Welcome to my second post on Orwell’s 1984. In this post I’m going to focus on isolation, collectivism and surveillance. These themes are essential aspects of a number of dystopian novels and movies, and are present in We, Brave New World, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Matrix, Feed and Jennifer Government, to name a few examples.
“Every Breathe You Take, Every Move You Make, Every Bond You Break, Every Step You Take, I’ll Be Watching You”
(Lyrics from “Every Breathe You Take” by the Police)
Michel Foucault, the philosopher who provided us with the concept of the Panopticon, would have reveled in the abundant irony of a rock band called the Police singing the lyrics of “Every Breathe You Take”. The song, apparently intended as a romantic gesture, chronicles the jealous, obsessive voyeurism of a jilted lover. In a particularly revealing moment, the speaker in the song laments, “Oh, can’t you see, you belong to me”.
Implicit in the lyrics of this song is the relationship between an individual who is watched and the institution or individual doing the watching. The ownership that the lovelorn singer claims is based on his ability to spy on the object of his love constantly, even as she does mundane things like breathe and walk. This, in itself, however, is not enough to ensure his claim on her. For him to own her, she must be aware of his vigilant gaze: “oh, can’t you see, you belong to me”. In other words, she must see him seeing her for the power of the gaze to be operative. A similar approach to this use of the gaze as means of control and ownership is suggested in the lyrics of the traditional Christmas song, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. The addressee, in this case a child, not a woman, is told:
He sees you when you’re sleeping.
He knows when you’re awake.
He knows if you’ve been bad or good,
So be good for goodness sake!
Surely, if a child ever believed these lyrics, then he would assume that Santa had ownership over him in as much that nothing the child did would ever escape the gaze of Santa and all behavior could be subjected to rewards and punishments by Santa. He would regulate his behavior to suit what he imagined Santa desired, and thus would, ironically NOT “be good for goodness sake”. As with “Every Breathe You Take”, surveillance in “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” depends for its success on the fact that the child is aware that he is being watched. If the child is unaware of Santa’s all pervasive gaze and ability to dole out rewards and punishments, then Santa’s power ceases to function.
George Orwell’s Oceania functions on a similar premise. Party members are subjected to constant visual and auditory scrutiny via telescreens, listening devices and the spying eyes of neighbors, friends and family. Significantly, these instruments of scrutiny do not function independently of each other; rather, they are merely hundreds of eyes and ears working for the face of the Party, Big Brother.
For the most part, there is nothing covert in this surveillance. Just as the lyrics from “Every Breathe You Take” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” would suggest, surveillance, by itself, is not enough. Instead, the citizens are kept constantly aware of the fact that they’re being watched. They are informed by posters that “BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU”. The “YOU” at the end of the sentence is imperative, because the citizen is left with no doubt that he or she has been personally sought out as the object of attention. Furthermore, the fact that each citizen is being constantly inspected is driven home by the ubiquity of the image of Big Brother. Orwell illustrates this by describing Winston looking at a coin:
He took a twenty-five-cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on stamps on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrapping of a cigarette pack—everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed—no escape. (27)
These images serve as a constant reminder of the fact that every aspect of life is under continuous scrutiny.
In discussions that I have led with students in classes on the wide sweeping surveillance powers granted the United States government by the Patriot Act, most students have seemed unconcerned by this potential invasion of privacy. They remind me that if I’ve done nothing wrong, I have nothing to be afraid of. Presumably it is only terrorists and evil-doers who need worry that the NSA might be eavesdropping. Perhaps my students are right. It is worth noting, though, that in Oceania, the citizens also, technically, have nothing to fear from the watchful eyes of Big Brother. After all, Orwell, in discussing Winston’s use of a journal, notes that “This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws) ….” (6). In theory, then, it is impossible for Winston to break the law. Nevertheless, he is concerned because if he were “detected it was reasonably certain that [his use of the journal] would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labor camp” (6).
Implicitly then, the abolition of the laws (in itself a paradoxical exercise of law) does not guarantee greater freedom for the citizens or the absence of crime and criminals. Indeed, as Orwell makes clear when he describes show trials in Oceania, the absence of laws does not even prevent the exercise of a corrupt legal system. Consequently, instead of reassuring the citizens that no crime can be committed because there are no laws to break, this “lawless” society creates the potential for anything and everything to be considered a crime. The crime, however, which is fundamental to all crimes is thoughtcrime (19). Some of you will remember from my earlier posts about We that in the One State freedom is believed to be root cause of all crime. Orwell takes Zamyatin’s logic one step further by realizing that crime occurs because people think. Machines are incapable of committing crimes specifically because they cannot think. By contrast, all humans are, by the very fact that they are incapable of maintaining complete control of their thoughts, thoughtcriminals. This unfortunate flaw in human nature is revealed to Winston by the usually loyal Parsons. He explains to Winston (for the benefit of the unseen watchers) that thoughtcrime is
insidious. It can get a hold of you without your even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, that’s a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit—never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying? […] ’Down with Big Brother!’ Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, it seems. (233)
The fact that Parsons, a man who diligently “tries to do his bit” is capable of thoughtcrime indicates that no one is innocent.
As I indicated earlier, part of the power of the surveillance in Oceania is linked to the fact that it is, for all intents and purposes, incessant. In the first few pages Orwell informs us that:
The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, could be picked up by it; moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any moment. How often, or on what system, the Though Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized. (3)
Of course, what Orwell describes matches the operation of Foucault’s Panopticon where surveillance is “visible and unverifiable”. The broader consequence of this unverifiable but visible surveillance is that,
he who is subject to a field of visibility, and who knows it, assumes responsibility for the constraints of power; he makes them play spontaneously upon himself; he inscribes in himself the power relation in which he simultaneously plays both roles, he becomes the principle of his own subjection. (Foucault 203)
In other words, “You had to live—did live from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized” (3).
The guilt that rests on all citizens, even those, like Parsons, who truly strive to remain innocent, has its impact on ever aspect of how they lead their lives. Early on, Orwell describes Winston moments before he takes the risky decision to write in his journal: “He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen” (5). The point that this description makes is that citizens like Winston “wear” expressions instead of having them. This learned expression is a disguise meant to conceal the “illegal” activity going on in the mind of the citizen. This expression is, in particular, a means of keeping the one last possession available to the citizens of Oceania: “Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull” (27). Of course, the Party has taken steps to penetrate this last place of concealment. Those watching are trained to spot any gesture or expression that might be indicative of thoughtcrime. Thus, on a deeper level than Winston realizes, “in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy but always against one’s own body” (102-103). The body becomes the traitor of the mind.
The unblinking gaze of Big Brother also has an impact on the larger community. This gaze creates conformity among members, as illustrated by the group activities and even by the enforced exercises. In spite of the fact that these group activities are compulsory—though this is never explicitly stated—the activities also become genuine. Orwell explains that the “horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary” (14). What this suggests, is that a process is in place of control that is initially coercive, but then becomes less coercive as the individual enacts the role assigned to him or her. Thus, while Winston may initially be acting because he is aware of the judgmental gaze of others and Big Brother, he eventually ceases to act and embodies, instead, the desired behavior. His conformity is tied to the well documented concept of mob mentality, an unthinking mentality that the Party fosters through emotional events like Hate Week and Two Minutes Hate.
The importance of collectivism to the functioning of Oceania is further illustrated by the fact that:
In principle a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreations; to do anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak: ownlife, it was called, meaning individualism and eccentricity. (82)
It is worth noting that the expectation of constant communal activities in Oceania bears a striking resemblance to how cults operate. Time alone allows people to form independent opinions that are more than mere reactions to the emotions and opinions of other people. Such independent opinions are dangerous to the cohesion of most groups.
Ironically, for all of the communal activities that citizens of Oceania participate in, each of them remains separated from each other, from citizens of the past and from citizens in the future. Parsons, for example, has a wife and children, but this does not mean that he has a family. After all, it is his own daughter who turns him in for saying, “Down with Big Brother” in his sleep. (We should pause here to consider one of the dilemmas that faces Parson…. Because he was asleep, he doesn’t know what he was saying or if he was even saying anything at all. His daughter may have made up the whole story and reported him for the excitement of the experience and the approval she would receive from her peers. At the same time, he can’t doubt her claim because to doubt her claim would be illustrate his own disloyalty to Big Brother. As Parson tells Winston, “You don’t think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do you?” (233).
The fact that families do not function according to traditional expectations is further highlighted by Winston’s reflections on his family life:
Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there were still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of family stood by one another without needing to know the reason. (30)
Indeed, this failure of the family is represented by one of Winston’s colleagues:
He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in, day out, simply at tracking down and deleting from the press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore never considered to have existed. There was a certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple of years ago. (42)
Replacing the traditional family structure is the relationship of the individual to the state. For this reason, the Party wisely personifies itself as, appropriately enough, Big Brother. Of course, although Big Brother is a term derived from a familial relationship, Big Brother is not a family member. No one has a relationship with Big Brother, even though Winston believes, on the final page that Big Brother loves him and he loves Big Brother.
Winston’s reflections on tragedy highlight the fact that it is not merely the institution of the family that has broken down. Love and friendship have also ceased to be meaningful. The “friends” Winston has are clearly not friends; they barely deserve the term acquaintances. Even his relationship with Julia, which is the most intimate relationship he has, is not one that ends his isolation. While Julia cares for him, she does not understand him or share his desire to rebel for the sake of greater freedom. The ultimate tragedy for these two characters is in the fact that having promised not to betray each other, they are unable to avoid the betrayal that their change in feelings for each other entails.
Lastly, we must note the irony involved in Winston’s greeting in his journal:
To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone—to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:
From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink—greetings! (28)
Winston, of course, cannot address the past both because the past is the past and because, in Oceania, the past doesn’t exist. Furthermore, he can’t hope to address the future because the future will either be controlled by the Party, in which case Winston —as part of the undesired past—will be obliterated from history, or the future will be so different from Winston’s present that nobody will understand what he is describing. Thus, he is cut off from both the past and the future and exists only in the terrible present.
