that they died BECAUSE they were happy.
[1]I had to add this wonderful quote I found that finally fully explains Aristotle’s complete life quote, but it seemed excessive when I put it in the text. SO I put it here it the footnote! “…moments by themselves aren't enough; they're just -- they're like photographs. They move a little, they wave, but they aren't everything. You can look back on a moment and say 'In that moment I was happy' or, more often than not, 'In that moment I was uncomfortable' or 'In that moment I was sad' or 'In that moment we were all berks' but you can look back on everything and you think, 'That was good.' Because when all the moments come together, when all the songs meet up with one another, you get something whole and complete and wonderful, people you loved and people you hated and a fondness for them you may not be able to recapture but everything you remember about them being somehow more than they really were, because that's what remembering everything does.”( dorkorific and ladyjaida Shoebox Project, Part 11, page 26) http://www.lomara.org/sbp/ <- link to Shoebox Project in PDF files.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
This is an "A" Skeleton
The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
I’ve read the Bible, and let me tell you, there are some scary moments in there. But even scarier than the bizarre impetus to acts of violence (such as in 1 Samuel, 25:22 wherein we read, “So and more also do God unto the enemies of David, if I leave of all that pertain to him by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall.” 1 ) is this injunction: “Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.” (Matthew 19:21) The suggestion here seems to be that in order to be a Christian, one must go the whole hog and not merely enjoy the bacon. I’m going to guess that if that level of commitment were requisite for invitation into the Christian community, there wouldn’t be too many church members standing these days.
On the one hand, though, I admire that sort of fanatical devotion to a cause. Especially the cause invoked here (following Jesus), as I would have to say that the cause is right and good and true.2 On the other hand, I have to wonder if it’s worth having a standard that few—if any—human beings can hope to attain. Certainly, as Robert Browning noted, “Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for?” That is why we need ideals, after all—to help us to keep on pushing until we reach the higher ground.3 But what’s the sense of having the bar set so high that it is impossible to reach? This is either where pragmatism and logic begin or where idealism ends and is replaced by those twin whores, rationalization and irresponsibility. For the nonce, I’m going to suppose that this is not a black and white, either/or issue (the thought pattern of fundamentalists and totalitarians) and make a move for a Golden Mean. Which brings me to the question I want to parse out with respect to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale: Can we expect Offred to be “less passive” than she is in this novel? I’d like to kick this question up a notch, though, and ask it in this way: How can you maintain your integrity within an oppressive system?
Answer One: In V for Vendetta, Valerie writes this message: “I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An inch. It is small and it is fragile, but it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.” For me, this translates into the idea that small acts of defiance help you to keep hold of your identity (which is also your integrity). Certainly we can see that Offred does this a number of times in The Handmaid’s Tale. Early in the story she raises her head so that a young Guardian can get a good look at her face (which he is trying to do on the sly, even though it is forbidden.) When she does this the young man blushes and looks away, and Offred thinks, “It’s an event, a small defiance of rule, so small as to be undetectable, but such moments are the rewards I hold out for myself, like the candy I hoarded, as a child, at the back of a drawer. Such moments are possibilities, tiny peepholes.” (Atwood 21) There are a few other moments of like ilk, and it seems clear that these are not merely random acts. Later on, for instance, Offred says, “I want anything that breaks the monotony, subverts the perceived respectable order of things.” (Atwood 231) That’s really not a bad motto for a revolutionary in the grip of a totalitarian state. The big thing, though, is that despite the societal pressure against female sexual pleasure (and the very real danger she could encounter in the pursuit of an orgasm), Offred not only allows herself to admit “I hunger to commit the act of touch” (Atwood 11), but she actually continues to see Nick on her own—despite the fact that it is very dangerous—because it gives her physical pleasure to have sex with him. “I went back to Nick. Time after time, on my own, without Serena knowing. . . . I did not do it for him but for myself entirely.” (Atwood 268)
