Broken Mirrors: Representations of Apocalypses and Dystopias in Popular Culture 9780367235918

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction: Welcome to the Beginning of the End of Everything
1 A Light That Never Goes Out: Bare Life and the Possibility of Ethics in McCarthy’s The Road
2 Hopeful Dystopias? Figures of Hope in the Brazilian Science Fiction Series 3%
3 Hopeful Hybridities: Transformative Interspecies Relationships in Dystopian and Post-Apocalyptic Visual Narratives
4 Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin: Using Evolution to Explain Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race
5 Is this the Futu.re? Russian Cosmism and the Construction of an Immor(t)al Utopia
6 The Mexican Sicario Against the End of the World
7 Post-apocalyptic Play: Representations of the End of the City in Video Games
8 The Future in Ruins: The Uses of Derelict Buildings and Monuments in Post-apocalyptic Film and Literature
9 The Zombie as a Pronoun: What Pronouns Are Used and Why?
10 A Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic/Dystopian Texts
11 Original Sin as Salvation: The Apocalyptic Boon in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Broken Mirrors

Dystopian stories and visions of the Apocalypse are nothing new; however, in recent years there has been a noticeable surge in the output of this theme. The reasons for this are not exactly clear; it may partly be as a result of post-9/11 anxieties, the increasing incidence of extreme weather and/or environmental anomalies, chaotic fluctuations in the economy and the uncertain and shifting political landscape in the west in general. Investigating this highly topical and pervasive theme from interdisciplinary perspectives, this volume presents various angles on dystopia through critical analyses of selected works of fiction, film, TV shows, video games and more. Joe Trotta is an Associate Professor of English Linguistics at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Joe’s research has shifted from traditional linguistics to focusing nearly exclusively on the use of English in popular media. He is the founder and chair of the [GotPop] Research Group and the co-host of the GotPop Popular Culture Podcast. Zlatan Filipovic is an Associate Professor in English and Comparative Literature at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. He has a PhD in English and Comparative Literature from Goldsmiths, University of London and has published extensively on deconstruction and affect in literary writing. Houman Sadri is a PhD candidate and teacher of English Literature, at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. He is the co-host of the GotPop Popular Culture Podcast.

Routledge Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Literature

101 Haunted Europe Continental Connections in English-Language Gothic Writing, Film and New Media Edited by Evert Jan Van Leeuwen and Michael Newton 102 Challenging Memories and Rebuilding Identities Literary and Artistic Voices that undo the Lusophone Atlantic Edited by Margarida Rendeiro and Federica Lupati 103 Literature with a White Helmet The Textual-Corporeality of Being, Becoming, and Representing Refugees Lava Asaad 104 The Birth of Intertextuality The Riddle of Creativity Scarlett Baron 105 Doubles and Hybrids in Latin American Gothic Edited by Antonio Alcalá and Ilse Bussing 106 The Feminist Architecture of Postmodern Anti-Tales Space, Time and Bodies Kendra Reynolds 107 Agatha Christie Goes to War Edited by Rebecca Mills and J.C. Bernthal 108 Broken Mirrors Representations of Apocalypses and Dystopias in Popular Culture Edited by Joe Trotta, Zlatan Filipovic and Houman Sadri For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com

Broken Mirrors Representations of Apocalypses and Dystopias in Popular Culture

Edited by Joe Trotta, Zlatan Filipovic and Houman Sadri

First published 2020 by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Taylor & Francis The right of Joe Trotta, Zlatan Filipovic and Houman Sadri be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Library of Congress Control Number: 2019952081 ISBN: 978-0-367-23591-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-28063-4 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

Contents

Acknowledgements Introduction: Welcome to the Beginning of the End of Everything

vii

1

J O E T RO T TA A N D H O U M A N S A D R I

1 A Light That Never Goes Out: Bare Life and the Possibility of Ethics in McCarthy’s The Road

15

Z L ATA N F I L I P OV I C

2 Hopeful Dystopias? Figures of Hope in the Brazilian Science Fiction Series 3%

33

M ICH A EL GODH E

3 Hopeful Hybridities: Transformative Interspecies Relationships in Dystopian and Post-Apocalyptic Visual Narratives

46

ARIEL KAHN

4 Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin: Using Evolution to Explain Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race

74

EM ELI E JONSSON

5 Is this the Futu.re? Russian Cosmism and the Construction of an Immor(t)al Utopia

90

I R I L H OV E U L L E S TA D

6 The Mexican Sicario Against the End of the World G A B R I E L A M E RC A D O

105

vi Contents 7 Post-apocalyptic Play: Representations of the End of the City in Video Games

121

EMMA FR ASER

8 The Future in Ruins: The Uses of Derelict Buildings and Monuments in Post-apocalyptic Film and Literature

138

J E R RY M Ä ÄT TÄ

9 The Zombie as a Pronoun: What Pronouns Are Used and Why?

157

L I N DA F L O R E S O H L S O N

10 A Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic/Dystopian Texts

179

J O E T RO T TA

11 Original Sin as Salvation: The Apocalyptic Boon in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials

202

HOUM A N SA DR I

Notes on Contributors Index

219 221

Acknowledgements

An apocalypse, despite its modern meaning of a disastrous or cataclysmic event, etymologically means a revealing or uncovering, usually of some ostensibly hidden truth. What is revealed here through the insights presented by the contributors to this work would not have been possible without the help and support of others, and now is the time to uncover and acknowledge that truth. From the planning stage to the finished anthology, the success of this project hinged on a small group of people who believed in me, the project itself and the spirit of cooperation that underpins this work here. Through the ebb and flow of their daily lives, with all the normal and sometimes exceptional pressures and time constraints from both work and personal life, they lent their time, support and expertise to help make this happen. All that I have done in realising this project is due to their assistance and inspiration and I would not forget to thank them. With great respect and love, I thank Petra Platen for actually suggesting this anthology, convincing me that it could be done and volunteering to be a part of it. She was originally one of the editors until her talent for managing the impossible was required elsewhere and it was no longer possible for her to participate. This book is just as much hers as it is anyone else’s and her efforts to bring it to fruition are not forgotten. I owe a deep debt of gratitude to the late professor Marcus Nordlund, who did not get the opportunity to contribute to this work, but without whose friendship, collaboration and support I would not have pursued research projects like this, the ones that attempt to integrate rather than exclude, that emphasise cooperation rather than polemics and look to tackle the big questions, despite the naysayers and sceptics. Though he is greatly missed, he is present in this volume. I have been fortunate enough to work with two co-editors, Houman Sadri and Zlatan Filipovic, who have, to my amazement, put up with my insanity, mood swings and rants. This project has coincided with an extremely turbulent time in my life and their understanding and support have gone well beyond the call of duty, and for that I thank them.

viii Acknowledgements My son, Bodhi Trotta, has always challenged and inspired me to be better and do better. Nearly all the things I do that are worth doing, I do with him in mind and this book is no exception. Finally, I want to thank the editorial team at Routledge as well as the contributors to this anthology. At Routledge, Jennifer Abbott and Mitchell Manners provided patience, support and critical feedback in realising this project. The work of the contributors speaks for itself, but I would be remiss in my responsibilities for not thanking them not only for their stellar work on this anthology, but also for their perseverance, their creativity and their ability to adapt to criticisms and rise to the occasion. Joe Trotta, July 2019 Like so many journeys, this has been an emotional one and apart from my co-editors who took me in as a friend and colleague and helped me navigate the high waters safely to the port, I am also eternally grateful to my family, my awesome wife Maria and my son and daughter Mies and Dalia Belle for patiently waiting and urging me on. They are the strength and sinew of all my endeavours. A very special thanks to the Routledge team and the assessors whose patience, attentive consideration and enthusiasm have made all this happen. Thank you. Zlatan Filipovic, July 2019 My thanks, love and appreciation go, first and foremost, to my pillar of strength and partner in all things, Susanne Johansson Sadri, and to Xander, Aurora and Freja for always being patient and understanding when pappa is having ‘deep thoughts.’ Joe Trotta and Zlatan Filipovic are the best co-editors a boy could ask for, and have helped make this experience memorable (in a good way, honest). Thanks also to Petra Platen, Malin Petzell, Joakim Jahlmar and to all the contributors who have made editing this volume such a pleasure. Houman Sadri, July 2019

Introduction Welcome to the Beginning of the End of Everything Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri

Setting the Stage The ability communicate and ultimately weave narratives about things other than the immediately ‘here-and-now,’ a language property commonly referred to in linguistics as displacement, is virtually unique to humans. This linguistic feature quite possibly provided us with the evolutionary advantage required to make our survival as a species possible (see Bickerton, 2009, p. 217) and, along with its many benefits, also allows us to share knowledge and memories, discuss plans and ideas, create social cohesion and, most importantly in the present context, tell stories. Today we mostly value the fictional stories we create because they can be compelling and entertaining, but they also serve a purpose beyond mere amusement; through narratives we can vicariously explore our potential, consider our limitations and interrogate our human values. Speculative Fiction is an especially important form of storytelling since it explores areas of the human experience that are not possible in other genres, using its speculative perspective to problematise societal anxieties (e.g. industrialisation, technological advances, otherness, overpopulation, exile, pandemics and the spread of viruses, genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, among many others) or to reflect on other ethical, epistemological or ontological issues in ways that traditional narratives cannot. Not unlike the ways in which basic displacement may have benefited humans in the past by helping us imagine and implement survival strategies, Speculative Fiction can provide us with an analytical toolbox and a mental staging area with which we can examine the insights, inspirations and incentives we need in order to face the challenges of the future, many of which appear to threaten our beliefs, our way of life and our very existence. With a starting point in the imagined worlds of speculative-fiction narratives and their potential to influence how we make sense of different possible futures; the main aim of this anthology is to shed some critical light on selected representations of dystopias and/or the (post-) apocalypse1 in various forms of contemporary Popular Culture. What do these representations reveal about present-day trends and social

2  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri currents? How do they package the ideas, fears and anxieties which are consumed, often uncritically, by ordinary people in ordinary situations on a nearly daily basis? The topic, in and of itself, is well worth examining, however this collection differentiates itself from others in its cross- and inter-disciplinary approaches. The authors have varying academic backgrounds in literature, linguistics, cultural studies, media studies and philosophy. In addition, the fictional worlds examined are drawn from a range of sources (e.g. literature, TV, video games, comics, etc.) and the primary material is not only Anglo-American, but rather includes selected Russian and Spanish works as well. As stated above, the works in this anthology examine bleak and ominous depictions of the future. These dark visions are in general categorised as being in one of two camps; ones in which humans must navigate through a world that is on the brink of a collapse (or apocalypse) due to climate change, a pandemic, nuclear war, etc., or ones in which society itself, which may be fully functioning, is presented as a dystopia, typically portrayed as a dismal and/or dehumanising nightmare of state control. Whether these two seemingly different types of narratives should be categorised as two distinct (sub)genres is unclear; this is a question that shall be discussed further in this introduction as well in several of the following chapters. It should be stated at this point, however, that we (the editors of this anthology) have chosen to bring them together in this volume for several reasons, partly because the notions of ‘dystopian’ and ‘apocalyptic’ are not mutually exclusive terms. Indeed, they often overlap in the texts examined here, or they may have a causal relation to one another (e.g. a dystopian society could trigger an apocalypse and conversely, a dystopia could arise from the ruins of an apocalyptic event). We also treat them together because we feel that it is worthwhile and necessary to investigate not only the stories themselves, but also how they reflect who we are now (i.e. in terms of our collective anxieties, hopes, values, assumptions, etc.) and, in this process, the presumed genre distinction does not matter. Despite apparent differences in theme or setting, they have, at least superficially, similar ways of engaging readers as they generally make use of problematic issues that are recognisable in our contemporary condition (whether that be current concerns for potential global catastrophes or the fear of an upswing in authoritarianism, surveillance society, etc.) as a basis for their troubled and troubling conceptions of a future world that could arise from the present. At their worst, we may consider these stories to be fear-mongering and grotesque exaggerations, but when they speak to us, we may see ourselves reflected in the broken future they foretell. We are compelled to witness them unfold because they are not only gripping and moving, but also wrapped in urgency and foreboding. We see the mirror they present before us, in a time-shifted mix of ‘now’ and a memory of ‘now,’ and mourn the impossibility of unbreaking it.

Introduction  3 The remainder of this chapter sketches out some of the requisite background for the contributions in this anthology. First the distinction (or lack thereof) between apocalyptic and dystopian fiction is discussed and following that, a brief history of apocalyptic/dystopian stories is presented. Thereafter, each of the contributions to this book is presented, contextualised and related to the prevalent themes as we see them.

Mapping Out the Territory: A Genre Perspective At face value, the notion of genre appears to function as a common, intuitive concept. Works of literature have been grouped together and classified according to some principle of genre belonging since ancient times and a cursory inspection of any present-day bookstore (physical or online) indicates that some underlying commonsense understanding of genre categories is presumed and implemented in practice without much reflection. The received practices and prevalent use of the notion notwithstanding, genre categorisation is a contested, problematic and poorly understood praxis. With multiple and overlapping genre possibilities competing, how are choices made and what is their purpose? For example, a linguist may prioritise textual features above content or situation. This split is often presented as the difference between ‘texttype’ and ‘genre,’ the former focussing on recurrent linguistic features and patterns, while the latter is more nebulous and may involve any number of non-linguistic perspectives such as (and not limited to) quality, e.g. literary fiction vs. so-called genre fiction; content, e.g. drama, tragedy, history, etc.; situation or setting, e.g. western, crime, romance, etc.; medium, e.g. novel, comic, e-book, etc.; or target audience, e.g. young adult, Christian, etc. Against this background, scholars working in genre theory (see, e.g. Miller, 1984; DeVitt, 1993; Chandler, 2017) have pointed out that there is no neutral or objective procedure in how genres are defined, and taxonomies are organised. All genre labels are in some way convenient fictions – idealised ‘pre-signals’ of what it is to come based on assumed shared knowledge. In practice they attempt to establish a basic horizon of expectations so that presumptive readers can better navigate their way to titles that match their preferences. They also enable the organisation of large collections of texts, such as one might find in libraries, books stores, anthologies, university literature lists and, for those so-inclined, genre labels facilitate reviews, comparisons and evaluations of certain works, e.g. to praise something as ‘a masterpiece of dystopian fiction’ contextualises it in a way that should somehow set expectations more appropriately than it would by simply saying it is ‘a masterpiece of fiction.’ A further complication is that genres are not fixed historically, culturally or otherwise. Usable and realistic genre labels are inherently flexible and plastic; they can (and do) change meaning over time and, as the

4  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri initiated reader already knows, the same work can belong to several genres at once, or perhaps even defy traditional classification. From the perspective of the author-reader relationship, genre packaging can, at one and the same time, cut the need for lengthy exposition or backstories, permit shortcuts via ‘switched on’ familiarity of the genre and well-established genre tropes and also, somewhat oddly, allow for innovative genre-blurring and for playing the genre against itself by breaking established norms and conventions and thus creating new, fresh and ‘genre-defying’ narratives. It is clearly not within the purview of this anthology to resolve or explicate the deep-rooted complexities associated with genre theory, nor is it our goal to scrutinise and evaluate the genres (or sub-genres) of apocalyptic and/or dystopian fiction as genres (see Trotta, this volume, for a linguistic perspective on this matter). Simply stated, despite the unavoidable use of these labels throughout this book, this work is not an attempt to iron out the finer points of taxonomic distinctions between different genres, nor is it a work whose starting point is the categorisation of artistic phenomena by presumed ‘family resemblances.’ However, for the purposes of establishing some basic definitions in the context of this introductory chapter, it can be useful to map out some central concepts, albeit in a rather loose and tentative manner. As a starting point, dystopian fiction, in the context of this work, is provisionally defined as fiction that explores social or political struggle; the power structures in these stories still function, sometimes seemingly in a well-ordered and efficient manner, though sometimes they are presented as being on the edge of a total breakdown. In a ‘typical’ dystopian novel, a controlling power, ordinarily a government but it could also be a global corporation, a shadowy cabal, a religion, among other possible manifestations of powerful groups, oppresses, overregulates or unduly interferes in the lives of the characters. The society may sometimes be depicted as perfect and politically evolved to meet the needs of its citizens, or as a protector against some real or perceived threat. Eventually, however, its true nature is ultimately exposed as exploitative, oppressive and/or dehumanising. Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), Fahrenheit 451 (1953), V for Vendetta (1982–1985) and The Hunger Games trilogy (2008, 2009, 2010) are excellent examples of this type of story. In contrast to dystopian narratives, stereotypical apocalyptic fiction, as we want to characterise it for our purposes, involves a cataclysmic event (or series or combinations of events) in which civilisation or society has collapsed, is collapsing or will collapse – life, or more specifically human life, is threatened on a global scale, whether from natural or manmade circumstances, disease, science experiments gone wrong, zombie infections, nuclear war, aliens, cosmic event, etc. Therefore, one of its qualities that can partly distinguish it from dystopian fiction is that in the latter, there is still a society or social order (although it might be

Introduction  5 horrendous and intolerable for those living within it). If the apocalyptic event has taken place or is in full progress, the protagonists in apocalyptic works of fiction are usually just trying to survive in a world that is falling apart around them. For self-evident reasons, this type of story naturally unfolds against the background of the day-to-day struggles for survival (as in, e.g. Richard Matheons’ I am Legend, 1954, Harlon Ellison’s A Boy and His Dog, 1968 or Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, 2006). However, it should be noted here that the presence or not of a functioning society cannot be the sole criterion for the distinction between these two types of narratives since there are apocalyptic stories in which the cataclysmic event has not transpired or in which the consequences of the event have not yet run their full course. Societal structures may be in place in such works, but they are not central to the story and the focus is more on the apocalyptic event which threatens to end all human life (as in, e.g. the films Armageddon, 1998, Deep Impact, 1998 or Contagion, 2011). Similarly, we use here the label of ‘apocalyptic’ for narratives in which the characters are occupied with suspending or reversing the effects of the apocalyptic event, regardless of whether society or some remnants of it are featured in the story (as in Max Brooks’ World War Z, 2006, or films like 12 Monkeys, 1995, along with its TV-series adaptation, 2015–2018). Again, it should be kept in mind that these roughhewn categorisations are only used for the purpose of establishing serviceable ‘prototypes’ of the genres. These two categories are often lumped together or, conversely, sometimes the same work will be branded differently by different analysts, being labelled as dystopian by one scholar, but as apocalyptic by another. In addition, the two terms are by no means mutually exclusive; a dystopian narrative can take place after an apocalypse, and an apocalyptic event can transpire in the course of an otherwise dystopian storyline. Additionally, each of these two broad labels can have sub-categorisations. As hinted at above, apocalyptic fiction can be classed in groups such as pre-apocalyptic, apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic, with the more specific the labels serving as self-evident markers that the stories involved transpire immediately preceding (e.g. The Last Policeman [2012]), during (e.g. The Day After Tomorrow [2004]) or after the apocalyptic event (e.g. The Road [2006]). Similarly, different variations of dystopias can be identified, e.g. the anti-utopia, in which emphasis is not on the wretched and fearful societal state of a dystopia, but rather the anti-utopia typically focusses on exposing and criticising the idea of a utopia itself (see Sargent, 1994). A further nuance is also found in the literature between Utopian and Eutopian; etymologically speaking, ‘utopia’ means ‘no place’ but is understood to mean an idealised place where the intention is to create a perfect, well-functioning society, though this is impossible (and, not uncommonly, devolves into a dystopia – e.g. it can be the desire to create a utopia that ironically results

6  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri in a dystopia, as in, e.g. William F. Nolan and George Clayton Johnson’s novel Logan’s Run (1967) and its 1976 film adaptation). A Eutopia, on the other hand, literally means ‘good place.’ It implies that an approach to improving societal conditions is practical and achievable, as opposed to its ­homonymous ‘utopia.’ Having briefly skimmed through these possible sub-categories, we leave them here since these fine-grained distinctions are not necessary in understanding or relating to the present volume as a whole. If and when these distinctions are relevant for any specific chapter, they are discussed more fully there.

Some Historical Background There is nothing particularly new about presenting fictionalised visions of the future against a backdrop of an apocalypse or a bleak dystopia. Throughout history, writers, philosophers, religious leaders and politicians, among others, have seen their contemporary period as being on the precipice of an abyss (see, e.g. Pate & Haines, 1995; Bull, 1996; Newman, 2010). For the sake of expedience and brevity, we can forego a discussion of apocalyptic literature in religious texts, e.g. those texts in the Judeo-Christian traditions that foretell of cataclysmic events that in those beliefs will transpire at the end of the world. It is well worth noting that even the word apocalypse itself is to be understood differently in that context as it literally means ‘an uncovering’ rather than ‘catastrophe’ or ‘destruction’; it refers to a disclosure of knowledge or revelation, usually of something hidden (see apocalypse, n.d.). In terms of a more modern take on the apocalypse, there appears to be a consensus among scholars that in the English language, Mary ­Shelley’s The Last Man (1826) is a good candidate for the first example of this kind of speculative fiction (see, e.g. Booker & Thomas, 2009, p. 53; Määttä, 2015). Shelly’s novel is, however, predated by other works and potential precursors. For example, A Journal of the Plague Year (1722) by Daniel Defoe is sometimes mentioned in this context. The dates and exact chronology of these works are of lesser importance within the framework of this anthology, but rather the summary presented here is more concerned with the themes of these works and how they reflect the world at the time of their writing. Defoe’s story, e.g. can be considered to some extent to be a reflection of the anxiety about an actual plague that was feared could enter England from Marseille. The status of the book as fiction is controversial, since it feels and reads like a non-fiction document of the Great Plague of London that wreaked havoc in the mid1660s. With the fear of a new plague on the way, and the memory of the Great Plague still somewhat fresh, Defoe’s narrative reads more like a manual of how to live your life during a deadly outbreak (see Bastian, 1965; Degabriele, 2010).

Introduction  7 There is an argument to suggest that Defoe’s focus on the Great Plague is a precursor to later trends in apocalyptic and dystopian narrative fiction, in as much as it evidently homed in on the fears that the disease inspired in its potential audience. Similarly, H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine (1895) and The War of the Worlds (1898) both reflect the scientific advances of the late Victorian era, and the parallel senses of excitement and foreboding that often tend to accompany such leaps forward. While a futurist at heart, Wells was canny enough to pinpoint and elucidate this unease, though he was not the first Victorian writer to do so. Indeed, The Time Machine first appeared ten years after the publication of ­After London (1885), written by the nature writer Richard Jefferies which, while a work of fiction, reflected its author’s fears of both environmental and societal collapse, and of the seemingly inevitable dystopia to follow. The advent of the twentieth century underlines this trend still further. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) and George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) are dystopian narratives which speak to the period’s increasing unease with science, governance and the control governments exert over the population. Equally, the invention and use of nuclear weapons at the end of the Second World War, as well as the new world order that came about in the wake of that great conflict, tends to account for a large number of the apocalyptic narratives of the mid- to late twentieth century, not to mention, arguably, the tendency of many Japanese pop-cultural narratives of the second half of the century to focus upon its cities’ destruction by atomically mutated monsters. The 1968 movie version of Planet of the Apes is arguably the most famous of such narratives, along with Mad Max 2 (1981), Russell Hoban’s novel Riddley Walker (1980) and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006). In comics, the popular British property Judge Dredd (1977–), alongside American counterparts such as Kamandi, the Last Boy on Earth (1972–1976), was situated in post-nuclear futures. Indeed, it is instructive to note that ­nuclear conflict was at one point felt so inevitable that even the shiny, utopian fantasies of Star Trek and DC Comics’ Legion of Super-Heroes are set after society has been dragged to the precipice of extinction by the deployment of atomic weapons. The latter half of the twentieth century also brought with it the fears of societal breakdown that saw the rise in popularity of the zombie genre. Richard Matheson’s I am Legend (1954) is arguably the first narrative to use this trope, but the true flowering of its popularity came with George Romero’s film Night of the Living Dead (1968) and its five sequels. The genre is, of course, currently enjoying a new surge in popularity, with Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard’s comic series The Walking Dead (2003–) and its television and other spin-offs being perhaps the most notable case-in-point. However, Zombie fiction is not the only example of this. Both versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956 and 1978), along with several other such narratives, also deal with

8  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri this sort of societal breakdown, albeit from a point of view coloured by the Cold War and the McCarthy witch hunts. Equally, narratives such as Harlan Ellison’s I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream (1967), The Terminator (1984), Ghost in the Shell (1995) and The Matrix (1999) see societies that have broken down specifically because of a rise of Artificial Intelligence; meanwhile the apocalypses featured in such narratives as the British television series Survivors (1975–1977), 12 Monkeys (1995) and Y the Last Man (2002–2008) take place in worlds brought about by global pandemics. In line with this, environmental disaster has always been a staple in apocalyptic fiction, dating back to Shelley’s The Last Man (1826). While this has been reflected in a fairly sustained fashion across the decades – see, e.g. John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids (1951), The Burning World (1965) by J.G. Ballard, and the film The Day After Tomorrow (2004) – there is an argument to suggest that the current global uncertainty about the sustainability of our current rates of emission and arguable abuse of the climate has led to a rise in this type of apocalyptic and dystopian narrative over the past few years. For example, Richard Powers’ The Overstory (2018) seems to posit that our current abuse of natural resources marks our society as dystopian, and that the inevitable climate apocalypse will restore planetary equilibrium without human infection, while The Heavens (2019) by Sandra Newman suggests that however well-meaning, efforts to save the world are essentially doomed to make things worse. This overview of the field is not intended to be exhaustive by any means, but rather represents a broad-strokes illustration of the connection between works of apocalyptic/dystopian fiction and the societal context in which they are produced and consumed. It is with this basic understanding of that interrelationship that the contributions in Broken Mirrors should be understood.