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan, London: Penguin Books, 1991
With this post I’m commencing a three part discussion of 1984. This first post will briefly introduce you to George Orwell and to 1984, and will focus on the role of history in creating the present. The concepts of epistemology, ideology and “Truth” will play a critical role in this first discussion. The next post will focus on isolation, collectivism and surveillance. The final post on 1984 will ask us to examine the role of sexuality as an instrument of power and control.
The Man Who Knew Big Brother
Eric Blair, better known to most of us as George Orwell, wrote books and essays, many of which were social and political commentaries. His two best known books, 1984 and Animal Farm, exemplify these social and political themes.
Orwell’s prescient depiction of totalitarianism in 1984 arose out of the historical conditions surrounding his life, as well as from his own store of personal experiences and ideas. Orwell emphasized the value of understanding this background in his essay, “Why I Write” by noting:
“I do not think one can assess a writer’s motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape.”
Orwell was unquestionably shaped by the age in which he lived. His earliest inspiration for the totalitarian regime represented by Big Brother may well have come as a consequence of serving with the Imperial Police Force in Burma and India. As a member of the privileged English race, he witnessed first-hand the inhumanity of an oppressive regime and the injustice inherent in imperialism; themes which he touched upon in his novel, Burmese Days and in his essay, “A Hanging”.His experiences working to expand and maintain imperialism, combined with the rise of totalitarianism in both Nazi Germany and the Communist Soviet Union, provided him with a pessimistic view of authority. He explained in “Why I Write” that,
First I spent five years in an unsuitable profession (the Indian Imperial Police, in Burma), and then I underwent poverty and the sense of failure. This increased my natural hatred of authority and made me for the first time fully aware of the existence of the working classes, and the job in Burma had given me some understanding of the nature of imperialism: but these experiences were not enough to give me an accurate political orientation. Then came Hitler, the Spanish Civil War, etc.
The real transformative moment, however, came for him, when, in 1936, he went to Spain to fight in the civil war against fascism. That period in his life was the catalyst for his writing:
Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I understand it. It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid writing of such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another. It is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. And the more one is conscious of one’s political bias, the more chance one has of acting politically without sacrificing one’s aesthetic and intellectual integrity. (“Why I Write”)
Indeed, in reflecting on his motives for writing in general, Orwell produced two that are specifically relevant to the shape of 1984:
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude. (“Why I Write)
1984 is very clearly a text created with a political purpose. Throughout the novel, the protagonist, Winston Smith, is keenly aware of the political nature of all acts, including, as I will discuss in the last post, the sexual act. In this post, however, I will focus more on the combination of the historical impulse, the “desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity” and the relationship of this impulse to politics.
In describing the writing process, Orwell explains that,
What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing. But I could not do the work of writing a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a full-time politician would consider irrelevant. I am not able, and do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of us. (“Why I Write”)
In the case of 1984, the source of injustice that inspired Orwell was Stalin’s repressive Communist regime. His critique of Stalinism was essential for two reasons. First, while awareness of Stalin’s ruthless acts was infiltrating Western consciousness, many leftist intellectuals still either sympathized with or supported Stalinism. As a leftist intellectual, Orwell saw the importance of separating the foundations of socialist idealism from the excesses of Stalinism. Secondly, in 1948, as Orwell was composing 1984, there was no reason to believe that the Soviet Union would lose the Cold War, or, for that matter, that the war would remain cold. Orwell’s novel helped explain in this uncertain time why it was important that Stalinism not succeed. 1984 remains, however, a valuable book because while it is rooted in the rise of 20th century totalitarianism, it provides a critique of power that is not limited to one historical point in time.
The Benefactor and Big Brother
As you read 1984, you may have started noticing similarities to We. Orwell had read We and acknowledged his indebtedness to Zamyatin’s novel. The following similarities are particularly worth noting:
At the beginning of 1984, Winston starts keeping a journal. In We, D-503 keeps a journal.
Oceania, the nation in which Winston lives, is policed by the “Thought Police”. In The One State, the police force are called the Guardians. Both groups operate through surveillance and by gathering information from “concerned” citizens.
Oceania is governed by Big Brother, while The One State is governed by the Benefactor. Both leaders are probably fictitious constructs meant to maintain the power structures of each society. For a similar example, watch the role of Father in the movie Equilibrium.
The states in both novels carefully regulate and monitor sexual activity. In 1984 citizens have to apply to a committee for permission to get married. Sex is discouraged by the “Junior Anti-Sex League”. The purpose of this control, in part, was “to prevent men and women from forming loyalties which [the Party] might not be able to control” (65). In We, marriage has been outlawed for similar reasons, and the frequency of sexual activity is “scientifically determined”.
Both Winston and D-503 begin to actively resist their respective regimes in part because of the elicit affairs they have.
In 1984, the proles are predominantly excluded from the working of the Party. In We, the Mephi, or those outside the Green Wall are excluded from The One State.
In 1984, Winston develops a deadly relationship with a government agent, O’Brien. In We, D-503 develops a relationship with the Guardian, S.
In both states, control is extended to everyday activities. Winston, for example, if forced, along with everyone else, to do calisthenics, while the number of time that D-503 chews his food is prescribed.
In 1984, Winston finds a place where he and Julia can meet in the Prole section of town. This house, with its old furnishings, is like a museum of the past. Similarly, D-503 meets with I-330 at the “Old House”, a museum from a previous time.
In We, D-503 comments on the absurdity of the human head and how it conceals ideas. Likewise, Winston notes that “Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull” (26).
Winston and D-503 are both eventually broken by the state and come to “love” their oppressors.
There are undoubted more similarities than these. Feel free to post them as you find them!
History and the Present
A critical component of the Party’s power structure is its ability to control the present by continually changing the past. Significantly, the present has no enduring quality. As we move through time, each second of now slips into the past. The Party’s control of the past extends, as Winston explains, to the immediate past: “Do you realize that the past, starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? … History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right” (155). It is unsurprising then that Julia, Winston’s young lover, cannot remember the fact that a mere four years ago Oceania was at war with Eastasia instead of Eurasia (154). She, as a product of the Party, has been taught to forget the past and to engage in the “doublethink” that allows for two contradictory facts to both be true.
Furthermore, unlike the unreformed Winston, Julia sees no reason to worry about the fact that she can’t remember the past. Her concerns are located in the present and in her immediate personal interests: “she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they in some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her” (153).
Given that her memory does not extend past four years, we have to even question how extensively she rebels against the teachings of the Party that touch upon her own life. After all, imagining that she was forcibly separated from Winston, four years later, would she remember that she had ever been with him? Early in her relationship she tells Winston that she has had sex “[hundreds] of times—well, scores of times, anyway” (125). Is her uncertainty about her sexual activities a consequence of the numerous times she has had sex, her desire to impress Winston with her rebellious behavior, or, possibly, her actual inability to remember her own past? Significantly, Orwell tells us nothing tangible about Julia’s past. We are left to imagine the nature of her sexual relationships. Were they all acts of rebellion? Has she known other men like Winston? It would seem that Winston might want to know the answer to this last question if only to locate other potential subversives, but he does not probe her vague statement of promiscuity.
As for Julia’s disregard for the past, this disregard is the logical consequence of the Party’s control. In Oceania, “the past not only changed, but changed continuously” (79). Any attempt to follow the oscillating changes of the past would lead to insanity. As Winston comes to realize,
In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. (156)
Winston is, of course, partially wrong in suggesting that the Party has instituted an endless present. The present, even more than the past, is unstable and open to reconstruction because it continually slides into the past. Indeed, past, present and future are, from one perspective, concurrent events. From this perspective, the Party Slogan, “Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past” (35), is absolutely correct. Orwell provides the basic outline by which this control is exercised: “The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten, the lie became truth” (75). This control of time, through the efficient erasure of past thoughts and the forgetting of that erasure, guarantees a form of control over not merely time but all reality, or as the Party calls it “Reality Control”. The paradox of reality control is explained, in part, by Winston’s realization: “If both the past and the external world exist only in the Mind, and if the mind itself is controllable—what then?” (80).
The possibility that the external world merely exists in the mind is one that cannot be completely ignored. The philosopher Descartes realized that he could not trust any of his senses to correctly inform him about the external world. Think of it this way—we usually take for granted that the things we see and feel are “real”. Descartes, however, knew that he saw things in dreams, but he was sure that either the reality in what he called dreams or in what he waking must be false. In his opinion, both the dream world and the waking world couldn’t mutually be real. He also recognized that the use of drugs, say opium, could also change an individual’s perception of reality. Simply put we receive conflicting messages from our senses. Even when we are awake and not “hallucinating” our senses trick us into seeing things like mirages. The problem was that while each of these states of reality appeared to be mutually exclusive, for a person undergoing a dream or a hallucination, the perceived reality seems as real or more real than what we typically consider reality. Descartes also thought that it was possible that mathematics and logic, things which apparently don’t rely on senses but on reason, were tricks. We assume, like Winston, that 2 + 2 = 4. By contrast, Descartes points out that “We may think that mathematics is self-regulating and testable, but there might just be an invisible demon who continuously hypnotizes us into thinking that our mathematics is correct” (Robinson & Garratt, 46). What this means is that essentially all of what we accept as “Truth” and “reality” is vulnerable and open to debate and negotiation.