Connections: It is the small acts of defiance that make Marjane Satrapi such an inspiring character in the first volume of Persepolis (and, perhaps, which make her less so in the second volume). When the teacher smilingly announces to Marjane’s class that, “Since the Islamic Republic was formed, we no longer have political prisoners,” Marjane stands up and says, “How dare you lie to us like that?” (Satrapi Persepolis 1, 144) Obviously a kid talking back to a teacher is not the equivalent of staring down a tank in Tiananmen Square—but given the context of Marjane’s society, it certainly is a defining moment. Perhaps it is also worth wondering if our identities are not the sum total of all of our small moments . . . or, as John Dewey so bluntly states, “When we are honest with ourselves we acknowledge that a habit has this power [to override our formal resolutions, our conscious decisions] because it is so intimately a part of ourselves. It has a hold upon us because we are the habit.” (Dewey 17) Of course, this might also lead you to wonder if the small acts of defiance on the parts of Offred and Marjane are subsumed in the miasma of passive acts . . . but I don’t think so. I think your identity is forged not by the quantity of right acts per se, but by the courage you display when there is an opportunity for it. In repressive societies, the opportunities will be few and far between, and the acts small. That is why it is important to do the small things. They are the peepholes through which you can see into a possible future self (to misappropriate a few words I quoted from Offred earlier on). I’m also seeing this in relation to Vera in Mary Lavin’s “Happiness.” While Vera is certainly not a member of a repressive society in the way that Offred and Marjane were, she is a woman in a patriarchal society which seeks to marginalize her power and even separate her from her own pain. (family tells her to stop grieving) There is little she can do to defy the world which hems her in, and so she goes out for her midnight swims . . . sneaking out to push herself to the limits of her physical endurance. It is her attempt to deal with her own pain, but it is also an act of defiance, a refusal to submit to the passive role of grieving widow or heartbroken mom. Quoth the Vera, “Happiness drives out pain, as fire burns out fire.” (Lavin 32) That is the attitude which allows Vera to take control of her life . . . precisely because she pushes herself in the small things that may seem silly or may not seem to matter—like going for a midnight swim.
Answer Two: You must bide your time—which is, of course, a natural outgrowth of the connections above. As Edward de Vere once wrote in his superb (and underappreciated) play, Julius Caesar, " There is a tide in the affairs of men / Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; / Omitted, all the voyage of their life / Is bound in shallows and in miseries." (Or, as Beckett puts it in Waiting for Godot, “strike the iron before it freezes.”) This invokes the biblical injunctions to watch and wait . . . to neither succumb to sleep (thus missing the bridegroom’s arrival, for all of you parable lovers out there) nor to strike hastily with the sword, cutting off an errant ear but accomplishing nothing of significance. This is why Offred says, very early on, “Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last.” (Atwood 8) Now, certainly that can be taken as a proclamation of extreme passivity, of commitment to survival above any other concern (dignity, happiness, etc.) . . . but there’s another way to look at it, too. Offred could be saying that she wants to bide her time, wait for the opportunity to do something meaningful . . . rather than lose her life (and her only chance for integrity) over something which is not important. Perhaps she is not damming thought, but damning up the river of thought, allowing it to create a reservoir that can be unleashed in a mighty flood when the time is right. We see this when she meets up with Ofglen and wonders if Ofglen is strictly orthodox in her thinking. She concludes, “She may be a real believer, a Handmaid in more than name. I can’t take the risk.” (Atwood 19) We see a few things here. First, the implication that she has carefully observed Ofglen, evaluated her, and made a judgment based upon that—not upon cowardice or passivity. Second, we note that Offred has identified herself as a Handmaid in name only. She still has a sense of her own identity, independent of the role she has been forced to play.4 Third, if we think ahead to the end of the book, we see that Offred takes on the role of Ofglen later on . . . as she uses the code word (Mayday) to attempt to forge a connection with a new Handmaid. The most extreme moment in the book, however—and the one which decides Offred’s fate—is when Nick comes to her and tells Offred to go along with the two men who come to the Commander’s house. She could have listened to her fear and cried out, tried not to go with them. Clearly they were not really from the Eye, and if Offred had protested they would have run away. Instead, however: “I snatch at it, this offer. It’s all I’m left with.” (Atwood 294) She snatches at this offer because it is a chance—though slim—at a real life. It is better than burning down the house with the purloined match. And by this act she steps into the light, and she is able to become herself again.