How the Pieces Fit As stated above, the contributors to this volume are scholars whose backgrounds and research interests are rooted in diverse areas of academia (e.g. literature, linguistics, cultural studies, etc.) and a variety of different approaches are applied to shed critical light on the main themes of apocalypse and/or dystopia in Popular Culture. Arranging the chapters to provide a cohesive, possibly synergistic path through the anthology is therefore neither an easy or obvious undertaking. In the discussion of genre distinctions above, it was noted that arrangements and groupings are helpful in some ways, but they can be problematic and limiting. A received order accentuates certain ways of understanding the critical perspectives presented here and downplays others. Nevertheless, in the linear format of this anthology, some structure necessarily emerges, even

Introduction  9 if it based trivially on chronology, alphabetical order or is simply random. In the light of this problem, the organisational principle followed here is one among many: it goes on a scale from humanity in the face of dehumanising situations, through questioning the human itself, to non-human aspects of these narratives and loops around to end with a chapter that frames an apocalypse (in its original sense of ‘revealing’) as potentially positive. In this pathway through the articles, many common themes (e.g. religious, philosophical and ideological, among others) are explored that complement each other and enhance the integrative perspectives put forward here. With this simplified, tourist map of progression through the c­ hapters in mind, it is fitting to begin with a piece that examines Cormac M ­ cCarthy’s masterpiece of apocalyptic fiction, The Road (2006). In Chapter 1, ­Zlatan Filipovic argues that, in spite of its defeat, humanity in McCarthy’s novel is buried alive as a resilience of ethics. Using Agamben’s notion of bare life and Levinas’ writing on the absolute primacy of ethical relation, F ­ ilipovic explores McCarthy’s vision of a humanity backed up against its limit. In a colourless landscape of the novel where all distinctions have been burnt to cinders that cover the Earth as the ubiquitous remainder of their absolute destruction, the topography of what makes us human can yet be traced in the ethical intrigue that, in spite of it all, flickers in the ashes and powers the novel. For McCarthy, as the chapter argues, the call of goodness is the gravity of being whose pull, in the end, remains stronger than its fear of death. In Hopeful Dystopias? Figures of Hope in the Brazilian Science Fiction Series 3%, Michael Godhe asks if there is hope in dystopia. If utopias generate figures of hope, what could we possibly say about dystopias? And is there anything especially relevant in post 9–11 d ­ ystopias? Do they provide us with figures of despair? On the contrary, Godhe claims that dystopias as much as utopia generate figures of hope – ­although hope and despair could be hard to disentangle (Thaler, 2019, p. 2). In exploring these issues, Godhe quotes Tom Moylan, who recently wrote that our contemporary situation is “not yet the worst of times, but things are worse every day” and often described across media platforms as ­dystopian, producing “a resigned anti-utopian pessimism rather than provoking the prophetic awakening of which dystopian narrative is ­capable” (Moylan, 2018). The next instalment in the anthology is Ariel Khan’s Hopeful Hybridities: Transformative Interspecies Relationships in Dystopian and Post-Apocalyptic Visual Narratives. In this article, Kahn asks how the visual grammar of comics might subvert the established tropes of dystopian fiction. Is it possible to suggest new ways of being and seeing from within? In addressing these questions, Kahn uses three epic graphic ­narratives that engage with this question through exploring alternative communities, especially human/animal collaboration or species

10  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri hybridity. All three texts utilise postmodern narrative strategies to explore dystopias as products of late modernity, attempts to close down critical thinking rather than question established ideologies. Via polyphonic perspectives and competing verbal and visual strategies, these narratives empower the reader to reconsider norms of power, identity and the binaries of conventional dystopian narrative closure. In a different take on the way changed and changing forms of the human species can affect our view of humanity, Emelie Jonsson presents Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin: Using Evolution to Explain Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race. This chapter employs evolutionary psychology to explain one of the first novels to portray Darwinian human evolution: Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race (1871). Through both its strengths and weaknesses, The Coming Race illuminates the clash between Darwin’s origin story and the human imagination. Bulwer-Lytton was imagining the future of humanity in a culture awakening to the first metaphysical stings of a fully naturalistic cosmology. If the human species is constantly changing, what does that mean for human morality and social norms? Are the highest social ideals of our imagination more valuable than the qualities we currently recognise as human? Do we have a moral responsibility to shape our species for the future? These questions, though unacknowledged by Bulwer Lytton, become the pressing undercurrent of his novel. For his first readers, the questions had the added stimulus of novelty, but they have not lost their force. Though time has partially closed the cosmological wound opened by Darwin, the wound has never fully healed. The Coming Race provides a vivid picture of what that wound looked like when it was still raw, ragged and open. The anthology shifts in focus from theme-based to culture/­languagebased with two chapters focussed on material from n ­ on-Anglo-American cultures. In Chapter 5, Is this the Futu.re?: Russian Cosmism and the Construction of an Immor(t)al Utopia, Iril Hove Ullestad presents and comments on the dystopian motif in recent Russian literature by using Dmitry Glukhovsky’s 2013 novel Futu.re as framework. She argues that much of what is stirring in this literary field today has roots in a peculiar movement that grew out of the utopian ideas of Russian philosophers Nikolaj Fedorov and Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, presently known as Russian Cosmism. While dormant for many years, it has now reawakened to find itself at the centre of Russian culture. In Russia, labelled The Antiutopia Factory in a 2009 article by Aleksandr Chantsev, dystopian narratives are immensely popular. Throughout this chapter, Hove Ullestad discusses their historical background as well as on their relevance today. With Spanish-language literature as the primary material, Gabriela Mercado looks at so-called ‘narco’ literature in The Mexican Sicario Against the End of the World. Mercado gives us a close-reading of a

Introduction  11 Mexican apocalyptic and narco short-story, Fuego, camina conmigo (Fire, walk with me, 2013) by writer Oscar Luviano. In his story, ­Luviano imagines how two sicarios or hitmen working for a drug cartel in the north of Mexico spend their days before the end of the world. The figure of the sicario is analysed in the midst of the end of the world as it is imagined in Luviano’s short-story. In this, the hypermasculine behaviours of the criminal subject are further exaggerated in fiction by placing them in the realms of the apocalyptic, thus having as a result a sicario defined by insensitivity and a violent demeanour that comes natural to them even when facing the possibility of the total destruction of the planet. By placing such figures within the confines of apocalyptic literature, the hypertrophy of violence resulting from social and economic factors in Mexico is further highlighted and denounced by the author. Additionally, this chapter discusses how the apocalyptic catastrophe is used by the author to put order (at least in fiction) to the chaos stemming from the narco crisis in the nation. In the following chapters, the anthology moves away from a humancentred perspective on the relevant topics/themes/settings to ones which examine landscapes in (post) apocalyptic settings. First, Emma Fraser’s Post-apocalyptic Play: Representations of the End of the City in Video Games explores the post-apocalypse in video games as an extension of popular imaginaries of the end of the world. Fraser uses Fallout 3, a game set in Washington D.C. following a nuclear conflict, as the prime example and a platform for discussion. Moving beyond existing academic analyses around choice and morality in the game, this paper proposes four ruinous frames used in representations of the post-apocalypse to describe what is specific to games in relation to the ruins of the end of the world. Finally, this chapter examines the role of fragmented and non-linear alternative historical timeline, supported by the apocalyptic setting – considering complex critical formations of apocalyptic thought through the symbols of the post-apocalypse in popular media forms. In Chapter 8, The Future in Ruins: The Uses of Derelict Buildings and Monuments in Post-Apocalyptic Film and Literature, Jerry Määttä explores the use of physical ruins, most often those of famous landmarks, in post-apocalyptic storytelling, in order to investigate not only the effect they have on the narratives themselves, but also what these depictions tell us about our modern lives and anxieties, as well as our attitudes to the potential calamities these ruins depict. Further, Määttä points to these depictions having different semiological significance in times of relative peace and prosperity than they do in more fraught ­socio-political climates. Keeping with the non-human focus, but using different academic lenses are the two following chapters. In The Zombie as a Pronoun: What Pronouns Are Used and Why?, Linda Flores Ohlson employs linguistic methods to explore how language is used to encode the non- (or ex-) human.

12  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri Here, we see the current trend of treating the zombie as a metaphor for alienated otherness and it is thus no longer the non-human monster we find in traditional Gothic literature. With this shift, it has become much more difficult to draw the line between us and them, and anyone of us can at any time become one of them. Thus, this contribution to the anthology examines how language helps to create and/or illuminate where the line between human and zombie goes, focussing on the subject- and possessive pronouns in del Toro and Hogan’s trilogy The Strain (2009, 2010, 2011) in comparison with other zombie narratives. In this piece, Flores Ohlsson draws on Yamamoto’s (1999) and Dahl and Fraurud’s (1996) hypotheses about the relationship between Animacy and Reference. Since standard English has two categories of pronouns, the masculine/feminine third-person pronouns (He/She, His/Her) and the neuter third-person pronouns (It, Its), this work sheds light on how these categories are used in order to differentiate between humans and zombies, and to possibly create a process of transformation, i.e. to (de-)humanise the zombie or (de-) zombify the human. Chapter 10, A Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic/Dystopian Texts, also makes use of linguistic methods, but this time with the aid of programmes developed primarily for researching corpora. With a ­tailor-made corpus of 92 texts (nearly 12 million words), Joe Trotta uses several corpus tools to investigate whether a so-called digital, ‘distant reading’ of these works can provide us with insights into the literature that might not have been discovered any other way. Among other things, Trotta looks at the two relevant subgenres, apocalyptic and dystopian, side-by-side in regard to their key semantic domains to see if there is anything appreciably different in their ‘aboutness.’ The study shows that, while many of the results were predictable even without the use of corpus tools, many were not, and that if these methods are handled with caution, they can help support pre-existing ideas about the literature as well as trigger new and unforeseen research questions for the future. The final chapter, Original Sin as Salvation: The Apocalyptic Boon in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials is a return to the beginning of sorts. In it, Houman Sadri applies the concept of ‘apocalypse’ in its original sense as an uncovering of hidden truth; the apocalypse here does not represent an end of everything, but rather is offered as a cure for our dystopian condition. The approach is firmly informed by the work of Joseph Campbell in his framing of the Hero’s Journey, or Monomyth, and the chapter explores the apocalyptic denouement of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy (1995, 1997, 2000), and the idea of Lyra, arguably the novels’ main protagonist, as the new Eve in terms of the ‘Ultimate Boon,’ the eleventh stage of the Monomyth. At the same time, this piece also appraises the concept of Apocalypse itself as this boon writ large, with the transfigurative paradigm shift being pinpointed as something far older in nature than it may initially appear. In achieving

Introduction  13 this objective, it employs close-readings of key sequences of Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, with special emphasis on the final volume, The Amber Spyglass (2000), as well as analysis of the relevant sections of The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949). Attention is also paid to Eve as an archetype, with specific reference both to her Biblical iteration and to the version presented by Milton in Paradise Lost, in order to compare and contrast these disparate, yet similar, incarnations. With this collection of articles, we have strived to forward critical thought about apocalyptic and dystopian themes in popular culture. The studies are presented here as pieces of a whole with the expectation that their different topics, styles and methods form an integrative approach to unpacking these narratives and what they can reveal to us about who we are and where we may be heading. In the end, our fascination with these kinds of tales, though they often can be experienced as bleak in themselves, may stem from a desire for hope and insight into what it means to be human. After all, as works of fiction or parts of fictional worlds, they cannot be inevitable future histories but are rather reflections of the here-and-now that continue to engage us because they are, at one and the same time, provocative, cautionary and ultimately inspirational.

Note 1 For the sake of brevity in this introductory chapter, we shall ignore the fact that there are further sub-categorisations of apocalyptic fiction (basically preapocalyptic and postapocalyptic); unless there is some reason to be more specific in this regard, we are using ‘apocalyptic’ to refer to all these genres/ subgenres collectively. Likewise, when we use the term ‘dystopia’ we are including any possible subgenres.

References Apocalypse. (n.d.), Online Etymology Dictionary. www.etymonline.com/ word/apocalypse. Accessed 13 June 2019. Bastian, F. (1965), “Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year Reconsidered.” The Review of English Studies 16(62), pp. 151–173. Bickerton, D. (2009), Adam’s Tongue, New York: Hill and Wang. Booker, M.K. & Thomas, A.-M. (2009), The Science Fiction Handbook, Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Bull, M. (ed.) (1996), Apocalypse Theory and the Ends of the World, Oxford: Blackwell. Chandler, D. (2017), Semiotics: The Basics (3rd Edition), New York: Routledge. Degabriele, P. (2010), “Intimacy, Survival, and Resistance: Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year.” ELH 77(1), pp. 1–23. Devitt, A.J. (1993), “Generalizing about Genre: New Conceptions of an Old Concept.” College Composition and Communication 44(4), pp. 573–586. Määttä, J. (2015), “Keeping Count of the End of the World: A Statistical Analysis of the Historiography, Canonisation, and Historical Fluctuations of

14  Joe Trotta and Houman Sadri Anglophone Apocalyptic and Post-Apocalyptic Disaster Narratives.” Culture Unbound: Journal of Current Cultural Research 7(3), pp. 411–432. Miller, C.R. (1984), “Genre as Social Action.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 70(2), pp. 151–167. Moylan, T. (2018), “Further Reflections on Being an Utopian in These Times.” Open Library of Humanities 2(4), pp. 1–11. Newman, S. (2010), The Real History of the End of the World, New York: Berkley Books. Pate, C.M. & Haines, C.B. (1995), Doomsday Delusions: What’s Wrong with Predictions about the End of the World, Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Sargent, L.T. (1994), “The Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited”. Utopian Studies, 5(1), 1–37. Thaler, M. (2019), “Bleak Dreams, Not Nightmares: Critical Dystopias and the Necessity of Melancholic Hope.” Constellations, pp. 1–16.

1 A Light That Never Goes Out Bare Life and the Possibility of Ethics in McCarthy’s The Road Zlatan Filipovic

Introduction In Homo Sacer, Agamben (1998) identifies “bare life” as a life deprived of all protection provided by political and constitutional rights. Tracing its genealogy to Roman juridico-political traditions, Agamben notes that bare life of a sacred man (homo sacer) could “be killed but not sacrificed” (p. 133), according to the Roman criminal law. It was thus excluded from “both human and divine law” (Agamben, 1998, p. 73), and it retained its significance only in virtue of its capacity to be killed, its radical exposure to death at the hands of anyone without sanction. Life thus reduced to the mere exposure of its vulnerability is also what, for Agamben, constitutes an irreducible limit point of political existence, a zone of indistinction between zoē, seen as natural or biological life, and bios or the qualified life of the polis. In bare life, there is a ­constant ­elision of the distinction that has qualified political ­existence in the West, “a threshold of indistinction and of passage between animal and man, physis and nomos, exclusion and inclusion… and [of a] c­ ontinuous ­transition between man and beast, nature and culture” (Agamben, 1998, pp.  105, 109). McCarthy’s novel The Road could, in these terms, be seen as a theatre of bare life or the very inscription of zoē in the polis. In a world where all certainties have come apart, where warrants of law and trappings of morality seem to have been unmasked by life’s own m ­ etabolism and where anomie or life has become the law, everyone is homo sacer to everyone else. This is the very departure point for M ­ cCarthy’s dystopian vision that burns to cinders all residues of the polis to reveal life in its brutal sincerity. However, he does not stop there but, in the midst of ashes that cover the Earth and that keep on falling, reminding the reader of the immense legacies of human history that have been rent and incinerated, he plots an intrigue of ethics, a buried infrastructure of ethical relation that constitutes the very meaning of who we are. I­ ndeed, in spite of its apparent defeat, humanity in McCarthy’s novel, I will argue, is buried alive as a resilience of ethics. The Road, considered as an eschatological road that reveals to us the messianic aspects of our humanity, revels them, however, as a movement of immanence, more ancient than the distinction between zoē and bios as the instituting foundation of the polis.

16  Zlatan Filipovic Using Agamben’s notion of bare life and Levinas’ writing on the absolute primacy of ethical relation, I intend to consider the significance of McCarthy’s ontological categories, revealed only when humanity is backed up against its limit, and their transformation into ethical terms as the main intrigue of the novel. The modern paradigm of bare life, for Agamben, is the concentration camp, where there is no longer any distinction between law and life, where anomie is nomos. The breakdown of the social contract this implies and the crisis of the political existence it creates in general could be seen as the conditions that allow McCarthy to consider the implications of extreme materiality that, like a tyrant, reigns absolute when humanity is abandoned to the threshold of its presuppositions. When life is cut back to what appear to be its intrinsic terms, the absolute value seems to be life, yet life that in its perseverance or conatus is pure zoē or life abandoned to death. In these dark, liminal regions of the human landscape that McCarthy persistently seeks out, however, another topography of what makes us human, can yet be traced. It flickers in the ashes along the road to show the way and retains its power to illuminate in virtue of the very darkness that surrounds it. For McCarthy, as we shall see, the call of goodness is the gravity of being whose pull remains stronger than its fear of death. The question of being, far from being the first and final question that concerns me, does not exhaust the meaning of being. Its meaning, as Levinas would say, resides in the justice of my being-for-the-other.1 The meaning of who we are is thus revealed not in the conatus or the vitalism of the Ego to persist that dominates McCarthy’s world but in the emotional unease and ethical vigilance that liberates it from its narrative of auto-affection and to which the Ego is awakened by the extreme exposure of the other whose vulnerability calls its naïve rights in question. “It is in the laying down by the ego of its sovereignty,” says Levinas (1989), “that we find ethics and also probably the very spirituality of the soul, but most certainly the question of the meaning of being, that is, its appeal for justification” (p. 85). This, I will argue, is the will left behind in McCarthy’s intestate world, a light that never goes out; but, to find it, everything first must turn dark.

In the Darkened Underpass As Steven Frye (2013) argues in “Histories, Novels, Ideas: Cormac ­McCarthy and the Art of Philosophy,” McCarthy’s work elicits “the deepest philosophical and religious questions” and although philosophy in McCarthy’s vision is broader and perhaps more fluid than it is conceptualised in an academic context, he has demonstrated a deep interest in Western and non-Western philosophical and theological traditions… and as such he is a ‘philosophical’ novelist in the most profound sense. (pp. 4–5)

A Light That Never Goes Out  17 The Road, in this respect, is perhaps the most philosophically significant work in McCarthy’s oeuvre since it seems to break away not only from his previous regional work, rooted in the Southern Gothic tradition and its ambiguous relation to the complicated layers of southern history, but also from the pastoral elegies of the Western tradition evident in his Border Trilogy that includes All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994) and Cities of the Plain (1998). While both of these traditions are notably characterised by the importance of time and place, The Road opens up a new frontier that seems to look beyond historical and cultural contingencies that determine our realities. Neither time nor place that shadow all our honest attempts to rid the world of its signifiers and establish its certainties on a cocksure axis of metaphysics is indeed integral to McCarthy’s narrative. It is rather the persistent disavowal of their significance that takes on meaning. This, however, is not only due to the ubiquity of the apocalypse and the loss of signification in general that the novel portrays but also to McCarthy’s attempt to reveal the flesh of the world, the charismatic inside of signification that is no longer situated by temporal contingencies or articulated by productive spatialities. This is a posthistorical frontier, “[t]here is no past,” this is “later,” as McCarthy’s austere prose reveals, with “no lists of things to be done” that chime the passing of our days. “The day [is] providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later” (McCarthy, 2006, pp. 55, 56). Timeless, history has become brutally emptied of its legacies with nothing to bequeath apart from the convulsions left in the wake of its horrors. “The clocks stopped at 1:17,” as the narrator parsimoniously imparts. “A long sheer of light and then a series of low concussions… A dull rose glow in the windowglass” (p. 54). No further account of the apocalypse is provided and no attempt is made in the novel to reveal its causes. Causality is, indeed, futile when there is only “later.” Nothing can be learned from it to avert another disaster since there can be no other. McCarthy establishes thus an irremissible, physical world early on that is without beginnings in which to find a sentimental refuge or which to idealise and reappropriate as a mythogenic fantasy of new existential projects. What the apocalypse reveals rather is the frailty of all projects, the impossibility of the polis to keep zoē at bay and the fantasies of all categories and structural hierarchies that articulate our social relations: “The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time” or, in fact, “no time at all.” (p. 28) In the “everness” that remains, history can thus no longer be considered as the constitutive aspect that arbitrates judgement and robs us of our

18  Zlatan Filipovic epistemological certainties. McCarthy abrogates time in the novel in order to look beyond its relativising aspects and its particularisms. The same could be said about the anonymity of the place that remains unavowed throughout the narrative, carrying only the full weight of the blast that cauterised everything that could be used to identify it: they [father and son] stood and looked out over the great gulf to the south where the country as far as they could see was burned away, the blackened shapes of rock standing out of the shoals of ash and billows of ash rising up and blowing downcountry through the waste. The track of the dull sun moving unseen beyond the murk. (p. 13) The significance of the place, along with the accumulated landmarks of its heritage and the assignations of identity it often articulates, have all been suspended and the place seems to have receded back to assume the oppressive foreignness and objective veritability of a landscape, refusing any attribution. However, this is not only a dislocation or disruption of place, a spatial discontinuity that, as Doreen Massey (1994) argues in Space, Place and Gender, characterises our times, giving traction to sentimentalised obsessions with once supposedly homogenous space and reactivating a desire for its reappropriation (p. 147). 2 This is rather a total dislocation that displaces the very notion of place, of localised spatialities and their distinct topologies. A “feverland,” recolonised by placeless “shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants” (McCarthy, 2006, p. 28), except that there is no place or border to welcome or turn them away. The entire place has become a border, “peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing… sitting in their rags by the side of the road” (p. 28). The distinctions between the refugee and the citizen, between inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion have thus all been seared away along with the notion of place upon which they rest. This atomic tightening of the world in temporal and spatial terms, “[t]he world shrinking down,” as the narrator observes, “about a raw core of parsible entities” (p. 93), is, by the same token, the opening up of the world to the absolute conditions of its possibility. Analogous to the phenomenological or eidetic reduction, McCarthy’s extreme economy burns away the world to the limit point of its constituents in order to enable its presuppositions to emerge. When the world finally quivers like a taut skin, what still sustains it is what constitutes the material conditions of its possibility. Considered in these terms, The Road is not just a road, leading father and son through the shredded fragments of our realities towards the ocean, where life, indeed, may find its origins yet again, but an artery of humanity that reveals what is required for its heart to beat. It is the concrete, foundational road of metaphysics. McCarthy is thus mapping out the absolute constituents of humanity,

A Light That Never Goes Out  19 whose materiality precedes our historically and culturally contingent experience of the world. By the same token, the subject in the novel is also attenuated and tied back to the anonymity of its material conditions of existence, to the traumas and vitalisms of the body alone. Without history or place, the subject is thus emptied of its regimes of reference and desubjectivised. No longer situated or attached to its identity categories, it is abandoned on the moving threshold between zoē and bios. The subject itself, one could say, recedes to the banality of existence, its coincidence with its own mortality manifested in the daily pain of the flesh constantly seeking relief: He thought there had to be something overlooked but there wasnt. They kicked through the trash in the aisles of a foodmarket. Old packaging and papers and the eternal ash. He scoured the shelves looking for vitamins. He opened the door of a walk-in cooler but the sour rank smell of the dead washed out of the darkness and he quickly closed it again. They stood in the street. He looked at the gray sky. Faint plume of their breath. The boy was exhausted. He took him by the hand. We have to look some more, he said. We have to keep looking. (McCarthy, 2006, p. 84) In McCarthy’s post-discursive world, there is thus nothing any longer to tether subjectivity, apart from what is left when everything has been stripped away, which is to say, bare life. With ruthless sincerity, the qualified existence of the political order or bios that Agamben (1998) has identified as the privileged category of life in the Western tradition has been reduced to precisely that which this life excludes in order to constitute itself as political existence. The Road articulates, in other words, what Agamben (1998) posits as the new political paradigm or the fact that “today there is no longer any one clear figure of the sacred man… because we are all virtually homines sacri” (p. 115), potentially deprived of our constitutional rights and abandoned naked outside the polis. What “characterizes modern politics,” Agamben argues, apart from “the inclusion of zoē in the polis,” is the decisive fact that… the realm of bare life – which is originally situated at the margins of the political order – gradually begins to coincide with the political realm, and exclusion and inclusion, outside and inside, bios and zoē, right and fact, enter into a zone of irreducible indistinction. (p. 9) McCarthy’s narrative itself constitutes this “zone of indistinction,” making its significance and its terrifying implications explicit. When “fact”

20  Zlatan Filipovic becomes “right” or rather when anomie or life coincides with the law, the state of exception becomes the rule and it is no longer possible to distinguish whether a state of law or total anomie prevails. This also implies a complete breakdown in the normative terrain of regulatory structures and regimes that participate in subject formation and legislate for social and political existence. Life is finally loose, one could say, liberated from its social constrains and sincere in its necessities, its insistence and its arrogative demands, but McCarthy also reveals the implications of life’s liberation and, by the same token, unmasks any misplaced romanticisations regarding its disavowal in the polis: [There] were signs [along the road] in gypsy language, lost patterans… common in the north, leading out of the looted and exhausted cities, hopeless messages to loved ones lost and dead. By then all stores of food had given out and murder was everywhere upon the land. The world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anonymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell… Out on the roads the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond. (pp. 192–193) The pilgrims, representing the pioneers forging the possibility of a new dawn with extinct ideals, all crash on the granite shores of truth and the sincerity of a new existence that abides by the vital dictates of conatus alone. Having encountered a band of marauders along the road with one of them in close range, “[e]yes collared in cups of grime and deeply sunk… [l]ike an animal inside a skull looking out the eyeholes” (p. 65), the father finds himself face to face with this new and yet ancient form of life buried alive under the heavy crust of history and progress that has now cracked: This was the first human being other than the boy that he’d spoken to in more than a year. My brother at last. The reptilian calculations in those cold and shifting eyes. The gray and rotting teeth. Claggy with human flesh. Who has made of the world a lie every word. (p. 79) The lie or fiction of the qualified existence in the polis that used to be the world, the myth of “brotherhood,” of fraternity that used to tether its disparate parts, is here exposed by the sheer force of life itself, life