There is a difference, of course, between Descartes’ dilemma and Orwell’s description of reality in 1984. The primary difference is that where Descartes suspects his senses and believes that they could be inaccurate (they could also be, of course, entirely accurate), Winston knows for a certainty that the reality he lives in is a construct. Descartes speculates that an “invisible demon” could be toying with his perceptions of logic and mathematics. Winston, by contrast, knows that the Party is deliberately manipulating his logic. He is aware that:
In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. (80)
The suggestion that a control of the past also dictates a control of reality seems at first glance nonsensical. How can the past control what we take to be real? The only way to understand this is by returning to what we learned about Marxism in our last lecture. Marx, as you will recall stated in his preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy that “it is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but, on the contrary, their social existence that determines their consciousness.” As I noted, Marx was arguing was that our society, including how our society produces and uses things, determines to a large extent how we view the world. If our society could be restructured without our awareness of it, and then that restructuring erased from our minds, what we would “see” in the world, would differ radically from what we now see.
And, of course, such restructuring of society actually do occur. Michel Foucault notes, for example, that prior to the 19th century, the word and the concept “homosexual” did not exist. Of course there were men who had sex with men and women who had sex with women prior to the 19th century, but these individuals were not seen as belonging to a different category than any other individual. Their sexual practices did not define their identities. Because the concept of homosexual didn’t exist, it follows that the concept of the heterosexual also did not exist prior to the 19th century. In our own society, however, we have these terms and we tend to define people by these terms. Not only do we define our contemporaries by their sexual preferences, we assign those labels posthumously to individuals of the past. Thus, a favorite pastime of some supporters of homosexuality has been to identify and “out” famous people, like Leonardo da Vinci, as homosexuals. The problem with this approach to history is that it takes our world view and applies it indiscriminately to people who did not possess our mental framework.
As a final note, I want to return us again to the idea of “Truth” being vulnerable. Most of us probably assume that reality and the “Truth” are fixed entities—that reality is what is real and that the “Truth” is what is true. While it is possible that these exist, as Descartes makes clear, being certain about these forms of knowledge is impossible. Added to that, our favourite philosopher, Michel Foucault, points out that reality and “Truth” will always be highly contested areas because of the fact that they serve to create power. He goes on to state:
There is a battle ‘for truth’, or at least ‘around truth’—it being understood once again that by truth I do not mean ‘the ensemble of truths which are to be discovered and accepted’, but rather ‘the ensemble of rules according to which the true and the false are separated and specific effects of power attached to the true’, it being understood also that it’s not a matter of a battle ‘on behalf’ of the truth, but of a battle about the status of truth and the economic and political roles it plays. (132)
Winston is a phenomenal character precisely because he is aware of this battle. Arguably, this makes him a far greater risk to the Party than Julia or, for that matter, most anyone else referenced in the novel.
Foucault, Michel. 1980. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972-1977. ed. Colin Gordon, trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshal, John Mepham and Kate Soper. New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf.
Robinson, Dave and Chris Garratt. 1999. Introducing Descartes. Cambridge: Icon Books
Female characters play a significant role in dystopian literature. In early dystopian fiction this role has frequently been limited to being the catalyst for rebellious behaviour. In other words, women provide the initial impetus for characters like D-503, Winston Smith, and John Savage to act. To a certain extent this pattern is merely an extension of a long tradition in Western literature. From the Illiad, with its account of heroics inspired by the kidnap of Helen, to the romances of the Middle Ages, with knights going off to rescue damsels in distress, to the more recent tales, like the Star Wars adventure set in motion by the captured Princess Leia, women have long been depicted as providing the motivation for male action. The Handmaid’s Tale and The Stepford Wives challenge this stereotypical representation of women by making women not the cause of the story, but rather the story itself. Beyond that, both of these dystopias will suggest that for women, dystopia consists of the construction of a patriarchal-masculinist utopia. In this first post on The Handmaid’s Tale, I’ll be focussing on providing a feminist understanding of how patriarchy operates in our world.
Dystopian societies in fiction are frequently divided into hierarchical classifications that differentiate between the types of power that each group possesses. In 1984 and Metropolis these divisions are at least partially modeled on the Marxist categories of workers and owners. In Brave New World and Gattaca, on the other hand, while there are still the categories of workers and owners (Vincent, in Gattaca, can be interpreted as making the transition from “worker” to “owner”), groups are “scientifically” differentiated according to their biologic and genetic characteristics. While this latter form of classification may seem further removed from our reality than the class system presupposed by Marxism, the truth is that the oldest and most universal demarcation between those with greater power and those with lesser power is based on whether a person has an XY chromosome and is thus classified as a male, or an XX chromosome, and is classified as a female.
Although there is no natural explanation for why women are routinely disempowered, there can be little debate that being born female in many cultures relegates one to a separate and unequal status. As Kate Millet notes in her influential book, Sexual Politics:
[A] disinterested examination of our system of sexual relationship must point out that the situation between the sexes now, and throughout history, is a case of that phenomenon Max Weber defined as herrschaft, a relationship of dominance and subordinance. What goes largely unexamined, often even unacknowledged (yet is institutionalized nonetheless) in our social order, is the birthright priority whereby males rule females. Through this system a most ingenious form of “interior colonization” has been achieved. It is one which tends moreover to be sturdier than any form of segregation, and more rigorous than class stratification, more uniform, more enduring. However muted its present appearance may be, sexual dominion remains nevertheless as perhaps the most pervasive ideology of our culture and provides its most fundamental concept of power (Millet 1972, 24-25, italics mine).
The absence of any “natural” justification for this subordination of women is commented on by the philosopher and feminist Simone de Beauvoir, who argues in her book The Second Sex,
One is not born, but becomes a woman. No biological, psychological, or economic fate determines the figure that the human female presents in society: it is civilization as a whole that produces this creature, intermediate between male and eunuch, which is described as feminine. (1952, 249)
What does she mean by this claim? She means that while the presence or absence of certain sexual organs may be defined by genetics, the way one is treated because of the presence or absence of those sexual organs is culturally determined. One is born male or female (in her opinion), but one becomes a man or a woman because of culture. This perhaps helps clarify why our culture has terms like “girly men” and “manly women”. People so labeled have not “become” entirely what is expected of them.
Put another way, as feminist theorist Elaine Showalter points out, “gender is not only a question of difference, which assumes that sexes are separate and equal; but of power, since in looking at the history of gender relations, we find sexual asymmetry, inequality, and male dominance in every known society” (1989, 4). Thus, according to de Beauvoir, Millet, Showalter and other feminists, the discrepancies that exist between men and women in terms of power are not—contrary to what readers of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus might believe—natural, but rather social; not innate, but rather constructed.
Although there is nothing natural about the limitations placed on women, western societies have worked to rationalize the inequities of the gender system by appealing to “natural law”. As feminist critic, Monique Wittig explains,
The ideology of sexual difference functions as censorship in our culture by masking on the ground of nature, the social opposition between men and women. Masculine/feminine, male/female are the categories which serve to conceal the fact that social differences always belong to an economic, political, ideological order. (Wittig 1992, 2)
In other words, the terms male and female become a means of obfuscating the fact that women are frequently denied the rights granted men. The fact that more women don’t protest this unfair treatment is not surprising. As the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu points out,
Being included, as a man or woman, in the object that we are trying to comprehend, we have embodied the historical structures of the masculine order in the form of unconscious schemes of perception and appreciation. When we try to understand masculine domination we are therefore likely to resort to modes of thought that are the product of domination. […] The dominated apply categories constructed from the point of view of the dominant to the relations of domination, thus making them appear as natural (Bourdieu 2001, 5, 35)
In simple terms, women (and men) have been conditioned to accept the inequities between the sexes. As, Huxley would say, “that is the secret of happiness and virtue—liking what you’ve got to do. All conditioning aims at that: making people like their unescapable social destiny”(1989, 15). Atwood provides a slightly different take on conditioning by noting the human capacity to adjust to the demands of society. Her character, Aunt Lydia, informs the women she is educating that “Ordinary […] is what you are used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary” (45). In the case of gender differences, society both works to make the social destiny of men and women seem inescapable and, at the same time, natural and preferable. In other words, the gender roles we’ve been assigned since birth have become “ordinary”.
Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale depicts a future American society, the Republic of Gilead, which has returned to “traditional values” and thus cost women many of the freedoms that they gained during the 20th century (9). The patriarchal nature of this society is indicated by the fact that women are distributed to the men. The dictum upon which this distribution is based is summed up in the slogan of the Republic of Gilead, “From each […] according to her ability: to each according to his need” (151). Women are judged only by their abilities at fulfilling certain social functions. They are never to be the recipients of the abilities that they and others possess. Men, by contrast, are judged only according to their need and are always the recipients.
Not all men, of course, benefit equally from this distribution of women. When Offred, the protagonist, first encounters her Commander’s chauffer, Nick, for example, she notes that he is of “[l]ow status: he hasn’t been issued a woman, not one. He doesn’t rate; some defect, lack of connections” (24). The fact that Nick is judged not to need, or warrant, a wife, is consistent with the inequitable distribution of power in our society. As Arthur Brittan has observed, “Although a large number of men may benefit from patriarchy and heterosexualism, this does not mean that they all benefit equally; similarly, not all women are equally oppressed” (1989, 139).
The status of each of the women available for distribution is indicated by the nomenclature used in the Republic of Gilead. Each of the handmaids, along with being given the Biblical title of handmaid, is also given a temporary title that indicates her relationship to the man who own her. Consequently, the protagonist is called Offred because her owner is Fred. Once she is transferred, her title will change to match her new owner. Similarly, other women, who belong to different social groups also have different titles, all of which are indicative of their relative positions in society. The women who are married to the Commanders are called “Wives”. The consistent capitalization of this title signals that the word “Wife” means more in the Republic of Gilead than it does in our society. A Wife is not simply a married woman—she is a woman who is allowed to marry, unlike the other women in society.
