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Ceridwen

Ceridwen

You kids get off my lawn. 

Built Ford Tough: Brave New World

Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

Cross-posted on Soapboxing

 

I have this little theory -- a "little theory" being one of those half-assed ideas one has that won't stand up to scrutiny -- that a person can have either a Macbeth English major or a Hamlet English major. I myself had the Macbeth kind, having read the Scottish play three times for various classes during undergrad, and never once Hamlet. (In fact, I have never read Hamlet, though I've seen it maybe a dozen times.) That Macbeth was the thing when I was in school says something about the pulse of that moment in time. Maybe it's too histrionic to see something in my profs choosing the Macbeths and their overreaching pas de deux over Hamlet's leaderly meltdown during the Clinton era, but then again, maybe not.This little theory falls apart once I factor in the twice-read Tempest or King Lear-- it's silly to decant ones formative Shakespeare into two plays, and then roshambo -- but like all little theories, I do cleave to it inordinately. 

 

To stretch this little theory a bit, I see this kind of small theoretical split in a bunch of sub-genres: The Yearling or Old Yeller, in the dead animal department; Monty Python or Hitchhiker's Guide, in ye 70s British humor department; and for the purposes of this essay, 1984 or Brave New World in your classic dystopia department. People tend to have read one or the other, and if both are read, the one you encountered earliest is the one you prefer. I had a 1984 childhood, finishing that book on a bus back from a school trip to Quebec, and feeling that bullet right in my brain. [spoiler alert] It's entirely possible that I would feel the same way about Brave New World if I'd read it at the time -- the adolescent brain being what it is -- but I didn't. Instead, Huxley's classic had to contend with dreary old me, a me that couldn't ever get a leg over. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy many facets of Brave New World, but just that much of my enjoyment was at arm's length -- ironic, critical, or historical -- and not in the moment of narrative. It was worth reading to be read, and not in the reading of it. Ah, my lost youth.

 

I was honestly surprised at how science fictional the opening was. There's a whole lot of technobabble and der blinken lights, mouthpiece characters yammering on about how the axlotl tanks work and embryonic division and sleep hypnosis and the like. I feel like -- and this could be certainly another "little theory", but bear with me -- contemporary literary fiction tends to avoid hard science trappings, lest one get genre cooties all over one's magnum opus (cf. The Road, Zone One, et al.) Huxley's got no squeamishness about that, and his future has the hard patina of 30s futurism, all aeronautics and chemistry. I was recently regaling a friend about Gibson's "Gernsback Continuum", and its elucidation of the semiotic phantom of  "American streamline Moderne" that gets the story's narrator so twitterpated. Which, whoa. 

 

The future of the past is a detritus we all live with -- in our nostalgia and anxiety dreams -- and it's odd to see such an early one, such an embryonic one: 1932, before the Great War that informed 1984, before any of the other condensed catastrophes of the world we inhabit now. I found the way Huxley is taking aim at American consumerism -- the social engineers are called "Fords", and there are a variety of almost funny jokes about this -- and Soviet authoritarianism -- Lenina is our almost heroine -- just touching. I can't imagine a contemporary writer cutting these two things together; they've been too solidly set as a dialectic in the interregnum. Plus, none of these things mean the same anymore anyway. I mean, the first Stalinist purges had just happened a few years before Brave New World, but these early purges didn't involve arrest and death like they would later, starting with the Great Purge of 1936. They were ideological litmus tests, sure, but Stalin had not yet begun to dream of the gulag and all the other nightmares that have since been associated with (at least) Soviet communist. And Ford had not yet begun collaborating with the fucking Nazis, because the Brownshirts were still just vigilante skinheads. Anyway. 

 

The part that made me lose my shit was when our cheerful fordians spend a weekend in the "human reservation" somewhere in the American southwest, probably Arizona, which is peopled with folk who look a lot like the Pueblo people. Americans certainly have a kinky view of the native peoples of North America: in historical contexts, there's this spiritual largess afforded conquered people, and in modern ones, an irritation that aboriginal Americans continue to exist. Why do you still keep making claims to shit we legit conquered you for, noble savage? It's not dissimilar to a British view of colonial artifacts: certainly the Greeks cannot be trusted to caretake the Elgin Parthenon Marbles. Huxley's description of the reservation hews to this, with an irritation towards pagan "superstition" and general backwardsness, married to a strange in-the-reverse satire of sterile "progress". 

 

The story of John the Savage -- the Englishman born in the reservation -- ends up being this completely bananas expression of an inherent Englishness. Though born into the community, he somehow has problems with the language and never quite fits in. (Though, admittedly, some of this is his mom being the town drunk and whore, if you'll excuse the expression.) I've known a lot of children of immigrants, and they know English as well as I; it's their first language too. He's given the collected works of Shakespeare at some point, and, like Frankenstein's monster lurking at the edges of English society, somehow manages to divine the history of Christianity, all the trappings of traditional gender roles, and Romantic love. Which he then hews to when confronted by fordian society, like British culture is something that can be activated by a book, regardless of where you were raised. At least given the right blood quantum, to filch nomenclature from the American reservation. 

 

It's a trip watching John freak out when the woman he's decided to courtly love propositions him sexually: omg, good girls don't even do that!! Casual sex is super bad for you!! I get the impression I'm supposed to agree, and put in context of the fordian society which constantly describes women as "pneumatic" I kinda do, but I really don't. It's a false binary: harsh traditionalism or completely freewheeling sluttery. I'm not even going to go into all the feminist virgin/whore stuff, and you are welcome to fill it in yourself. Suffice it to say when John meets his inevitable end [uh, spoiler, except not really, because we can all see where this is going] in a welter of OH DO YOU SEE, I couldn't do much more than laugh cynically. I was happy just to be done with all the fucking speechifying that typifies the end, good Lord. 

 

I'm just going to note here, briefly, that the racial categories in the fordian society are completely fucked. While there are moments when I felt this was meant satirically, there are at least as many, if not more, where I felt it was not. Emphatically. 

 

So. Strange New World is a trip, and I recommend a pass at it if you're into the history of science fiction or the social satire, or where those two things connect, but I've gotta say it's not aging too well. While I appreciate the ways Huxley anticipated the soporific effects of media on labor -- and, weirdly, the horror of the paparazzi -- his satire is bound by the rules of the day, as all satire is. That's the sad thing about satire, which bites best when it's specific, situated, in the moment, but then the moment moves on and it's left as a relic, a joke that has to be explained to get the punchline. Same goes for horror and comedy, which says something about all of them.