A Light That Never Goes Out  21 liberated from the trappings of all abstraction and let loose upon the world that did it in. However, McCarthy’s narrative is a caveat rather than a Nietzschean affirmation of life’s continuous will to power. The “reptilian calculations” (p. 79) and the economy of survival to which all our concerns have been reduced abrogate the possibility of anything other but the state of war that Levinas (1969) relates to “the experience of pure being” (p. 21) and the sincerity or materiality of liberated life I have developed above. He refers to it as “the very patency, or the truth, of the real.” War, Levinas explains, does not only affect it [being] as the most patent fact, but as the very patency, or the truth, of the real. In war reality rends the words and images that dissimulate it, to obtrude in its nudity and in its harshness. Harsh reality… harsh object-lesson, at the very moment of its fulguration when the drapings of illusion burn war is produced as the pure experience of pure being. The ontological event that takes form in this black light is a casting into movement of beings hitherto anchored in their identity, a mobilization of absolutes, by an objective order from which there is no escape. The trial by force is the test of the real. (p. 21) The sincerity of existence or “pure being” that manifests itself in war as the ontological condition where my anxiety or concern for my own being is no longer obfuscated by its dissimulations in rights and concessions that constitute the politics of my being, its existence in the polis as qualified life or bios, is what The Road gradually reveals as we follow the course of its narrative turns. In McCarthy’s novel the state of pure being or war is total and nothing exterior to it has any field for disclosure. The Road is the road en route to pure being of liberated life and the hell it signifies. As the father and son come upon a “thin stem of smoke” in the woods by the road, they “smell something cooking…” They walked into the little clearing, the boy clutching his hand. They’d taken everything with them except whatever black thing was skewered over the coals. He was standing there checking the perimeter when the boy turned and buried his face against him. He looked quickly to see what had happened. What is it? he said. What is it? The boy shook his head. Oh Papa, he said. He turned and looked again. What the boy had seen was a charred human infant headless and gutted and blackening on the spit. He bent and picked the boy up and started for the road with him, holding him close. I’m sorry, he whispered. I’m sorry. He didnt know if he’d ever speak again. (McCarthy, 2006, pp. 211–212)

22  Zlatan Filipovic McCarthy does not only expose life to absolute violence in a total act of revolution that constitutes his narrative, but violence appears to be the exposure of life itself, the negative foundation and the threshold against which the polis can emerge. Indeed, Agamben’s notions of the sovereign who can suspend the state of law – and is thus by law outside the law – and of the homo sacer, as “the one with respect to whom all men act as sovereigns” (Agamben, 1998, p. 84) as two symmetrical figures, each on the extreme end of the polis respectively, are both combined to represent everyman of McCarthy’s world. Since McCarthy’s narrative takes place only on the thresholds or the extremes of the polis, against which the polis can constitute itself, everyone is sovereign and sacred to everyone else. Everyone exposes/d (to) everyone. However, this exposure of life to and as violence that The Road reveals as absolutely ancient and inherent to life, as the experience of its pure being, is also what consummately destroys it. Violence of war as the epiphany of life, the revelation of its most primitive or authentic terms in which all relations are reduced to the sincerity of my fear of death as that which ends all my possibilities, and which Levinas (1969) associates with the ontology and the history of Western thought, 3 “does not consist” only “in injuring and annihilating persons,” as he further explains, as in interrupting their continuity, making them play roles in which they no longer recognize themselves, making them betray not only commitments but, their own substance, making them carry out actions that will destroy every possibility for action… every war employs arms that turn against those who wield them. It establishes an order from which no one can keep his distance; nothing henceforth is exterior. War does not manifest exteriority and the other as other; it destroys the identity of the same. (p. 21) Humanity, for Levinas, is, in fact, betrayed by the very authenticity of existence concerned with its own being alone, which he sees as an objective order that makes us desert our “own substance” and “play roles” in which our identity is alienated from us, while the husks we become are made to comply with an order of totality from which alone our meaning and justification derive. What is at stake in Levinas’ writing and in McCarthy’s novel, however, is whether there is something even more ancient than conatus that constitutes the limits of our humanity. “Although McCarthy can be called a writer of Westerns,” as Timothy Parrish (2013) argues in his consideration of McCarthy’s insistence on the “big questions,” despite the regionalist concerns and the veritability of the American landscape prevalent in his oeuvre, “his work confronts the essential questions that emerge from having been born human, questions

A Light That Never Goes Out  23 of the utmost philosophical and theological importance, and does so in prose language that aspires to the status of poetry” (p. 67). Indeed, language itself uses absolute economy to articulate its object in the novel. McCarthy’s prose mirrors the reductive challenges of his metaphysics and drains away with it. Nothing is decorative, as decoration is not only useless and inoperative in this world but also dissimulating in relation to bare life as the “raw core” (p. 93) of human experience McCarthy is trying to map out. Analogous to the fidelities of good poetic expression, form is thus constitutive of meaning, revealing the content of his narrative enquiry. Punctuation is reduced and sentences truncated to become the skin of the world and of the experience they intend to manifest: [T]hey sat there in silence with their hands outheld to the flames. He [the father] tried to think of something to say but he could not. He’d had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the name of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever. (McCarthy, 2006, p. 93) Rigours of the human condition are thus also manifested formally in the novel and only the punctuation required for the tenor of meaning to emerge is used by McCarthy. All negative contractions such as “shouldnt” (p. 27), “dont” (p. 105), “doesnt” (p. 120), “didnt” (p. 121), “wouldnt” (p. 136), “wasnt” (p. 137) “couldnt” (p. 141) or “havent” (p. 150), to consider a few, are thus left unindicated throughout the narrative. Language is further seen as constitutive of the world, rather than merely representing its objective revolutions. It is only in language that the world can be disclosed; the fact that becomes obtrusive, as the narrator suggests, only in the world’s falling apart. As the names of things vanish, “colors,” “birds,” “[t]hings to eat” as well as the abstractions and intimate maxims of one’s own convictions, their referents can no longer persist but themselves recede, “[i]n time to wink out forever” (p.  93). When naming that confers reality on the object through the binaries of difference it introduces falls into disuse, the object itself is attenuated and sinks back into the indiscriminate mereness of its existence, dispossessed of any meaning. Signification, which valorises the world, discloses its difference and its radical historicity, is what slowly drains away from the world, leaving its articulation possible only in elegies, dreams

24  Zlatan Filipovic and fires of loss that have no traction or relation to the dragging residues of the present but, rather, appear “alien” and irreconcilable with it: He turned and looked at the boy. Maybe he understood for the first time that to the boy he was himself an alien. A being from a planet that no longer existed. The tales of which were suspect. He could not construct for the child’s pleasure the world he’d lost without constructing the loss as well and he thought perhaps the child had known this better than he. He tried to remember the dream but he could not. All that was left was the feeling of it. He thought perhaps they’d come to warn him. Of what? That he could not enkindle in the heart of the child what was ashes in his own. Even now some part of him wished they’d never found this refuge. Some part of him always wished it to be over. (p. 163) This is also why narration, memory and dreams are so significant for the boy’s father. Waking up amidst a forest fire “that moved something in him long forgotten,” the imperatives of his existence are made clear: “Make a list. Recite a litany. Remember” (p. 31). Memories sheltered in the metaphoric shrouds of dreams and narration are in this case seen as a resistance to the implacable orders of the present, a vestige of meaning before its demise. However, they also appear as sworn enemies of life itself, the “siren worlds” the boy’s father “was learning how to wake himself from” (p. 17), since they provide a semblance of a refuge from the force of life now fully liberated and its cold and unflagging advance that no “sacred idiom[s]” (p. 93) can hold back. As the boy awakes “scared” from a nightmare, [t]he man [his father] held him. Listen to me, he said. What. When your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up. Do you understand? And you cant give up. I wont let you. (p. 202) Finding any meaning in the catastrophe of the world, any justification or theodicy that would explain its falling apart would itself be a “call of languor and of death” (p. 17), a call to accept the unacceptable veracities of its horrors and abide by them by surviving. Contrary to the father’s caveat, to survive in this world is to give up. Only insofar as there is irreconcilability, in other words, the fact that one cannot suffer the truth, or, yet again, the fact that there are values higher that the truth, the fact that ethics precedes knowledge and epistemology, or, in Levinas’ terms, the fact that “ethics [i]s first philosophy” (Levinas, 1989, p. 75), is there resistance. The father may not be able to assume the contradictions bare

A Light That Never Goes Out  25 life opens up and may be ready to succumb to the irremissible demands of its necessities, but the boy, “carrying the fire” (McCarthy, 2006, pp. 87, 136, 298) to light up the thresholds against which our humanity can emerge, may be the one in whom this irreconcilability or the resistance of ethics – the light that never goes out – assumes the symbolic depth of its significance. It is, indeed, the boy, as he himself suggests, who has “to watch” over his father “all the time” (p. 35), rather than the opposite, in order to save him from the imperatives of the present and re-establish his humanity within an order of ethical difference: “You’re not the one who has to worry about everything. The boy said… but he [the father] couldnt understand him. What?… He looked up, his wet and grimy face. Yes I am, he said. I am the one” (p. 277). The symbolic investment in the boy as the one who carries the fire that the father on his deathbed assures him is “inside” him, “[i]t was always there. I can see it” (p. 298), is made by McCarthy in stark contrast and in proportion to what Linda Woodson (2013), in “McCarthy’s Heroes and the Will to Truth,” following Foucault, refers to as “‘the will to truth’” (p. 16) that dominates McCarthy’s narrative explorations of our ontological constituencies in the novel. The metaphysical “search for an a priori truth” or a prediscursive meaning that zoē or “nature… [as] the source of discourse” supposedly withholds and that “discourse conveys” (Woodson, 2013, p. 16) is one of the primary alibis for the horrors McCarthy attaches to human existence. When the “absolute truth of the world” (McCarthy, 2006, p. 139) stabs the boy’s father “for a brief moment,” it is revealed only as a vacant epiphany, powerless to change or do anything but make our solitude more profound. As he “walk[s] out in the grey light” from one of the houses they were scavenging for nutrition, with a “corpse floating” (p. 138) in the basement, the final arbitrariness of all our endeavours crawls up bare from its otherwise hidden depths, and the metaphor of vulnerability associated with bare life and its infinite exposure to hurt is what alone remains as an attestation of our humanity: He walked out in the grey light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it. (p. 138) However, it is only in view of these dark thresholds against which humanity is backed up tight that its light can be traced, even when at its most indiscernible. The more “implacable” the darkness, the more

26  Zlatan Filipovic potent – and, yet, infinitely more precarious – the symbolic significance of the “fire” the boy carries within (p. 298). McCarthy’s strategy to establish a metaphysics beyond the contingencies of difference that would qualify it represents, however, only the mise-en-scène of his ontological enquiries in the novel. The black pit of liberated life, this darkened underpass of existence to which humanity is abandoned by the imperatives of the conatus that seemingly provides the foundationalist narrative of our precarious lives is only the dystopian foil for a more ancient difference to emerge, one that is more originary than the zoē/bios distinction that founds our political existence. This difference cannot be found in being and its perseverance alone, but has to be sought in its compassion.

There’s a Light That Never Goes Out Now that “[e]verything [is] uncoupled from its shoring,” as the father’s resigned speculation indicates, “the ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void… [u]nsupported in the ashen air” (McCarthy, 2006, p. 11), and the “blackness” abides “sightless and impenetrable” (p. 14), the ontological constituents of our existence can emerge unobscured by its contingencies. If the father represents the zoē/bios distinction that introduces the political order, or rather its residues that linger on metaphorically as “the ashes” and seared memories of “the late world,” the boy decidedly does not. What is significant in this respect is the fact that the boy is born after the catastrophe and its burning winds that have shorn the world of its structures and its “sacred idiom[s]” (p. 93), which, by the same token, enables McCarthy to root ethical difference the boy’s fire symbolically represents in immanence that precedes its discursive articulations in the polis. The boy’s fire is internal and prior to what is revealed as the trappings of the social contract. In other words, McCarthy inscribes ethics as a possibility in bare life itself. Prior to subject formation and its normative regimes in the polis, prior to political difference of zoē and bios, prior to a citizen and to a demos, there is an ethical rather than an ontological relation that for McCarthy displaces the fiat of conatus. The tyranny of being and the despotism of its arrogations encounter their absolute transcendence in the boy whose charity of being or being-for-the-other, in Levinas´s terms,4 is often represented as exorbitant in the course of the narrative, as naïve and unreasonable, when considered in relation to the exigency and the corporeality of the present. Having come upon a well-stocked but unused shelter underground with all “[t]he richness of a vanished world” (McCarthy, 2006, p. 147) still untapped, the boy, although starved, still questions his father’s prerogatives to take it all in order to assuage the persistent threat of hunger that shadows all their endeavours throughout the narrative. It is the fact that the owners have

A Light That Never Goes Out  27 long since departed that makes the boy’s reluctance defy the pragmatics of Reason: Why is this here? the boy said… It’s here because someone thought it might be needed. But they didnt get to use it… They died… Is it okay for us to take it? Yes. It is, the father replies, [t]hey would want us to. Just like we would want them to. They were the good guys? Yes. They were. Like us. Like us. Yes. So it’s okay. Yes. It’s okay. (p. 148) However, the boy’s disinclinations are not allayed until he has finally expressed his gratitude to the people presumably long gone: “Are you all right?” the father asks, I dont know… What is it? Do you think we should thank the people? The people? The people who gave us all this. Well. Yes, I guess we could do that… The boy sat staring at his plate. He seemed lost. The man was about to speak when he said: Dear people, thank you for all this food and stuff. We know that you saved it for yourself and if you were here we wouldnt eat it no matter how hungry we were and we’re sorry that you didnt get to eat it and we hope that you’re safe in heaven with God. (p. 154) The boy’s extravagance, in this case, represented by the gratuitous guilt his grace implies, derives from “mauvaise conscience,” in Levinas’ terms, or bad conscience, that is prior to intentionality and knowledge, prior to and incommensurable with Reason and its economy, “a profound utopia” (Levinas, 2000, p. 145), but one that we already occupy. Mauvaise conscience, Levinas (2000) writes, or consciousness that is not wilful, “draws [the Ego] back from its affirmation… [to] bad conscience or timidity [that is] guiltless, but accused; and responsible for its very presence,” for “occupying someone’s place in the Da of my Dasein [which is to say, in my very existence or my being-in-the-world]; [it is thus] an incapacity to have a place, a profound utopia (pp. 143, 145).” Mauvaise conscience that inspires the boy’s gratuitous – and, thus, i­rrational – sense of gratitude comes from the other alone who puts my possession of the world in question, calling me to justify myself and my right to be. The boy’s grace is thus the epiphany of a relation to an order more ancient than the conatus. It is, indeed, conatus and the spontaneity of the Ego, “affirmed,” as Levinas (2000) argues, “in intentional thought, knowledge and control of the now [main-tenant]” (p. 144), that are here placed in question by a consciousness that feels indebtedness before it asserts its rights. This originary passivity of the Ego, the Ego always already in “the accusative,” indebted to the other without any possibility

28  Zlatan Filipovic of expiation, signifies a rupture in the order of conatus McCarthy has established as an ontological constant in the novel.5 The hesitancy the boy feels but cannot immediately articulate originates thus in a responsibility for the other that predates our efforts to be, responsibility as the primordial upsurge of the Other in the Ego for whom I am responsible beyond my death, an in-finite responsibility for the other’s hunger before my own: “if you were here we wouldnt eat… no matter how hungry we were” (McCarthy, 2006, p. 154). The exorbitance of this responsibility that defies the economy of Reason – its circle of investments and ­returns  – and that lights up the road for the boy’s father against the fringe of darkness, inching ever closer to envelop his crumbling faith, comes from the time prior to the polis that qualifies it in formalised distribution of rights.6 Its significance is thus truly epiphanic, otherworldly or holy, exceeding both the conditional, discursive regimes of the ­polis and the unconditional, ontological imperatives left in the wake of its destruction. This is why the boy, as the father early declares, is the sole “warrant,” the only assurance left, now that the world has been shorn of all its routine convictions: “He [the father] knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke” (p. 3). The boy’s presence, in other words, is an attestation to an irreconcilable order that transcends the world and that opens its imperatives to a concern that exceeds the question of being which dominates it. The boy is the trace of the holy or the messianic this world cannot accommodate without the transformation of its own ontological limits, a “profound utopia” (Levinas, 2000, p. 145) and a radical outside that is inside the world. In the open terrain of forces where the very existence of life is predicated on destruction, the boy’s appeals of charity are not acts of mercy that can only come from power that grants it, but appeals coming from absolute destitution, bare life exposed to power or, following Agamben’s more precise terminology, to sovereignty as “the point of indistinction between violence and law, the threshold on which violence passes over into law and law passes over into violence” (Agamben, 1998, p. 32). This threshold on which bare life and sovereignty are coextensive and without discontinuity, where everyone is bare life and everyone is sovereign to everyone, constitutes the pith of McCarthy’s novel. Generosity of ­being before being, that is to say, its ethics, however, that the boy’s excesses represent, is a prophetic resource that disrupts McCarthy’s ontological investments and inscribes charity in absolute exposure. Bare life is both a life that has nothing to give and is thus the only life that can give. This is made explicit when the boy and his father discover that their last provisions, “their blankets,” “the waterbottle,” “their shoes” (­McCarthy, 2006, p. 271), were all taken by a ragged, emaciated “outcast from one of the communes” with “the fingers of his right hand… cut away… [a] sort of fleshy spatula” (p. 273), suggesting that he was

A Light That Never Goes Out  29 caught stealing before. Having caught up with him on the road, the ­father makes him strip down naked, taking “his stinking rags,” “every goddamned stitch” (p. 274), including “the rotting pieces of leather laced to his feet” (p. 275). The thief was left in the road, “raw and naked, filthy and starving… [c]overing himself with his hand… already shivering,” pleading with the father to listen to the boy’s desperate supplications not to kill him, that he was “starving,” that he would “have done the same” (p. 275). As they left, the boy kept “looking back at the nude and slatlike creature standing there in the road shivering and hugging himself” (p. 276). He could not see any inherent reason for his father’s unforgiving persistence. To provide reasons for another’s suffering, irrespectively of how compelling, is to excuse it, but the suffering of the other cannot be justified in good conscience; it is inexcusable, unmartyred, my fault alone: Oh Papa, he sobbed. Stop it. I cant stop it. What do you think would have happened to us if we hadnt caught him? Just stop it… There was no place for him [the thief] to go. The boy kept looking back and when he could no longer see him he stopped and then he just sat down in the road sobbing… What do you want to do? Just help him, Papa. Just help him. The man looked back up the road. He was just hungry, Papa. He’s going to die. He’s going to die anyway. He’s so scared, Papa. The man squatted and looked at him. I’m scared, he said. Do you understand? I’m scared. The boy didnt answer. He just sat there with his head bowed, sobbing. You’re not the one who has to worry about everything. The boy said something but he couldnt understand him. What? he said. He looked up, his wet and grimy face. Yes I am, he said. I am the one. (pp. 276–277) The boy’s responsibility for the frailty of the stranger beyond any judgement of his intentions breaks the circle of economy that dominates our relations with the other in ontological terms and contests every inch of the novel’s established narrative. The Ego in such a relation is in permanent deficit, obliged to give in dis-interest, without restitution and beyond itself. At the same time, this opens McCarthy’s world to a relation it does not contain, makes the world contain more than its capacity, more than can be testified to by the established hegemonies of its present. The fact that the boy has no inherent allegiances to the world still lodged in the emotional fringes of his father’s memory also suggests that his responsibility cannot be a residue of defunct moral orthodoxies and social taboos produced by normativising knowledges and structures. The boy, in other words, is an attestation to an ethical order that cannot be discursively derived but is, for McCarthy, lodged as the possibility of sacrifice in bare life itself. This is the fire that sustains McCarthy’s

30  Zlatan Filipovic project, an irrecusable presence of goodness, a light that never goes out. This goodness may appear naïve, “a childish virtue,” as Levinas (2000) suggests, but it is one in which all we are “bursts forth:” Goodness, a childish virtue; but already charity and mercy and responsibility for the other, and already the possibility of sacrifice in which the humanity of man bursts forth, disrupting the general economy of the real and standing in sharp contrast with the perseverance of entities persisting in their being; for a condition in which the other comes before oneself. (p. 157) As Pierre Lagayette (2013) suggests, The Road “tells the story of two human beings trying to adjust to an environment from which all the usual markers – geographical, temporal, and social – have been erased (p. 89),” but its “prime concern,” I argue, is not “survival” (p. 84) or ­perseverance in being. It is rather the possibility of ethics that displaces the drama of the Ego and reveals the resources of sacrifice beneath its steel plate pragmatism. These resources cannot be derived from the polis but are, nevertheless, immanent to it, “a religious breath,” Levinas (2000) calls them, “or a prophetic spirit in man (p. 203),” represented in the novel by the boy’s appeals beyond being and its ontological ­contraction of humanity. The boy is the sole “warrant” (­McCarthy, 2006, p. 203) because, for him, humanity is revealed only when placed outside its ontological limits, in the constituencies of grace and the possibilities of ethics. When the boy’s father finally succumbs to his long-lasting ­illness after having reached the shore and the boy is taken in by one of the communes, the woman who patiently greets him assures him that this same breath, “the breath of God was his [father’s] breath yet though it pass from man to man through all of time” (­McCarthy, 2006, p. 306). If there is a chance for holiness without glorification, it resides neither in freedom nor in rationality but in subjection to the v­ ulnerability of others. This holiness, for McCarthy, is eminently ­human. It is all we are.

Notes 1 In “Ethics as First Philosophy,” Levinas (1989) enquires into the prerogatives of ontology that privileges the anxiety of my being for my own perseverance in being and refers back to “mauvaise conscience,” as the originary passivity of non-intentional consciousness exposed to a concern for the finitude of the other. “The human is the return to the interiority of non-intentional consciousness, to mauvaise conscience,” he writes, and “to its capacity to fear injustice more than death, to prefer to suffer than to commit injustice, and to prefer that which justifies being over that which assures it” (p. 85).

A Light That Never Goes Out  31 2 In her deconstruction of place as the privileged object of desire, Massey proposes a new, “progressive” topography of place that is no longer associated with “fixity,” “rootedness” and “a source of unproblematical identity.” When “time-space compression” of globalisation is discussed, she explains, many of those who write about… [it] emphasize the insecurity and unsettling impact of its effects, the feeling of vulnerability which it can ­produce. So the search after the ‘real’ meanings of places, the unearthing of heritages… is interpreted as being, in part, a response to desire for fixity and for security of identity. (p. 151) However, for Massey, place “is absolutely not static.” Nor does it have boundaries “in the sense of divisions which frame simple enclosures.” Place is rather defined “through the particularity of linkage to [its] ‘outside.’” No identity can be derived from place since they do not have “single, unique ‘identities’” but “are full of internal conflicts” (p. 155). A sense of place, “an understanding of ‘its character,’” Massey claims, “can only be constructed by linking that place to places beyond” (p. 156). 3 “The visage of being that shows itself in war is fixed in the concept of ­totality, which dominates Western philosophy” (Levinas, 1969, p. 21). 4 When discussing the phenomenology of love in Totality and Infinity, “­being-for-the-other,” Levinas (1969) explains, cannot be seen as “a relation between concepts… or the conception of a concept by an I, but [as] my goodness. The fact that in existing for another I exist otherwise than in existing for me is morality itself” (p. 261, emphasis added). Being-forthe-other from which ethical relation derives is, for Levinas, the originary or primary relation that constitutes my existence before my being becomes a concern for myself – an ontological concern that could be said to legislate for all relations in McCarthy’s world. The other, as exteriority, provides an escape from myself, which is to say that transcendence, ontology cannot conceive of, is signified by my being-for-the-other or by an ethical relation alone. “Transcendence as such,” as Levinas writes, “is ‘conscience.’ Conscience accomplishes metaphysics, if metaphysics consists in transcending” (p. 261). My responsibility for the Other’s death, in other words, for their precarious existence and their vulnerability, is my transcendence. 5 “Prereflexive, nonintentional consciousness,” or mauvaise conscience, which I have associated with the boy in McCarthy’s narrative, is, for L ­ evinas, declined from the start. It is “passivity from the start,” he writes, “and the accusative is in a sense its ‘first case’” (Levinas, 2000, p. 144). 6 It is in the polis that justice, as a formalised concession of rights, appears. For Levinas (2000), it emerges with the third who “is also my other, my fellow. Hence, it is important… to know,” he continues, which of the two takes precedence. Is the one not the persecutor of the other? Must not human beings, who are incomparable, be compared? Thus justice, here [in the polis, in our terms] takes precedence over the taking upon oneself of the fate of the other. I must judge, where before I was to assume responsibilities. Here is the birth of the theoretical; here the concern for justice is born, which is the basis of the theoretical. But it is always… from the responsibility for the other that justice appears, which calls for judgment and comparison, a comparison of what is in principle incomparable, for every being is unique; every other is unique. At a certain moment, there is a necessity for a ‘weighing,’ a comparison, a pondering.