On a lower station from the Wives who are married to the Commanders are the Econowives, who are married to lesser men. The Econowives, as Offred explains, “are not divided into functions. They have to do everything; if they can” (32). Beneath these multipurpose wives are the handmaids, who are responsible for reproduction and the female servants, or Marthas, who are responsible for the housework. In addition to these women, who are clearly connected to specific households, if only on a temporary basis, there are also the Aunts, who have the responsibility for educating and indoctrinating the handmaids. The title of “Aunt” works on two specific levels. On the one hand, it is suggestive of an older, wiser, family member, someone whom the handmaids are meant to admire and turn to for advice. On the other hand, the title evokes the use of the word “aunt” as part of the history of slavery in the United States.
Throughout the story, the relationship of Offred to her Commander remains obscure. The initial relationship is not, technically, sexual, although they do have sex. Offred describes a sexual encounter between him and her in the Ceremony in these terms:
The red skirt is hitched up to my waist, though no higher. Below it the Commander is fucking. What he is fucking is the lower part of my body. I do not say making love, because this is not what he’s doing. Copulating too would be inaccurate, because it would imply two people and only one is involved. Nor does rape cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven’t signed up for. There wasn’t a lot of choice but there was some, and this is what I chose. (121)
Consequently, she is not—until later in the story—his mistress (210). As the relationship is established in the beginning, she cannot be a mistress. The word mistress presupposes a woman involved in a sustained intimate relationship with a married man whose wife is typically either ignorant of the affair, or who, if she is aware of it, disapproves of the affair. The relationship between the Commander and Offred is clearly not intimate, even in a sexual sense, nor is it even particularly enjoyable for either of the parties involved. As Offred explains, from the Commander’s perspective, “The sexual act, although he performed it in a perfunctory way, must have been largely unconscious for him, like scratching himself” (207). Offred’s experience of the sexual act is also distant. She objectively records that,
What is going on in this room, under Serena Joy’s silvery canopy, is not exciting. It has nothing to do with passion or love or romance or any of those other notions we used to titillate ourselves with. It has nothing to do with sexual desire, at least for me, and certainly not for Serena. 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. (122).
Not only is the act devoid of all passion, the act is done with the permission of the Wife, Serena Joy, and indeed, occurs with Offred’s head lying on Serena Joy’s lap. These facts alone make it evident that Offred is not intended as a mistress for the Commander. In any event, lest there should be any confusion about her role, Offred disabuses the reader of the “fantasy” of the kept woman:
We are for breeding purposes: we aren’t concubines, geisha girls, courtesans. On the contrary: everything possible has been done to remove us from that category. There is supposed to be nothing entertaining about us, no room is to be permitted for the flowering of secret lusts; no special favors to be wheedled, by them or us, there are to be no toeholds for love. We are two-legged wombs, that’s all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices (176).
Offred is not, then, a prostitute or kept woman. She is not the Commander’s employee, for she receives no wages and can never quit her duties to the Commander. As the slogan, “From each […] according to her ability: to each according to his need” suggests, there is no question of her being compensated for fulfilling the Commander’s needs (151). Of course she can refuse to fulfill her role as a handmaid, but to do so risks exile to the colonies.
Offred is not family either, although the social group to which she, the Wife, the Marthas and the Commander belong is meant to resemble a family. Indeed, during her earlier indoctrination, Aunt Lydia explains,
For the generations that come after […] it will be so much better. The women will live in harmony together, all in one family; you will be like daughters to them, and when the population level is up to scratch again we’ll no longer have to transfer you from one house to another because there will be enough to go round. There can be bonds of real affection […] under such conditions. Women united for a common end! Helping one another in their daily chores as they walk the path of life together, each performing her appointed task. Why expect one woman to carry out all the functions necessary to the serene running of a household? It isn’t reasonable or humane. Your daughters will have greater freedom. (209-210, italics mine)
Although the future envisioned by Aunt Lydia is one of family, even she is uncertain of how this family will be constituted, for while the handmaids “will be like daughters”, they clearly won’t be daughters of the families to which they are assigned. In any event, Offred’s membership in the family is undercut by the fact that she will be reassigned as soon as she has performed her duty to the Commander’s family by producing a child.
The relationship then, that Offred has to the Commander is one of property to owner. Early on, when her society begins the transition to the Republic of Gilead, Offred’s friend, Moira, tells her, “Women can’t hold property anymore. […] It’s a new law” (231). The reason, of course, why women cannot own property is because they are themselves property. Logically, property cannot own property, or hold down a job, or have any of the freedoms granted to a citizen. Offred is keenly aware of the fact that all women are property in the Republic of Gilead. Reflecting on the structure of her little community, she muses,
I wait, for the household to assemble. Household: that is what we are. The Commander is the head of the household. The house is what he holds. To have and to hold, till death do us part.
The hold of a ship. Hollow. (103-104).
The hold of a ship conjures for the reader the image of the hold of a slave ship. To a certain extent, though, Offred is even less than a slave, whose freedom is tacitly stripped away. She explains, “I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born” (86). To place this again in Simone de Beauvoir’s famous phrasing, “One is not born, but becomes a woman” (1952, 249). Offred has become a womb.
De Beauvoir, Siomone. 1952. The Second Sex. New York: Bantam.
From a distance we are instruments
Marching in a common band
Playing songs of home, playing songs of peace
They’re the songs of every man
God is watching us, God is watching us
God is watching us from a distance
– “From a Distance” as sung by Bette Midler
Welcome to my third post on dystopian literature. In this post, we’re going to begin by examining the religious imagery in We.A casual reader of Zamyatin’s We, might at first conclude that religious imagery and religious themes play a limited and insignificant role in the novel. Nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed, while Zamyatin’s novel is set in a secular, post-revolutionary, rationalist society, much like the one envisioned by Soviet communists, religion remains a significant, apparently indestructible frame of reference for D-503 and the other citizens of the One State. The survival of religious imagery in a state officially dedicated to reason and the elimination of the imagination is surprising, and can perhaps only be explained by either assuming that humans are endowed with an inherent sense of religious awe (the religion gene, if you will) or that the One State fosters a secular form of religion because faith in the state is necessary to the continuation of the state.
A Historical Case for the Existence of Secular Religions
We need to ask, is a secular religion even feasible? While the term secular religion seems, at first glance, an oxymoron, further consideration of the history of communism as it was practiced in the Soviet Union suggests that there are a number of shared features between communism and traditional Christianity. While Christians seek salvation from sin, Communists seek salvation from class warfare and social injustice. Both Christians and Communists believe that history will eventually end. Christians envision this end to history occurring when Christ comes to reclaim the earth and establish his kingdom. Communists, following the writings of Marx, argue that after an intense class struggle, a new classless society will be formed. Because class conflict, which Marxists consider the engine of history, will have stopped, history will also cease. Christian and Communist leaders alike have frequently made the case that sacrifices and suffering now are necessary to the attainment of either the Kingdom of Heaven or the workers’ paradise. Christians often speak of the unity of Christians, and Christian leaders frequently exhort their followers to act like brothers in Christ. Communists believe in the unity of the workers, and of course, Karl Marx famously ended his Communist Manifesto with the phrase “Workers of the world unite”. Just as some Christians venerate saints and decorate their homes with icons and statures, so, too, Soviet Communists venerated Lenin and Stalin and decorated their own homes with the pictures and statues of revolutionary heroes. Pilgrims from both faiths frequently make visits to the tombs of their fallen leaders. Both Christians and Communists have texts that they refer to for guidance and which they believe provides insight into future events: the Bible for Christians and Das Kapital for Communists. Communism, of course, is not the only secular movement to adapt and assimilate religious imagery. Nazism, with its pomp and circumstance also contained major religious motifs. For an example of this religious imagery in action, examine the picture of Hitler to the left.
In particular, note the “heavenly light” surrounding Hitler and the bird, possibly a dove or eagle, above him. The bird is a common motif in Christian artwork, where it symbolizes the descent of the Holy Spirit.
Lest you should think that I only see how religious iconography is co-opted by anti-religious states to foster a secular state religion, let me share some personal examples of how religious imagery is used for better or worse to develop our American identity.
A couple of years ago I told my then Spanish flat-mate about “The Pledge of Allegiance”. His eyes grew large as I described children in schools across America, hands on their hearts, facing the flag each morning, chanting in unison. When I finished, he said, “So it’s like you have an entire army of small children.” I explained to him that the function of “The Pledge of Allegiance” was not to turn little children into a miniature militia or “uber patriots”. My response rings hollow even now. What precisely did we mean when we said:
I pledge allegiance to the Flag
Of the United States of America
And to the Republic, for which it stands,
One nation, under God,
With liberty and justice for all.
What exactly is entailed by this oath of “allegiance”? In other words, what are we agreeing to? More specifically, what are we promising about our attitudes and our behavior in relationship to the flag and the nation? Does such an oath bind us to support every war that our country engages in, even if we question the morality of that war? What about that “one nation, under God” bit? How can we be sure that our nation is under God? Does this statement presume that we and our nation are more important to God than other people and other nations? If so, why us instead of them? Does our assertion that we belong to one nation mean that we’re going to all give up our differences, and act as one? Are atheists, who don’t believe in God, part of this one nation? Is an oath identifying a God they don’t believe in any way binding for atheists? It has to be noted here that the phrase “one nation, under God” was added during the Cold War specifically to differentiate “God-fearing” Americans from the “ungodly” Communists. What are we to make of the final ringing “With liberty and justice for all”? Are we to assume that that “One nation, under God”, actually does provide “liberty and justice for all”? It seems hardly likely in a nation where more black men are in prison than at college, and where competent women still hold substantially fewer powerful positions in society, and are paid less than their male counterparts. What limits our ideal goal of liberty and justice for all? Should we take an oath swearing to support a nation that is supposed to provide “liberty and justice for all”, but will never be able to achieve that Utopian ideal? But of course, the Oath of Allegiance is not meant to be analyzed, any more that the unanimous elections held in the One State are meant to be analyzed. Both are symbolic gestures that speak to our (unanalyzed) position as members of the community. Both gestures indicate that the state is dependent upon, and yet more important than the individual.
