Or does it go away eventually?
Or does it go away eventually?
The academic study of literature leads basically nowhere, as we all know, unless you happen to be an especially gifted student, in which case it prepares you for a career teaching the academic study of literature – it is, in other words, a rather farcical system that exists solely to replicate itself and yet manages to fail 95 percent of the time. Still, it’s harmless, and can even have certain marginal value. A young woman applying for a sales job at Céline or Hermés should naturally attend to her appearance first and foremost; but a degree in literature can constitute a secondary asset, since it guarantees the employer, in the absence of any useful skills, a certain intellectual agility that could lead to professional development – besides which, literature has always carried positive connotations in the world of luxury goods.
From Submission, by Michel Houellebecq. Translated from the French by Lorin Stein.
Demolition for the Village View Apartments hadn’t quite finished: July dawns you could still wander the small streets (shortly to be replaced by concrete paths between scrubby lawns and red-brick buildings) and, among the devastated acres, catch sight, in the muggy morning, of fires here and there beside one or another still-standing tenement wall. Off beyond the Jacob Riis Houses with their green sliver of park, the East River’s sluggish oils nudged the city’s granite embankments or bumped the pilings beneath the Williamsburg bridge: girder, cable, and concrete rose from among the delis and cuchifrito stands, the furniture and fabric stores, the movie marquees on Delancey Street to span the night waters – where cars and subways and after-dark cruisers took their delicate amble above the blue-black current banked with lights – before striking deep into Brooklyn’s glittering flank, above the Navy yard.
In the summer of 1961 no one had yet named it the East Village: it was still the Lower East Side.
– The Motion of Light in Water, Samuel R. Delany
This just struck me as such a marvelous piece of writing, from Chip Delany’s memoir/bildungsroman about growing up black and gay in New York. It’s reminded me of my secret fascination with a city I’ve only ever seen from an hour stopover in Newark Liberty. I’m aware now that my New York doesn’t exist any more, and indeed it probably never did – but Delany’s prose is undergoing serious reconstruction work on the New York of my mind.
Can literature be said to have an architecture, or a topography? Or does it merely undertake work on the architecture of our minds, laying foundations of someone else’s dreams and shoring up old memories of things that never happened to us? I look at the paragraph above and think it looks so fine and complex, with its bold parentheses, subtle hyphens and italicised Puerto Rican delicacies, a melting pot of perfect punctuation even as the meaning the words convey peculates through my consciousness, rewriting streets and scribbling out buildings.
I do have a few things in mind that are based in, well, ‘reality,’ whatever we might mean by that. But at the moment what I would like to achieve is a kind of ontological terrorism, giving any readers who are interested the choice to either switch off or follow a kind of literary fractal. I suppose ‘bizarro’ could probably describe the work I’ve just started today. I’m hoping it will have people Wikipeding constantly as they read through.
As for memes in QQ, well, this is where I go strictly non-Platonic. Words and ideas don’t exist in some ideal world of forms: they are a fluid culture stream. In Quentin’s world I’m trying to blur the line between this culture stream and the subatomic level, what I often refer to as the engine room of creation. Because in our universe, whether we like it or not, consciousness does have an effect upon ‘reality,’ which is at the end of the day just another level of fiction anyway. Everything is multi-faceted: ten people can look at the same table and see ten different tables. And it’s the same with gods. The difference is we pretend the table is real because we can sit on the physical object that “table” is standing in for, which is, when we break it down, no more than a collection of quarks and electrons. The smaller we go, the more we find.
And, again, it’s the same with gods. We can see the effects of gods all the time. Some nutter just rang my doorbell to tell me his god is living in the sky and wants me to bow down to him. At the same time, my friend bought me a pint earlier because her god tells her to be generous and spread the wealth. And yet they’d both say the God of the Bible is the correct one. At the end of the day, the first guy is a prick, so his god is a prick. The girl is genuinely a nice person, so her god is a nice person.
Quark, on the other hand, is a bright lad. And he knows what he’s doing. And he’s read so many biographies of his gods that he can look at a number of different facets of the diamond at once. So while his gods might not be ontologically real, they are his brain personifying the culture stream we all inhabit, giving it a face or a voice or whatever, and harnessing it to do his will. And, occasionally, he uses what are nothing more than imaginary forces to affect things on the quantum level. Which is why when Leonardo da Vinci, one of his gods, says ‘be free,’ well, shit, his handcuffs pop open. Was it just a coincidence that the computer malfunctioned, causing this? Sure. But like the rest of the universe, the only way to find out what’s fate and what’s coincidence is to run the programme and see. Then we can reinterpret it afterwards, just like we end up interpreting everything, clothing it fiction, so we don’t go insane.