Answer Three: You must connect with others you care about. Even the smallest despot knows that dissent cannot flourish without the opposition of a union of some size. When the teachers in Oaxaca decided to make their stand against the government, they first came together to occupy the school, then moved out into the community and called for the assistance of the people. The success that they were able to achieve was the direct result of this union. In The Handmaid’s Tale, the government makes sure that there is no possibility of union amongst the people who would seek to defy their rule. Offred tells us, “It’s hard to imagine now, having a friend.” (Atwood 25) You undermine dissent by breaking people up . . . whether it is the Spies program in 1984 or pitting cone class against another at a high school pep rally. In union is strength, thus it is always the goal of totalitarian authority to minimize or prevent union. I think this is also why several imagined future scenarios include the idea of disrupting sexual intimacy and pleasure. In 1984, for instance, sex becomes a way of “doing one’s duty for the Party.” In The Handmaid’s Tale, the official position on sex (no pun intended) goes like this: “Arousal and orgasm are no longer thought necessary; they would be a symptom of frivolity merely, like jazz garters or beauty spots; superfluous distractions for the light-minded.” (Atwood 94) This assumption has two consequences: first, it breaks up the union which, according to Aristotle, is the basis for all unions: the family. Second, it immediately places the woman in an inferior role and insures that she will obtain no pleasure from sex while the man (to be delicate) continues to enjoy himself.
Connections: The cost-effective way to prevent union is by taking a group from the populace and elevating them to a slightly higher level—with some requisite benefits—and then have that group serve the function of enforcers. This is what happens in Marjane’s Iran, wherein cars of women patrol the streets and seek to catch young girls talking with boys or (gasp) wearing lipstick. As Marjane points out, by putting this kind of pressure on everyday people, it also prevents them from paying attention to more important problems. At the bottom of page 148 of Persepolis 2, for instance, we have two panels which sum this all up: “The regime had understood that one person leaving her house while asking herself: ‘Are my trousers long enough? Is my veil in place? Can my make-up be seen? Are they going to whip me?’ No longer asks herself: ‘Where is my freedom of thought? Where is my freedom of speech? My life, is it livable? What’s going on in the political prisons?’” (Satrapi 148)
When I finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale I had two primary complaints: first, the political naiveté displayed by having the takeover of the American government and nation in a very brief period of time (both the coup d'état and the transformation of the society into a totalitarian state); and second, the passivity displayed by Offred in her actions (and the lack thereof) in the novel. I am still troubled by the first—though I would hasten to agree that (1) it was not Atwood’s intention to delve into that story, (2) there is some precedent for the overthrow and transformation of a society in a very brief period of time (such as the Iran we see in Persepolis), and (3) there are certainly elements within our America which represent challenges to our way of life comparable to the Islamic Fundamentalists in Iran, such as the folks described in Chris Hedge’s American Fascists. As far as my second objection, however, I believe that discussion and the process of writing this paper have allowed me to see that Offred was no more passive than she had to be in this situation . . . and, in fact, considerably braver than most people could be. Here’s the passage that sums it all up for me: when she comes upon two young Guardians at a checkpoint she thinks,
The young ones are the most dangerous, the most fanatical, the jumpiest with their guns. They haven’t yet learned about existence through time.
(Atwood 20)
That’s the trick, isn’t it? Existence through time. Or, to quote myself, “Hibernate through the winter if cold kills your desire. / Be ready to draw the line and push the spear right in.” Hooray for Offred. She endured.5
1 In his scathing Letters From the Earth, Mark Twain comments on this text by saying, "A person could piss against a tree, he could piss on his mother, he could piss on his own breeches, and get off, but he must not piss against the wall -- that would be going quite too far. The origin of the divine prejudice against this humble crime is not stated; but we know that the prejudice was very strong -- so strong that nothing but a wholesale massacre of the people inhabiting the region where the wall was defiled could satisfy the Deity.” Oh, Mark!
2This is hardly an attempt to proselytize, by the way. I would express the same admiration for Helen Vendler’s eight year study of Shake-speare’s sonnets.
3”In our time we should be / Something greater than we have been.” Nick Harper , “In Our Time” from Smithereens.
4Once we lose the sense of identity as separate from role (especially if the role is forced upon us), we end up in some pretty hazy territory. I think this is why at the end of The Good Terrorist when Alice tells herself “she hadn’t really been a part of it.” (Lessing 371) I lose my patience with and my respect for her character.
5The “my quote” is from “Ishmael, My Ishmael,” my very first rap song (based on our reading of My Ishmael and Invisible Man, with heaps of Waiting for Godot thrown in for good measure). The phrase “She endured.” is a reference to the last line of The Sound and the Fury, which pays homage to the humble folk of Faulkner’s great novel who maintain their dignity by just hanging on with all their might.