An earlier memory from my childhood comes to mind. My father, brother and I are in our car traveling across the US, listening to a Christian song. The song begins by telling of a statue in New York harbor that represents freedom to the world. The singer’s voice swells to proclaim, “I’m so proud to be called an American. To be named with the brave and the free….” The theme changes slightly. There is a cross on a hill called Calvary. The singer is proud to be known as a Christian, to be named with the redeemed. What could be better, I ask you, than this fortunate combination of church and state? Who could not be proud of being both an American and a Christian? I was fifteen at the time and was uncritical of this particular equation of being Christian and American.
My identification with Christianity may have even been stronger than my identification with my nation, though they were so closely intertwined that it is difficult to separate them. I remember quite clearly as a child singing and marching to a song that went:
I’m too young to
march in the infantry
ride in the cavalry
Shoot the artillery
I’m too young to
Fly over the enemy,
But I’m in the Lord’s army.
This song presents faith, one could argue, both in terms of a modern military and in terms of an unquestioning patriotism. Similarly, this combination of faith, militarism and patriotism is evident in an email I received on the eve of the war with Iraq:
Subject: PRAY BEFORE IT STARTS A torch has been lit today to be passed along to your e-mail friends…asking them to pass it along….and along….and along. We can do something about the threat of war; both in Iraq and with terrorists. In the Old Testament, God’s armies were always led by the priests. When the waters parted in the Jordan, it was the priests’ feet which first hit the turbulent river. In the New Testament, Christians are also referred to as priests…all Christians. We must, therefore, go in first. As the possibility of war approaches with Hussein and Iraq, we are asking the priests to step in first…..ahead of our military. Let us be setting up camp for our soldiers’ entrance into the conflict. How? By prayer. Let us be sending in “prayer missiles,” “cruise and scud prayers” to target enemy plans. “Patriot prayers” to shoot down incoming threats. We should be praying for two things: (1) that the enemy leaders become confused, disoriented, and distrustful of each other; that their entire system of attack fall apart, and (2) that in God’s wildest ways, these enemies would become aware of His deep love for them and the war Jesus has already fought for them, personally, on the cross. God had Gideon reduce his army from 32,000 to 300 men. He then equipped them with nothing but trumpets, pitchers, and torches. What an odd combination to fight off well-armed soldiers. When Gideon gave the command, the Bible says the enemy fled crying and turned on each other…all because God messed with enemy plans. Prayers were started for this about a month ago. On CNN last weekend a report came out that although Hussein has nothing to lose, his generals do. Is confusion beginning to develop? Please pray for God to set the stage for defeat of all those who intend to do harm. When our men and women of uniform arrive on the scene, may they be surprised at how God had camp set up before they ever got there. Would you please do two things? (1) pray, and (2) pass this along to those you know will pray. May we build an e-mail army of over a million in force…beginning with you.
In light of these examples, it is possible to argue that religious imagery plays an important part in shoring up every social structure, even those (perhaps especially those) which claim to be secular.
Perhaps the function of religion in the One State is to establish faith in the absolute truth of the governing ideology. The success of this imagery is evidenced by D-503’s refusal to question the ideology of the One State. Even when he admits his own rather innocent crimes, he does so without any hint that the One State might be to blame. Instead, when he envisions the possibility that O-90 might betray him, he decides that,
In my last moment I shall piously and gratefully kiss the punishing hand of the Benefactor. Suffering punishment is my right in relation to the One State, and I will not yield this right. We, the numbers of our State, should not, must not give up this right—the only, and therefore the most precious, right that we possess. (Zamyatin 1972, 114-115).
This right—which D-503 a little further recognizes does not exist, numbers can have no rights—is premised on the proposition that the One State is always right and the offending number always wrong. The religious nature of the punishment is made clear earlier, when D-503, watching an execution notes:
According to the descriptions that have come down to us, something similar was experienced by the ancients during their “religious services”. But they worshiped their own irrational, unknown God; we serve our rational and precisely know one. Their God gave them nothing except eternal tormenting searching; their God had not been able to think of anything more sensible than offering himself as sacrifice for some incomprehensible reason. We, on the other hand, offer a sacrifice to our God, the One State—a calm, reasoned, sensible sacrifice. Yes, this was our solemn liturgy to the One State, a remembrance of the awesome time of trial, of the Two Hundred Years’ War, a grandiose celebration of the victory of all over one, of the sum over the individual. (Zamyatin 1972, 45-46).
The function of these public executions is not merely to intimidate citizens; the executions also serve to bind the individual citizens into a community. The citizens become accomplices to the State terror, and naturally they must justify their actions and inactions by agreeing to the fiction that the State is always right.
On another level, a state religion / ideology is an extremely powerful tool for defining “Truth”. As the philosopher Michel Foucault has noted,
Truth is a thing of this world: it is produced only by virtue of multiple forms of constraint. And it induces regular effects of power. Each society has its régime of truth, its ‘general politics’ of truth: that is, the types of discourse which it accepts and makes function as true; the mechanisms and instances which enable one to distinguish between true and false statements, the means by which each is sanctioned; the techniques and procedures accorded value in the acquisition of truth; the status of those who are charged with saying what counts as true. (1980b, 131)
In the One State, these highly publicized state religious performances are among the mechanisms used to distinguish between true and false statements, ideas and practices.
Along with using religious imagery as an instrument of control in his fictitious society, Zamyatin also seems to be using the novel as a religious allegory. D-503—enclosed in the safety of the Green Wall, watched over by the Guardians, whom he compares to archangels, obedient to the Table of Hours, watched and judged by the Benefactor—is a type of Adam. Like Adam, D-503 is seduced by a woman, I-330, who introduces him both to illicit sexual activity and to critical thought. The destruction of the Green Wall invites comparison to Adam and Eve’s banishment from the Garden of Eden. Even the name of the rebels, the Mephi, is a reference to Mephistopheles, a demon who offers knowledge and power to the legendary Dr. Faust. What Zamyatin is providing then is a parable of the fall of man. Unlike the author of the Genesis account, however, Zamyatin’s sympathies lie with the rebels. For him, God / the Benefactor, is a tyrant who deprives people of their freedom and individuality. So important is this idea of freedom that Zamyatin has I-330 explain that revolutions against authority must be infinite (1972, 174-177). In other word, each time a revolution has succeeded and established itself as an omniscient authority, the citizens must once again revolt. This call to constant revolution on the part of Zamyatin is echoed in his essays. Indeed, in his essay “Tomorrow”, he notes,
“The world is kept alive only by heretics: the heretic Christ, the heretic Copernicus, the heretic Tolstoy. Our symbol of faith is heresy…”. We is Zamyatin’s contribution to this “heresy”.
“There are books of the same chemical composition as dynamite. The only difference is that a piece of dynamite explodes only once, while a book explodes a thousand times” – Yevgeny Zamyatin
In this second post on dystopian literature, I’m going to be introducing you to Yevgeny Zamyatin’s influential Russian novel, We.
Yevgeny Zamyatin’s novel, We, exemplifies the type of book that explodes a thousand times and continues to have repercussions. As one of the earliest and most influential examples of modern dystopian fiction, it is appropriate that we begin the semester with this novel. As you read other, more familiar dystopian novels and as you familiarize yourself with dystopian films, you will begin to see how Zamyatin’s novel has shaped the genre as a whole. I will briefly enumerate some of the places where Zamyatin’s influence on later dystopian fiction can be seen at the end of this post, but first I want to provide a very brief introduction Zamyatin himself.
Like his protagonist, D-503,Yevgeny Zamyatin was, by training, a naval engineer. More importantly, Zamyatin was a revolutionary and an author. As a fiercely independent author, who refused to compromise his artistic principles, Zamyatin faced censorship first from the Czarist government and then, after the Revolution, from the Bolsheviks.
In We, Zamyatin predicted the social repression of Stalin’s Soviet Union. Unlike D-503, who becomes a machine of the One State, Zamyatin was permitted to leave the Soviet Union. He died in exile in France. We, which was initially banned in the Soviet Union, was finally published there in 1988.
We, set in an unidentified future, describes life within the One State. The One State consists of a single city entirely enclosed by the Green Wall. Inside the city, citizens live and work in glass buildings, which makes possible constant surveillance. Instead of having a name, each citizen is identified by a letter followed by numbers. Alphanumeric codes beginning with consonants identify males, while alphanumeric codes beginning with vowels identify females.
Life in the One State is regulated right down to the number of chewing movements each citizen must make before swallowing food (Zamyatin 1972, 102). Citizens live their lives in accordance to the schedule established by the Table of Hours. The long term consequence of the absence of personal time is that citizens cease to see themselves as individuals and instead view themselves as cogs in the machinery of the One State. As the protagonist, D-503, explains:
Every morning, with six-wheeled precision, at the same hour and the same moment, we—millions of us—get up as one. At the same hour, in million-headed unison, we start work: and in million-headed unison we end it. And, fused into a single million-handed body, at the same second, designated by the Table, we lift our spoons to our mouths (Zamyatin 1972, 12).
Conformity in the One State is strengthened by the absence of goods that might help citizens personalize their lives. Everyone wears unifs, or uniforms, and everyone apparently has access to the same frugal material goods. Food is a synthetically produced petroleum product. (Note that the use of petroleum as the source of food suggests how very machinelike the citizens have become). Of course, the conformity of the citizens means that the State produces few artists or thinkers. A few poets, like R-13, are maintained to create propaganda for state occasions (which, ironically fits with the role assigned to poets in Plato’s Republic, and, with the limited role writers and artists were expected to play in the Soviet Union) but it is evident that very little creativity actually goes into the poetry they produce. Indeed, music in the One State is composed according to mathematical formulas and is produced by a machine called a musicometer (Zamyatin 1972, 16-17).
