Matt Cahill's blog
Okay, so I made the decision that this blog shall display my real name and not the (admittedly appealing) pseudonym I’ve used since I started this blog 171 posts ago.
I’ve been playing with the idea for a while and realised that, while it’s not a question of having ‘nothing to lose’, I don’t have a shitload to gain by hiding my identity. It’s not like there’s a Bruce Wayne/Batman thing happening in my life…well, not outside my imagination.
I caught an entry on the popular literary blog/magazine Book Ninja, highlighting an article by writer Clive Thompson, revealingly titled “Why Sci-Fi Is the Last Bastion of Philosophical Writing“. I wanted to respond on Book Ninja, but I realised that I wasn’t responding to the article so much as forking the argument in an unrelated direction. That, and, well, when I tried posting my response the bloody “security phrase” was wrong and when I clicked the Back button on my browser my eloquent, finely-crafted response was gone. Consider this a means of channelling my sorrow.
Thompson contends that the strength of science fiction over so-called “literary fiction” is that the latter, in regards to ideas, has become so mired in everyday realism that it’s become less interesting as a result.
While that is debatable, there’s a bit which I thought contentious:
“So, then, why does sci-fi, the inheritor of this intellectual tradition, get short shrift among serious adult readers? Probably because the genre tolerates execrable prose stylists. Plus, many of sci-fi’s most famous authors — like Robert Heinlein and Philip K. Dick — have positively deranged notions about the inner lives of women.”
Firstly, let me get the following off my chest: I hate the term “science fiction”. [Note: Thompson rubs salt in this irritation by including dragons into the mix. Dragons? Methinks he has his genres confused]. “Science fiction” is a left-brained label which conjures 50’s-era Youth Adventure stories with rocket ships and lasers. In other words, the connotation of “science fiction” is that it is a lesser, more utilitarian form of fiction than the hallowed halls of “literary fiction”. Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course, you can’t blame people for thinking this when they step into the Science Fiction section of their neighbourhood Book Behemoth. Row upon row of monochromatic, serialised “space and laser” stories. Blame the capitalists, I say. If you’re a publisher and you know that 16-year old kids will devour clichés so long as they involve space travel, you won’t care about quality.
However, to directly address Thompson’s contention, I would like to know how “execrable prose” and “deranged notions of women” are the sole providence of science fiction? Are we talking about a genetic disorder from which our precious “literary fiction” is immune? Are you telling me that one is cleaner than the other – do you really want to go there, Thompson? Eh?
I do stand in agreement though: science fiction (for lack of a better term) historically represents the bleeding edge of philosophy. What people who shun the genre don’t realise is that it often transpires without a space ship, laser, or tight-pantaloon’d woman in sight. Need I mention the likes of Stanislaw Lem, Eugene Zamiatin, or the Strugatsky Brothers? Some of the greatest sci-fi writers produced their best-known work under political tyranny (it should be stated: the one convenient thing about writing in a genre that the establishment doesn’t take seriously is that one can communicate vast, revolutionary ideas without getting caught).
What bugs me is that when authors of “literary fiction” dip into the conceits of science fiction, there is often praise for their bold move (as if they were writing in a foreign language), yet – outside the likes of William Gibson – there is scant recognition for the science fiction author who transcends the confines (or expectations) of his or her genre.
In truth, as a writer, I’m torn between the gravitational pulls of both “literary fiction” and “science fiction”. I think an otherworldliness can make the everyday more captivating for the reader, but it takes skill to balance both so that you’re neither stretching believability nor betraying the wonder of the other by miring it in mundanity. I respect both strains of fiction yet I consider it tragic that so many good books and stories remain unread because of nothing more than a problem in perception.
I read the news last night and saw that Bobby Fischer had passed away. Like many people who were familiar with his life and accomplishments, there was mix of surprise, disappointment, and (sadly) relief.
Fischer was the yin/yang of fame and fortune – in his youthful prime, the greatest chess player who ever walked the earth, and in the years that followed, an increasingly paranoid, hateful, and divisive man.
He embodied the so-called American Dream: a lower-class kid who started playing competitive chess by the age of 8, to become an International Grandmaster by the age of 15. The highlight of his career was winning the 1972 world championship against then-Soviet opponent Boris Spassky in Reykjavík, Iceland. He was the first American to win the championship in over a century and, in light of the Cold War, was embraced as a hero by millions of people around the world. As a chess player, Fischer was imaginative, often employing so-called “traditional” moves in new ways. He closed down his opponents mercilessly.
The problem, which certainly did not begin late in life, was that he was a sheltered, neurotic, perhaps even mentally unbalanced individual. It wasn’t enough for him to control the
chessboard: he demanded that everything about his playing environments be to his standards, which often meant no cameras, no illustrators, no televisions. He lived most of his life in reclusion, eventually leaving the United States (persecuted for playing chess in Yugoslavia while it was under embargo) to live throughout Europe and the Asian Pacific. He became an ex-pat with a paranoia streak. He became infamous for radio interviews he gave in the Philippines, denouncing conspiracies which were often anti-Semitic in nature. In short, he was a mess. I’ve read some of the transcripts (I didn’t want to believe it when I’d first heard), and it pretty much destroyed any respect I had for the man. I’m only thankful he wasn’t organized enough to start a militia.
He died of unknown causes on the same island which was the scene of his greatest triumph – Iceland. In this there is some dark poetry to be written. About heroes. About the duality of an unparallelled tenacity. But dark still. Very dark.