I’ve read the Bible, and let me tell you, there are some scary moments in there. But even scarier than the bizarre impetus to acts of violence (such as in 1 Samuel, 25:22 wherein we read, “So and more also do God unto the enemies of David, if I leave of all that pertain to him by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall.” 1 ) is this injunction: “Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.” (Matthew 19:21) The suggestion here seems to be that in order to be a Christian, one must go the whole hog and not merely enjoy the bacon. I’m going to guess that if that level of commitment were requisite for invitation into the Christian community, there wouldn’t be too many church members standing these days.
On the one hand, though, I admire that sort of fanatical devotion to a cause. Especially the cause invoked here (following Jesus), as I would have to say that the cause is right and good and true.2 On the other hand, I have to wonder if it’s worth having a standard that few—if any—human beings can hope to attain. Certainly, as Robert Browning noted, “Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for?” That is why we need ideals, after all—to help us to keep on pushing until we reach the higher ground.3 But what’s the sense of having the bar set so high that it is impossible to reach? This is either where pragmatism and logic begin or where idealism ends and is replaced by those twin whores, rationalization and irresponsibility. For the nonce, I’m going to suppose that this is not a black and white, either/or issue (the thought pattern of fundamentalists and totalitarians) and make a move for a Golden Mean. Which brings me to the question I want to parse out with respect to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale: Can we expect Offred to be “less passive” than she is in this novel? I’d like to kick this question up a notch, though, and ask it in this way: How can you maintain your integrity within an oppressive system?
Answer One: In V for Vendetta, Valerie writes this message: “I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An inch. It is small and it is fragile, but it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.” For me, this translates into the idea that small acts of defiance help you to keep hold of your identity (which is also your integrity). Certainly we can see that Offred does this a number of times in The Handmaid’s Tale. Early in the story she raises her head so that a young Guardian can get a good look at her face (which he is trying to do on the sly, even though it is forbidden.) When she does this the young man blushes and looks away, and Offred thinks, “It’s an event, a small defiance of rule, so small as to be undetectable, but such moments are the rewards I hold out for myself, like the candy I hoarded, as a child, at the back of a drawer. Such moments are possibilities, tiny peepholes.” (Atwood 21) There are a few other moments of like ilk, and it seems clear that these are not merely random acts. Later on, for instance, Offred says, “I want anything that breaks the monotony, subverts the perceived respectable order of things.” (Atwood 231) That’s really not a bad motto for a revolutionary in the grip of a totalitarian state. The big thing, though, is that despite the societal pressure against female sexual pleasure (and the very real danger she could encounter in the pursuit of an orgasm), Offred not only allows herself to admit “I hunger to commit the act of touch” (Atwood 11), but she actually continues to see Nick on her own—despite the fact that it is very dangerous—because it gives her physical pleasure to have sex with him. “I went back to Nick. Time after time, on my own, without Serena knowing. . . . I did not do it for him but for myself entirely.” (Atwood 268)
Connections: It is the small acts of defiance that make Marjane Satrapi such an inspiring character in the first volume of Persepolis (and, perhaps, which make her less so in the second volume). When the teacher smilingly announces to Marjane’s class that, “Since the Islamic Republic was formed, we no longer have political prisoners,” Marjane stands up and says, “How dare you lie to us like that?” (Satrapi Persepolis 1, 144) Obviously a kid talking back to a teacher is not the equivalent of staring down a tank in Tiananmen Square—but given the context of Marjane’s society, it certainly is a defining moment. Perhaps it is also worth wondering if our identities are not the sum total of all of our small moments . . . or, as John Dewey so bluntly states, “When we are honest with ourselves we acknowledge that a habit has this power [to override our formal resolutions, our conscious decisions] because it is so intimately a part of ourselves. It has a hold upon us because we are the habit.” (Dewey 17) Of course, this might also lead you to wonder if the small acts of defiance on the parts of Offred and Marjane are subsumed in the miasma of passive acts . . . but I don’t think so. I think your identity is forged not by the quantity of right acts per se, but by the courage you display when there is an opportunity for it. In repressive societies, the opportunities will be few and far between, and the acts small. That is why it is important to do the small things. They are the peepholes through which you can see into a possible future self (to misappropriate a few words I quoted from Offred earlier on). I’m also seeing this in relation to Vera in Mary Lavin’s “Happiness.” While Vera is certainly not a member of a repressive society in the way that Offred and Marjane were, she is a woman in a patriarchal society which seeks to marginalize her power and even separate her from her own pain. (family tells her to stop grieving) There is little she can do to defy the world which hems her in, and so she goes out for her midnight swims . . . sneaking out to push herself to the limits of her physical endurance. It is her attempt to deal with her own pain, but it is also an act of defiance, a refusal to submit to the passive role of grieving widow or heartbroken mom. Quoth the Vera, “Happiness drives out pain, as fire burns out fire.” (Lavin 32) That is the attitude which allows Vera to take control of her life . . . precisely because she pushes herself in the small things that may seem silly or may not seem to matter—like going for a midnight swim.