Along with giving up possession of material goods, the citizens of the One State have also, for the most part, given up any claim on each other. Families no longer exist. Indeed, the Lex Sexualis mandates that “Each number has a right to any other number, as to a sexual commodity” (Zamyatin 1972, 21). D-503 describes the organization of sexual activity as follows:
You are carefully examined in the laboratories of the Sexual Department; the exact content of sexual hormones in you blood is determined, and you are provided with an appropriate Table of sexual days. After that, you declare that on your sexual days you wish to use number so-and-so, and you receive your book of coupons (pink). And that is all. (Zamyatin 1972, 22).
Along with regulating sexual activity, the One State also determined who could have children through Maternal and Paternal Norms (Zamyatin 1972, 14). The purpose of these laws, of course, was to ensure that children met standards established by the state. Even when two numbers did meet the Maternal and Paternal Norms, the resulting child belonged, not to them, but to the state. The One State’s policy of separating children from their biologic parents and raising them ensured that each citizen would, from birth have the same experiences and upbringing. Obviously this would permit the state to inculcate shared values and perceptions. Beyond that, the state’s assumption of the role of parent assured that loyalty was primarily directed toward the state. The fact that D-503 sees himself in a familial relationship with R-13 and 0-90 suggests, however, that the state has been unsuccessful in eliminating vestigial ideas of family.
I want to digress here to note that control of the family, or even the elimination of the family, is a major concern in many dystopian narratives. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, for example, takes the abolition of the family one step further than Zamyatin’s We. In Brave New World, children are not even biologically conceived. Instead, infants are “constructed” in enormous factories, and, instead of being born, they are decanted. So far removed has the society of Brave New World become from reproduction and family that the words “mother” and “father” are considered vulgar and obscene. Sex, in Brave New World, has been reduced to a merely recreational activity, and, in order to discourage attachments that might pose a threat to the state, monogamy is treated like an aberrant behavior. Similarly, in George Orwell’s 1984, family structures have been significantly reduced. Instead, in both 1984 and in the movie Equilibrium, the state becomes the titular family member: in 1984, Big Brother and in Equilibrium, father. Significantly, female familial titles are frequently absent in dystopian fiction. This absence signals that dystopian fiction is frequently (although not always) patriarchal in nature. The patriarchal fantasy is realized as a male society in which females are marginalized. Often times, however, as in the cases of 1984’s Winston Smith, Brave New World’s John Savage and We’s D-503, the lack of family becomes an obsession for the main character. Thus, when D-503 realizes that he may have been tricked both by the One State and the rebels, he thinks to himself,
If I had a mother, like the ancients: mine—yes, precisely—my mother. To Whom I would be—not the Builder of the Integral, and not number D-503, and not a molecule of the One State, but a simple human being—a piece of herself, trampled, crushed, discarded… (Zamyatin 1972, 216)
This wistful statement indicates D-503’s desire to be more than a pawn. Instead, he longs to be unconditionally loved for himself. In most dystopian societies, however, individuals are not viewed as inherently valuable. Any value assigned to them stems from their function within the State.
In light of the degree of enforced conformity, it is unsurprising that the citizens of the One State view freedom as evil. As D-503 explains,
Freedom and crime are as linked as indivisibly as… well, as the motion of the aero and its speed: when its speed equals zero, it does not move; when man’s freedom equals zero, he commits no crimes. That is clear. The only means of ridding man of his crime is ridding him of freedom. (Zamyatin 1972, 35)
The only possible way, of course, of removing freedom is to transform humans into machines. To accomplish this, humans must lose their souls. For many citizens of the One State, the dehumanizing effects of constant surveillance combined with the required collectivism prevent a soul, or individual identity from ever developing. D-503, however, is apparently naturally resistant to this form of dehumanization. His subconscious resistance is marked in the very first lines of We, where he promises to tell his readers what he thinks, and then, embarrassed by this reference to himself, corrects himself to say that he writes what the society in its entirety thinks. As the narrative progresses, D-503’s sense of his individuality grows. Eventually, seeking help for what he assumes is an illness, he is informed by a doctor that he, in fact, has an incurable soul. The doctor’s claim that possession of a soul is incurable is in fact only partially true. Initially the only means of removing a soul is by killing the patient. Later, the doctors of the One State discover that by surgically removing imagination, citizens can be perfected to the status of machines (Zamyatin 1972, 180). D-503 describes those who undergo the operation, noting that “These are not people—they are humanoid tractors” (Zamyatin 1972, 189). Significantly, while D-503 acknowledges that these “humanoid tractors” have achieved machinelike perfection, he and the other citizens of the One State are unwilling to undergo the surgery. As he explains, “I saw it clearly: everyone was saved but there was no salvation for me. I did not want salvation….” (Zamyatin 1972, 186). In the end though, D-503 is forcibly “saved” by the state. The language in his final entry is an appropriate reflection of an individual devoid of imagination and emotion.
In my next post I will be discussing the methods, particularly that of surveillance, used by the One State to end freedom. I will also be focusing on the use of religious imagery in We.
It should be obvious from what I’ve written that subsequent dystopian fiction and cinema is heavily indebted to We. I’m going to enumerate just a few of the things that subsequent authors and movie producers have borrowed from Zamyatin’s work:
1984’s Big Brother is modeled on The Benefactor.
Zamyatin’s conception of a walled-in society is mimicked in the movies Logan’s Run and The Truman Show.
The concept that the State, not parents, own children is also evident in the novels Brave New World and Walden Two, and, to a lesser extent, in The Handmaid’s Tale.
Social engineering, or the conditioning of humans, is the major theme of Walden Two and Brave New World.
Eugenics plays a role in the novel, Brave New World, and in the movie, Gattaca.
The use of numbers in place of personal names is evident in George Lucas’s movie THX 1138.
Margaret Atwood’s use of journals in The Handmaid’s Tale to narrate her protagonist’s story, and George Orwell’s use of journals in 1984 mirror Zamyatin’s use of journals in We.
George Orwell copies the love affair between D-503 and I-330 in 1984.
Surveillance is one of the major themes in many dystopian movies and novels including 1984, Fahrenheit 451, The Truman Show and Equilibrium.
The replacement of human emotion with cold rationality is a theme in Equilibrium (where the state medicates everyone to prevent them from feeling anything) and in Alphaville, where illogical behavior is punishable by death.
D-503’s equation of freedom with crime resonates with the ideas of other characters in science fiction. The Judge Dredd comic strip, for example, focuses on a futurist society where armed “judges” are authorized to act as police, judges, juries and executioners. One of the judges, Judge Death, studies criminals to identify what they all share in common. He eventually realizes that the only commonality among criminals is that they are all alive. From this he concludes that total justice can only be achieved by completely exterminating all life everywhere.
Judge Death as depicted in Judge Dredd Megazine #207
Because of this renewed interest, we Spoilers thought it would be valuable to start blogging about dystopian narratives and about how these narratives intersect with current political and social trends. As part of that project, I’ve decided to make available lectures that I wrote for an online course on dystopian narratives for the University of Maine in Presque Isle. What follows is an adaptation of what I wrote to introduce students to the dystopian genre.
In this post I’m going to be establishing the theoretical foundations for later posts by providing you with some definitions of our genre, dystopian fiction, and describing how dystopian narratives function, and why they are such a major genre in the 20th century.
Before we can properly understand the term “dystopia”, however, we first need to understand its older, antithetical twin, “utopia”. The English diplomat, scholar and Catholic martyr, Thomas More, invented the word “utopia” as the name for a fictional ideal society. More’s book, Utopia, published in 1516 in Latin, purports to narrate the experiences of a European traveler in the hitherto unknown country of Utopia. Utopia is depicted as a well structured society where efficient laws and customs have done away with the problems that More perceives in Europe. Thomas More appears to have invented the word “utopia” to convey the meaning of two Greek words: eutopos, meaning “a good place”, and outopos, meaning “no place”. Thus More’s Utopia is a good place that does not exist anywhere. Since 1516 the word “utopia” has entered common parlance and refers to a perfect society. The term also has certain negative connotations in that utopias are generally viewed as unachievable. Thus dreaming of a utopian society may suggest idealism on the part of the dreamer, but may also imply a certain naiveté.
The utopian ideal existed, of course, long before More invented the word. Plato, for instance, created a blueprint for what he envisioned as a perfect society in his Republic. Following the publication of Thomas More’s Utopia in 1516, utopian schemes and utopian fiction became fairly commonplace in the 16th and 17th century (Thomas 1987, 20-46). Keith Thomas, in his essay on “The Utopian Impulse in Seventeenth-Century England” provides the following examples of early utopian works: Campanella’s City of the Sun (1602; published 1623), Johann Valentin Andreae’s Christianopolis (1619), Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis(1624; published 1627), Gabriel Plattes’s A Description of the famous Kingdome of Macaria(1641); Samuel Gott’s Nova Solyma (1648) and Jame Harrington’s Oceana (1656), to name but a few (Thomas 23-25).
From these various Utopian narratives Keith Thomas has derived the following description of Utopian narratives:
Characteristically, the literary utopia describes an imaginary society which is, at least by implication, better than the one in which the author lives. This society is portrayed as actually in existence, usually in some remote location. Its workings are evoked in detail, with special attention to the political structure, the laws and religion, the system of education, the economy and the working habits and living conditions of the population. The activities of the citizens are regulated in meticulous detail; and the society exists in a timeless state of unchanging equilibrium. (23-24)
We’ll want to keep this definition in mind later when we’re describing the characteristics
of utopian and dystopian narratives in greater detail. For now, however, lets move on to discuss the term “dystopia”. John Stuart Mill, the 19th century political philosopher and writer, coined the term “dystopia”. Essentially, by dystopia Mill meant the exact opposite of utopia, in other words a completely undesirable state or society. A synonym for dystopia, which you may come across in your secondary reading, is anti-utopia.