How do we contact these gods? Well, Jane, Quentin and Addrisi, the three most powerful shamans, use drugs and meditation to induce hallucinations (this being a shit-ton better than Western prayer). Because hallucinations are just another way of looking at the world. And what I’ve found with my own experimentation is that you hallucinate a lot faster the better you are at meditation. My idea with Quentin is that he’s at a stage where he can immediately enter some kind of nirvana, a peaceful empty space in his mind into which he can call these gods.
The knowledge he discerns from these gods is a bit weirder. It means either accessing his subconscious and piecing together some information he already possessed, like how Finnegans Wake works a bit better when you’ve just woken up and your brain hasn’t switched on yet, or he’s actually using his mind to interpret information that has been passed to him through his DNA. Which, if I remember correctly, is a completely batshit crazy idea that nutters like Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson can explain better than I.
When they’re used for offensive purposes, like Jane and Marcus do later, they’re taking advantage of the other person’s knowledge of these gods by a kind of positive neuro-linguistic programming that admittedly I haven’t entirely nailed down yet. So a sigil or a chant, all the way down to a flick of the eyebrow or a cheek click, recalls the preferred god or demon in the opponent’s mind. Quentin generally doesn’t go in for this kind of thing, and doesn’t really need to, because he’s actually really good at kicking people’s heads in anyway.
I don’t know if any of that made sense. I tried to clear some of this stuff up in my Aleister Crowley essay, but I don’t know if it came out exactly as I’d have liked. It sounds like you get it pretty well anyway: you’ve got to be either really clever or really insane to talk to these memetic beings, and they’re just representations of what we know anyway. Most of the time.
Now, the problem with the above paragraph is that it doesn’t actually represent anything like reality.
The figures above are what the British public (not just some mouth-breathing UKIP voters) guessed at when questioned in an Ipsos.MORI poll last summer. You might not be surprised to learn that what the British public thinks is a big fucking load of dripping bollocks. In actual fact:
– Muslims only make up 5%, (NOT 24%) of the population, whilst 59% are Christian
– Black and Asian people are 11% of the population
– A tiny 3% of Britons are single mothers
– An even smaller 0.6% of of girls under 16 get pregnant, and teen pregnancy is the lowest it’s been since 1969
– A microscopic 70p, not £24, out of every £100 spent on benefits is acquired by fraudulent means.
– Unemployment is at 7.4%, not 22%. If it was at 22%, we’d be worse off than Iraq, the Sudan, the West Bank, Armenia and East Timor.
Now, quite apart from the unexamined prejudice of why more black, Asian or Muslim people would be a bad thing (or why single mothers are to be frowned upon, for that matter), why would so many of you believe such complete arse gravy?
For my sins, I tuned into the Daily Politics today to see a debate on immigration between some UKIP cunt, some Tory prick and Charles Kennedy. What led into this was Nick Robinson shilling tonight’s lovey-dovey interview with Farage with some smarmy horse shit about pie charts and how it’s good that we’re passed the legacy of Enoch Powell’s rivers of blood speech and can once again talk about the “immigration problem” without sounding racist.
If you’ve spotted Kennedy as the odd one out there, you’re correct: he was asked, bemusedly, if he’s really outside public and mainstream political opinion at the moment on the hot button UKIP pressure issues. “Yes,” he answered, before adding “thank god”.
I couldn’t agree more. Thank god that I don’t believe any of the complete shit that the rest of the people in this country think.
Thank god I don’t believe the manure printed in the Express or the Mail.
And especially thank god I only know a handful of people that vote or sympathise UKIP:
– 50% of UKIP voters think immigrants “are the major cause of crime in society”
– 80%+ of UKIP voters feel personally threatened by Islam
– 20% of UKIP voters believe non-whites are intellectually inferior
Source: YouGov http://t.co/pdZzyn7NQZ
Ever since the Oxford English Dictionary announced that “selfie” was their Word of the Year 2013, there’s been quite a strident and cynical backlash. Some seem adamant that the rise of the selfie, social media’s apparently negative shorthand for pretty much any self-portrait photography, is indicative of a youth culture defined by vanity and solipsism. Grace Dent in the Independent was particularly hysterical, passionately longing for an era when individuals were controlled by their shame and public ridicule was waiting around the corner for those that weren’t:
In 1993, if you went to Woolworths three times a week to sit in the Foto-Me booth snapping pictures of yourself pulling “The Fonz is Cool” poses, your ego would have been the stuff of local legend. Now, a selfie-a-day is unremarkable. I sat in a bar recently while one friend took a dozen separate pictures of themselves in the toilet as “it was such amazing light”. We take selfies without irony, sans shame, posting the results online as bait in the great murky cyber-sea. We fish never-endingly for compliments, comments… indeed any feedback at all. Maybe just a Facebook like? A little Instagram regram and a new surge of followers. Anything – please God, anything – which indicates we were bathing, remotely, momentarily in another human being’s gaze.