Answer Two: You must bide your time—which is, of course, a natural outgrowth of the connections above. As Edward de Vere once wrote in his superb (and underappreciated) play, Julius Caesar, " There is a tide in the affairs of men / Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; / Omitted, all the voyage of their life / Is bound in shallows and in miseries." (Or, as Beckett puts it in Waiting for Godot, “strike the iron before it freezes.”) This invokes the biblical injunctions to watch and wait . . . to neither succumb to sleep (thus missing the bridegroom’s arrival, for all of you parable lovers out there) nor to strike hastily with the sword, cutting off an errant ear but accomplishing nothing of significance. This is why Offred says, very early on, “Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last.” (Atwood 8) Now, certainly that can be taken as a proclamation of extreme passivity, of commitment to survival above any other concern (dignity, happiness, etc.) . . . but there’s another way to look at it, too. Offred could be saying that she wants to bide her time, wait for the opportunity to do something meaningful . . . rather than lose her life (and her only chance for integrity) over something which is not important. Perhaps she is not damming thought, but damning up the river of thought, allowing it to create a reservoir that can be unleashed in a mighty flood when the time is right. We see this when she meets up with Ofglen and wonders if Ofglen is strictly orthodox in her thinking. She concludes, “She may be a real believer, a Handmaid in more than name. I can’t take the risk.” (Atwood 19) We see a few things here. First, the implication that she has carefully observed Ofglen, evaluated her, and made a judgment based upon that—not upon cowardice or passivity. Second, we note that Offred has identified herself as a Handmaid in name only. She still has a sense of her own identity, independent of the role she has been forced to play.4 Third, if we think ahead to the end of the book, we see that Offred takes on the role of Ofglen later on . . . as she uses the code word (Mayday) to attempt to forge a connection with a new Handmaid. The most extreme moment in the book, however—and the one which decides Offred’s fate—is when Nick comes to her and tells Offred to go along with the two men who come to the Commander’s house. She could have listened to her fear and cried out, tried not to go with them. Clearly they were not really from the Eye, and if Offred had protested they would have run away. Instead, however: “I snatch at it, this offer. It’s all I’m left with.” (Atwood 294) She snatches at this offer because it is a chance—though slim—at a real life. It is better than burning down the house with the purloined match. And by this act she steps into the light, and she is able to become herself again.
Answer Three: You must connect with others you care about. Even the smallest despot knows that dissent cannot flourish without the opposition of a union of some size. When the teachers in Oaxaca decided to make their stand against the government, they first came together to occupy the school, then moved out into the community and called for the assistance of the people. The success that they were able to achieve was the direct result of this union. In The Handmaid’s Tale, the government makes sure that there is no possibility of union amongst the people who would seek to defy their rule. Offred tells us, “It’s hard to imagine now, having a friend.” (Atwood 25) You undermine dissent by breaking people up . . . whether it is the Spies program in 1984 or pitting cone class against another at a high school pep rally. In union is strength, thus it is always the goal of totalitarian authority to minimize or prevent union. I think this is also why several imagined future scenarios include the idea of disrupting sexual intimacy and pleasure. In 1984, for instance, sex becomes a way of “doing one’s duty for the Party.” In The Handmaid’s Tale, the official position on sex (no pun intended) goes like this: “Arousal and orgasm are no longer thought necessary; they would be a symptom of frivolity merely, like jazz garters or beauty spots; superfluous distractions for the light-minded.” (Atwood 94) This assumption has two consequences: first, it breaks up the union which, according to Aristotle, is the basis for all unions: the family. Second, it immediately places the woman in an inferior role and insures that she will obtain no pleasure from sex while the man (to be delicate) continues to enjoy himself.