32  Zlatan Filipovic but this necessity can only emerge “from the depths of that initial charity” (p. 104, emphasis added). This establishes charity of being, the “initial charity,” as the foundation and immanence of justice, in a time prior to beingin-the-world, prior to the Da of my Dasein, or, which amounts to the same thing, in metaphysics.

References Agamben, G. (1998), Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (trans. D. Heller-Roazen), Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Frye, S. (2013), “Histories, Novels, Ideas: Cormac McCarthy and the Art of ­Philosophy,” in S. Frye (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cormac ­McCarthy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 3–12. Lagayette, P. (2013), “The Border Trilogy, The Road, and the Cold War,” in S. Frye (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cormac McCarthy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 79–92. Levinas, E. (1969), Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority (trans. A. Lingis), Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press. Levinas, E. (1989), The Levinas Reader (ed. S. Hand), Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Levinas, E. (2000), Entre Nous (trans. M.B. Smith & B. Harshav), New York: Columbia University Press. Massey, D. (1994), Space, Place and Gender, Cambridge: Polity. McCarthy, C. (2006), The Road, London: Picador. Parrish, T. (2013), “History and the Problem of Evil in McCarthy’s Western Novels,” in S. Frye (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cormac McCarthy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 67–79. Woodson, L. (2013), “McCarthy’s Heroes and the Will to Truth,” in S. Frye (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cormac McCarthy, Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press, pp. 15–27.

2 Hopeful Dystopias? Figures of Hope in the Brazilian Science Fiction Series 3% Michael Godhe

Introduction Is there hope in dystopia? If utopias generate figures of hope (cf. Moylan, 1986, p. 1–2), what could we possibly say about dystopias? And especially dystopias post-9/11? Do they generate figures of despair? On the contrary, I would say that dystopias as much as utopias generate figures of hope – although hope and despair could be hard to disentangle (Thaler, 2019, p. 2). Tom Moylan (2018) recently wrote that our contemporary situation is “not yet the worst of times, but things are worse every day” and is often described across media platforms as dystopian, producing “a resigned anti-utopian pessimism rather than provoking the prophetic awakening of which dystopian narrative is capable” (p. 2). Utopia and utopian thought are “the expression of desire for a better way of living and of being,” according to Ruth Levitas (2013, p. 4), echoing Ernst Bloch. While utopian thought is a necessary part of the imaginary reconstitution of society, dystopias are demanding and ask us to consider taking action in order to avoid futures that are not desirable (Claisse & Delvenne, 2015). For Moylan (2018), dystopias today are not necessarily anti-utopian: “It’s time to choose to work from the standpoint of militant, utopian pessimism that is expressed in critical dystopian narratives” (p. 3). In many ways, dystopia is the flip side of the utopian coin, since dystopian works contain utopian impulses and vice versa. In this chapter, I discuss and analyse the Brazilian dystopian television series 3% (Season 1, 2016; Season 2, 2018). It is set in an unspecified future, where three percent of the population are living in abundance in the utopian ‘Offshore’ society, while the remaining part live in scarcity in the ‘Inland.’ Once a year, every 20-year-old citizen, regardless of gender, ethnicity or (dis)ability, has their one and only opportunity to advance to the Offshore society. Only three percent of the 20-year-old citizens are chosen, through a number of complicated tests called ‘the Process.’ While utopian in its disregard of gender, race and (dis)ability, the series poses a bleak view of the future, where the opportunity for a life without scarcity in the end lies in the hope of succeeding at the Process and becoming part of the selected three percent.

34  Michael Godhe In many utopian and dystopian studies, the concept of hope is used with a multitude of meanings, both secular and religious. It is a malleable concept, and I use it as an analytic tool in this chapter. Hope is not a “definitive” concept but rather a “sensitizing concept” with a flexibility depending on the empirical context (Blumer, 1954, p. 7). In the next section, I discuss dystopia as anticipatory and contemporary knowledge. Drawing on scholars such as Ernst Bloch, Mark Fisher, Ruth Levitas, Frédéric Claisse and Pierre Delvenne, and the interdisciplinary field of Critical Future Studies (CFS), I will subsequently discuss and analyse different figures of hope in the series, starting with the obvious (hegemonic) hope of being selected among the three percent. Through the different characters in the series, hope is expressed by individual actions and protests, as well as collective efforts for undermining the system. Dystopian and post-apocalyptic films such as Children of Men (2006) and Elysium (2013) represent hope in different ways, especially by portraying strong and even egotistical individuals who reluctantly sacrifice themselves for a higher cause. The series 3% is interesting since it constructs a more ambivalent and ambiguous narrative around the individuals representing hope.

Anticipatory and Contemporary Knowledge As the sociologists Claisse and Delvenne (2015) argue, dystopias can be defined as depictions of dark futures “based on the systematic amplification of current trend and features.” Dystopias produce “anticipatory knowledge,” and they also contain hope, since “the very existence of such a narrative presupposes that the political community it tries to reach is actually able to do something to thwart it” (pp. 155–156). If successful, dystopias aim to make themselves obsolete. If they are identified as possible futures, they tend to reach political communities, calling them to action: “once the world it [a dystopia] depicts is identified as a possible future, it seems to empower its readers again, restoring a ‘sense of possibilities’ that eventually make alternative pathways thinkable” (Claisse & Delvenne, 2015, p. 156). It is of course a matter of debate how efficient dystopian fiction really is, and if it is an isolated phenomenon (Thaler, 2019, pp. 1–2). Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) and George Orwell’s 1984 (1949) epitomise classical dystopian and anti-utopian thought, “a reaction largely to the socialist utopia of the nineteenth century and certain socialist practices of the twentieth century,” according to Krishan Kumar. Anti-Utopia “makes us live utopia, as an experience so painful and nightmarish that we lose all desire for it” (Kumar, 1987, pp. viii, 103). It is definitely an exaggeration to claim that Brave New World and 1984 had a great role in the overthrowing of the communist Eastern bloc in 1989, but they were definitely part of the critique of authoritarian

Hopeful Dystopias?  35 socialism and communism, or of the horror of some blueprint utopias. In the case of 1984, it “still functions today as a reference for all kinds of stakeholders (critics, theorists, activists, civil society members) concerned by the rise of surveillance in contemporary societies” (Claisse & Delvenne, 2015, p. 158). One could ask whether 1984 helped prevent the scenario from becoming true/being realised in the wake of the War on Terror “but the general point stands” (Frase, 2016, pp. 33–34). As Claisse and Delvennes (2015) state: Centralized surveillance, torture and detention continue and some preoccupying aspects of post-9/11 United States have become embodiments of parts of Orwell’s vision. In any way, Nineteen EightyFour today remains a useful reminder to citizens to be constantly vigilant in maintaining freedom and justice. (pp. 159–160) While classic dystopias may have made certain possible futures avoided, some late-modern dystopias postulate that the future is already here. Unlike early dystopias, they are not anti-utopias. Motion pictures like Elysium may warn us of a possible future where a small fraction of humanity will be living in abundance while the rest of the population exist in dire circumstances. But the point is that Elysium and other fiction, such as The Hunger Games trilogy (2008–2010) and Divergent (2011–2013), “are fairly transparent allegories of the class society we already live in,” although some other fiction pushes the boundaries further (Frase, 2016, p. 25). The difference is a matter of degree, rather than nature. The same goes for Brazilian series 3% (2016–2019), which pictures an extremely stratified future society, albeit one with a disturbing resemblance to our contemporary times. These late-modern dystopias not only aim to make possible undesirable futures that have been extrapolated from present tendencies obsolete. They also point to the necessity of making existing dystopian presents obsolete. So, the timeline in dystopias such as Elysium and 3% blur contemporary issues with anticipated futures. Like utopias, these dystopias also work as contemporary knowledge.

Obscuring Hope, Purifying Dreams: Hope as Capitalist Realism The members of the council of Offshore (i.e. the leaders of society) in 3% continue a tradition from the mythical Founding Couple who invented and implemented the idea of the Process around 104 years from when the series starts. During the first season, not much information is provided about the Founding Couple or the Offshore. In the beginning of the tests, we learn from both Ezequiel, the head of the Process, and the hopeful candidates themselves that it is a fair system, giving everyone an equal

36  Michael Godhe chance for a better life. The three percent are selected through numbers of tests which appear more and more arbitrary during the episodes. Before the first test, Ezequiel greets the candidates welcome to the Process: Three percent. Only three percent of you candidates will become the select group of heroes heading to the Offshore… … where the Founding Couple created the perfect world. Where there is no injustice. Everyone gets an equal chance and the place that they deserve… Remember, you each create your own merit. (Cubos, 2016)1 Ezequiel then urges the candidates to repeat the following words before they enter into the facility for the first test: “We are grateful for the chance… for a better way of life. And so, we thank you” (Cubos, 2016). After Ezequiel’s speech, the tests begin with the elimination of weaker candidates, and there is no alternative for them than returning to a life in poverty and scarcity, bereft of hope for a better future. The Process is a cruel rite of passage, a decisive part of a societal system that first creates hope for the aspiring candidates, and then despair for those eliminated by the tests. As Bloch remarks (1995): “Hopelessness is itself, in a temporal and factual sense, the most insupportable thing, downright intolerable to human needs” (p. 5). One of the participants in the Process commits suicide after having been eliminated, and we see other participants being offered “instructions over how to deal with the trauma of elimination” after being denied a life in Offshore (Cubos, 2016). As anticipatory knowledge, the differentiated societies of the Inland and the Offshore in 3% are the extreme finalised result of the neoliberal hegemony of “capitalist realism,” a concept developed by sociologist Mark Fisher (2009): “the widespread sense that not only is capitalism the only viable political and economic system, but also that it is now impossible even to imagine a coherent alternative to it” (p. 2). From this “pervasive atmosphere… acting as a kind of invisible barrier constraining thought and action” follows increasing and even relentless privatisation and what Fisher (2009) calls “business ontology:” the idea “that everything in society, including healthcare and education, should be run as a business” (pp. 16–17). Capitalist realism has meant “persuading citizens that there is no alternative to the onward march of globalized markets, finance capitalism, deregulation and environmental degradation” (Goode & Godhe, 2017, p. 110). As Sherryl Vint (2016) points out, in capitalist realism we can imagine the future only as an intensification of the present: from one political orientation, a future of global capital and inequity

Hopeful Dystopias?  37 continuing into infinity; from the other, a future of more and better shiny, technological products. Or we can imagine it as the site of apocalyptic collapse. (p. 7) The ideology of the Process is upheld by the citizen who internalises its virtues, and in many episodes of the first season we see through flashbacks that the main characters in the series have been preparing for the Process since they were children. They have learned to hate the rebels, “losers who just wanna destroy everything” (Cubos, 2016). In accepting the Process as fair and just, almost everyone believes that they have the chance to be part of the three percent. The ideology contains what David Smail (2005) calls magic voluntarism, “the idea that we can all become whatever we want to if we just put enough effort in it” (Lindblom, 2018, p. 3). 2 The candidates are told they get an “equal chance and the place they deserve” (Cubos, 2016). Failing is an internal problem, not an external one. But as in many failed or corrupted systems, there are discontented forces underneath the surface, as I will discuss in the section “Fragile Hope?” In his thought-provoking book Hope without Optimism, literary theorist Terry Eagleton distinguishes between, among other things, optimism and optimalism. To Eagleton (2015), optimism is not a virtue or disposition, it “is simply a quirk of temperament.” Simply put, optimists believe that everything will turn out well, and they “tend to believe in progress.” Optimalists believe in “the Leibnizian doctrine that we ­inhabit the best of all possible worlds.” While optimists still believe in improvement, optimalists are certain that “we already enjoy the best of all cosmic arrangements” (pp. 2–4). Ezequiel and his collaborators are optimalists, simply fulfilling the 104-year-old tradition from the Founding Couple. In the second season of 3%, many episodes take place at the Offshore, which is in many ways a flawed utopia where change and development have come to an end. Following Levitas (2013), offshore is not utopian since the “utopian experiment disrupts the taken-for-granted nature of the present” (p. 4). Interpreted in this way, Offshore, in my view, represents not Utopia, but death (especially since the candidates approved to go there must undergo sterilisation). The optimalist view is hegemonised so that the part of the population we see in the series (except for the fraction of rebels) also believe that they “inhabit the best of all possible worlds.” If the eliminated candidates are bereft of hope, so too, paradoxically, are Ezequiel and his associates executing the tests during the first season since they believe that the system is the best and most fair arrangement of society. Since optimalists, as Eagleton (2015) puts it, have no need for it “they are as bereft of hope as nihilists” (p. 4). Instead, the ludicrous hope in 3% is for the masses,

38  Michael Godhe a hope of salvation encouraged by, for example, a priest proselytising the gospel of The Process. As Bloch (1995) remarks, even deception, if it is to be effective, must work with flatteringly and corruptly aroused hope. Which is also why hope is preached from every pulpit, but is confined to mere inwardness or to empty promises of the other world. (p. 5) The belief in God has been replaced by the superstitious trust in the Founding Couple. As in Children of Men, as Fisher (2009) points out, action is pointless: “Superstition and religion, the first resort of the helpless, proliferate” (p. 3). But not everyone in the Inland is happy with the state of affairs. I return to this in the section “Fragile Hope?”

Bringing Forth the Best in the Citizen? Any general character, from the best to the worst, from the most ignorant to the most enlightened, may be given to any community, even to the world at large, by the application of proper means; which means are to a great extent at the command and under the control of those who have influence in the affairs of men. (Owen, 1991, p. 10) In our article “Beyond Capital Realism – Why We Need Critical F ­ uture Studies,” Luke Goode and I introduced the interdisciplinary field of Critical Future Studies. CFS, in short, “investigates the scope and constraints within public culture for imagining and debating different potential futures.” We argued that “not only do we need an expanded repertoire of possible futures available for public consideration, but that utopian and dystopian modes of imagination are vital for reinvigorating a futural public sphere” (Goode & Godhe, 2017, pp. 109–110). The TV show 3% is a dystopian mode of imagination which also contains utopian dimensions, but these occur in the interface between a flawed and corrupt system upholding the status quo, and a dubious rebel faction trying to disrupt and overturn the current social order by all means necessary. The utopian dimension could be found in some of the main characters and their development through the episodes. These individuals transcend their own desires and turn their backs on the P ­ rocess – some of them fighting the Process with a fragile hope, a utopian pessimism trying to change things for the better. Two of the key questions in CFS methodology are Who would want to live in such a future (and who would not)? and What sort of people live in such a future? (Goode & Godhe, 2017, p. 121). From the beginning of the Process, the head, Ezequiel, reassures the candidates that the Process is just,

Hopeful Dystopias?  39 and that the Offshore is the best of worlds. But beneath the surface there are fractures in paradise. For the first time in the history of the Process, one of Offshore’s inhabitants has been murdered. Some of the members of the council are wondering if the Process has been done properly and have started to question how Ezequiel is handling the tests. They send Alina, a woman from the Offshore, purportedly to evaluate the Process, but in fact to spy on Ezequiel, and to remove him as a proctor of the Process. Ezequiel, however, becomes aware of her plan and in the seventh episode of the first season (Cápsula, 2016), he and one of his associates set Alina up, and she is falsely accused of murdering one of Ezequiel’s employees from the Offshore. Before she is set up, Alina (and the viewer) discovers that Ezequiel’s methods are somewhat idiosyncratic. Not surprisingly, it turns out during the tests that the Process is a cut-throat competition, as opposed to a fair challenge between candidates. Even the first test, an interview with the candidates, seems highly dubious. Candidates who provide the wrong reasons for succeeding in the Process are instantly eliminated, as are those who show signs of weakness, such as one nervous girl who murmurs: “I know that I’m one of the best… I’m sure that I’m in the three percent, eer, of candidates.” Her interviewer tells her the reason for her elimination: “If you don’t think you’re worthy of passing, why should I?” (Cubos, 2016). In another test, the candidates are divided into different groups, where they must select one group member for elimination (Moedas, 2016). Instead of bringing forth the best in the citizen, the Process, from the very beginning, is visualised as bringing out the worst in people, making them cheat and lie and do everything in their power to avoid failing the tests. It is the survival of the fittest. Justice seems to be a highly malleable concept when Ezequiel witnesses how one of the candidates, Rafael, cheats on the first test, and lets him get away with it. Another candidate, Joana, also becomes an object of Ezequiel’s fascination, and she also gets away with cheating. In both cases, their cheating resulted in the elimination of another candidate. In one of the most fascinating episodes in the series (Portão, 2016), the social Darwinist ideology of the Process becomes obvious, and we see what kind of people we could expect from this futurescape. The candidates are trapped in a dormitory and first manage to collaborate on a tricky test, with the result that no one is eliminated. Ezequiel then changes the test to see how the candidates react when there is a conflict over food supplies. Marco, heretofore one of the most decent individuals in the series, is revealed to be a psychopath, doing whatever it takes to pass the test. He gathers a group of followers, believing that this a social test: Everyone has a role. Don’t you get it? Only three percent will pass. The rest are left behind. That’s how the Process works, and this is no different… We’re not here to share. They want the elite. I’m an Alvares, part of the elite.

40  Michael Godhe Marco and his group attack the other candidates, stealing their food, and Marco brutally slaughters a girl to set an example for the others: “It’s the world’s natural order.” While Ezequiel’s associates want to end the test, he is fascinated and wants to see the result of the struggle. Led by Joana, the other candidates strike back and kill a few of Marco’s men. Marco is maimed by a closing door (he is presumed dead, but returns in the second season, despite being eliminated from the Process). Whether or not the right side won the battle, it is once again emphasised that the Process is a cut-throat competition. All in all, Ezequiel’s idiosyncratic methods seem to bring out the worst in the candidates. The Offshore appears more and more as a flawed post-scarcity utopia, securing a good life for unscrupulous individuals who know how to let the system work for them. Many of the candidates we follow through the series seem to do whatever it takes to pass the tests. At the same time, they contribute to maintaining a system where 97% of the population live in dire circumstances, bereft of any hope for a life beyond scarcity. As previously pointed out, this is a system with disturbing resemblance to our present-day situation, to a reality for millions of people in the world (for example, in the Brazilian favelas, an obvious reference in the series). But even the rebel fraction, ‘the Cause,’ is dubious. Two of the candidates, Michele and Rafael, are moles for the Cause and do not let anything stop them from passing the tests. The leader of the Cause has persuaded Michele that Ezequiel is responsible for the death of her brother (which later turns out to be a lie). In the first episode (Cubos, 2016), the O ­ ffshore suspects that either Michele or her friend Bruna is a mole for the Cause. In order to survive the Process, Michele sacrifices Bruna by tricking her into to attacking the interrogator. Bruna is killed, and Offshore is convinced that she was the mole. The other mole, Rafael, persuades his fellow candidates that he is a ruthless bastard in order to avoid suspicion of being an agent for the Cause. Like Michele, he is an ambiguous character, willing to sacrifice other candidates in the name of the Cause. The leaders of the Cause are also prepared to use any means necessary to disrupt the Process, including terrorism and killing innocents. The system of the Process has created an extremely stratified society, where a kind of social Darwinism is dominant. The end justifies the means, one is either part of the resistance or a candidate in the Process, and the tiny fragile hope in the series lies in a few of the leading characters – ­especially Fernando and Joana, but also the nebulous character Michele.

Fragile Hope? The first season ends with Fernando voluntarily leaving the Process after Ezekiel lies to him that Michele has been eliminated. Since Fernando and Michele are a loving couple, Fernando tries to find her. Joana, in her

Hopeful Dystopias?  41 turn, is offered the chance to join Ezequiel’s elite, but only if she agrees to kill a captured member of a street gang, a man who once harassed her. Joana, who had so far done almost anything in order to survive the Process, refuses Ezequiel’s offer, and he tells her that he made a mistake: “Look at me. I should never have put my faith in you. You’re too weak. You’re nothing… You’re just a piece of trash from the Inland” (Botão, 2016). Fernando and Joana meet up outside the main building, disappointed with the Process. They both represent the fragile hope of individuals resisting the system, in Fernando’s case for love, in Joana’s case because she does not approve of Ezequiel’s methods, and feels that he is trying to take control of her mind. Joana joins the Cause, and she is later followed by Fernando. Neither of them is prepared to let the end justify the means. In the last episode of the second season (Sangue, 2018), they stop the Cause from using a bomb that would have killed the candidates, as well as the people from the Offshore. The second season turns a lot of things from the first season upside down, and the scope of the present study does not allow for a full description of the episodes with the many twists. It is sufficient here to say that the rebels do not represent an alternative to the Process, while the Offshore itself is depicted as a flawed paradise – development has come to an end and so has hope, since hope entails change. The most remarkable change in the second season is the relationship between Michele and Ezequiel. From the beginning, Michele has been a nebulous character. After sacrificing her best friend in the first episode (Cubos, 2016) and showing that she is willing to use any means necessary for the Cause, she looks for an opportunity to kill Ezequiel. In the seventh episode of the first season (Cápsula, 2016) she poisons one of Ezequiel’s associates by mistake – the poison was meant for Ezequiel. He uses this as an excuse to get rid of Alina, and in the eighth episode he reveals to Michele, after torturing her, that he was once a member of the Cause but changed his mind. Ezequiel then lets Michele pass the Process, working for him as a mole. The leader of the rebels has lied to Michele, since it turns out that her brother is not dead. He is alive in the Offshore but accused of the first murder there in the entire 104-year history of the Process. Michele joins the resistance once again, but it is never clear for the viewer whether she is really working for Ezequiel or the Cause, or towards her own agenda. It becomes even more blurred in the fifth episode of season 2 (Lampião, 2018) when Ezequiel reveals himself to the rebels. Disappointed over how the members of the council have treated him and his former wife (who has committed suicide), he tells them that it is in fact his idea to bomb the Process because he wants to bring it down, together with the council, and build a utopian world for everyone without division between rich and poor. Ezequiel states: “From now on the Cause must take extreme action even if that includes happen [sic] to murder those who are innocent.” But Offshore overhears Ezequiel’s

42  Michael Godhe conversation with the Cause, and they hunt him down and kill him. But before this happens, he convinces the leader of the Cause that terrorism is necessary, while Michele and Joana oppose using bombs against innocent people. So, for Michele, working for Ezequiel has basically meant that she has been working for the Cause. But despite Michele’s dubious character, she gets the last word at the end of season 2. In the ninth episode of the second season (Colar, 2018), we learn that the Founding Couple was a Founding Trio before the Process, and that they were working on a utopia sponsored by the wealthy. After the third member of the Founding Trio was murdered, the idea failed and was corrupted into the present state of the Process, and the Offshore became a flawed utopia, reminding the viewer that it could have been otherwise – as it would be in reality. In the last episode of season 1 (Botão, 2016), Fernando, Joana and Rafael manage to destroy the power supply of the Process’ facility, with all its data on the citizens, which will make the Process impossible. However, behind their backs, Michele stores backup data and makes a deal with the Offshore. In exchange for supplies for the Inland, she will let them have access to the backup once a year so that the Process can continue. But in the final scene, Michele reveals her real plan to Fernando, as they see aircrafts carrying supplies for the Inland. Fernando asks Michele what they are, and she replies: “The boxes are full of seeds fertilizers, vaccines, and medicine.” But it’s not for the Inland, it is for a “new place for us, from scratch.” A disappointed Fernando tells her that he does not care since they did not stop the Process. But Michele shows him an electronic blueprint for a new utopian society left by the third member of the Founding Trio who “got murdered, because she wanted to do things the right way.” It is a place “that’s neither Offshore nor Inland. A third place, an alternative. I think we should call it the Shell.” Fernando is still sceptical, asking Michele if she would create a new Process for the new society and she replies: I don’t know how it will work, but we can figure it out together. I know I screwed up… over and over. I don’t trust myself to do it on my own. As for you… you could be the founder of a really good place. Let’s do it together? Fernando looks at a smiling Michele, and then both the episode and season finish. The resistance is left in despair after failing to stop the Process. If Fernando joins Michele, they will be a new Founding Couple. But the hope for disrupting the old-world order is lost, while there is a fragile hope for creating a new and just world – “I don’t know how it will work,” says Michele, “but we can figure it out together.” What kind of utopia it will be remains to be seen in the third season, which was released at the same time as this article was being prepared for publication.