I couldn’t, in truth, find a professional article behind Dent’s bleating strawmen, fragmented sentences and repetitive sarcastic uses of hashtags, but there must have been one for it to find its way past an Independent editor and subsequently all over my Facebook feed. Let’s therefore assume this isn’t actually more indicative of the hideous decline of journalism and more charitably say this suggests that the backlash against the selfie has moved beyond the usual two or three dry comments per each one uploaded to Facebook and has entered the English zeitgeist good and proper.
It’s good to see people so fired up and passionate about something so important, something so close to the bone of early 21st century social identity. There was a worry that this generation would waste their focus on relatively trivial subjects like the emancipation of Palestine or growing financial inequality on a global scale, but it looks like things are back on track as we stand up to the ubiquitous Instagram imposition, the frivolous Facebook encroachment that is the selfie. Already, crack squadrons of vigilant paladins are scouring their friends’ “mobile pictures” folders for anything that looks remotely like it was taken with a smart phone’s reverse camera, and woe betide those who haven’t got the memo and decide to create a new display picture instead of scrolling through thousands of mates’ pub snaps to find one suitable for their boss to see.
I must admit, I won’t be among them, however. I hold my hands up here: I am one of the hyper-shallow, self-obsessed, narcissistic, empty-headed young sociopaths who have, in the past, taken photos of themselves. Worse, I’ve then uploaded them onto social media. Yes, I am that worst kind of vapid, egomaniacal, attention-seeking, compliment-craving, exhibitionist braggart, the selfie-taker. Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair:
They are merely three examples – there are at least two more around the internet. Looking over these selfies, I’m led to consider why I took them.
For as long as I can remember, I have had self image problems. Not for any good reason, looking at it objectively. When I was a child, I suffered terribly from sinusitis, resulting in a perpetual runny nose I would try to cover up as often as possible. As this faded in my teens, it was replaced by chronic acne, the scars of which I still carry on my body. I had a gap in my teeth that meant I didn’t show them when I smiled until I was about 18, and a permanent stain on one incisor I was neurotic enough to have removed as late as last year. Through this period, I’ve been sporadically self conscious about my weight, my messy hair, a surgical scar that means my bottom lip protrudes more than it otherwise would, my jawline’s lack of definition, the fact one of my nostrils is wider than the other and several other things that have meant my reflection and I don’t always get along well.
So what, right? Well… right. My experience of self-image problems aren’t particularly special. I’m convinced I’m in the majority when it comes to not looking like one would like to look. So, the first obvious point to make is: yes, it is probably nice to receive some mark of acceptance from one’s peers, even if it is a Facebook like. Dent, and others, are aghast that anyone might crave that kind of social confirmation, even a little bit, but I don’t actually find it particularly shocking. It must be said, though, that there’s actually something else going on, something bigger that’s at stake.
There’s a part in The Matrix when Morpheus shows Neo the inside of the computer simulation for the first time. The script reads:
Is it really so hard to believe? Your clothes are different. The plugs in your arms and head are gone. Your hair has changed. Your appearance now is what we call residual self image. It is the mental projection of your digital self.
This part has always seemed bogus to me, and by conversations I’ve had with others, I’m not alone. The filmmakers, obviously restricted by the medium, can only show us Keanu Reeves in a jacket and jeans, and with an unexceptional haircut. If only it were true that our self images were that normal, basic and unchanging. The “residual self image”, quite simply, does not exist with that degree of consistency. It’s in a constant state of flux.
More so when something alters in our life, from a haircut (see above) to a break up. The Dents of this world want to see the common Instagram image of the girl two days after finishing with her boyfriend as being some kind of desperate public plea for attention and sympathy, as well as validation that she will be able to find a replacement. More likely, the validation that is desired is twofold: 1.) that she is not as ugly as the break-up has made her feel internally, and 2.) on a subconscious level, that she is still recognisably the same person as she was three days ago.