Early examples of literature depicting dystopian societies would include parts of Jonathon Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels published in 1726, some of the science-fiction of H. G. Wells, and Samuel Butler’s Erewhon and Erewhon Revisited published in 1872 and 1901 respectively. Notice that Butler has borrowed from More’s term “Utopia”, meaning no place, and that the name of his society is “No Where” spelled backwards. In the 20th century, a great deal of science-fiction is in fact also dystopian fiction.
But lets return to our definitions: utopia is an ideal society or state, and dystopia is an undesirable society or state. How are these ideal and un-ideal societies represented in literature? I’m going to begin by delineating some of the characteristics of utopian literature. My reasons for doing this are simply to provide you with a contrast by which to compare dystopian literature. So after we’ve examined some of the characteristics of utopian literature we’re going to look at some of the characteristics of dystopian literature. Hopefully you’ll start to see some patterns emerging.
First, according to Alan Swingewood, “Utopian novels tended towards an uncritical portrayal of a world made perfect for man through science and education”. In other words, utopian narratives are optimistic that human knowledge is growing, and that problems within societies can be resolved through human means.
Secondly, utopian fiction stresses the collective nature of the perfect society, often with the result that individuality is either suppressed or ignored.
Thirdly, given what I have just said about individuality being ignored, it is no surprise to learn, as Swingewood states, that “utopias have no problematic hero, their structures are not dominated by a deep sense of conflict between individual and society”. I would take Swingewood’s observation a step further and suggest that while utopian fictions have protagonists, they cannot have “heroes” insofar that heroes implicitly are involved in conflict, and a perfect society cannot have a conflict.
Fourthly, as Swingewood points out, “The question of how these societies evolved to such perfection is never raised.” Swingewood goes on to state that these fictions ignore the problem of social change. Perhaps authors of utopian narratives ignore the problem of social change because it is impossible to conceive of the social change, short of a miracle, which would be necessary for creating a utopian society. Besides, alterations in society inevitably spark off chain reactions. These chain reactions seem to be antithetical to the static idea of a utopian society.
Fifthly, utopias are frequently didactic in nature. Although, as I indicated in point number four, utopian literature does not typically discuss how their utopian societies came into existence, now that they are in existence they are vehicles for suggesting ways of improving our own society. As such these novels implicitly offer implicit, and sometimes explicit, criticism of the societies in which their authors live. Typically the authors introduce strangers into their fictional societies who, being impressed by the perfect societies they have encountered, but ignorant about how these societies operate, end up with guides who explain everything to them. For example, in Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward: 2000-1887, the protagonist, Julian West, is put into a hypnotic trance in 1887, and is not awakened until the year 2000. The doctor who awakens Julian in the 21st century serves as his guide to this new order. As is the case in most Utopian novels, Julian, as the outsider spends a lot of time asking questions, while Doctor Leete, his guide, provides lengthy explanations. This small passage on economics should illustrate the pedagogic nature of the novel:
“How is this distribution managed?” I asked.
“On the simplest possible plan,” replied Dr. Leete. “A credit corresponding to his share of the annual product of the nation is given to every citizen on the public books at the beginning of each year, and a credit card issued him with which he procures at the public storehouses, found in every community, whatever he desires whenever he desires it. This arrangement, you will see, totally obviates the necessity for business transactions of any sort between individuals and consumers. Perhaps you would like to see what our credit cards are like.
“You observe,” he pursued as I was curiously examining the piece of pasteboard he gave me, “that this card is issued for a certain number of dollars. We have kept the old word, but not the substance. The term, as we use it, answers to no real thing, but merely serves as an algebraical symbol for comparing the values of products with one another. For this purpose they are all priced in dollars and cents, just as in your day. The value of what I procure on this card is checked off by the clerk, who pricks out of these tiers of squares the price of what I order.”
“If you wanted to buy something of your neighbor, could you transfer part of your credit to him as consideration?” I inquired.
“In the first place,” replied Dr. Leete, “our neighbors have nothing to sell us, but in any event our credit would not be transferable, being strictly personal. Before the nation could even think of honoring any such transfer as you speak of, it would be bound to inquire into all the circumstances of the transaction, so as to be able to guarantee its absolute equity. It would have been reason enough, had there been no other, for abolishing money, that its possession was no indication of rightful title to it. In the hands of the man who had stolen it or murdered for it, it was as good as in those which had earned it by industry. People nowadays interchange gifts and favors out of friendship, but buying and selling is considered absolutely inconsistent with the mutual benevolence and disinterestedness which should prevail between citizens and the sense of community of interest which supports our social system. According to our ideas, buying and selling is essentially anti-social in all its tendencies. It is an education in self-seeking at the expense of others, and no society whose citizens are trained in such a school can possibly rise above a very low grade of civilization.”
“What if you have to spend more than your card in any one year?” I asked.
“The provision is so ample that we are more likely not to spend it all,” replied Dr. Leete. “But if extraordinary expenses should exhaust it, we can obtain a limited advance on the next year’s credit, though this practice is not encouraged, and a heavy discount is charged to check it. Of course if a man showed himself a reckless spendthrift he would receive his allowance monthly or weekly instead of yearly, or if necessary not be permitted to handle it all.”
“If you don’t spend your allowance, I suppose it accumulates?”
“That is also permitted to a certain extent when a special outlay is anticipated. But unless notice to the contrary is given, it is presumed that the citizen who does not fully expend his credit did not have occasion to do so, and the balance is turned into the general surplus.”
“Such a system does not encourage saving habits on the part of citizens,” I said.
“It is not intended to,” was the reply. “The nation is rich, and does not wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing. In your day, men were bound to lay up goods and money against coming failure of the means of support and for their children. This necessity made parsimony a virtue. But now it would have no such laudable object, and, having lost its utility, it has ceased to be regarded as a virtue. No man any more has any care for the morrow, either for himself or his children, for the nation guarantees the nurture, education, and comfortable maintenance of every citizen from the cradle to the grave.”
As the above passage might suggest, one criticism of Utopian fiction is that it can be rather dull and pedantic.
So, a quick review of what I’ve just said. Utopian literature is 1) optimistic about progress and society, 2) stresses collectivism over individuality, 3) does not have a problematic hero and is not dominated by a sense of conflict between the individual and society, 4) does not explain how the perfect society has come into existence, and 5) is didactic in nature and critical of real society.
Now lets examine the characteristics of dystopian literature.
Firstly, dystopian fiction is extremely critical of society, and in dystopian fiction science, society, and typically the government, all conspire to destroy individuality. Individuals are typically treated as cogs in a machine. For example, in Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, people no longer have names, and, instead, are identified by an alpha-numeric sequence. The protagonist, D-503, lives, as do all of the citizens of the One State, in a glass apartment so that he is under constant surveillance. Similarly, the handmaids in Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale have been reduced, to use the protagonist, Offred’s phrase, to “ambulatory wombs.”
Secondly, dystopias are usually narrated from the perspective of a socially marginalized or disempowered character, who is resisting oppression. In other words, dissidents, like Winston Smith from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, and disenfranchised members of society, like Offred from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, describe the society to the reader.
Thirdly, a major element then of the narrative is the conflict between the individual and society. Clearly, dystopian fiction frequently does have problematic heroes.
Fourthly, dystopian fictions warn about the excesses of social power. They are also explicitly critical of society and humanity.
Fifthly, strangely enough, while dystopian fiction is critical of society and humanity, it can be argued that dystopian fiction is also optimistic about humanity. Dystopian narratives are meant as warnings, so implicitly their creators must believe that their dystopian visions are preventable. Society has not yet crossed the point of no return.
So again, in summary, dystopian fiction: 1) is extremely critical of society and pessimistic about society, government, technology and science, 2) is, as M. Keith Booker points out, usually narrated through the voice of an alienated individual, who is struggling to assert his or her individuality against the oppressive power of a dehumanizing social system, 3) focuses on the conflict between the individual and society, 4) is didactic in nature, and warns of the excesses of social power, and 5) is marginally optimistic about the possibility of preventing the dystopian vision.
In short, where utopian fiction is optimistic about society, dystopian fiction is pessimistic. Where utopian fiction focuses on the possible advantages created for society by science, technology and good governance, dystopian fiction describes the potential dangers of science, technology and governance. Where utopian fiction concentrates on the collective nature of society, dystopian fiction deals with the alienated individual’s resistance to society and conformity. Utopian and dystopian fiction do, however, share some common features. Both are ultimately optimistic in nature given that they are premised on the possibility that society can change. They are also both didactic in nature, although utopian fiction exhorts the audience on how to build a better society, while dystopian fiction provides a warning about the dangers of society.
A final point needs to be made about depictions of utopian and dystopian societies: they are by necessity relative. Not everybody will agree on what constitutes a perfect or imperfect society, and a society that seems utopian to one individual may be dystopian for another. Historically Nazi Germany exemplifies this point. On the one hand, Hitler’s regime appealed to many Germans because it created jobs, promoted a sense of national pride, stabilized the economy and provided law and order. From this perspective it is easy to see why many Germans, following the humiliation caused by the First World War and the suffering caused by the depression, saw Nazism as utopian. On the other hand, as we all know today, under Nazism, freedom of expression was suppressed, Jews, homosexuals, gypsies and other groups were tortured and exterminated, and Germany was led into a devastating war. So, from another perspective Nazism was an example of a dystopian system. One more point needs to be made – no society can achieve an absolute level of perfection or imperfection, nor would we ever be in a position to determine if society had achieved such an absolute level. Dystopias and utopias thus exist on a continuum, an ever-expanding scale that measures the status of the society being examined against its relative position to other societies.