Hopeful Dystopias?  43

Conclusion The Brazilian series 3% is a dystopian series set in a future where 20-year-olds are chosen by means of a number of tests through which one can achieve a better life in a post-scarcity society. It is the final result of capitalist realism, a world where public space and the state have withered away (see Fisher, 2009), and where the people eliminated from the Process are bereft of hope, except for a few rebels trying to disrupt the dominant social system, until they fail and also find themselves in a state of despair and hopelessness. As Miroslav Volf and William Katerberg (2004) wrote, “a major cultural shift has taken place in the attitudes of Western societies toward the future” since the 1980s. A “culture of optimism” belonging to modernity has “been giving way to a postmodern ‘culture of ambiguity.’” This postmodern culture “threatens to stifle hope at a personal as well as a social level” (pp. ix–x). Fisher (2009) characterises this postmodern culture with stifled hope as capitalist realism – a culture where there is no alternative. In 3%, the candidates entering the Process each have only an individual hope, where collective or social hope lies in the Cause, a flawed rebel organisation prepared to use terrorism and the sacrifice of innocents on the principle of the end justifying the means. If there is any hope at all, it lies in the fragile hope incarnated by the actions of some of the characters in the series, such as Joana and Fernando turning their back on the Process, and the ambiguous character Michele’s attempt to build a new utopia, perhaps with the help of Fernando. What will come out of this will be revealed in the third season, which had not been released at the time of writing this chapter. The series 3% warns us of the fatal consequences of tendencies which are obvious in our time of crisis, and in this sense, it works as a kind of anticipatory knowledge. In discussing Children of Men, Fisher (2009) states that the world did not end with a bang: “The world it [Children of Men] projects seems more like an extrapolation or exacerbation of ours than as an alternative to it.” The catastrophe in Children of Men “is lived through” (p. 2). The same goes for 3%, which also involves contemporary knowledge, as it has disturbing resemblances to our own time. Creating your own merit and getting what you deserve (‘because you’re worth it’) – the catchwords of our narcissistic times – allow for a social Darwinist society with the survival of the fittest. As the utopian socialist Robert Owen once wrote: “Any general character, from the best to the worst, from the most ignorant to the most enlightened, may be given to any community, even to the world at large, by the application of proper means” (1991, p. 10). The TV show 3% does not provide us with any solutions or positive alternatives, other than Michele’s utopia that might just as well turn out

44  Michael Godhe (in the forthcoming third season) to be a new dystopia – it just provides us with a warning that now is the time for change. As anticipatory and contemporary knowledge, 3% disrupts the optimism, optimalism and capitalist realism in our time, leading us towards dystopia, disguised as “we already enjoy the best of all cosmic arrangements” (Eagleton, 2015, p. 4). It is, to quote Moylan, “time to choose to work from the standpoint of militant, utopian pessimism that is expressed in critical dystopian narratives” (2018, p. 3). Resistance is not futile.

Notes 1 When the first two seasons in the series were first broadcast on Netflix, the spoken language was Portuguese. The spoken language of the series is Portuguese. In this article, I’ve chosen to quote from the English dubbing of the series. 2 It should be noted that Smail’s concept concerns mental health, an issue Mark Fisher has also shown an interest in (see Fisher, 2012).

References Bloch, E. (1995), The Principle of Hope, vol. 1 (trans. N. Plaice, S. Plaice & P. Knight), Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Blumer, H. (1954), “What is Wrong with Social Theory?” American Sociological Review 19(1), pp. 3–10. Claisse, F. & Delvennes, P. (2015), “Building on Anticipation: Dystopia as Empowerment.” Current Sociology 63(2), pp. 155–169. Eagleton, T. (2015), Hope without Optimism, Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Fisher, M. (2009), Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? Winchester: Zero Books. Fisher, M. (2012), “Why Mental Health is a Political Issue.” The Guardian, July 16. www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/jul/16/mental-health-­politicalissue. Accessed 14 February 2019. Frase, P. (2016), Four Futures: Life After Capitalism, London: Verso. Goode, L. & Godhe, M. (2017), “Beyond Capitalist Realism – Why We Need Critical Future Studies.” Culture Unbound: Journal of Current Cultural Research 9(1), pp. 108–129. Kumar, K. (1987), Utopia & Anti-Utopia in Modern Times, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Levitas, R. (2013), Utopia as Method: The Imaginary Reconstitution of Society, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Moylan, T. (1986), Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination, New York & London: Methuen. Moylan, T. (2018), “Further Reflections on Being an Utopian in These Times.” Open Library of Humanities 2(4), pp. 1–11. doi:10.16995/olh.264. Owen, R. (1991), “A New View of Society, or, Essays on the Principle of the Formation of the Human Character, and the Application of the Principle to Practice,” in G. Claeys (ed.), A New View of Society and Other Writings, London: Penguin Books, pp. 1–92.

Hopeful Dystopias?  45 Smail, D. (2005), Power, Interest and Psychology: Elements of a Social Materialist Understanding of Distress, Ross-on-Wye: PCCS Books. Thaler, M. (2019), “Bleak Dreams, Not Nightmares: Critical ­Dystopias and the Necessity of Melancholic Hope.” Constellations, pp. 1–16. doi:10.1111/ 1467-8675.12401. Vint, S. (2016), “Introduction to ‘The Futures Industry.’” Paradoxa 27, pp. 7–20. Volf, M. & Katerberg, W. (eds.) (2004), The Future of Hope: Christian Tradition Amid Modernity and Postmodernity, Grand Rapids, MI: William B Eerdmans Publishing Company.

3 Hopeful Hybridities Transformative Interspecies Relationships in Dystopian and Post-Apocalyptic Visual Narratives Ariel Kahn A Critical Lacuna? In contemporary popular culture, the dystopian and post-­apocalyptic genres are coming perilously close to normative realism. At such a charged political moment, is it still possible to reclaim the potential of such texts to surprise, to subvert, to challenge? Suvin’s classic aspirational statement suggested that the potential of a dystopian text depended on whether its novum could “reconcile the principle of hope and the principle of reality” (Suvin, 1987, p. 83). The animating energy of this thematic grappling has become in critical discourse, a series of ossified categories. These are worth restating as a framework from which I will depart. In their introduction to Dark Horizons Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, Baccolini and Moylan attempt to revision these categories and identify three strands in dystopian writing, on a continuum from traditional and closed to open. In the traditional dystopia, “a bleak, depressing genre with little space for hope within the story, dystopias maintain utopian hope outside their pages, if at all; for it is only if we consider dystopia as a warning that we readers can hope to escape its pessimistic future” (Baccolini & Moylan, 2013, p. 7). This formal exclusion of the possibility of hope from the narrative focusses us on the nature of closure in such narratives. In contrast, developing a term first utilised by Lyman Tower Sargent, “the new critical dystopias allow both readers and protagonists to hope by resisting closure: the ambiguous, open endings of these novels maintain the utopian impulse within the work” (Baccolini & Moylan, 2013, p. 7). They argue that new critical dystopias are inherently hybrid, and encode utopian possibility through their endings, though the main body of the narrative may conform to classic dystopian models. Dunja Mohr aligns these formal subversions with subversions of patriarchal gendered norms, and calls them “transgressive utopian dystopias,” (2005, p. 4).The third, and rarest strand is ‘open’ dystopias, which resist both hegemonic and oppositional orthodoxies even as they inscribe a space for a new form of political opposition. With an

Hopeful Hybridities  47 exploration of agency that is based in difference and multiplicity yet cannily reunited in an alliance politics that speaks back in a larger though diverse collective voice, the new dystopias not only critique the present triumphal system but also explore ways to transform it that go beyond compromised left-centrist solutions. (Baccolini & Moylan, 2013, p. 8) The key trope in this model seems to be its focus on a more complex, pluralist and nuanced understanding of agency. I would argue that such an understanding must move beyond traditional humanist conceptions. This meshes with an exploration of the post-human, since as Pepperell asserts, “post-Humanism is not about the ‘End of Man’ but about the end of a ‘man-centred’ universe, or put less phallocentrically, a ‘­human-centred’ universe” (2009, p. 176). Boller emphasises the roots of the critical dystopia in feminist discourse: Drawing on the feminist criticism of universalist assumptions – fixity and singularity, and neutral and objective knowledge – and recognising the importance of difference, multiplicity, and complexity, of partial and situated knowledges, as well as hybridity and fluidity, the critical dystopias resist genre purity in favour of an impure or hybrid text that renovates dystopian Science Fiction (SF) by making it formally and politically oppositional (Voights and Boller, 2015, p. 7). Such post-humanism is at the heart of Post-Apocalyptic writing. Voights, quoting Curtis, argues that a “discussion of the relationship between dystopian and post-apocalyptic fiction opens up another ­fascinating genre boundary” (Voights, 2015, p. 4). Curtis (2010, p. 7) alludes to the fundamental generic hybridity when she emphasised that “[p]ost-apocalyptic fiction exists at a genre crossroads between science fiction, horror and utopia/dystopia.” Yet this hybridity in post-apocalyptic narratives has not been matched by an answering hybridity of critical approaches. For instance, ­Moylan’s discussion is confined to prose texts, which leads him to claim that “Throughout the history of dystopian fiction, the conflict of the text turns on the control of language… Language is a key weapon for the reigning dystopian power structure” (2013, p. 5). How might the hybrid nature and embodied, visual grammar of comics engage with these established tropes of dystopian and post-­apocalyptic fiction? To focalise this discussion, I am especially interested in interspecies relationships and animal-human hybridity in both dystopian and post-apocalyptic comics narratives, since the “ontological instability of separating human and animal is one of the most tangible topics of post-human discourse (or ‘human-animal studies’)” (Jaques, 2015, p. 11) These narratives, and their hybrid protagonists, seek to use animality and hybridity to think productively about the nature and meaning of being human, and to expand that understanding in our post-Anthropocene

48  Ariel Kahn age, in keeping with Vint’s aspirational claim that animals, both like us and different in their experience of our shared world, both homely and uncanny, offer a productive way of thinking about other modalities of being, other modes of perception and other ways of being in the world – in reality as much as in fiction (2010, p. 211). This thematic ontological instability is embodied stylistically in a medium which asks the reader to enact a closure which it perpetually defers; “as closure between panels becomes more intense, reader interpretation becomes far more elastic” (McCloud, 1994, p. 86), oscillating between image and text. This echoes formally Suvin’s insistence that the content of dystopian SF be matched in its formal representation, “leaving formal closure cognitively open-ended, regardless of whether at the end of the novel the positive values be victorious or defeated” (Suvin, Positions, p. 83). The narrative mode of comics is based on the interaction of word and image and implicitly suggests the limitations of language, deferring closure beyond the text. In doing so, they are responding to an imperative voiced by Donna Haraway: We have to find another relationship to nature besides reification, possession, appropriation, and nostalgia. No longer able to sustain the fictions of being either subjects or objects, all the partners in the potent conversations that constitute nature must find a new ground for making meanings together. (2008a, p. 158) What can such hybrid characters teach us about living more fully, and stepping away from our anthropocentrism, to discover more nuanced, sustainable and pluralist ways of existing? Such hybridity has not been explored before, either in writings about dystopias, Science Fiction (SF) or comics, and feels particularly resonant and relevant in our obscene ‘Anthropocene’ moment. Rather than rely on externally applied categories which seek to quantify dystopian and post-apocalyptic literature without necessarily enlarging our understanding of it, I would like to return to the literary sources of the dystopian imaginary, to unearth tropes that animate classic and contemporary narratives, teasing out their resonance for, and relevance to, both critical discourse and creative poetics.

A Dys-tropeic Approach The origins of the dystopian moment in literary SF can be traced back to Swift, and Gulliver’s encounter with the rationalist, equine Houyhnhnms. When confronted with the ape-like Yahoos, whom he so closely resembles, Gulliver recoils; “Upon the whole, I never beheld in all my travels so disagreeable an animal, nor one against which I conceived so strong an antipathy” (Swift, 1984, p. 270). What Gulliver

Hopeful Hybridities  49 seems to be rejecting is his own animality – yet in this inverted space, it is the animals who embody rationalist discourse. Gulliver tries to deny any connection between himself and these animals, despite their similar ­appearances. Gulliver’s breaking point comes when he becomes an ­object of desire for a female Yahoo while bathing in a stream. Shaken, he is forced to admit that “I could no longer deny that I was a real Yahoo in every limb and feature” (p. 315). This knowledge is not healing or cathartic, for it means acknowledging his own hybridity; that he might be both animal and rational being. He cannot bear to see or acknowledge this about himself – he cannot meet his own gaze: When I happened to behold the reflection of my own form in a lake or fountain, I turned away my face in horror and detestation of myself, and could better endure the sight of a common Yahoo than of my own person. (Swift, 1984, p. 327) His own appearance taunts him with the gap between his “animalistic” outer form and his supposedly “rationalistic” inner being. Despite his ability to communicate, Gulliver is viewed by the horses as a “brute animal” (p. 327). This definition of a being with no interiority becomes a scar, a seam, traversing literary representations of cross-species or cultural encounter, running from Swift to Conrad’s “exterminate all the brutes,” Kurtz’ notorious postscript to his manuscript intended for the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs (Conrad, Heart of Darkness, p. 84). Gulliver’s “horror” echoes through the canon until it finds new articulation in Kurtz’ dying words, “The horror, the horror” (p. 112). This redoubling might suggest the horror of doubleness, of acknowledging our own hybridity, that what we define as “other” – whether animal, or human, might not be so. The motivation for othering animals in this way can be traced back further to Montaigne’s extraordinary essay, An Apology of Raymond Sebond (Screech, 1993). Montaigne articulates an inherently dystopian awareness that drives us to distance ourselves from the animal ­kingdom – that the drive to utopian idealism may in fact come from a rejection of our true nature: Man is the most blighted and frail of all creatures, and moreover, the most given to pride. This creature knows and sees he is lodged down here, among the mire and shit of the world, bound and nailed to the deadest, most stagnant part of the universe, in the lowest ­storey of the building, the farthest from the vault of heaven; his characteristics place him in the third and lowest category of animate creatures, yet, in thought, he sets himself above the circle of the Moon, bringing the very heavens under his feet. The vanity of this

50  Ariel Kahn same thought makes him equal himself to God; attribute to himself God’s mode of being; pick himself out and set himself apart from the mass of other creatures; and (although they are his fellows and his brothers) carve out for them such helpings of force or faculties as he thinks fit. How can he, from the power of his own understanding, know the hidden, inward motivations of animate creatures? What comparison between us and them leads him to conclude that they have the attributes of senseless brutes? (Screech, p. 505) There are several parallels to Swift here, from the cloacal obsessions of the Yahoos, to the appellation of brute for creatures we have othered. Montaigne concludes that it is only by acknowledging the agency of the non-human other that we have any chance of building a non-dystopian world: “When I play with my cat, how do I know she is not passing time with me rather than I with her?” (p. 505). This reflection leads ­Montaigne to argue that our very definitions are based on misprision, on a lack of the kind of embodied seeing he experiences with his cat: “Why should it be a defect in the beasts not in us which stops communication between us?… They may reckon us to be brute beasts for the same reason that we reckon them to be so” (p. 506). What would animals say, if they could communicate with us? In the act of such communication, what could be conveyed, and what might be lost? These questions are explored with haunting irony by Kafka, in A Report to an Academy. The “civilised” ape Red Peter relates his journey towards linguistic mastery as a movement away from the freedom and holistic nature of his “animal” origins: free ape as I was, I submitted myself to that yoke. In revenge however, my memory of the past has closed the door against me more and more. I could have returned at first, had human beings allowed it, through an archway as wide as the span of heaven over the earth, but as I spurred myself on in my forced career, the opening narrowed and shrank behind me. (Glatzer, 1983 p. 250) This spatial depiction of awareness and identity recalls Montaigne’s “vault of heaven,” and suggests that it may be precisely because we have cut ourselves off from our fellow creatures and imposed a hierarchy that we have entrapped ourselves in a dystopian reality. It is striking that ­Peter reflects on his mode of communication as being rooted in the ­visual, in the sensory: “To put it plainly, much as I like expressing ­myself in images, to put it plainly: your life as apes, gentlemen, insofar as something of that kind lies behind you, cannot be further removed from you than mine is from me” (p. 250). This leads Peter to acknowledge the gap

Hopeful Hybridities  51 between the experience he seeks to convey and his means of expressing it; “Of course what I felt then as an ape I can represent now only in human terms, and therefore I misrepresent it” (p. 253). His awareness of this gap is sharpened by his knowledge of his own hybridity, his own liminality. In addition to the challenge of conveying embodied experience, the trope of the gaze which featured so strongly in Swift recurs in Peter’s description of his relationship with a female ape, and its focus on the relationship between being and seeing: “By day I cannot bear to see her; for she has the insane look of the bewildered half-broken animal in her eye; no one else sees it, but I do, and I cannot bear it.” Peter can sense what he has lost, and what he has become – but all he can do is despair. He despises the human, yet feels alienated from his apelike nature – he is a hybrid, caught between two worlds. Just as it did for Gulliver, it is Peter’s hybridity that torments him, again articulated in a sensory way: “Actually, it’s not the smell of human beings that repels me so much, it’s the human smell which I have contracted and which mingles with the smell from my native land” (p. 261). Peter has “contracted” humanity like a disease, and the word resonates in English for he is both ill of ease, and the fullness of his identity is constricted, his connection to his prelapsarian self has been contaminated, and now is hard to trace. How do we move from these ­foundational articulations of dystopian hybridity to modern dystopias? How might we trace the relationships between the entwined tropes of the gaze, ­embodied knowledge, and the mythic as a mediating space? Given the focus in these foundation texts on embodied seeing, it makes sense to explore these through dystopian and post-apocalyptic texts which are visual in nature, and which foreground hybridity. To do this, I will ­interrogate the presence of these tropes in three celebrated e­ xamples of epic SF comics, in a way that teases out new possibilities for the posthuman and post Anthropocene. Between them, these three titles broke SF comics into the mainstream, of both comics readership and the ­general public. Sherryl Vint argues that we need to tread a fine line in our construction and consumption of SF texts that explore the human/animal interface: If literature in general, and SF in particular, are to offer us something of the animal’s experience and thus enable us to recover an encounter of a mutual exchanges of gazes, we must be attuned to resisting the two fallacies of too inclusive an anthropomorphism and too constant an anthropodenial. (Vint, 2010, p. 13) I would suggest that is only through analysing human-animal hybridity that we can avoid falling into the traps that Vint warns against. Despite

52  Ariel Kahn the classic roots of this form of hybridity which I have traced, exploration of its impact on contemporary visual literature is signally lacking, both in comics scholarship and in writing on dystopias. Since Donna Haraway’s celebrated Cyborg Manifesto (1991) theorists have explored the feminist implications of cyborg identity, but as Alaimo muses in Writing Nature as a Feminist Space: Even though Haraway underscores the fact that the cyborg transgresses the boundaries between human and nature as well as b ­ etween human and machine, it is telling that the cyborg has b ­ ecome much more popular as a creature of technology, rather than a creature of nature. (2000, p. 186) Alaimo argues that “The most effective way to approach feminism’s vexed relationship with nature is to radically rewrite the concept itself” (p. 187). Vaughan & Staples’ multi volume, SF epic, Saga (2012), does just this, in an accessible and celebratory way, and as a result is seen as a hugely influential, “industry-shaping work” (Spencer, 2019). It does so by exploring interspecies hybridity as a challenge to established modes of thinking and identity politics. Staples received an unprecedented nine awards for her work in 2013 alone. In 2018, the continuing narrative was described as “quite possibly the most celebrated comic b ­ eing ­released today” (“Vector: Sequentials #1- Women and SF Comics | comicbookGRRRL,” n.d.). Yet this public appeal has not been matched by critical scrutiny. The space opera centres on Hazel, the child of a forbidden union between two warring races. Her father is Marko, a horned warrior from Wreath, a moon of her winged mother Alana’s planet, Landfall. The war between these two races has since engulfed the galaxy in endless ­conflict, and the existence of a child bearing both wings and horns as Hazel does is an anathema to all involved. In her more recent writings, Haraway herself issues an urgent clarion call for thinking in less binary ways about nature: We have to find another relationship to nature besides reification, possession, appropriation, and nostalgia. No longer able to sustain the fictions of being either subjects or objects, all the partners in the potent conversations that constitute nature must find a new ground for making meanings together. (Haraway, 2008a, p. 158) The eponymous central protagonist of Jeff Lemire’s similarly expansive Sweet Tooth (2010) goes some way to blurring the boundaries between subject and object in the way that Haraway insists on. The “new ground” she seeks is embodied in Sweet Tooth, also known as Gus, a boy born

Hopeful Hybridities  53 with deer’s antlers. The series imagines a world where humanity is being wiped out by “the sick,” a mysterious plague, which may be related to the emergence of a new species of such hybrid animal-human characters. Blamed for the rise of the plague, to which they seem immune, the ­hybrids are ruthlessly hunted down and either killed or experimented on to find a “cure.” Sweet Tooth enabled Lemire to win his second Joe Shuster Award for Outstanding Cartoonist. In an interview, Lemire explained that that it was precisely the hybrid form of Gus that served as the seed of the narrative: I was always a fan of post-apocalyptic stuff, and I really wanted to try my hand at one of those kinds of stories in my own way. As for the idea of animal-human hybrids and hybrid children… I really wish I did know where that came from! For some reason, I started drawing this kid with antlers – I didn’t even know when that started – and a story emerged: A kid with antlers, living in a cabin in the woods with his dad. It evolved from there. (Jensen, 2019) The visual preceded the narrative construction. Next came the protagonist’s nickname and the title of the series, a sign of prelapsarian hunger for knowledge of the world beyond his cabin, represented by the chocolates that are left for him by hunters. His name thus encodes an involvement with the wider world outside the woods. Stacy Alaimo, reflecting on the need for this kind of interpenetration of self and world, insists that “[t]o counter the dominant figurations of the Anthropocene, which abstract the human from the material real and obscure differentials of responsibility and harm, I propose we think of the Anthropocene subject as immersed and enmeshed in the world” (2016, p. 157). This enmeshing is enacted in Anders Nilsen’s Big Questions (2011), an epic which began in 1999 as self-published stapled mini-comics, and grew into a 600 page work that has garnered significant public recognition. It received the Lynd Ward Graphic Novel Prize (2012), the ­Eisner Award (2012) and the Ignatz Award for Outstanding Graphic Novel (2012) and was a New York Times Notable Book of 2011. Big Questions (2011) looks at damaged and damaging human behaviours in a post-apocalyptic world from the perspective of a community of birds, and also draws on archetypal prelapsarian imagery which resonates with the fallen world he depicts. The dominant and non-dominant figurations evoked Alaimo are embodied in Big Questions by two very different male humans. The Idiot, as he is known, is brought up by his mother, isolated by other humans, and surrounded by birds. When she dies, he is adopted by one of the birds, Bayle, and seeks to live like a bird, eating worms and bark. Nilsen enacts the recognition of the parity, of interconnection, which Alaimo proposes, as a basis for a new interweaving of the human and

54  Ariel Kahn the non-human. In opposition to the “enmeshed” Idiot is Isaac, a troubled fighter pilot who deliberately crashes his plane, after dropping a very dangerous unexploded ‘egg,’ destroying both the home of the Idiot, and his mother’s body. Isaac then ‘hatches’ from the fallen plane to the consternation of the birds. Big Questions opens with a clear dichotomy between the human and animal worlds – with the birds observing the moment the “idiot” as they call him, discovers that his elderly mother is dead (Nilsen, 2011, p. 116) through the windows in a double framing, distancing the animal and the human to discrete spheres, in keeping with cultural norms and boundaries of inside/outside, nature/culture, animal/human. Rosi Braidotti argues that overcoming such binaries and hierarchies is at the heart of the posthuman project: The posthuman in the sense of post-anthropocentrism displaces the dialectical scheme of opposition, replacing well-established dualisms with the recognition of deep zoe-egalitarianism between humans and animals. The vitality of their bond is based on sharing this planet, territory or environment on terms that are no longer so clearly hierarchical, or self-evident. (Braidotti, 2013, p. 71) Nilsen plays with the reader’s understanding of speaking animals as signifying anthropomorphic projection – in a one-page sequence entitled ‘The Death of Leroy’ (2011, p. 48), Leroy encounters an owl, and is delighted; “I wonder if you would be willing to apply your acute powers of wisdom towards a certain philosophical quandary that has been bothering me.” The owl remains wordless. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Leroy asks. The owl responds by snapping his neck and eating him. The owl remains in the domain of real animal behaviour, and the discord between the figurative mode of the speaking bird and that of its predator suggest a certain vulnerability that “humanising” or philosophical enquiry have in a world of predator and prey. Yet Leroy’s question, “Why are you looking at me like that?” resonates differently, and ultimately, more hopefully, through each of these comics, and has a dual address, to both protagonists and their implied readers. Each comic suggests that it is indeed a life or death question, with much more at stake than simply the fate of an individual or species.

The Embodied Gaze To begin to understand the nature of the problematic, unsettling gaze between animal and human which so tormented Gulliver during and after his encounter with the female Yahoo, an obvious starting place is John Berger’s classic essay Why Look at Animals? Berger posits the

Hopeful Hybridities  55 centrality of an exchange of gazes between the human and the non-­ human, a moment of mutuality, as an opportunity to shift back to our original, originary inter-relationships: Yet it can happen, suddenly, unexpectedly, and most frequently in the half-light-of-glimpses, that we catch sight of another visible order which intersects with ours and has nothing to do with it. (Berger, 2009, p. 10) I would argue that comics as a medium are uniquely placed to expose this process of framing the other, to make such interstices visible. If we are conscious of the kind of gaze we as readers/viewers enact, we might be open to understanding that mutuality, to bring that “half-light-­ of-glimpses” more fully into the light. Hybrid creatures, who exist simultaneously in both animal and human domains, are ideally placed to experience these moments, and to facilitate them for the reader. The irony is that the glimpsed animal gaze, properly understood, might make us realise that the animal “order” has everything to do with ours, rather than “nothing” – and it is the objectification behind that “thing”ness which the gaze potentially undercuts. If we are open to the implications of this moment, and let it sink in, we may come to recognise that our ways of being and seeing “coexists with other orders” (Berger, 2009, p.  10). Berger suggests why we naturally resist this potentially utopian possibility, framing the other as such to sustain our fantasies of wholeness, since “what we habitually see confirms us” (Berger, 2009, p. 9). Intriguingly, given our discussion of visual media, Berger uses the language of film frames to suggest the difficulty of pausing and really looking: “suddenly and disconcertingly we see between two frames. We come upon a part of the visible that wasn’t destined for us” (Berger, 2009, p. 10). This chimes with McCloud’s celebration of the comics medium for “allowing an audience to make their own assumptions about what happens in the gutter,” (1994, p. 86) – the technical term for the interstices between panels which are so crucial for the ways the reader constructs, and enacts meaning, becoming aware of their own gaze. Given the liminal nature of these spaces, it is striking that all three of the comics I am discussing make use of children or child-like protagonists. Again, Berger anticipates the usefulness of such perspectives: “Children feel it intuitively, because they have the habit of hiding behind things. There they discover the interstices between different sets of the visible” (Berger, 2009, p. 10). How might child characters embody these interstices, and make visible to adult readers the gaps and linkages that Berger is invested in? Zoe Jaques, in her discussion of children’s literature and the posthuman, asserts that “Children emerge as distinctive creatures who align with much posthuman thinking in their ability to accept (and enjoy) the possible and reject the absolute” (Jaques, 2015, pp. 8–9).