The quite wonderful and epoch-shaping photographer, Nan Goldin, certainly sees it this way, commenting on one of several of her pictures that would now be classified as selfies (emphasis mine):
My work has been about making a record of my life that no one can revise. I photograph myself in times of trouble or change in order to find the ground to stand on in the change. I was coming out of a melancholic phase. This was taken when I was traveling extensively, on the road from hotel to hotel. You get displaced, and then taking self-portraits becomes a way of hanging on to yourself.
A particularly devastating example of one of Goldin’s portraits is her “Nan one month after being battered”, an artistic capturing of her domestic abuse.
In The Ballad of Sexual Dependency (p.8), she speaks frankly about the events leading up to this photo:
For a number of years I was deeply involved with a man. We were well suited emotionally and the relationship became very interdependent. Jealousy was used to inspire passion. His concept of relationships was rooted in … romantic idealism … I craved the dependency, the adoration, the satisfaction, the security, but sometimes I felt claustrophobic. We were addicted to the amount of love the relationship supplied … Things between us started to break down, but neither of us could make the break. The desire was constantly reinspired at the same time that the dissatisfaction became undeniable. Our sexual obsession remained one of the hooks. One night, he battered me severely, almost blinding me.
This photograph is, obviously, completely different than the smiling Facebook display pic taken in someone’s living room, and it would be completely wrong to compare them directly. But the emotion behind her taking the photo is consistent with Goldin’s more general rationale for her self portraits, which is identical to the reason for most selfies. They aren’t a desire for simple public gratification so much as a necessity for the individual to ground one’s own self, to do away with Cartesian distinction, within the social context that defines us as much as anything else does.
This is nothing new. If you could map the emotional path of Van Gogh, you’d find a tumultuous road indeed: it’s speculated that he suffered from bipolar disorder and temporal lobe epilepsy. And the road would have selfies as milestones. Those keen to cling to the fantasy of the selfie as generational, and the sole preserve of talentless egotists, please look away now:
There are thirty-four more Van Gogh selfies extant. This is relatively restrained next to Edvard Munch, who crafted 190 selfies over the course of his life, in which he frequently sees himself mistreated by women or other forces beyond his control. Frida Kahlo made fifty-five selfies, including this famous one, but there are far more nightmarish and frightening examples where she tries to depict as best she can both her mental and physical anguish – Kahlo spent many years bedridden and alone. We might also here spare mentions for Rembrandt, Dürer, Picasso, Rubens, Schiele, Brueghel the Elder, Van Dyck, Matisse, Cezanne, Manet, Whistler, Toulouse-Latrec, Gauguin, Renoir, da Vinci and Goya, irrepressible selfie-ists all. Schiele, by the way, would also paint himself masturbating or otherwise pleasuring himself, presumably as a forerunner to the satisfaction-seeking nature of the modern selfie:
I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
For anyone who has followed my last few posts, it may come as no surprise to know that I’m working again. As a writer, that is – trying to take advantage of a crippling injury that has left me sadly unable to get to my office and argue with clients from the totalitarian perspective of a hideous corporate egregore all day.
The new novel is actually not that new at all – it’s a reworking of a discovered manuscript I wrote about five years ago. The reason for the reworking is simple: it’s fucking terrible.
Here are some problems I had with the original.
I deliberately chose the name “Quentin Quark” wanting it to sound ridiculous. The idea for the novel was to pin what I thought were interesting post-human ideas and philosophy on the framework of a Lester Dent-esque pulp story, setting up a contrast between content and context. Fine.
However, in the story, I don’t think I got the balance right. Because people take him seriously, calling him “Quentin” or “Dr. Quark”, the tone never really hitting that farcical attitude the name warranted.
Enter Javon Cray, the real life person for whom Quentin Quark is one of several pseudonyms, a corporate logo, a fictional superhero he plays to push his futurist ideas into the public sphere. It makes sense to me that a multi-disciplined scientist, in the vein of other pulp superheroes like Doc Savage or Reed Richards, should be able to handle multiple identities, too – dissociative identity disorder as a lifestyle choice, as I believe The Invisibles puts it.
This was my attempt to set up some kind of Doctor Doom-esque villain who ran his own country, but sounds more like an evil Black Panther (the superhero, not the civil rights group. Casual racism aside, any villain who talks like this is pretty much not salvageable:
“Leaving without this?” Addrisi’s voice said. Quentin looked up, and there was his enemy, standing on a balcony above, naked but for he disc in his hand. “The Gaia Program. The future of the world contained on this tiny circle. Like a mandala. It’s almost mythic, isn’t it?”