Connections: The cost-effective way to prevent union is by taking a group from the populace and elevating them to a slightly higher level—with some requisite benefits—and then have that group serve the function of enforcers. This is what happens in Marjane’s Iran, wherein cars of women patrol the streets and seek to catch young girls talking with boys or (gasp) wearing lipstick. As Marjane points out, by putting this kind of pressure on everyday people, it also prevents them from paying attention to more important problems. At the bottom of page 148 of Persepolis 2, for instance, we have two panels which sum this all up: “The regime had understood that one person leaving her house while asking herself: ‘Are my trousers long enough? Is my veil in place? Can my make-up be seen? Are they going to whip me?’ No longer asks herself: ‘Where is my freedom of thought? Where is my freedom of speech? My life, is it livable? What’s going on in the political prisons?’” (Satrapi 148)
When I finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale I had two primary complaints: first, the political naiveté displayed by having the takeover of the American government and nation in a very brief period of time (both the coup d'état and the transformation of the society into a totalitarian state); and second, the passivity displayed by Offred in her actions (and the lack thereof) in the novel. I am still troubled by the first—though I would hasten to agree that (1) it was not Atwood’s intention to delve into that story, (2) there is some precedent for the overthrow and transformation of a society in a very brief period of time (such as the Iran we see in Persepolis), and (3) there are certainly elements within our America which represent challenges to our way of life comparable to the Islamic Fundamentalists in Iran, such as the folks described in Chris Hedge’s American Fascists. As far as my second objection, however, I believe that discussion and the process of writing this paper have allowed me to see that Offred was no more passive than she had to be in this situation . . . and, in fact, considerably braver than most people could be. Here’s the passage that sums it all up for me: when she comes upon two young Guardians at a checkpoint she thinks,
The young ones are the most dangerous, the most fanatical, the jumpiest with their guns. They haven’t yet learned about existence through time.
(Atwood 20)
That’s the trick, isn’t it? Existence through time. Or, to quote myself, “Hibernate through the winter if cold kills your desire. / Be ready to draw the line and push the spear right in.” Hooray for Offred. She endured.5
1 In his scathing Letters From the Earth, Mark Twain comments on this text by saying, "A person could piss against a tree, he could piss on his mother, he could piss on his own breeches, and get off, but he must not piss against the wall -- that would be going quite too far. The origin of the divine prejudice against this humble crime is not stated; but we know that the prejudice was very strong -- so strong that nothing but a wholesale massacre of the people inhabiting the region where the wall was defiled could satisfy the Deity.” Oh, Mark!
2This is hardly an attempt to proselytize, by the way. I would express the same admiration for Helen Vendler’s eight year study of Shake-speare’s sonnets.
3”In our time we should be / Something greater than we have been.” Nick Harper , “In Our Time” from Smithereens.
4Once we lose the sense of identity as separate from role (especially if the role is forced upon us), we end up in some pretty hazy territory. I think this is why at the end of The Good Terrorist when Alice tells herself “she hadn’t really been a part of it.” (Lessing 371) I lose my patience with and my respect for her character.
5The “my quote” is from “Ishmael, My Ishmael,” my very first rap song (based on our reading of My Ishmael and Invisible Man, with heaps of Waiting for Godot thrown in for good measure). The phrase “She endured.” is a reference to the last line of The Sound and the Fury, which pays homage to the humble folk of Faulkner’s great novel who maintain their dignity by just hanging on with all their might.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Candide Skeleton
Question: For what purpose was the world made?
Answer 1: “To drive us wild.” (Voltaire, 178)
There are many astounding and confusing things in this world. As Martin says, “I do not see anything particularly strange in that passion. I have seen so many extraordinary things, that nothing seems extraordinary to me now.” (Voltaire, 178) The only reason for this wide array of wonderful and horrible, ordinary and extraordinary, simple and complex in this world is to drive man crazy. Some of it is even rooted in man’s own nature. “I have been a hundred times upon the point of killing myself, but I was still fond of life. This ridiculous weakness is, perhaps, one of the dangerous principles implanted in our nature. For what can be more absurd than to persist in carrying a burden of which we wish to be eased? to detest, and yet to strive to preserve our existence? In a word, to caress the serpent that devours us, and hug him close to our bosoms till he has gnawed into our hearts?” (Voltaire, 143) This is crazy within itself, and whatever created human nature has most certainly created it so we must struggle with it, and in the process of doing so, drive ourselves wild. This disputes Aristotle’s function, which states “The proper function of a man, then, consists in an activity of the soul in conformity with a rational principle or, at least, not without it.” (Aristotle, 8) But for this, one needs a definition of rational, which, could in fact, be what we view as “crazy”, if it is taken as human nature to be rational.