56  Ariel Kahn Jaques muses on the prevalence of (often speaking) animal characters in children’s literature “Children, of course, have long been ‘aligned’ with animals, each subjected to an awkward dialogue as to what is ‘real’ and what is ‘represented’” (Jaques, 2015, p. 13). Yet despite her acknowledgement that “The ontological instability of separating human and animal is one of the most tangible topics of posthuman discourse (or ‘human-animal studies’)” (Jaques, 2015, p. 11), Jaques’ own exploration of the use of animals in classic and contemporary writing for children maintains the boundary between the two “species” in that there are no examples of hybrid creatures in her analysis. A very different possibility as to why children and animals might be identified in creative texts is suggested in J.M Coetzee’s novel Elizabeth Costello (2003), which self-consciously continues the line I have drawn from Swift to Kafka. In a striking example of formal hybridity, the novel itself adapted and expanded Coetzee’s own Tanner lectures, delivered in Princeton in 1997 in the persona of elderly female novelist, E. Costello. Costello notes that “of course children all over the world consort quite naturally with animals. They don’t see any dividing line. That is something they have to be taught, just as they have to be taught it is all right to kill and eat them” (2003, p. 106). For Coetzee’s protagonist, children and animals exist on a playful continuum ripe with the possibility of hybridity. As Sweet Tooth expanded, the central role of such hybrid characters became clear to Lemire, shaping the purpose and intentionality of the narrative as a whole: I really think it’s about trying to look at the world in a different way. What I mean by that is, if you look around at the state of the world, it’s pretty easy to see that it’s not a great place. There’s a lot of terrible things going on in the world. We’re not treating each other very well. It’s going back to that idea that we’re all connected, and getting back to a simpler way of life. Gus and the hybrid kids really represent that. (Jensen, 2019) Sweet Tooth’s embodiment of the possibilities of the posthuman are most clearly in evidence in his interactions with the non-human. Early in the narrative, he encounters a stag in the moment before it is shot by hunters, who then pursue Sweet Tooth himself. The encounter is represented as a wordless page, foregrounding reciprocity and mutuality through inset panels of the eyes of the two being engaged with one another, a dual gaze which the reader enacts, inhabiting the perspective of both animal and hybrid, and bringing this duality into alignment in a single field (Lemire & Villarrubia, 2010, Vol. 1, p. 7). A key source for understanding the significance of this exchange is Berger’s Why Look at Animals. He notes that “The eyes of an animal when they consider

Hopeful Hybridities  57 a man are attentive and wary” (Berger, 2009, p. 13). The impact of this gaze on the human is that “man becomes aware of himself returning the look” (Berger, 2009, p. 13). This moment for Gus is a more complex moment of self-­understanding than Berger imagines; he is both like the deer (he has horns, he is hunted) and unlike it, as he is simultaneously aware of returning its gaze. Since the basis of human authority and difference has traditionally been predicated on us as language users, I would argue that in its wordless representation of interspecies interaction, this moment is inherently trans-human. Julie Clarke defines the trans-human as either built on transition or interaction between the human and the non-human, and as an inherently optimistic trope, since “the notion of the trans-­human points to a gentle transition, or even a subtle interaction between two objects, neither of which is made obsolete in the process” (Clarke, 2002, p. 34). In his posthumously published The Animal That Therefore I Am, I would suggest that Derrida responds to Montaigne’s exploration of animal-human interactions, and his interplay with his cat. Derrida contrasts two key perspectives on animal/human interaction – the philosophers and the poets. He laments the fact that the philosophers “have never been seen by the animal,” and as a result “have taken no account of the fact that what they call ‘animal’ could look at them, and address them from down there, from a wholly other origin” (2008, p. 13). He finds the poets lacking too. While they “admit to taking upon themselves the address that an animal addresses to them,” this is never from the perspective of “theoretical, philosophical, or juridical man, or even as citizen” (2008, p. 14). J.M. Coetzee responded directly to Derrida’s essay in Elizabeth Costello (2003). Coetzee explicitly refers to Derrida in the structure of his novel. Costello gives two lectures, one entitled The Philosophers and the Animals, the other The Poets and the Animals. Costello opens her first talk with a reference to Derrida’s fissure as embodied wound, while also alluding to Kafka’s ape Red Peter, who carried a scar from his shooting hidden under his clothes: “I am not a philosopher of mind but an ­animal exhibiting, yet not exhibiting, to a gathering of scholars, a wound, which I cover up under my clothes but touch on in every word I speak” (pp. 70–71). Coetzee goes on to explicitly refer to Peter as a hybrid and identifies him as a projection of his author: “Hybrids are, or ought to be, sterile; and Kafka saw both himself and Red Peter as hybrids, as monstrous thinking devices mounted inexplicably on suffering animal bodies” (p. 75). Hybrids both foreground and potentially transcend this Cartesian dualism of mind/body. To connect Coetzee’s reading of Kafka to the post-apocalyptic world of Sweet Tooth, Cary Wolfe (2010) sees a link between ecological disaster and this Cartesian definition of the human: “‘the human’ is achieved by escaping or repressing not just its animal origins in nature, the biological, and the evolutionary, but more

58  Ariel Kahn generally by transcending the bonds of materiality and embodiment altogether” (2010, p. xv). Coetzee has Costello argue that the trouble with many ecological utopian visions is that they fall into this dangerous trap of Platonic abstraction: Our eye is on the creature itself, but our mind is on the system of interactions of which it is the earthly, material embodiment. The irony is a terrible one. An ecological philosophy that tells us to live side by side with other creatures justifies itself by appealing to an idea, an idea of a higher order than any living creature. An idea, finally – and this is the crushing twist to the irony – which no creature expect man is capable of comprehending. (p. 99) The hybrid, by its very nature, cannot be a Platonic ideal – it embodies the collapse of ideals, of absolutes. The interaction between Sweet Tooth and the stag here restores a sense of the interpenetration of selves and bodies, the interweaving of human and non-human. The materiality of the comic itself and the mutual sense of the embodied other are focalised through the reciprocal, rather than objectifying gaze. Lemire enacts the relational mode which Wolfe, in an earlier work, insists post humanism must aspire to: The point is now to move toward a new mode of relation; animals are no longer the signifying system that props up the humans’ self-­ projections and moral aspirations. They need to be approached in a neo-literal mode, as a code system or a “zoontology” of their own. (Wolfe, 2003, p. 70) The “neo-literal mode” of the wordless encounter in Sweet Tooth opens out a zoontology that binds the human and non-human together, a permeability which Gus is uniquely placed to experience as a character, and to foreground for the reader. The unhealed fissure Derrida decries, between the abstraction that does not acknowledge the animal gaze and the figurative language that does not enable an ethics of engagement, is embodied and reconfigured in Sweet Tooth (2010). The central story arc is the origin story of Gus himself. In parallel to this is Gus’ relationship with “The Big Man,” a ruthless hunter with whom he develops a complex relationship, and whose binary perspective he gradually changes. Their first encounter is presented to visually recall the symbolic structure of Gus’ encounter with the deer, and what he might have realised in that moment. The Big Man initially raises Sweet Tooth from the ground, lifting him by his antler, disconnecting him from his context. He is all about the objectifying

Hopeful Hybridities  59 gaze, as manifested in his comment “Huh, I ain’t never seen a deer one before” (Lemire & Villarrubia, 2010, Vol. 1, p. 26). In Sweet Tooth, this verbal enactment of hierarchy is silenced by a repetition of the visual leitmotif of the reciprocal gaze. The size and shape of Gus’ wide open eyes recall that of his gaze at the deer. Where he was looked at by the deer as a part-human, he is now looked at by The Big Man as part animal – each side positing him as other. Yet unlike the page where he encounters the stag, here we get a further panel, enacting the response of the Big Man as his eyes widen to approximate the open gaze of Sweet Tooth himself. Under the scrutiny of the combined humanity and animality of Gus’ gaze, the Big Man finds his own narrow, objectifying gaze breaking down, suddenly aware that the Derridean animal is looking at him, fused with the ethical implications that the hybrid creature evokes for him. This moment initiates a profound change in the identity and awareness of the Big Man, in his understanding of hybridity and of himself. Berger sees inter-­human interaction as fundamentally different from the visual focus of human/animal exchange because of the presence, even the possibility, of language: Even if the encounter is hostile and no words are used… the existence of language allows that at least one of them, if not mutually, is confirmed by the other. Language allows men to reckon with each other as with themselves. (Berger, 2009, p. 14) On the surface, this seems to be the case here. The Big Man speaks, and objectifies, while Gus is trapped in a silent animality. Yet because of the dual valency of his gaze, its simultaneous familiarity and alterity, something breaks down. The hybrid’s gaze unsettles, for we are not sure what is looking back. Berger argues that it is the animal’s silence, their inability to speak, which renders them abject: “But always its lack of common language, its silence, guarantees its distance, its distinctness, its exclusion, from and of man” (2009, p. 14). Yet in the visual grammar of comics, this is not the case, as the reader’s gaze enables the character’s silence to speak. Gus’ silence is amplified and given meaning in a narrative space where his wordless gaze identifies reader and protagonist, foregrounds our interpretive role against the normative ideology of the hunter’s words and undercuts his verbal posturing. For the reader of Sweet Tooth, the “silent” visual language and that of the words on the page interweave and combine – the hybrid medium embodies the perspective of the hybrid character and recreates it for the reader/viewer. We simultaneously witness, and enact the reciprocal gaze, aware of the frames and the spaces between them. Our enactment of

60  Ariel Kahn Gus’ gaze leads us towards a moment of embodied understanding in which we are simultaneously both Derridean philosophers and poets, cognisant of the bridge between the visual symbol and its philosophical implications. We balance anthropomorphism and anthropodenial. As we enact the exchange of gazes, we create the connection, and anticipate the possibility of change. Berger is sanguine about the impact of such moments of connection in a capitalist context rooted in the subjection of the animal: “The result is unsettling: there is more solitude, more pain, more dereliction” (2009, p. 11). Yet I would argue that such moments enable an understanding, a bringing to the surface, of the dystopian impulses that underlie our subjection of the animal. Such a morally charged moment undercuts the ego-defences constructed to keep these internal, negative forces at bay – defences which, I would argue, simply project them onto the outside world, thus creating the possibility of dystopia and apocalypse. In embodying both similarity and difference, both the animal and the human, Gus bridges both Berger’s and Derrida’s dialectics, and gives us a more open-ended, nuanced and complex understanding of human-animal interactions and identities.

Dwelling in the Dissolve Stacy Alaimo (2016) suggests that only a truly liminal figure can call into question boundaries embedded by capitalism in our discourses of postmodernity. She makes a plea for [d]welling in the dissolve, where fundamental boundaries have begun to come undone, unravelled by unknown futures, can be a form of ethical engagement that emanates from both feminist and environmental practices. (Alaimo, 2016, p. 2) Vaughn and Staples’ protagonist, Hazel is such a challenge to the dystopian world in which she finds herself because her very being calls these demarcations into question. She embodies multiple points of view, symbolic languages and races. As a result, she must often keep parts of herself hidden from adults around her. Every exposure is a risk, such as in the moment (Vaughan & Staples, 2012, p. 314) where she reveals to a sympathetic teacher the wings she keeps hidden. “She gave me these” (2012, p. 314) suggests that Hazel sees her wings as a gift. It is an interesting moment to contrast with the meeting of Gus and Jeppard. Hazel is much more active – she facilitates the revelation of her hybridity by unbinding her wings, recalling the ways women have “passed” as men to subvert patriarchal norms by binding their breasts. In addition to

Hopeful Hybridities  61 revealing herself to the gaze of her female teacher, Hazel also speaks – so unlike Gus in his moment of encounter with Jeppard, she is simultaneously the human and the animal. The effect on her teacher is dramatic – in her shock, she falls, hits her head and loses consciousness. It is the teacher, the authority figure, who is silenced. The narrative trajectory of Hazel’s retrospective account, which forms the textual base of Saga (2012), finds its own figurative representation in the sentient tree rocket the family use to escape. This is very much a living character in the narrative, which moves the characters from one plane to another both literally and psychologically, changing their perspective on their control of their bodies and of nature. I would suggest that it embodies a new materialist perspective, explicated by Alaimo as insisting on the agency and significance of matter, maintain that even in the Anthropocene, or, especially in the Anthropocene, the substance of what was once called “nature,” acts, interacts, and even intra-acts within, through, and around human bodies and practices. (Alaimo, 2008, p. 1) The tree is both “natural” and an actor in the story. When the fiery and forceful Alana asks who is controlling it, she is informed “you don’t steer a rocketship, you ride it” (Vaughan & Staples, 2012, p. 158). The ship forms a symbiotic bond with Alana, so that when she is threatened by Marko’s father, she is certain it will defend her. In a subversion of the Christian trope of a woman’s body and sexuality as a source of lapsarian sin and disharmony, Alana claims that “It’s already seen me naked, so I’m pretty sure it’ll do whatever I say” (Vaughan & Staples, 2012, p. 181). The ship responds by entangling her antagonist in vines which can only be broken when he shares something of his private self, enabling the two characters to “grow” close. It enables Alana and her father-in-law, who are from warring races, to dissolve their differences. It also foreshadows the self-revelation of Hazel’s body which we have already discussed, suggesting that her winged body, like the rocketship, cannot simply be rationally “steered,” but must be “ridden,” just like the flight of the narrative itself. Hazel, who is of course named after a tree, makes the links between her body, the rocketship and the narrative arc explicit when she states that “most of my childhood was spent clinging to the feathers of a dulled arrow blindly fired across a starless night” (Vaughan & Staples, 2012, p. 163). The double darkness of “blind” and “starless” suggests the lack of an inclusive vision, which has led to her parents’ flight, while “dulled” hints that the unknown goal of this arrow might not be a painful one.

62  Ariel Kahn The shift from weaponised antagonism to symbiosis which the Rocketship effects speaks to the readers’ sense of the interweaving of tree and person, wings and horns, which Hazel’s retrospective narration in Saga enacts, both visually and verbally. Alaimo wonders what kind of imaginative construct could enable this kind of symbiosis: What forms of ethic and politics arise from the sense of being embedded in, exposed to, and even composed of the very stuff of a rapidly transforming material world? Can exposing human flesh while making space for multispecies liveliness disperse and displace human exceptionalism? (2016, p. 1) The exposure of flesh, by both Alana and her daughter Hazel, is precisely the trigger for “interspecies liveliness” in the narrative. This is because they are at home with their hybridity, with “dwelling in the dissolve.”

Mythic Modalities: Intimations of Immortality Braidotti argues that by confronting trauma, here articulated through dystopian and post-apocalyptic narrative, we enable the articulation of “future-oriented perspectives, which do not deny the traumas of the past but transforms them into possibilities for the present” (Braidotti, 2013, p. 268). She sees the kinds of physical mutation embodied by Gus and Hazel as underpinning a profound shift in ethical and cultural understanding, which “redefines what it means to be human through nomadic practices of transpositions of differences in the sense of practices of the not-One, of affinities and viral contaminations, interdependence and non-entropic economies of desire” (Braidotti, 2013, p. 274). This is a helpful formulation for thinking about the imaged reality of hybrid bodies in dystopian comics, and the role of such images in reimagining our own bodies and their hybridity. In this way, nestling within the post-apocalyptic narrative, Lemire opens out new utopian possibilities through the visual signifier of hybridity. This, rather than the nature of the apocalypse or its origins, became his focus as the work progressed: Yeah, the first half of the series was all about the mystery of the plague, and where the hybrids came from. But answering those mysteries was never what the book was about. It was always just the catalyst for the plot to move forward. Really what the book was about was what came after the plague: This new race, this new species, and what they meant for mankind and what they represent. (Jensen, 2019)

Hopeful Hybridities  63 Lemire contrasts the framing of natural and unnatural by the characters in Sweet Tooth as projected onto these hybrid children by the adults around them, and suggests that they embody a more mythic response to our modern crisis: As the mystery of the hybrids unfolded, the prevailing perspective expressed by the adults in the book was that these creatures represented something unnatural, a tragic consequence of the plague that killed much of humanity. Instead, what seemed to emerge was that this new form of life represented nature’s fix – or maybe some mystical-spiritual fix – for the problem of irreparably screwed-up humanity itself. At least, that was my reading. (Jensen, 2019) This notion of “nature’s fix” linked to a spiritual, transcendent layer of meaning is worth unpacking. In her most recent work, Haraway makes a more radical assault on the field of posthuman studies, and argues for a more profound and sustaining hybridity, founded on a similarly mythic interpenetration, in which bodies transcend their limitations and we become aware of our interweaving with nature: We are compost, not posthuman: we inhabit the humustitites, not the humanities. Philosophically, I am a compostist, not a posthumanist. Critters – human and not – become-with each other, ­compose and decompose each other, in every scale and register of time and stuff in sympoetic tangling, in ecological evolutionary developmental earthly worlding and unworlding. (2016, p. 97) In Sweet Tooth, the first moment when we experience this decomposing and recomposing is at the death of Sweet Tooth’s father. This moment is presented as postlinguistic; “my dad stopped talking to God after that, stopped saying much of anything” (Lemire & Villarrubia, 2010, Vol. 2, p. 11). In Sweet Tooth, Haraway’s “sympoetic tangling” is enacted visually on this double-page spread; the tree which dominates the visual field also frames the entire double-page spread, and each wood-framed panel is entwined with tendrils reaching out towards one another. We can also read this entanglement of the verbal and the visual fields as analogous to that of the human and the animal embodied by Sweet Tooth himself. Moira Gatens, drawing on Spinoza, argues for the amorphous nature of the human body, which can never be viewed as a final or finished product as in the case of the Cartesian automaton, since it is a body that is in constant

64  Ariel Kahn interchange with its environment. The human body is radically open to its surroundings and can be composed, recomposed and decomposed by other bodies. (1996, p. 110) From this perspective, Sweet Tooth embodies the death of humanity as a positive moment, a post-human moment. The death of Gus’s father is seen as part of the natural cycle, as his body “melts away” like the snow, “Til there wasn’t nothing left” (Lemire & Villarrubia, 2010, Vol. 2, p. 11). This final double-negative of composing/decomposing is juxtaposed to the image of Gus himself, suggesting that it is this space of no-thing, of non-binary being which he inhabits, that absences can be presences too. Gus suggests what it might mean to have embodied knowledge of our own mortality. Coetzee’s Costello suggests both the risk and the desirability of such knowledge: “For an instant, before my whole structure of knowledge collapses in panic, I am alive inside that contradiction, dead and alive at the same time” (2003, p. 77). Costello is reflecting on the limitations of philosopher Thomas Nagel’s celebrated thought experiment, What Is It Like to Be a Bat (1979): his denial that we can know what it is to be anything but ourselves seems to me to be tragically restrictive, restrictive and restricted. To Nagel a bat is a fundamentally alien creature, not perhaps as alien as a Martian but certainly more alien than any fellow human being. (2003, p. 76) This sense of the other as alien can only lead to alienation. In contrast to Nagel, Costello aspires to an act of imaginative empathy, of community which might dissolve both internal and external boundaries: To be a living bat is to be full of being; being fully a bat is like being fully human, which is also to be full of being. Bat being in the first case, human being in the second, maybe; but those are secondary considerations. To be full of being is to live as a body-soul. One name for the experience of full being is joy. (2003, p. 78) Coetzee hints here at why hybrid identity in these comics points the way not to a Swiftian or Kafkian dystopia, but to the utopian possibility of wholeness, if we only acknowledge the source of the wound, the othering of the animal within and around us. The challenge of what it might mean to live as a winged thing is at the heart of Big Questions, depicted through the experiences of the wordless central human protagonist, whom the birds refer to as the Idiot. A more hopeful interspecies relationship than Nagel’s is enacted by the Idiot and

Hopeful Hybridities  65 his relationship with the bird Bayle. In this double-page spread (Nilsen, 2011, p. 252–253), we see the Idiot literally “dwelling in the dissolve,” standing in the river that is the boundary of the world he knows. A bird alights on his outstretched hand. It has been watching him from a distance and has decided to risk all and encounter him directly. At first, he thinks of consuming it, but the sound of the bomb exploding distracts him, and he plunges the bird underwater, crosses back over the river and then returns to confront the Pilot. The bird’s perspective, which we are given later in the narrative, is expressed in explicitly Ovidian, Orphic terms; “he killed me. I was dead, and then he brought me back to life” (Nilsen, 2011, p. 333), foreshadowing the way that the bird Algernon, after entering the Orphic underworld confronts his loss and returns to the land of the living. In this waterlogged moment, Bayle and the Idiot are dwelling in the dissolve, both literally and figuratively. They, and the comic that delineates their story, are an invitation to the reader to immerse ourselves in the world of “vulnerable creaturely life,” and to see how this might include both the animal and the human – how they are as interdependent as image and text are in this visual medium. Significantly, the bird later reframes this encounter in terms of the reciprocal gaze that was at the heart of our discussion of Sweet Tooth: “I tried to twist out of its grasp, but all I could do, confronted with its gaze, was stare back and blink” (Nilsen, 2011, p. 35). The impact of this gaze on the bird is strikingly different from that on Jeppard in Sweet Tooth. For after this moment, bird and human form an example of what Tsing describes as an assemblage. “Assemblages are open-ended gatherings. They allow us to ask about communal effects without assuming them. They show us potential histories in the making” (Tsing, 2015, pp. 22–23). The Idiot embodies this notion of the assemblage, of alternative modes of hybrid community not based on hierarchy, birds perch on his head (Nilsen, 2011, p. 280) and predators sniff his hands but leave him unharmed. He moves through the animal community with an Orphic imperviousness. Orpheus is initially presented, in Metamorphoses Book X, as “sitting amidst a crowded assembly of birds and of beasts” (Ovid, 2004, p. 389). Through the idiot, and the materiality of his wordless, tactical and visual communication, Nilsen enacts the empathy that Nagel claimed we are incapable of. Fiona Staples, artist of Saga, commented on the diversity of fantastic and real life she drew that “[I] just try to treat them like they all exist naturally alongside each other” (Spencer, 2019). Big Questions itself grew from discrete notebooks into a larger work in an organic process of accretion and interweaving, an assemblage in which both characters and the images and text which represent them undergo constant, deliberately destabilising shifts in status and meaning. It is this hybridity of both medium and protagonist that enable us to build bridges between the philosopher and the poet, the

66  Ariel Kahn “imagination” and our “critical intelligence.” It is notable that the final version of Big Questions opens with a visual epigraph. In this epigraph, we see a bird digging in the soil with human hands that extend from the sides of its body. As Nilsen commented in an interview with Publisher’s Weekly, “our hands are organs we use to manipulate and control our world- they are as uniquely human an attribute as it gets” (James, 2019). The image is subtitled “Asanalognosia, whose hand is it anyway.” Nilsen signifies his dismantling of the ascendancy of human techne, through his own hand-drawn enactment of a synthesis of the human and non-­ human which he describes as embodying a “sort of alienation from one’s own sense of control, our own agency” (James, 2019). This hybrid creature enacts the synthesis of bird and human represented within the main ­narrative by the assemblage enacted by Bayle and the Idiot. Alaimo’s suggestive term “figurations” is especially apt when applied to a visual narrative such as this. For example, in a tense encounter with Isaac, who remains hostile to the animal kingdom, the Idiot seeks to demonstrate an alternative way of seeing nature. He proffers a hand in which he holds Bayle and sets him free (Nilsen, 2011, p. 274). Bayle performs a complex looping flight as he re-joins his fellow birds, like the dance of a bee, that sees him circle away from the idiot and back again, threading the two together in a wordless double panel (Nilsen, 2011, p. 275). Nilsen’s tangled panel of the birds’ flight suggests a shift of scale and perspective for the reader who enacts what Alaimo describes as: scale shifting that is intrepidly – even psychedelically – empathetic, rather than safely ensconced… a paradoxical ecodelic expansion and dissolution of the human, an aesthetic incitement to extend and connect with vulnerable creaturely life… It is to expose oneself as a political act, to shift toward a particularly feminist mode of ethical and political engagement. (Alaimo, 2016, p. 168) The two figures of Idiot and Pilot are dwarfed here by the “scale shifting” of the delicate tracery of the bird’s flight pathways, visually represented through a series of looping dotted lines that evoke writing without resolving itself into any discernible meaning. This presents the subject of the gazes of the two characters for the reader’s discernment. We both witness and experience a “dissolution of the human,” through the “aesthetic incitement” of Nilsen’s lyrical line-work. To complement this non-verbal communication, the Idiot raises the arm of his dead mother which he has found among the rubble, signifying for the reader both that the human body is frail, and that we all return to the Earth, the same hybrid perspective which Gus in Sweet Tooth enacted in his experience of his father’s death. The arm is the “no-thing” that is left