Addrisi leapt from the balcony and fell the ten feet to the floor, landing with a grace that belied his bulk.
“What are you thinking, Quentin? What are you thinking in that incredible mind of yours? Do you not realise the significance of our struggle? The location, our shared skin colour. It was here, in the heart of Africa, that mankind took its first steps. Here we first developed societal order. Here, you and I and my scientists fired our hadrons and restructured the standard model of physics!”
“Actually, I was thinking of that naked wrestling scene in Women in Love,” Quentin said. “What happened to you, Addrisi? You always wanted power, but you never served the status quo.”
“And when did you start serving chaos, instead of anarchy? Oh, yes, Quentin. I have spoken to your masters on the astral plane. Spoken with the gods you have been convening with. Kālī said…”
So, out with Addrisi and in with Isaac “Jericho” Blake, a rogue American technologist designated by the UN as a “science terrorist”. Without giving too much away, he’s essentially an evil Steve Jobs. Well – more evil, I mean.
No, that’s not when it plans to do it: that’s it’s name. I had intended for it to be a corruption of Spiritus Mundi, the “Spirit of the World” from Yeats’ The Second Coming – at the time I was reading a lot of Yeats, including his esoteric automatic writings contained in A Vision. Yeats’ concept of Spiritus Mundi was a kind of informational singularity, a space where the totality of human information and experience was recorded. Monday, an emergent artificial consciousness thinking itself to be a technological singularity, thus named itself.
Unfortunately, as much as we dread it all weekend, Monday is not really very scary. I’ve reworked this almost entirely in the redraft, but kept the Spiritus Mundi connection: the threat is now known as Zphy-Rah-Tus (A.K.A. Zphyratos… Zphyritus… Spiritus… geddit?), a mass of data that’s gone insane and demands we worship it.
Incidentally, the weirdest thing about this was, as soon as I started to re-work the emergent network consciousness concept I came up with four years ago, this popped up on io9: A Neuroscientist’s Radical Theory of How Networks Become Conscious. This is the problem with writing science fiction at the start of the 21st century: your ideas reach a sell-by date very quickly.
Developing a voice is important; this is why I’ve been delving into texts where writers write about their craft recently. The Robert Louis Stevenson essay was especially helpful, as Stevenson is someone who attained the sort of balance I’m trying to get between a popular sense of adventure and a respect for the value of good prose, structure and so forth. Michael Moorcock, whose Jerry Cornelius books were the main inspiration behind Quentin Quark when I started it five years ago, strongly advises to science fiction and fantasy writers who are starting out that they
A) Stop reading everything in those genres and start reading everything else from Bunyan to Byatt.
B) Find an author you admire (Moorcock’s was Conrad) and copy their plots and characters in order to tell your own story, just as people learn to draw and paint by copying the masters.
I’m not going quite that far, but I am certainly picking a lot up from my perusals of The Master of Ballantrae, for instance. It seems fitting to me that Conrad admired Stevenson as I admire Moorcock – not that I’m implicitly comparing myself to those three esteemed gentlemen of letters, of course.
Aside from Stevenson, my other two consultants are How Fiction Works by James Wood and Letters to a Young Novelist by Mario Vargas Llosa. I hope to write more about both at a later date, but already they’ve been immensely helpful, especially in tandem with Flaubert’s Sentimental Education and Llosa’s own The Feast of the Goat.
Both Wood and Llosa look to Flaubert as an almost Platonic example of how to construct a narrative (I really want to get hold of Llosa’s The Perpetual Orgy, his book analysing Madame Bovary). Wood asserts that Flaubert is none other than the inventor of the modern novelistic voice; “There really is,” he says, “a before Flaubert and an after him.” Reading his predecessors like Fielding, Defoe and even fellow realist Balzac, one will still encounter an essayistic narrator who thinks nothing of digressing with his own opinions and observations. After Flaubert, from Tolstoy to Christopher Isherwood to Ian bloody McEwan, these observations are either dressed up in the everyday or concealed by an ambiguous eye. By an ambiguous eye, I mean that we as readers can’t be exactly sure if it’s the character’s or the author’s.
Being shown these elements of fiction writing that we otherwise take for granted is both gratifying and hugely helpful – far more useful, I’ve found, than any number of How To Write Fiction-esque guides. As Moorcock rightly says, you learn from the masters, and Wood is adept at showing you their brushstrokes.
A few other quick notes, perhaps to expand upon later: