Frankenstein and Rosenblatt

In 1938, Louise Rosenblatt published Literature as Exploration, a text which discussed the relationship between a reader and the text.  She argued that teachers of literary criticism might find new interpretations of existing works by allowing students to read the text and form their own opinions before presenting the established interpretation.

These ideas are essential pillars of reader-response theory, which argues that meaning is present intrinsically in a work, but is rather created by the reader's response.  (Go figure.)  And, extending this, it may be found that, whether intentionally or not, many authors manipulate a reader's response to have a certain emotional effect or convey a certain theme.

Reader response theory has many interesting models within it, any one of which could take up a blog post of their own, but right now I want to focus on how the theory as a whole applies to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

This book begins with a frame story from the point of view of Robert Walton, a young man who seeks to explore the Arctic.  I found him to be a very sympathetic character; his responses to the various events in the plot seem natural and his curiosity and ambition genuine.  Perhaps Shelley intended us to identify with this character, and thus to consider the events in the story as if they are occurring to us.

As the book transferred perspectives, I found that the responses of everyone in our class diverged somewhat.  I personally sympathized with Frankenstein considerably throughout the novel; while he made many mistakes and bad decisions, and never seemed to realize that he was entirely responsible for the creature's downfall, his intentions remained good throughout.  Others in the class focused more on his mistakes and the creature's blamelessness, and perceived Frankenstein as being closer to a villain.

Differences in perception also appeared to influence the themes that each of us saw in the book.  Common themes included the dangers of scientific development without consideration for ethics and the responsibility that a creator holds towards the creation, both of which are more easily seen if the reader views Frankenstein in a negative light.  It seems quite possible that Shelley deliberately portrayed Frankenstein in this way, introducing unrealistic mistakes and actions, to highlight those themes which she wished readers to take away from the work.

From Pedro to ELIZA

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, one of the central themes is the idea that science can lead to harmful results.  This is presented through the hypothetical production of a being much more intelligent and much closer to human than the creator expected.  This 'creature' (referred to as Pedro for brevity) attempts to understand the world, but is often misunderstood, even by his own creator.

(But we've talked about this in class, so I'll try not to reiterate our discussions.)

This situation reminded me of a similar type of symbolic narrative in sci-fi.

Some of you may be familiar with the movie A.I.; if you're not, I'd recommend skimming [[the story on which it is based]] or at least [[a synopsis]].  (And even if you are, the story is worth checking out!)

To review, the movie's premise is fairly simple: a couple's child goes into a coma as the result of a rare disease, and after much soul-searching, they decide to adopt a prototype 'imprinting' AI, which is programmed to feel emotion in much the same way as a human.  This boy, David, lives happily with his 'mother', Monica, and 'father', Henry, until their real son, Martin, is cured; after various conflicts, he is abandoned by his family because Monica can't bring herself to send him to be dismantled.

From this point in the movie, he experiences many forms of discrimination; he is threatened with destruction at an anti-robot Flesh Fair, for instance.  He attempts to find the 'Blue Fairy', inspired by the story of Pinocchio, in order to become a real boy.  However-- (plot twist!)-- he ends up being buried deep in the ocean for several thousand years.

He is revived by highly advanced automatons after the human race has died out.  In an attempt to discover more about the race that created their precursors, these robots ask him various questions and observe his interactions with a revived Monica; unfortunately, their technology can only revive humans for one day.  The end of the movie sees David and the clone going to sleep, or, as David puts it, "that place where dreams are born."

Aside from the entire movie's tear-jerking attributes, there is quite a bit of deeper meaning.

I immediately saw several parallels to Frankenstein.  Like Pedro, David is much more advanced and human than his creators might have expected-- indeed, even the robots without the emotional programming are portrayed as more caring and 'human' than the majority of humans.  Both David and Pedro are abandoned by their creators and face persecution because of their lack of knowledge about the world.  The audience sympathizes much more with David than with his creators, and I have to admit I'm becoming more sympathetic towards Pedro.

The purpose of both stories also appears to be cautionary.  The eerily-human creations show that we have to be prepared to take responsibility for our explorations.  Bioethics and roboethics are emerging fields, and professional advice often urges careful and slow development in ethically-dubious research.

I think these messages are important to consider, no matter what you think about research and development in artificial intelligence or other controversial fields.  Interestingly enough, we are already seeing parallels to parts of these stories in the real world.

Cyberpunk and Postmodernism

On Thursday, we watched the play And They Dance Real Slow in Jackson.  In case you didn't attend the play, I'll write a quick summary.

The main character, Elizabeth Ann Willow, suffers from polio and is effectively an outcast in her small Southern town.  While she is good-natured and constantly attempts to connect with others, she is continually rebuffed and discussed behind her back.  When she asks Skeeter to prom, for instance, he rejects her despite appearing to like her.  Soon after, she goes down to the river and is attacked by a mob of frightened children who have convinced each other that she can take off her leg braces ("metal legs") and send them walking.  This results in a complete withdrawal into her mind.

One of the most interesting features of the play was the way that information about what happened to Elizabeth was slowly revealed.  Based on several perspectives (Elizabeth as a 24-year-old, trapped inside her head; Elizabeth as an 18-year-old; and the townspeople, observing her condition at 24 years old), the audience is able to slowly understand the full scope of the story.  This reminded me considerably of something that we read last year.

The Things They Carried also jumped around a lot, changed narrators, and used surreal storytelling techniques.  The overall impressions I received from the two works were similar; confusion was the first response, followed by gradual comprehension and an abrupt ending.  Similar techniques were used in other books I've read, like Cloud Atlas and If on a winter's night a traveler; these I've discussed previously, so I won't waste space reiterating my points.  However, I haven't discussed Neuromancer.

If you're not familiar with the novel, it's a disjoint account of a hacker's attempts to crack a highly-developed AI.  The setting is quite foggy, and few details are given, contributing to a sense of unreality; the narration is also disorienting, and makes less and less sense as the plot progresses.  However, by the end of the book, a good number of the hanging ends have been resolved, and even without understanding exactly what has happened, a reader can feel a sense of completion.

Still, I didn't deeply enjoy any of the above works.  Perhaps it's an effective use of reader response theory-- but I can't say this kind of manipulation of confusion particularly appeals to me as a reader.

Parallels: Wuthering Heights and Beyond

One of the major elements of Wuthering Heights that we discussed in class was the parallel between generations.

The first generation, composed of Edgar, Cathy 1.0, and Heathcliff, was driven by the wrong impulses, made bad decisions, or otherwise generally screwed things up.  The second generation, composed of Linton, Cathy 2.0, and Hareton, was initially affected by the decisions of the first; however, by the end of the book, Cathy 2.0 and Hareton have found happiness, in a way redeeming the faults of the first generation.

That being said, the parallel between generations reminded me of another work.

In the Star Wars universe, there are many similar parallels.  In the first generation, Anakin and Padme's love doesn't exactly work out, to say the least.  Multiple other errors are made by that first generation.  Anakin is analogous to both Heathcliff and Edgar in that he makes foolish decisions because of his love; as a result, everybody loses.

By contrast, in the second generation, Luke and Leia avoid making those same mistakes.  Luke and Leia learn that they are siblings, and Leia falls in love with Han Solo instead; in this respect, they're luckier than the Wuthering Heights trio, who had to go through a lot more before Hareton and Cathy 2.0 fell in love.  In a more broad sense as well, Luke's generation fixes the mistakes of Anakin's generation by destroying the Empire.

Essentially, both Wuthering Heights and Star Wars involve a second generation which rectifies the errors of the first, providing resolution to the story.

Crab Canon

I started to write this blog post about Wuthering Heights' recent plot developments-- but I thought about it, and if I did that, I'd just make some lackluster comparison to LotR.

So, instead, let's talk about the use of language.

Wuthering Heights has some great imagery and word choice in it. There is a certain art to fitting together words and sentences to form a coherent whole-- and I must admit that Emily Brontë is a master of the art.  Joseph's indecipherable dialect aside, she produces sentences such as:

One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven's happiness — mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive, and he said mine would be drunk; I said I should fall asleep in his, and he said he could not breathe in mine. (237)

Brontë's skill clearly exceeds my own.  She has good control of a reader's response and the flow of the writing; by using a long list of birds for Catherine's heaven and a simpler one with more gradual phrases for Linton's, for instance, she influences the reader's mood and impression.

However, I think it would be fascinating to consider what Brontë could do in a different writing environment.

This is a piece called Crab Canon, by the renowned graphic artist M. C. Escher, also known for such gems as Waterfall and Drawing Hands.  It may have been inspired by a Bach piece of the same name, one of the Musical Offerings:

This piece is interesting in that it is completely reversible; indeed, the reversed part may be overlaid on the first part to create harmony as well.  In addition to showcasing Bach's musical talent, this piece also presents the foundation for a certain type of literary challenge, also called a crab canon.  A crab canon is a piece of literature which can be read in either direction and present a coherent story.  It is usually presented as a dialogue, as in the original literary crab canon, but can also be presented in other forms:

Authors like Emily Brontë tend to be comfortable with the manipulation of phrases, sentences, and tone.  They've clearly demonstrated what they can do in the framework of a novel-- but, at the same time, I believe that writing within constraints can show entirely different facets of a writer's talents.

For instance, though they can be frustrating to write, haikus are some of the most expressive poems; the feeling that ordinarily would be spread across many verses must be compressed into a mere 17 syllables.  Meaning must be overlaid, implied, and hidden.  The same could be said for the six-word stories we discussed in class.  And although a crab canon does not necessarily need to hide meaning-- Hofstadter's doesn't-- the form lends itself to the reinforcement of certain themes, and the Lost Generation video certainly takes advantage of that.  Given the many past / present parallels in Wuthering Heights, perhaps Brontë could have done the same.

What do you think?  Would her literary talents be wasted on a restrictive form of writing?  Or would the restrictions create a more intriguing and lasting piece?