Hopeful Hybridities  67 of his mother. In this moment, the Idiot represents an interpenetration of Eros and Thanatos – as he did for Bayle, he seeks to blur the boundaries between life and death for the Pilot, to reveal that they are part of a ­cyclical continuum, rather than binary opposites. The pilot, his life built on such dichotomies, backs away in horror. “Quit fucking touching me,” he cries (Nilsen, 2011, p. 273). The Idiot embodies a material kind of communication, in contrast to the Pilot’s verbal aggression. This goes to the root of a dismantling of the hierarchies of human versus animal built on the centrality of language. Barad frames this question forcefully: How did language come to be more trustworthy than matter? Why are language and culture granted their own agency and historicity while matter is figured as passive and immutable, or at best inherits a potential for change derivatively from language and culture? (2008, pp. 120–121) The non-verbal “Idiot” proves to be very useful indeed. He is one of Haraway’s “critters,” and thus suggests a utopian reframing from within an ostensibly post-apocalyptic narrative, giving matter a voice through a gestural, figurative discourse that leads us away from purely textual narrative hierarchies. The political significance and implications of the Idiot’s perspective are suggested by the very different trajectory of the Pilot’s character and his responses to the various species he encounters. These signifying modes centre around two animals which interact specifically with the Pilot: the snake and the swan. Nilsen notes the dual mythic valances of the snake he seeks to draw on: Snakes have a certain ancient weight of literary content. There’s the Garden of Eden, of course, but also in Greek mythology, snakes are often credited with great wisdom because of their closeness to the earth. I guess I’m trying to embody the latter, while playing on the association so of the former. (James, 2019) The snake rescues Algernon, a bird haunted by the loss of his beloved when her tree is destroyed by the bomb the Pilot drops. He takes the bird underground, where it recovers its Orphic ability to sing. The snake leads it to an underworld where it briefly recovers its beloved, loses her and then comes to terms with this loss, before being led out to the light to rejoin the flock. This contrasts with the darker Ovidian presentation of the poet unable to save either his beloved or himself, since “the double death of his Eurydice stole Orpheus’s wits away” (Ovid, 2004, pp. 226–227). In contrast to the failed music of the great poet of nature, the Snake acts as a healing mentor, subverting the notions of sin projected on it since the

68  Ariel Kahn Edenic biblical narrative. As discussed, it later does battle with the pilot to save the flock, meeting its own death, sacrificing itself for the good of others. Just before he drops his bomb and then crashes his plane, the pilot has a dream in which he imagines killing a swan. His relationship with life and death becomes interwoven with swans both real and imagined. He experiences the swan first breaking forth from the ground, a vast chthonic being, foreshadowing where the swan will take him, returning him to his “humustity.” Awake, re-enacting his dream, he cuts the bird open, this time releasing not blood, but a flock of the finches he’s been fighting with. The striking image of the flock emerging from the chest of the swan recalls the conclusion of Coetzee’ novel. Framed as a letter from a seventeenth-century version of Costello to Francis Bacon, it evokes the potentially painful awareness engendered in both the pilot and the reader through shifting from the single animal to a plurality: A dog sitting in a patch of sun licking itself, says he, is at one moment a dog and at the next a vessel of revelation. And perhaps he speaks the truth, perhaps in the mind of our Creator (our Creator, I say) where we whirl about as if in a millrace we interpenetrate and are interpenetrated by fellow creatures by the thousand. But how I ask you can I live with rats and dogs and beetles crawling through me day and night, drowning and gasping, scratching at me, tugging me, urging me deeper and deeper into revelation – how? (2003, p. 229) The same shift from the singular to the plural, from the prosaic to the mythic, is recreated in the Pilot’s engagement with the swan. He follows the bird through the woods, and stumbles Tiresias-like on a scene of the swan entangled with the snake. In Ovidian myth, Tiresias famously shifted his gender after seeing two snakes copulating; in this narrative the shift is from a human to an animal perspective, from above ground to below it. The Pilot rejects these possibilities and kills Bayle, intending to destroy the possibility of intra-activity the bird and the Idiot represent, and to sever their bond. When he opens fire on the rest of the flock, the Pilot is attacked by the snake, which intervenes and bites him to protect them, departing from its predatory role. The Pilot shoots at the snake, severing its head from its body just as his plane amputated the mother’s arm from her body. We see this moment from the pilot’s limited and limiting perspective. The shape of the snake’s earth-bound body recalls for the reader the shape of the looping flight of the birds over 200 pages earlier in the narrative in an ironic echo and inversion. The Pilot’s “cogito” a­ pproach has severed the head from the body, the mind from the rest of the self. Seeking to represent the human as “non-animal,” as dis-­embodied, we find, and see, only death and destruction. In this possible Eden, it is

Hopeful Hybridities  69 r­ ationalist machismo that locks us in an endless cycle of violence, severing links and bodies instead of connecting them (Nilsen, 2011, p. 518). For Ovid, it takes an act of violence against nature for Tiresias to return to his original male form: “He struck the snakes and so regained the shape he had at birth” (Ovid, 2004, pp. 331–332). Both Orpheus and Tiresias traverse uncrossable boundaries – between sexes, between life and death. Yet their crossing serves only to reinforce these boundaries, and they suffer for doing so. In Big Questions, the dying Pilot opens his mouth and spews forth a flock of blackbirds, who represent themselves in the narrative as the “flying dead, always hungry, feeding on the misery of the world” (Nilsen, 2011, p. 371). The identification of the Pilot with this dystopian perspective is not the final word on the character, however. A pair of swans, acting as psychopomps, transport him to the underworld limbo/purgatory of the birds, which from ­A lgernon emerged transformed. Yet the bird’s cyclical journey, its mythic re-enactment of death and rebirth, is closed to the Pilot, whose actions embody the obscene violence of the Anthropocene. His fate is to remain, in death, a lone human surrounded by the animal spirits he denied while alive (Nilsen, 2011, p. 544). That deathly solitude, Nilsen implies, might be our self-created, dystopian present. The pilot is forced to confront his own “interpenetration” with and by the birds he has fought against, even as the parallels between their existence and his have become gradually clear to the attentive reader. The question that Costello asks, “how can I live?” she presents as a reality at once utopian and dystopian, a dwelling in the mind of “the Creator” that is alive with painfully d ­ issonant, embodied voices that “scratch” at her. This, in turn, evokes the mark-­ making of the comics we have explored, and the ways in which they enable us to inhabit the worldviews of their “creators” and protagonists while retaining ambiguity and multiplicity, channelling Suvin’s longing for future dystopias which might enact a more mature polyphony envisaging different possibilities for different agents and circumstances, and thus leaving formal closure cognitively open-ended, regardless of whether at the end of the novel the positive values be victorious or defeated. (Suvin, 1987, p. 83)

Open Endings: What Is the Matter? We have traced the disruptive impact of considering key works of dystopian and post-apocalyptic visual narratives from a trope-ic perspective. Rather than simply considering which schema best fits each one, we have shown the way in which key moments of recognition and transformation convey a utopian subtext seemingly at odds with the surrounding narrative, but in fact articulating the key thematic preoccupations of

70  Ariel Kahn each text. In so doing, we are engaging in a dissolution of boundaries akin to that which the protagonists experience, highlighting ambiguity and rendering simple oppositions of utopian/dystopian redundant. As Jameson warned: I also want to caution about the facile deployment of the opposition between Utopia and dystopia: these formal or generic concepts, which have become current since science fiction, seem to lend themselves to a relatively simple play of oppositions in which the enemies of Utopia can easily be sorted out from its friends. (Jameson, 1994, p. 55) If these comics are “frenemies” of both dys-and-utopic vision, unpicking the seam between them, it is because they are in dialogue with the ­literary landscape limned by Montaigne, Swift and Kafka. While ­Gulliver’s reason breaks down after his encounter with the Yahoos, after he has i­nternalised the alienating perspective of the Houyhnhnms, Gus in Sweet Tooth is at home with his own hybridity and able to transform the anthropocentric views of Jeppard, his ostensible antagonist. In contrast to the painful loss of embodied selfhood represented by Kafka’s Red ­Peter, who attains language but loses access to the fullness of his own lived experience, we have the Idiot in Big Questions, who enters the wordless communal space of the birds, and achieves the “sympoesis” which ­Haraway suggests we aim for in our future constructions of physical and ideological space: “Sympoesis is a word proper to complex, dynamic, responsive, situated historical systems. It is a word for ­worlding-with, in company” (Haraway, 2016, p. 58). To think productively, to escape the dystopian trap of Cartesian thought which Montaigne sketched so effectively, we need to acknowledge that we carry the seeds within us of both Heaven and Hell, as Hazel does in Saga, with her horns and wings. These fantasy models are far from fantastical, as eco-scientist Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing argues: “interspecies entanglements that once seemed the stuff of fables are now materials for serious discussion among biologists and ecologists, who show life requires the interplay of many kinds of being” (2015, p. vii). It is precisely this interplay of diverse, hybrid ways of being and seeing, which acknowledge the basis of the dystopian drift of our damaged relationship to the animal and natural world, which each of the narratives we have discussed delineate. Identifying key tropes, from the ­embodied gaze to the dissolution of boundaries, enables us to reclaim these works as productive tools to think with. At the heart of each is a vital disruption of the key binary of control, the absence of which might seem to plunge us into a chaotic post-apocalypse. Yet its destabilisation instead releases a rich seam of fabulous, fabulist modern

Hopeful Hybridities  71 myths, revisioning our relationship with the animal within and around us, something Tsing longs for: Without Man and Nature, all creatures come back to life, all men and women can express themselves without the structures of a parochially imagined rationality. No longer relegated to whispers in the night, such stories might be simultaneously true and fabulous. (2015, pp. vii–viii) The field of dystopian and fantasy visual narrative is ripe for further exploration of such hybridity, from the mainstream world of Marvel’s X-Men, whose animal-human character “Beast” is often the negotiator/ mediator between the mutants and the humans, to the equally politically charged work of auteur artist Shaun Tan. The relationship of both Tan’s work and that of Marvel to multimedia remediation suggests the potential impact and resonance of this approach. In a wider context, this interdisciplinary approach to hybridity enables us to revision our engagement and relationships with the natural world and the forms of knowledge and community it embodies. These insights suggest ways we can move away from the egotism of anthropo-centricity and grow towards a less dystopian future.

References Alaimo, S. (2000) Undomesticated Ground: Recasting Nature as Feminist Space. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. Alaimo, S. (2008), Material Feminisms, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Alaimo, S. (2016), Exposed: Environmental Politics and Pleasures in Posthuman Times, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Baccolini, R. & Moylan, T. (2013), Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, London: Routledge. Barad, K. (2008), “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter,” in S. Alaimo & S. Hekman (eds.), Material Feminisms, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 120–156. Berger, J. (2009), Why Look at Animals? London: Penguin Books. Braidotti, R. (2013), The Posthuman, Cambridge: Polity Press. Clarke, J. (2002), “The Human/Not Humans in the Work of Orlan and Stelarc,” in J. Zylinska (ed.), The Cyborg Experiments: The Extensions of the Body in the Media Age, London: Continuum, pp. 33–55. Coetzee, J.M. (2003), Elizabeth Costello, London: Vintage Books. Conrad, J. (1995), Heart of Darkness, London: Penguin Books. Curtis, C.P. (2010), Postapocalyptic Fiction and the Social Contract, London: Lexington Books. Derrida, J. & Mallet, M. (2008), The Animal That Therefore I Am, New York: Fordham University Press. Gatens, M. (1996), Imaginary Bodies, London: Routledge.

72  Ariel Kahn Glazter, Nahum N. (Ed.) (1983) The Penguin Complete Stories of Franz Kafka. London: Penguin. Haraway, D. (1991), “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-­ feminism in the Late Twentieth Century,” in D. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, pp. 149–181. Haraway, D. (2008a), “Otherworldly Conversations, Terran Topics, Local Terms,” in S. Alaimo & S. Hekman (eds.), Material Feminisms, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 157–187. Haraway, D. (2008b), “When Species Meet.” Posthumanities 3, pp. 3–44. Haraway, D. (2016), Staying with the Trouble, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Jaques, Z. (2015), Children’s Literature and the Posthuman: Animal, Environment, Cyborg. New York ; London: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. James, R. (2019), Massive, Eccentric, Ambitious: Anders Nilsen’s ‘Big Questions’. www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/comics/­article/ 48284-massive-eccentric-ambitious-anders-nilsen-s-big-questions.html. ­Accessed 2 May 2019. Jameson, F. (2005), Archaeologies of the Future, London: Verso. Jensen, J. (2019), The End of “Sweet Tooth:” A Deep Dive with Jeff Lemire about Wrapping Up His Acclaimed Comic Book Saga. https://ew.com/ article/2013/01/09/the-end-of-sweet-tooth-jeff-lemire. Accessed 7 March 2019. Lemire, J. & Villarrubia, J. (2010), Sweet Tooth, New York: Vertigo/DC Comics. Lowenhaupt, T.A. (2015), The Mushroom at the End of the World On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. McCloud, S. (1994), Understanding Comics, New York: Harper Perennial. Mohr, D. (2005), Worlds Apart? Dualism and Transgression in Contemporary Female Dystopias, Jefferson, NC: Mcfarland & Company. Nagel, T. (1979), Mortal Questions, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nilsen, A. (2011), Big Questions, Montréal: Drawn & Quarterly. Pepperell, R. (2009), The Posthuman Condition, Bristol: Intellect. Ovid. (2004). Metamorphoses. (D. Raeburn & D. Feeny, Trans.), London: Penguin. Screech, M.A. (trans.) (1993), The Essays of Michel de Montaigne, London: Penguin. Spencer, A. (2019), Saga #50: How an Improbable Comic Has Shaped the ­Industry. www.polygon.com/comics/2018/3/28/17168028/saga-brian-k-vaughan-­comicfiona-staples-image. Accessed 2 May 2019. Suvin, D.R. (1987), Positions and Presuppositions in Science Fiction, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Swift, J. (1984), Gulliver’s Travels, London: Penguin. Tsing, A. L. (2015), The Mushroom at the End of the World: on the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Vaughan, B. & Staples, F. (2012), Saga, New York: Image Comics. Vector: Sequentials #1. (n.d.), Women and SF Comics. www.comicbookgrrrl. com/2015/01/02/vector-sequentials-1-women-and-sf-comics. Accessed 9 April 2019.

Hopeful Hybridities  73 Vint, S. (2010), Animal Alterity: Science Fiction and the Question of the Animal, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Vint, S. (2017), “Animal Alterity: Science Fiction and Human-Animal Studies,” in R. Latham (ed.), Science Fiction Criticism – An Anthology of Essential Writings, London: Bloomsbury, pp. 414–436. Voights, E. (2015), “Introduction: The Dystopian Imagination – An Overview,” in E. Voights, & A. Boller (eds.), Dystopia, Science Fiction, Post-Apocalypse: Classics – New Tendencies – Model Interpretations, Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, pp. 1–12. Wolfe, C. (2003), Zoontologies: The Question of the Animal, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

4 Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin Using Evolution to Explain Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race Emelie Jonsson Introduction Darwin’s account of humanity’s origin is unlike any other in human history. Whereas folk mythology, pantheistic epics and world religions assure us that we are groomed for a special position in a cosmos guided by human moral laws, Darwinian evolution reveals the human species as an organism shaped by chance mutations, its moral feelings a result of its survival strategy. Suddenly, the age old questions have a different tone. Where did humans come from? What makes us special? How do we fit into nature? And, most pressingly, what future can we hope for? ­Naturalistic cosmology did not just expose humans as ephemeral creatures in an amoral environment; it also provided unique answers to those questions. It allowed humans to step outside the human perspective more fully than before, to study our own behaviour the way we would study the behaviour of other species. Already in Darwin’s day, this new perspective sparked myriad speculations by scientists, philosophers and political thinkers – and imaginative works by artists. Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race, published the same year as The Descent of Man (1871), was one of the first novels to engage with Darwinism. It portrays an underground civilisation called the Vril-ya, which has developed along an evolutionary track different from the rest of humanity. Bulwer Lytton used the Vril-ya to project a strikingly ambivalent vision of humanity’s evolutionary future: at once a dream image of a perfect society and a nightmare of humanity’s end. The novel illustrates how Darwinian evolution changed the stage for dystopian – and utopian – fiction. The Coming Race was, initially, a massive popular success. It was so attractive to its contemporaries that it inspired a “Coming Race B ­ azaar” at the Albert Hall (arguably an early science fiction convention) and a “Vril-ya Club” that partook of “sun tans, moon bathing, and deep breathing” in order to bring on “human transmutation” (Bloom, 2013, p. 40). Bulwer Lytton tapped into the popular ‘lost world’ genre – a subgenre of adventure stories launched by H. Rider Haggard but prefigured by Anglophone writers from Thomas More to Jonathan Swift. The lost world of The Coming Race is found by the adventurer Tish, as

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  75 he pursues mysterious lights and voices down a mine. Tish discovers the Vril-ya, explores their domains, is threatened with execution because Vril-ya females show romantic interest in him and finally escapes with the aid of a female. Within that simple plot, Bulwer Lytton encompasses imagery from Heaven and Hell, amateur linguistics, caricatures of scientific debates, automatons, pratfalls, ambivalent feminism, theodicy, potshots at democracy and giant lizards. The Vril-ya themselves are an extraordinary creation: beautiful and terrifying humanlike shapes – but with the mechanical wings of angels – commanding a pseudo-scientific life force that controls both minds and matter. Their way of life makes it impossible for them to coexist with humans, and their success means that it is only a matter of time before they “emerge into sunlight our inevitable destroyers” (Bulwer Lytton, 2010, p. 113). In contrast to many later invasive species of fiction – H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds features one of the earliest and most m ­ emorable – the Vril-ya are superior to humans in morals as well as in power: they “unite and harmonise into one system nearly all the objects which the various philosophers of the upper world have placed before human hopes as the ideals of a Utopian future” (Bulwer Lytton, 2010, p. 102). The Vril-ya are an amalgam of human social ideals, detached from humanity, embodied in a separate species and projected as a threat to the very existence of humanity. The Coming Race is a reflection on Darwinian utopianism quite as nuanced and disturbing as The Time Machine (1895), Brave New World (1932) or Vonnegut’s Galapagos (1985). Yet, today, The Coming Race is almost forgotten. Part of the reason may be that its narrative structure looks antiquated to modern eyes. It imitates academic monographs and anthropological travel journals, and it engages heavily with intellectual concerns that are no longer uppermost in our minds. But the greater reason may be that it has too much nuance for its own good. The Coming Race is so ambiguous and ambivalent that it appears incoherent. The central theme of the novel is the conflict between imperfect humanity and the utopian Vril-ya, but Bulwer Lytton does not depict that conflict clearly or offer a reliable perspective to assess it. The human narrator, Tish, is unreliable: he is the politically naive straight man in Bulwer Lytton’s satire of American democracy. The Vril-ya themselves, though morally and intellectually superior to Tish (and all humans), are unable to think outside their social order – and they end up as a looming threat to all of humanity. These two conflicting perspectives are not encompassed by any interventions in Bulwer Lytton’s own voice. He enacts the conflict between his characters rather than giving imaginative shape to it, leaving his readers frustratingly suspended. Through both its strengths and weaknesses, The Coming Race illuminates the clash between Darwin’s origin story and the human imagination. Bulwer Lytton was imagining the future of humanity in a culture

76  Emelie Jonsson awakening to the first metaphysical stings of a fully naturalistic cosmology. If the human species is constantly changing, what does that mean for human morality and social norms? Are the highest social ideals of our imagination more valuable than the qualities we currently recognise as human? Do we have a moral responsibility to shape our species for the future? These questions, though unacknowledged by Bulwer Lytton, become the pressing undercurrent of his novel. For his first readers, the questions had the added stimulus of novelty, but they have not lost their force. Though time has partially closed the cosmological wound opened by Darwin, the wound has never fully healed. The Coming Race provides a vivid picture of what that wound looked like when it was still raw, ragged and open.

Darwinian Evolution as an Origin Story For writers and readers today, evolutionary theory remains an ­imaginative challenge, but it is also a resource for understanding our imagination. Since Darwin’s day, biologists, anthropologists and psychologists have gradually made it possible to approach works of imagination from an evolutionary perspective. The human sciences have increased our understanding of the deep motivations and biases of the human mind, uncovering both the extreme human behavioural flexibility mediated through culture and the traits and behaviours that form the ­cross-cultural environmental niche of our species (Kaplan et al., 2007, 2009). Our shared survival strategy has determined the core concerns of human lives throughout evolutionary history, and thus, it has shaped the foundations of our imagination ­(Carroll, 2012a). Mythological cosmologies please the human imagination by projecting the concerns of our survival strategy onto the rest of the universe. All humans use cooperation, culture and complex cognition to control the environment to levels unique in the animal kingdom (­Gangestad & ­Simpson, 2007, pp. 233–363; Chudek & Henrich, 2011). Across cultures, we share the same basic life cycle: the same extended dependent childhood, the same sexual bonds and cooperative parenting, the same combination of kin- and non-kin social networks, the same reliance on cultural transmission for survival and the same need to use slowly mastered cooperative sustenance techniques to support our ­energy-demanding brains (Kaplan et al., 2007, 2009). In alignment with these panhuman features, mythologies and religions portray the world as a human life cycle – born of or consisting of a human body – or as something created or made livable through human craft. Natural forces in such worlds themselves resemble humans: having parents, children and siblings, forming pair bonds and engaging in group conflicts. Humans are in a position to interact with those cosmic forces through prayer, ritual and sacrifices, as if the forces were superior humans to be

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  77 placated and reasoned with. Mythological cosmic justice is based on human social dispositions, following the logic of reciprocity, reputation, egalitarianism and merit. The histories of mythological worlds are optimally shaped to be memorable and emotionally prominent for us: containing great quests for status and resources and mates, symbolic events centred on hunting and construction, deception and loyalty, community, revenge and forgiveness. Because there is cosmic justice and intention in mythological worlds, the future tends towards some goal that is desirable in human terms – even if that goal is blissful oblivion as a reward for good behaviour. Mythological origin stories strike the chords of our imagination in a much more pleasing way than Darwin’s account of our origin. But mythologies may do more than please. Some evolutionary art theorists hypothesise that imaginative culture, including imaginative cosmology, is a necessary part of our behavioural flexibility: it prevents us from being crippled by indecision or motivational confusion, helps guide our behaviour by developing visions of the past and the future, moral goals, desirable social roles and ways of interacting with the world ­(Dissanayake, 2000; Carroll, 2012b; Gottschall, 2012). According to this hypothesis, arts, legends, religions and ideologies motivate us to particular life choices in particular cultural settings by appealing to the shared foundations of the human imagination. An empirical study of Victorian novels provides a signal example: in hundreds of novels, antagonists aim single-mindedly for individual dominance while protagonists are prosocial, self-effacing, constructive and culturally alert (Carroll et al., 2012). This division between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ obviously does not mirror the reality of Victorian life, nor do the hundreds of novels share any political or philosophical position that could explain it; but the division does correspond to the human egalitarian syndrome: a tendency prevalent among hunter-gatherers to form cooperative bands and punish dominant individuals (Boehm, 1997; Carroll et al., 2009). Novels as different as Dracula (1897) and Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891) or Wuthering Heights (1847) and Pride and Prejudice (1813) evoke and reinforce prosocial morality by activating emotional responses to archetypal protagonists and antagonists. If the hypothesis that imaginative culture helps guide behaviour is right, it makes sense of the problems faced by writers like Bulwer Lytton, perched precariously between mythological and naturalistic cosmologies. Like many of his first readers, Bulwer Lytton struggled to cope with the collapse of mythological origin stories. Though he produced a novel that was thematically and tonally incoherent, he also enacted a moral and existential confusion that pervaded his culture. He framed human evolution imaginatively in a way that no novelist had done before him. He envisioned a future that put intense pressure on the human imagination, by embodying the social ideals of Western philosophy as inhuman

78  Emelie Jonsson creatures evolved from humans. Understanding the ambivalence of The Coming Race can help illuminate the challenges we still face when assimilating naturalistic cosmology. It can also illustrate what has happened to utopian and dystopian fiction after Darwin.