Having said all this, what is the relationship between dystopian and utopian fiction? John Griffith’s statement seems to sum it up: “The writers of the Utopias of earlier days were teaching Man how to build heaven; today they are content to teach him how to survive in hell”. Griffith’s metaphorical comparison of utopia to heaven and dystopia to hell raises some interesting questions. Certainly in many respects one could argue that heaven is utopian and hell is dystopian. For the purposes of these blogs, however, we are going to divide utopias and dystopias into two categories: supernatural utopias and dystopias, and natural utopias and dystopias. Supernatural utopias and dystopias would include heaven and hell, and the good and evil lands described by fantasy authors. Examples of those would include Tolkien’s Undying Lands and Mordor. The major characteristic of supernatural utopias and dystopias is that they are inexplicable in natural, human terms. By contrast natural utopias and dystopias, which is what we’ll be discussing, are explicable in human terms. Because I think that the difference between natural and supernatural utopias and dystopias is important, I’m going to describe those differences in terms of the heaven/hell versus utopia/dystopia dichotomy.
As we’ve already noted, utopias and dystopias are socially produced, while heaven and hell are supernaturally produced. Because utopian and dystopian societies are products of socially constructed they are also limited in time. They have a beginning and probably will have an end. Heaven and hell, by contrast are eternal. Because utopian and dystopian societies are social constructs, they are also mutable – they can be changed. Heaven and hell by contrast are unchangeable. Heaven can never be made less perfect, nor hell be improved. Finally, living in a utopian or dystopian society is a result of random chance. One does not choose to live in a utopian or dystopian society, and living in a utopian or dystopian society does not reflect on the morality or immorality of the individual, and is neither a punishment nor a reward. By contrast, heaven is a reward for good behavior, while hell is the punishment for bad behavior.
Having compared and contrasted utopian fiction and dystopian fiction, and compared and contrasted supernatural and natural utopias and dystopias, I think we can safely start focusing on dystopian literature, keeping in mind that dystopian literature is always in a referential relationship with both utopian literature and reality as we live it.
In the final part of this post, I’m going to examine the rise of dystopian narratives in the 20th century.
In the 20th century utopian fiction has all but disappeared, and has instead been replaced by dystopian fiction. Indeed, when I first began planning this course I went to a science-fiction bookshop and asked the proprietor what he had in the way of dystopian literature. He stated that nearly all science-fiction is dystopian. While he may have been trying to flog as many of his wares as possible onto a naïve academic, his point about science-fiction being dominated by the concept of dystopia has merit. Not all science-fiction is dystopic according to the more rigid definitions I provided earlier in the lecture, but much of it is responding to the idea of an imperfect society.
This raises an interesting question: “Why is dystopian literature more common than utopian literature?” There are undoubtedly many plausible explanations for this phenomenon. The reasons I’m going to suggest naturally do not include all of these hypotheses, and indeed, my explanations for the sheer quantity of dystopian literature may in fact be wrong. You will eventually need to evaluate the evidence and come to your own conclusions. Basically I’m going to divide the catalysts of modern dystopian literature into two groups: 1) Narrative or Structural Causes and 2) Social / Historical Causes. By the term “narrative causes” I mean the elements or building blocks of a story that are necessary for it to be successful, particularly for 20th century audiences. Perhaps the most important ingredient for modern stories is conflict. Any of you hooked by the Harry Potter series will recognize that each book revolves around a conflict. Conflict is important not only in driving forward plots and maintaining audience participation; it is also inextricably linked to our sense of history and reality. We measure history according to when conflicts occurred, whether those conflicts are conflicts between individuals, societies, or nature. Thus we refer to how many of the Irish left Ireland following the potato famine (a conflict between nature and society), about what happened after Al Gore was “defeated” by George Bush in the 2000 presidential election (a conflict between individuals and political parties), or what happened following September 11th (a conflict between societies, cultures and ideologies). Imperfection and conflict seem necessary for us to relate to reality. As Keith Thomas notes about 17th century utopias, “When peace, harmony and perfect knowledge had been secured, history would by implication stop. No one considered the possibility that if people were freed from pain and worry they would become bored, living a life of indifference or finding some new source of unhappiness” (45). A more recent dystopia, The Matrix Reloaded illustrates this point by having Neo informed that a perfect Matrix was made for humans but that they didn’t do well in it.
The problem posed by utopian fiction is that in a perfect world, conflicts simply do not arise. Without conflict the narrative or fictional history quickly grinds to a halt. Presumably in an absolutely perfect world, even differences in opinion don’t arise. The early writers of utopian fictions, like Thomas More, resolved this problem by introducing a stranger, a traveler, into these otherwise static societies. The conflict, or point of tension that produced the narrative and helped it flow was the difference between the stranger’s preconceptions about humanity and society and the “reality” of this newly discovered perfect society. Such utopian literature, however, is didactic, and to modern audiences comes across as preachy and unrealistic. In any event modern audience distinctly prefer more overtly conflict driven narratives. For this reason, Dante’s Inferno remains more popular than his Paradiso and Milton’s Paradise Lost remains more popular than Paradise Regained.
For authors, perfection also seems harder to envision than imperfection. Again, descriptions of heaven and hell illustrate the point I’m making. Descriptions of heaven from the Middle Ages on to the present are much scarcer than descriptions of hell. This seems to be due to the fact that, as Saint Paul stated, “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9). These constraints on describing heaven are equally applicable to describing the perfect society.
Dystopian literature is also easier to write because at a basic level the author merely takes the problems she sees in her own society exaggerates them and projects them into a fictitious future. Since virtually everybody can find fault with their society, identifying problems for dystopian literature is not a problem. By contrast writers of utopian fiction have to create, out of the fabric of their imagination, an entirely believable perfect society. Given that their fictitious perfect society implicitly criticizes the society they live in, they are less able to draw on their society for the inspiration of their dystopias.
So in summary, the narrative causes for the supremacy of dystopian fiction over utopian fiction is that:
narratives need conflict to propel them
perfection is difficult to imagine or describe
The social/historical causes of dystopian literature may be summed up in what I term the crisis of modernity. Firstly, the twentieth and twenty-first centuries have seen an unprecedented amount of technologically and structurally advanced warfare and violence. The First World War, the Second World War, the Holocaust, and subsequent wars differed from earlier wars and violence not merely in the quantity of suffering they caused, but in the way that this violence was made more efficient and more impersonal. The concentration camps of the Holocaust were managed as factories of death, with serious consideration given to the “rate of production” of people killed. The First World War, the Second World War and the Holocaust in particular shattered the West’s myth of progress. These conflicts had a great deal of influence on literature and the arts because technology had also made it possible for civilians to intimately observe the wars and violence via newspapers, cinemas and televisions, and thus become familiar with wars and violence in a way that previous generations of non-combatants had not. The horrors of warfare, and the effect that warfare and violence have on societies has been depicted in Orwell’s 1984 and the film version of Starship Troopers.
Secondly, while war has always been a part of human history, it is only in the twentieth century, with the development of nuclear weapons that humans have posed a serious threat to the continued existence of not only their own species, but of the entire planet. A number of dystopian fictions like A Canticle for Leibowitz,Planet of the Apes, and The Mad Max series are set in post-nuclear holocausts.
Thirdly, the twentieth century has seen the rise of powerful national governments that have threatened individuality. These governments are certainly evidenced by fascist and totalitarian regimes, which have transformed the media into an instrument of propaganda and misinformation, and have used other technologies to maintain control over their people. Even in democratic nations such as the United States and Britain there is a tendency by governments to exert control through the media and other technologies. These governments can be further dehumanised by the their own bureaucracy, a tendency we find depicted in the Kafka’s dystopian style fiction. Dystopian narratives that deal with authoritarian governments also frequently reveal a concern with the degree of surveillance exercised by the government. The danger of a technologically advanced government spying on its citizens is depicted in the novels 1984 and We. These concerns seem timely given the amount of information that Western governments are able to collect about their citizens by checking computer usage, credit card transactions, satellite images and even CCTV.
Fourthly, humans seem to be having difficulty coping with the rapid pace of technology. Technologies such as genetic modification, cloning and cyber technology offer great potential for the improvement of society, but also raise unique moral issues and pose a threat to society. A serious concern is that we are unleashing technology that we cannot entirely control without fully knowing what all the results and ramifications might be. It may be impossible, for example, for us now to rid the world of genetically modified foods, should they prove dangerous to humans. We are very like the sorcerer’s apprentice in Fantasia, who has called up spirits to help him clean the house, only to find that he cannot control those spirits. The Matrix series, The Terminator series, Gattaca and Brave New World are all dystopian fictions based on the premise that technology poses a threat to the individual.
Fifthly, there is an increasing awareness of the hegemony or control of certain social groups at the expense of others. Our awareness of marginalized groups is to a great degree due to the influence of movements such as the Civil Rights movement, the feminist movement, the gay and lesbian movement, and Marxism. The emergence of these movements, and the way they have demanded a re-evaluation of history, combined with post-modern scholarly skepticism about authority, has made it possible for authors of dystopian literature to depict and scrutinize hierarchies, ideologies and authority. This scepticism of authority and concern for the disempowered is picked up in Margaret Atwood’s feminist dystopia, The Hand Maid’s Tale, and Fritz Lang’s black and white film classic about the plight of workers, Metropolis.
The different social and historical elements I’ve just listed all contributed to the dominance of dystopian fiction in the 20th century. The list I have provided, however, is by no means exhaustive, as you will see next week when we begin looking at specific examples of dystopian literature.
Suggested Readings and Movies as well as Works Cited in this Blog
Anderson, M. T., 2002. Feed. Candlewick Press.
Atwood, Margaret. 1998. The Handmaid’s Tale. Anchor Books.
El Sadaawi, Nawal. 1991. The Fall of the Imam. Heinemann.
Foster, E. M. 1970. “The Machine Stops,” The Eternal Moment and Other Stories.
Harcourt., pp. 3-38.
Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. 1998. Herland. Dover.
Golding, William. 1959. Lord of the Flies. Perigee.
Huxley, Aldous. 1989. Brave New World. HarperCollins.
King, Stephen. 1982. The Running Man. London: New English Library.
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