Wuthering Heights and the Enterprise

One of the most notable features (at least, to me) of Wuthering Heights is the near-complete lack of interaction with the world outside of Thrushcross Grange, Gimmerton, and the titular estate.  It is a phenomenon shared by Jane Eyre, with only a small number of characters involved throughout the plot, and has been conjectured to be due to the Brontë sisters' isolation.

However, upon some pondering and investigation, it occurred to me that this is one of several features that Wuthering Heights shares with many science fiction and fantasy series.

For instance, Star Trek.  The one common denominator between episodes is the setting-- the starship Enterprise.  There are few significant characters (with many red-shirts filling in the background) and, for all intents and purposes, those characters and settings not directly associated with the Enterprise are quite transient.  Like Wuthering Heights, the ship is an isolated bubble containing (or at least directly associated with) all important events.

Though Heathcliff and Cathy may not be learned in starship navigation, they do recall some archetypes of sci-fi (and fantasy) characters.  Many fictional genres rely upon general categories of understandable, relatable stock characters, and, in some ways, so does Wuthering Heights.

Heathcliff is proud, aloof, and rude; he is often classified as a Byronic hero, but on a simpler level, I interpreted Heathcliff as a somewhat-immature man who acts based on his individualistic ideas and strong affection for Catherine.  He doesn't wish to be controlled and follows his instincts, but also doesn't like to show his feelings, seeing them as soft.

Catherine seemed very similar.  She is spirited and passionate, feeling a full range of emotion, from love to jealousy.  When frustrated in her desires (as when Heathcliff begins to court Isabella and Nelly tells Edgar she is faking a fit), she flies into a rage and even occasionally becomes sick; like Heathcliff, she doesn't want to be controlled, and is certainly impulsive, but also puts consideration for her future over her love for Heathcliff, ultimately resulting in the unhappiness of an entire generation of Wuthering Heights inhabitants; the next generation redeems itself, however, by --spoilers--.

This theme of one generation's mistakes being fixed by the next (or a later generation in general) is a common one in science fiction and fantasy as well.  A few examples might include Dune, Star Wars, and The Lord of the Rings.  Arguably, this is a common theme throughout all literature, though it seems more proliferate in sci-fi to my mind.

In sum, I noticed a few common traits between Wuthering Heights (and Romantic literature in general) and sci-fi.  While they are usually quite different in purpose, the two categories share motifs and character types, and while sci-fi is much more enjoyable to me than WH, I have to admit that perhaps-- just perhaps-- there are some deep underlying traits that make E. Brontë's novel similarly interesting.

Day 44

When I was in elementary school, my family went fishing every so often.  My father loved to get out the fishing rod [ true facts: I accidentally typed "fishpole" ] and try to land a few.  He always threw them back, and occasionally let me reel in the smaller ones.  I always admired his patience.  Sitting in the summer sun and waiting for the line to twitch is not exactly something that I excel at.  Nevertheless, even when I waited with him, I never seemed to land a single fish.

Five years later, I learned that [ surprise! ] different sizes of hooks catch different sizes of fish.  I had always randomly picked a hook out of the tackle box, not noticing the difference.

This is very similar to how I often dealt with literature in those days: casually, carelessly, and cursorily.  I skimmed through books without paying attention to the oceans lying beneath the waves.

At some point in middle school, I began to dip my toes in the water.  For the first time, I analyzed books and short stories in class; I vaguely remember being impressed by "Harrison Bergeron".  Perhaps it also helped that my teacher was a huge fan of Star Wars, the Lord of the Rings, and several other franchises that I also approved of.  By connecting literature basics such as the hero archetype to the familiar stories that I had grown up with, I learned to step back and take a look at what I was reading.  Soon, I was seeing underlying techniques in everything-- so much, in fact, that I entered a somewhat-involuntary phase of literary snobbishness.  Nobody had ever warned me about overshooting and crashing into the bottom of the ocean!

After three years of pretentiously flaunting books such as Anna Karenina and Atlas Shrugged, I had an epiphany.  Not anything too literary-- but I realized that the books that I was reading, purportedly full of deep meaning, were honestly not that enjoyable.  Beginning to read commercial fiction again was like surfacing after diving; turning the first page of the urban fantasy thriller that I would have shunned before was like taking the first breath of sweet, fresh air.  Soon, I was able to find a healthy balance of engaging commercial fiction and more exploratory and historical literary works.  Fortunately, learning to appreciate both worlds is like learning to tread water; you never quite forget, and I certainly haven't stopped enjoying the ride.

Admittedly, there are some books that I still can't seem to get into.  Ulysses is one [ sorry, Mr. Mullins! ], and Gravity's Rainbow is another.  I have no doubt that Finnegan's Wake is worse.  Maybe I just don't have a penchant for the exploratory genre-- but Pynchon is definitely not up my alley.

But even now, I sometimes pause to wonder whether my interpretations are short-sighted.  After all, sometimes what appears to be a pond is really a deep, majestic ocean.