Yes, new(-ish) fiction, lest you all think I’m a Classics Guy. I’ve been wanting to read Cormac McCarthy for a while, having noticed his novel Blood Meridian on many Best Novels Of All Time No Go-Backs lists. Nothing like a book with the word “blood” on a best-of list – it could be written by Margaret Laurence and I’d still want to read it. Good for Cormac that he didn’t decide to call it “The Orchid Parasol” or something more ubiquitously “literary”. In any case, I have still to read Blood Meridian. However, I did get The Road, McCarthy’s latest book, for my birthday in November, so I figured it would be a good introduction to his work.
I remember, a while back, seeing a hardcover edition sitting rather dejectedly in Balfour Books (one of the best used bookstores in Toronto). I asked the person at the counter: “Is that new?”. “Yes.” he said. I was surprised, knowing then that McCarthy was a respected author, or at least his previous work was respected. “It’s really depressing.” he said, answering whether he’d read it. And you know, looking at the cover (which, yes, one should not necessarily judge a book by), which is all black with bleak lettering, I thought to myself: he’s probably right.
Flash-forward to 2007: a lady on television whose name starts with “O” picks it for her influential “reading club”. Suddenly, The Road, depressing or not, is receiving the sort of attention that poor little hardcover at Balfour couldn’t have imagined. Next thing you know, there’s a major film being released, based on McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men. In other words, his exposure went from zero (or “obscure”, in the mainstream sense) to sixty (recognized by-name in the mainstream, though I doubt he’s signing autographs for people stopping him on the street). While not trying to suggest the end result of McCarthy’s career is that I got The Road as a birthday present, it is a rather convenient way for me to spin this into a review.
The Road is set in a post-apocalyptic world: something happened a few years back which levelled civilization. What is left are abandoned buildings, ash-strewn landscapes, corpses, and a handful of survivors. The book concerns a man and his young son (whose names we never know) pushing a grocery cart with all of their belongings down a road, heading south to where the father hopes there is warmth, food, and perhaps life. They find sustenance wherever it is available, in whatever form, but more often than not push-on while fighting starvation. The father has binoculars, which he uses to scout the road ahead: for others. In this environment, as he tells his son, there are good guys and bad guys. For them, he carries a pistol. With only a couple of bullets remaining, the gun is intended to ward off scavengers, but the father comes to realise that, if it looks like they can’t survive, it may be necessary to use it on themselves.
Aside from their single-minded determination to keep moving south, above everything else is the father’s need to protect and provide for his son. There is a tragic necessity on every page of The Road, for the father to teach his son right from wrong, good from bad…and in turn, despite the savage necessities that happen upon them, his son is more often the one who inspires his conscience. When the father sleeps, we see his dreams – glimpses of a life before catastrophe. When he lies awake, watching over his son, he meditates on the brutal choices that lie ahead for them.
There are two profound fears expressed in The Road: first and primary is the spectre of other survivors. People roam about, often in small groups, killing others. The father and son spend much of their time hiding in the snowy woods, building fires out of plain sight to avoid being discovered by survivors. Looking for their clothing. For food. On this last point, there are passages in the book that are about as unsettling as one will ever read. The second fear, a more existential one, is one of separation and the question of how someone who spent most of their life in a settled world can teach a child born in the aftermath of its destruction, with no sense of what came before.
The Road may be depressing (especially if you’re reading it in the middle of winter, and listening to the new Radiohead CD), but it’s hard to put down. The father’s inner struggles are captivating, and the terror of not knowing what lies ahead for them is equally so. I cannot remember reading a book so quickly. McCarthy’s prose is stark. You realise that there are no apostrophes in words like don’t and can’t. Most of the book consists of clear, taught sentences that are not decorated with elaboration. Yet, there are moments of deep, poetic reflection in the narrative which, from a philosophical standpoint, convey a humanity extracted from the world as it has become. The Road manages to be both chilling, horrific, and touching, sometimes within the space of a single page. To that extent, it stands as a remarkable piece of fiction.
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy (ISBN: 978-0307265432) is available at a fine independent bookstore (used or new) near you, or online at any number of vendors.
Note: his previously-mentioned novel, Blood Meridian, is set to become a film, directed by Ridley Scott. Let me tell you, I can’t imagine anyone doing as good a job as the Cohen brothers did for No Country For Old Men. If you haven’t seen it, please do.
[3:11pm I’ve re-edited this for some factual mistakes, clarified some opinions, and added 5% more humour, all due to faulty memory and a lack of coffee – ed.]
Though I don’t often frequent the Huffington Post, I came across a column by (inexplicably) Sex and the City actor Evan Handler today, called “My Wife is an Immigrant“. In it he states, relating how his wife often has to clarify to strangers that when she says she’s “Italian” she really means “born in Italy”:
“Ohhhhhhhhhh…,” they say. “So you’re really Italian.”
As if there were another kind.
But there is. The American kind. For the United States is the only place a conversation like that can happen. At least it’s the only place I’ve seen it happen.
Before it develops into a Lee Greenwood song (while referencing Randy Newman no less) about how wonderfully unique it is that Americans can identify with the countries from which their parents emigrated, he presents the “who’d a thunk?” observation:
Yes, the United States[…]; the nation whose politicians still use an eighteenth century phrase like “American Exceptionalism” as if it were an edict from their private God, is the only place on Earth where there are no Americans.
When I go home to my Toronto apartment this evening, to a predominantly Portuguese/Vietnamese neighbourhood, to my half-Swedish/half-Irish wife, I’ll try to forget the mind-numbing irony of Mr. Handler’s prose, and pray that not all people in the United States inhabit such an insulated mentality, where you can paint a Utopian picture of life while wink-nudging about a history of “Exceptionalism”.
A note to Mr. Handler: there are other countries in the world to which people immigrated, and in fact, one of them is just above you. It may not be the “American kind”, but we too still relate to the countries from which our parents came, sometimes as neurotically, but nowhere near as exceptionally.