Answer 2: To show the best of all possible worlds.
This world is the best of all possible worlds, and that is why it was created. As Pangloss says, "All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds." (Voltaire, 106) and “It is demonstrable…that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end.” (Voltaire, 106) Some may ask, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, then why is there so much evil in this world?” An appropriate response to this would be “Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.” (Blake, lines 59-62) There is evil in the world only to make man see how precious good is, as reflected in the excerpt from the poem above. Joy and woe coexist in order for joy to be valued so much, in the same way fine silk is valued. Also, if this is the best of all possible worlds, it makes one wonder, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others?” (Voltaire, 122)
Answer 3: To test men for the next world.
Some believe that Earth is merely the entrance exam to paradise, or some other, better world. I know not if it is a better world, per se, but there is some support to the idea that Earth comes before other worlds. For example, in an untitled piece written by Voltaire, Socrates says, “I died peacefully at the age of seventy; and since that time I pass a happy life with all these great men whom you see…” (Voltaire, 3) Socrates proved himself in the mortal realm of Earth, and so he deserved to pass on to live in another world with other great men who have proved themselves. As noted in a footnote after John the Anabaptist’s noble death, “The wicked will survive” (Voltaire, 118). Men have to work hard to not be wicked; they have to work against what some would say to be their very nature. “Work then without disputing… it is the only way to render life supportable” (Voltaire, 222). By working in the garden of the world, it is the only way to pass the test set and go into the next world. “Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.” (Blake, lines 56-58). When man works to fully understand both joy and woe, he shall pass unto the next world.
Answer 1: “To drive us wild.” (Voltaire, 178)
There are many astounding and confusing things in this world. As Martin says, “I do not see anything particularly strange in that passion. I have seen so many extraordinary things, that nothing seems extraordinary to me now.” (Voltaire, 178) The only reason for this wide array of wonderful and horrible, ordinary and extraordinary, simple and complex in this world is to drive man crazy. Some of it is even rooted in man’s own nature. “I have been a hundred times upon the point of killing myself, but I was still fond of life. This ridiculous weakness is, perhaps, one of the dangerous principles implanted in our nature. For what can be more absurd than to persist in carrying a burden of which we wish to be eased? to detest, and yet to strive to preserve our existence? In a word, to caress the serpent that devours us, and hug him close to our bosoms till he has gnawed into our hearts?” (Voltaire, 143) This is crazy within itself, and whatever created human nature has most certainly created it so we must struggle with it, and in the process of doing so, drive ourselves wild. This disputes Aristotle’s function, which states “The proper function of a man, then, consists in an activity of the soul in conformity with a rational principle or, at least, not without it.” (Aristotle, 8) But for this, one needs a definition of rational, which, could in fact, be what we view as “crazy”, if it is taken as human nature to be rational.
Answer 2: To show the best of all possible worlds.
This world is the best of all possible worlds, and that is why it was created. As Pangloss says, "All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds." (Voltaire, 106) and “It is demonstrable…that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end.” (Voltaire, 106) Some may ask, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, then why is there so much evil in this world?” An appropriate response to this would be “Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.” (Blake, lines 59-62) There is evil in the world only to make man see how precious good is, as reflected in the excerpt from the poem above. Joy and woe coexist in order for joy to be valued so much, in the same way fine silk is valued. Also, if this is the best of all possible worlds, it makes one wonder, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others?” (Voltaire, 122)
Answer 3: To test men for the next world.
Some believe that Earth is merely the entrance exam to paradise, or some other, better world. I know not if it is a better world, per se, but there is some support to the idea that Earth comes before other worlds. For example, in an untitled piece written by Voltaire, Socrates says, “I died peacefully at the age of seventy; and since that time I pass a happy life with all these great men whom you see…” (Voltaire, 3) Socrates proved himself in the mortal realm of Earth, and so he deserved to pass on to live in another world with other great men who have proved themselves. As noted in a footnote after John the Anabaptist’s noble death, “The wicked will survive” (Voltaire, 118). Men have to work hard to not be wicked; they have to work against what some would say to be their very nature. “Work then without disputing… it is the only way to render life supportable” (Voltaire, 222). By working in the garden of the world, it is the only way to pass the test set and go into the next world. “Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.” (Blake, lines 56-58). When man works to fully understand both joy and woe, he shall pass unto the next world.
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