The Riddle of the Lost Novel The Coming Race has tended to be overlooked by modern scholars as well as general readers. In 2012, Michael R. Page complained that Bulwer Lytton, though “one of the leading novelists of his age,” has become “much neglected” and that The Coming Race in particular has “largely gone underappreciated” (Page, 2012, pp. 126, 131). Since then, one notable article has appeared: that of Terra Walston Joseph, who oddly affirms that The Coming Race has “attracted the attention of numerous scholars” – citing as evidence three articles, one of which includes “A Forgotten Satire” in the title (Joseph, 2015, p. 233; for the three articles, see Wagner, 1965; Nayder, 2004; Judge, 2009). In a comprehensive introduction, David Seed (2005) observes that “the limited number of critics addressing The Coming Race have tended to take the novel as an anti-utopia ridiculing the inhuman order of the Vril-ya” (p. xvi). This is a tendency with complications. One of the novel’s earliest reviewers, indeed, places it among “satiric utopias” (Seed, 2005, p. xiii). Joseph, in her recent assessment, holds that Bulwer Lytton follows “the typical strain of satirical utopian fictions,” though she considers his criticism of political reform “less than total” (2015, p. 233). In contrast, Page (2012) claims that The Coming Race “interestingly straddles the divide between utopia and dystopian satire” (p. 129). Leo Henkin (1963) goes one step further and declares that to Bulwer Lytton, “who based his ideal society on the thesis that ‘mortal happiness consists in the extinction of strife and competition,’ the civilization of the Vril-ya was Utopian” (p. 237). These radically different interpretations are less the result of idiosyncratic scholarly perspectives than of an idiosyncratic authorial perspective. Bulwer Lytton’s incoherent ambiguity has forestalled any consensus about the novel’s basic level of meaning. To Seed and Joseph, The Coming Race satirises Women’s Rights and mannish Victorian women, while to Page and Brian Aldiss it is an overlooked feminist novel “consciously trying to imagine a future in which such power relations among the sexes was inverted” (Seed, 2005, p. xxxi; Page [quoting Aldiss], 2012, p. 130; Joseph, 2015, p. 233). To Henkin (1963), The Coming Race is a hopeful scientific projection, “one of the earliest pieces of fiction to exploit the theory of evolution and predict the development of man into a ‘calm, intellectual race’” (p. 235). To Bruce Mazlish (1993), it is instead “strongly anti-materialistic, anti-democratic, and a­ nti-Darwinian,” seeking “to nullify the irrational aggressive threats to [modern society] in the unconscious by embracing some of those very irrational and aggressive

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  79 forces” (p. 743). Judge (2009) sees the novel as a dystopian satire meant to “expose” the fact that all human societies rely on “thoughtless habit” (p. 137). In my view, Page’s characterisation of the novel’s “interesting straddle” between Utopia and Dystopia appears the most adequate – in part because it accounts for the extreme divergences in interpretive opinion among the other commentators (p. 129). From one perspective, as Page (2012) puts it, the Vril-ya are “superior utopians,” and from another “hellish totalitarians” (p. 130). That evocative observation prompts more fundamental questions. What is the nature of the straddle between Utopia and Dystopia? How does that straddle work, structurally and psychologically, for author and readers? Why did the novel have so much contemporary impact, and why has it faded so much from its initial popularity? All of these questions, I believe, can be illuminated by taking into account the evolved shape of the human imagination, the consequent difficulty of assimilating naturalistic cosmology, and the hypothesis that imaginative culture helps guide human behaviour.

The Psychology of a Dystopian Utopia As Bulwer Lytton unrolls the interaction between Tish and the Vril-ya, his hand slips in different directions. The Vril-ya are depicted as frighteningly powerful and chillingly conformist creatures from the first, but they are also beautiful, kind, peace-loving and intelligent; and they inhabit a perfectly controlled society that is genuinely happy. At different stages, their society becomes a lustful power fantasy and a horror vision of tyranny, a dream of social harmony and a nightmare of uneventful conformity. Though the human Tish is the butt of jokes throughout the novel, he also emerges as a sensitive observer registering the Vrilya’s tragicomical relation to humanity. It is his voice that reflects on the meaning of his experience at the end. Since humans cannot coexist with creatures embodying our social ideals, Tish concludes that we “are not trained or fitted to enjoy for long the very happiness of which we dream” (p. 102). This thematic structure could have been consistent with the Vril-ya as monsters. It could have been shaped into either a satirical or a tragic depiction of utopianism – a portrait of the human species foolishly denying its nature or heroically approximating an impossible goal. Bulwer Lytton does not carry through on either the satire or the tragedy. The incoherence of his narrative comes in great part from the incoherence of the human narrator, Tish. Bulwer Lytton’s narrator departs significantly from the egalitarian archetype identified among nineteenth-century protagonists. Tish is neither particularly constructive and curious nor self-effacing – no dauntless adventure story hero out of Haggar or Doyle, and no colourless paragon of virtue or volatile tragic figure out of a Stevensonian morality

80  Emelie Jonsson tale. But neither is he an archetypal antagonist, purely motivated by a desire for dominance. Tish is a compound of human prejudices and passions, occasionally self-aware, proceeding through his adventure with dignity and honour wildly fluctuating. Bulwer Lytton swathes him in ridicule for his boasts about American democracy, his slapstick attempts to master Vril-ya flying technology, and his polite mortification at the amorous attentions of the bold Vril-ya female Zee. The Vril-ya’s perspective on him is consistently condescending, ranging from nurturing affection to a serenely pronounced death sentence. Tish even emphasises his own ridiculousness by adopting as pseudonym the name provided by his hosts: Tish is “a polite and indeed a pet name, literally signifying a small barbarian” (“the children apply it endearingly to the tame species of Frog”) (p. 69). But whereas the Vril-ya are certain that Tish’s kind are inferior to them, Bulwer Lytton uses Tish to obscure the hierarchy between the Vril-ya and humanity. Making Tish a stereotypical American means that Bulwer Lytton can simultaneously wash his hands of him and brandish him against the Vril-ya. As an action-oriented individualist, Tish is the natural adversary of the Vril-ya’s idle conformity. In his most alienated mode, he considers the Vril-ya an “indolent race of philosophers” whose lifestyle oppresses him “with a sense of dulness and monotony” (pp. 97, 102). He longs for “a change, even to winter, or storm, or darkness” (p. 102). Bulwer Lytton tacitly admits to the same feeling when he has the Vril-ya observe that mortals unaccustomed to “the serene equality of immortals” are likely to “find the happiness of gods exceedingly dull” (p. 50). Though Tish is not a hero, Bulwer Lytton joins him in defying the Vril-ya to produce the equals of human heroes: “poets, philosophers, orators, generals” (p. 48). The novel’s final defence of humanity, when Tish achieves his highest level of reflective authority, rests on the fact that the “social system” of the Vril-ya “forbid them to produce those individual examples of human greatness which adorn the annals of the upper world” (p. 104). Tish even strikes a note of tragedy when he imagines the fate of Americans at the hands of the Vril-ya: “my brave compatriots would show fight, and not a soul of them would be left in this life, to rally round the Stars and Stripes, at the end of a week” (p. 105). But both that tragic note and Tish himself are circumscribed by the fact that Bulwer Lytton does not rally round the Stars and Stripes. As a British baron once offered the crown of Greece, he is an heir to what Tish dismisses as “the antiquated and decaying institutions of Europe” – the Europe that produced most of the utopian ideas on which the Vril-ya are based (p. 19). Bulwer Lytton’s conflicted attitude to his narrator goes deep. Though he rallies to Tish’s individualist passion, his birth allies him to the ­Vril-ya’s “suave but lofty good breeding,” and to their well-ordered ­cities associated with “that little state of Athens” (pp. 68, 67). The novel’s most heavy-handed satire occurs when Tish boasts of “that glorious

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  81 American Republic, in which Europe enviously seeks its model and tremblingly foresees its doom” (p. 19). He describes how this model promotes “tranquil happiness”: by preferring “for the exercise of power and the acquisition of honours, the lowliest citizens in point of property, education, and character” (p. 19). The Vril-ya, channelling their author, respond with aristocratic horror. Their word for democracy is “KoomPosh,” meaning “Hollow-Bosh”: “the ascendancy of the most ignorant or hollow” (p. 36). Their theory of history contradicts Tish’s hopes for American predominance: democracy inevitably “degenerates from popular ignorance to that popular passion or ferocity which precedes its decease” – a phase comparable to the French Reign of Terror, which they call “the universal strife-rot” (p. 36). Indeed, a Vril-ya child predicts that the American Republic will enter the universal strife-rot “in much less than another 100 years” (p. 68). And when Tish learns that the Vril-ya share the underground with democratic industrial states, his patriotic dream becomes dwarfed into a funhouse reflection. The people of these underground states, almost identical to nineteenth-century Americans, are referred to as “savages” and exterminated like vermin by the Vril-ya whenever they become troublesome (pp. 64–65). To the shared eyes of Bulwer Lytton and the Vril-ya, Tish – the novel’s only human character – seems to be like democracy itself: it is “bad enough, still it has brains, though at the back of its head, and is not without heart” (p. 68). Tish is an embodiment of human emotions rebelling against rationally derived social perfection. Though he hopes passionately that the American Republic will expand and enlighten the world, he settles into a grim certainty that the Vril-ya will “destroy and replace our existent varieties of man” (p. 105). Without a single argument against the Vril-ya view of democracy, he remains “proud to say” that he is “a citizen of a Koom-Posh” (p. 68). With his brains at the back of his head, he is ally to the “animal organs” in the “hinder cranial hemisphere” that the Vril-ya have supposedly lost – including “amativeness and combativeness” and “the animal love of offspring” (p. 47). Tish’s passions are not just the evil passions of our inner Mr. Hyde propelling us to perdition, but also the passions of heroic adventure protagonists, tending towards death-defying achievements and honourable bonds. Bulwer Lytton openly mocks the negative side of those passions. When Tish fantasises about ruling the Vril-ya, he does not imagine himself a champion of human values reinstating his beloved democracy or reviving high pursuits like moral reasoning, scientific cosmology, competitive achievements and art. Instead, he dreams of becoming absolute monarch, reintroducing alcohol, guns, meat eating, hunting and war for pure ­conquest – a boyish revelry culminating in the personal satisfaction of being “deemed a demigod” (p. 97). This could have been a caricature of a fictional Victorian explorer, stripped of all motivations except self-seeking hedonism. But Bulwer Lytton’s mockery is not so much a condemnation

82  Emelie Jonsson of human passions as a way to signal incompatibility between those passions and the Vril-ya. Tish’s fantasy arises from the romantic attentions of the Vril-ya ruler’s daughter, after he has been dispassionately sentenced to death at the end of a prolonged stay as the prisoner of an authoritarian society. He lashes out with the pure s­ elf-assertion of a bully – the archetypal antagonist of Victorian literature, deeply rooted in human egalitarian dispositions. But Tish is never motivated purely by the desire for dominance. He neither thinks nor acts like the viciously self-seeking Mr. Hyde, or like the citizens in the Vril-ya’s account of democracy’s decline, when “the brain and the heart of the creatures disappear, and they become all jaws, claws, and belly” (p. 68). Tish, like Bulwer Lytton, is genuinely bewildered by the Vril-ya. When his brain is most to the fore, he recognises their “perfection of social or political felicity” (p. 60). He acknowledges that they fulfil “the dreams of our most sanguine philanthropists” but he still wants to avoid “any ignorant disparagement” of humanity in comparison (p. 104). Though he recoils passionately from the authoritarianism and conformity of the Vril-ya, he remains ambivalent to the last about his “duty” to stand against them with humanity and his failure to return the morally perfect love of Zee – for whom he yearns at the end of his story (p. 113). When he boasts of human heroes, Zee responds that progress based on “the predominance of a few over the many” is “utterly opposed” to the Vrilya’s “calm of existence” (pp. 48–49). Tish ends by echoing her opinion (p. 104). Though he asserts that the Vril-ya are an undesirable ideal, his arguments only suggest that they are an impossible ideal: “because we have so combined, throughout the series of ages, the elements which compose human character” (p. 102). The accidental development of the human character is set against the accidental development of the Vril-ya character, and Bulwer Lytton’s inarticulate sympathies most closely resemble an uneasy fatalism. In his vision, human passions are not clearly antagonistic, but they are in unavoidable conflict with the egalitarian harmony of the Vril-ya, which is itself not clearly antagonistic. If the Vril-ya’s guest had been an avatar of vicious selfishness, the novel’s intention as satire of human nature would have been clear. Equally, if he had been a European aristocrat reasoning against the Vril-ya on moral grounds, the novel would have been a caricature of social idealism. Even a tonally neutral everyman falling short of the Vril-ya standards would have produced a more consistently elegiac view of human utopian ambitions. Tish – silly but upright, naive but reflective, assertive but not without heart – makes the line between satire and earnestness almost impossible to trace. He offers no alluringly humanised version of Utopia and no particularly appealing representation of human nature. He simply remains sympathetic enough so that readers can inhabit his perspective partially, experiencing the mixed protagonistic and antagonistic qualities of the Vril-ya. A reader following Tish’s emotional

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  83 trajectory can feel attracted to the Vril-ya and repelled by them, puzzle about those emotional responses along with him, contemplate the accidents of our evolutionary development and draw individual conclusions about possible or desirable human social existences. Yet, the cues of ridiculousness with which Tish is surrounded make it possible to maintain a distance both from his conclusions and from the fully disturbing effect of the Vril-ya. After all, the coming race did not face the best that humanity has to offer. The Vril-ya are the centrepiece of Bulwer Lytton’s conflicted D ­ arwinian future. Even without being filtered through Tish’s chimeric perspective, they would have produced an ambivalent emotional effect. Through the life force vril, they have immense power over their environment. They fear nothing from nature or other civilisations. Adapting to their power, they have abolished war, crime, poverty, inequality and carnivory, creating a social harmony so complete that “they are good (according to their notions of goodness) merely because they live” (pp. 24–26, 30, 41). But their thousand-year peace has meant a psychological change that has nearly eliminated human behavioural flexibility. They treat their thoughts and emotions the same way as they treat the organisms with which they share the underground – taming, pruning or exterminating them as soon as they appear to threaten the social harmony (p. 28). Though intelligent, they show no interest in novelties and express their individuality only as trivial variation within the all-pervasive frame of custom (pp. 32, 62, 84). Through their extreme cultural control of the environment, they have turned their cultural system into the equivalent of inflexible instincts, but they have also created an environment perfectly suited for the satisfaction of their instincts. They have escaped both the universal struggle for existence and the particularly human agony of flexible consciousness, at the cost of their particularly human character. Through their dreadful power, the Vril-ya command interest in the same way as archetypal antagonists like Mr. Hyde or Dracula: they are a seemingly unstoppable hostile force, valuing its own well-being above all. Through their emotional stability, cooperative efforts across generations, pragmatic compassion and egalitarianism, they inspire sympathy in the same way as archetypal protagonists (Carroll et al., 2009, 2012). When the fascination of power and the evocation of sympathy blend, the Vril-ya become a power fantasy that taps into our need to control our environments, suggesting – as a balm for Darwin’s wound – that moral man is master over brute nature. When the Vril-ya’s ultimate valuation of social harmony translates into compulsory conformity, they summon chilling previsions of 1984 and Brave New World. Together, these features stimulate the positive and negative emotions attached to the two ancient factors of human social life, respectively: the horror and pleasure of egalitarianism as well as the horror and pleasure of individual

84  Emelie Jonsson domination. These four agonistic modes make the Vril-ya fundamentally ambiguous. In Tish’s account, their protagonistic and antagonistic modes jostle against each other, each one vividly evoked, without producing more clarity than his own conflicting qualities. Should we fear the Vril-ya as the extreme ends of our social impulses or see them as a consummate balance between those impulses? As Tish lays eyes on his first Vril-ya face, he glimpses their contradictory nature as antagonists. He registers that he is looking at an apex predator, feeling “that instinct of danger which the sight of a tiger or serpent arouses” (p. 9). Indeed, the Vril-ya are prey to no other species, and they are capable of destroying them all. But the face Tish sees does not have the slitted eyes or fangs of a predator; nor does it inspire dread through sickliness or deformity. It is an exalted version of a human face, with a “calm, intellectual, mysterious beauty” (p. 9). Tish’s primal fear is a premonition of the vril power, but more directly a response to the Vrilya’s suppression of individual passions: what frightens him is the “very calm and benignity” of the expression, “void of the lines and shadows which care and sorrow, and passion and sin, leave upon the faces of men” (p. 11). His first glimpse is enough to suggest the Vril-ya’s tigerish domination, and also their chilling lack of the individual motives that impel both tigers and humans. He soon learns that their peaceful society is a feat of balanced power, brimming with the threat of violence. They did not end government by force on enlightened principle, but because “man was so completely at the mercy of man, each whom he encountered being able, if so willing, to slay him on the instant” (p. 25). For the same reason, all expressions of identity that disturb the social harmony have been suppressed, from deep frowns and full laughter to “prominent vices,” “salient virtues,” “strong passions” and “heroic excellences” (p. 61). Their hospitality towards Tish himself was a last-minute change from a decision to dissect him; if he disturbs the social harmony, they are ready to destroy him “at any moment without scruple or compunction” (pp. 80, 102). Unlike Tish’s fantasy of a kingdom organised to his personal satisfaction, the Vril-ya’s absolute rule is justified by a social order that produces more peace and happiness for all citizens than any other. Each of their city states is like “a well-ordered family,” guided by mutual respect and consideration (p. 67). There is an abundance of innocent “amusement” like gourmet feasts and aerial dances; love is “ardent in pursuit” though perfectly “faithful” when captured (p. 102). “Equality” is “not a name” but “a reality”; “riches” are “not persecuted” because they are “not envied” (p. 102). Those who have the quirk to hoard riches freely provide luxuries for the rest, because “the poor man’s need is the rich man’s shame” (p. 86). This social order is so in tune with human egalitarian dispositions that its power – extending throughout the ecosystem to eliminate egocentric dominance and create orderly harmony – translates

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  85 into a form of divine justice. Indeed, the Vril-ya wear snowy mechanical wings that in repose form a “graceful mantle,” and they light their way using a “crowning halo” of opals touched by the vril into “a clear lambent flame” (pp. 9, 74, 77). The traits of Christian angels give culturally specific piquancy to the archetypally appealing aesthetics of the Vril-ya: slender creatures with smooth, regular features, inhabiting the finest shapes of ancient human architecture, fashioned from precious metals and gems, lush with cultivated vegetation, bathed in fragrance and instrumentalised birdsong (pp. 9–11, 17). This society, veiled in paradise imagery, makes individual lives so similar that the Vril-ya see no need to record them (p. 61). It lacks theological and political speculation, has “no new plays, indeed no imaginative works sufficiently important to survive their immediate day” (p. 60). Its science is “devoted almost solely to practical uses” (p. 63). But for Vril-ya individuals, that society produces happiness, “not as the excitement of a moment, but as the prevailing condition of the entire existence” (p. 47). Brushstroke by brushstroke, Bulwer Lytton simultaneously suggests that the Vril-ya have become inhuman and that we could have become them. Even more provokingly: that we could still become them. Until vril changed the Vril-ya’s conditions for survival and reproduction, their political, philosophical and scientific history paralleled that of the ­upper-world humans (pp. 23–25). “They had their rich and their poor; they had orators and conquerors; they made war either for a domain or an idea” (p. 24). After the discovery of vril, their departure from familiar human nature was gradual: the portraits in their historical gallery became “more tame and monotonous” “as the beauty and grandeur of the countenance itself became more fully developed” (p. 54). This is an essentially Darwinian vision. Though Bulwer Lytton introduces vril into the equation, depends heavily on speculations about “hereditary culture” and portrays natural selection as a force producing “superiority,” the basic idea behind the Vril-ya is that humans change physically through selective reproduction in adaptation to their environment (pp. 21, 48). Our ancestors were something different from what we currently call human, and our descendants, should we have any, may be something as yet unimagined. Most challenging of all: the way we currently organise our societies may contribute to producing a future human species that we would hardly recognise. Zee hypothesises that humans such as the nineteenth-century spiritualists could develop a capacity for vril “in the course of one or two thousand years” (p. 53). She also closes the passage to the upper world: “not to be re-opened by me, nor perhaps by others, for ages yet unguessed” (p. 112). Would those ages unguessed be enough to make humans compatible with the Vril-ya? Certainly, that was the more-or-less serious hope of the Vril-ya Club haunting the real-life Victorian London.

86  Emelie Jonsson By giving the Vril-ya an evolutionary past, Bulwer Lytton changes the parameters of Utopia and Dystopia. The Coming Race is unlike futuristic visions in which government has brought out the best or worst in what humans currently are. The Vril-ya are neither purely fantastical creatures held up for contrast nor humans who have undergone purely social reform. They are a human species with a physical and psychological makeup different from our own. If readers side with them, it does not just mean objecting to current human social institutions, as it might if one were to side with the utopian society in William Morris’ News from Nowhere (1890). Because the Vril-ya are openly, biologically inhuman, siding with them means openly siding against the current characteristics of our species. Yet, their psychology is not an arbitrarily inhuman construct: it is shaped by human dreams of perfection. Whether our sympathies are with the Vril-ya or against them, Bulwer Lytton’s novel is a double challenge: to imagine the minds of creatures adapted to Utopia and to recognise how different our own minds would have to become to live there.

Utopia and Dystopia after Darwin Agonistic ambiguity can be a mark of artistic sophistication. It is a challenge to the human mind in the same way as the amoral Darwinian origin story. It requires us to be suspended between human social impulses instead of being carried along by them; to attentively apply our own moral judgement, and to evaluate the application and the impulses themselves. However, such activity requires cognitive effort that needs to be repaid in some way. Repayment may come through a resolution or revelation, through an authorial voice that becomes an ally in moral reflection, or even through the aesthetic pleasures of style. Despite the reflective moments of Tish and the powerful evocation of the Vril-ya, The Coming Race does not repay its cognitive cost. There is no climax to the story, a rather limited companionship with an author who hides behind sneers, and little to no stylistic satisfaction. Though the novel may provide some therapeutic release for readers sharing Bulwer ­Lytton’s ambivalence about human nature and social ideals, that release ultimately peters out in confusion. The intellectual bravery represented by the Vril-ya – the audacity of depicting a fully inhuman human ideal – is obscured by the layers of satirical disavowal. In front of the grave evolved angel flits a human semi-buffoon whose name sounds like an exclamation of mild disapproval. Tish is like a suffix of ‘just kidding’ attached to both sides of the novel’s conflict. Even if The Coming Race had been without infelicities of narrative and style, it would necessarily look less appealing through modern eyes. The Vril-ya’s pragmatic autocracy wrapped in benevolent aims evokes images of twentieth-century genocide and oppression practised by both

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  87 extremes of the left-right political spectrum. Indeed, Bulwer Lytton’s idea of a hidden species wielding an ultimate life force was absorbed by the Theosophists and transferred into the racially tinged occultism that fed Nazi Germany (Seed, 2005, pp. xlii–xliv). Occult supremacist groups (against Tish’s judgement) took the Vril-ya as an ideal, believing themselves to have “secret knowledge that would enable them to change their race and become the equals of men hidden in the bowels of the Earth” (Seed, 2005, p. xliii). The Vril-ya’s nonchalant pruning of their ecosystem also makes it harder for modern readers to accomplish the imaginative leap for which Bulwer Lytton asks. Since the nineteenth century, the increasing understanding of complexly interdependent ecosystems has put pressure on the genre of utopian novels itself. And though The Coming Race ultimately depicts Utopia as inimical to human habitation, it can be fully effective only for readers capable of entertaining the theoretical possibility of Utopia. There are no utopian classics to rival dystopias like We (1924), 1984 (1949), Brave New World (1932) and Fahrenheit 451 (1953). However, the utopian thinking to which those novels responded has hardly abated. Both those facts can be illuminated by a modern evolutionary understanding of human nature. Beneath their historical contexts and political colours, utopias are extreme projections of goals that are desirable for the human species: perfect social accord is the logical extreme of our egalitarian impulses, our joy in social learning and imitation; full safety from external dangers is the logical extreme of our need to control the environment through culture. Utopian visions are fantasies rooted in the cooperation and culture that form cornerstones of human survival. Such fantasies may serve a guiding purpose, in some instances inspiring social reform that increases harmony and safety in real life. But to the extent that a utopian novel lingers in the utopian society itself, it is almost certain to be imaginatively unsatisfying. Perfect social harmony is at odds with other human impulses, such as impulses towards individual dominance, mental and physical exploration and learning directly from the environment. Whatever the moral advantages of a tradition, pure social learning chills to the depths of human psychology. Compulsory conventionality would spell adaptive disaster for any human culture that could not access an all-powerful life force – and, hypothetically, also for those who had such omnipotence without an omniscient view of the ecosystem. A utopia, free from conflict, by definition lacks the agonistic elements of great drama. It has no protagonists, antagonists, right, wrong, just victories, poetic losses or obstacles overcome. Utopian societies may be protagonists themselves, contrasted to an antagonistic society like the kingdoms of Thomas More’s Europe, the Bloody Sunday London of News from Nowhere or the eighteenth-century Britain that disgusts Gulliver when he returns from the Houyhnhnms. But a utopian society

88  Emelie Jonsson may also – against the intentions of its author – slip over into the antagonistic role of a dystopia: a social system so large and powerful that it can no longer be modified by individuals in adaptive relation to the environment (Cooke, 2010; Jonsson, 2012). If a utopian novel contains no protagonist to rebel against its compulsory social order, readers may themselves take on that role. Human beings are attracted to Utopia, as Tish suggests, through “our dreams of perfectability, our restless aspirations towards a better, and higher, and calmer, sphere of being” (p. 102). It is a desire for serenity that is, ironically, so ambitious that the Vril-ya would reach for their vril staffs to put it down. But human beings recoil from a fully expressed Utopia because our minds are shaped to interact with the world – not, as Zee supposes, because we “long to get back to a world in which” we can “quarrel with each other” (p. 50). Though Tish is an inadequate representative of our species, he is probably right that “a thousand of the best and most philosophical of human beings” could not last more than a year as Vril-ya citizens: “they would either die of ennui, or attempt some revolution by which they would militate against the good of the community, and be burnt into cinders” (p. 104). To envision perfect social harmony poses a problem for the human mind greater even than to envision amoral Darwinian nature. Though amoral principles, accidents and agonistic ambiguity take a cognitive toll, they reflect a reality of uncertain choices, motives and outcomes for which the human mind is somewhat equipped. No mind on Earth, human or otherwise, has yet experienced a life free from conflict.

References Bloom, C. (2013), Victoria’s Madmen: Revolution and Alienation, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Boehm, C. (1997), “Impact of the Human Egalitarian Syndrome on Darwinian Selection Mechanics.” The American Naturalist 150(1), pp. 100–121. Bulwer Lytton, E. (2010), The Coming Race, Milton Keynes: Aziloth Books. Carroll, J. (2012a), “The Truth about Fiction: Biological Reality and Imaginary Lives.” Style 46(2), pp. 129–160. Carroll, J. (2012b), “The Adaptive Function of the Arts: Alternative Evolutionary Hypotheses,” in C. Gansel & D. Vanderbeke (eds.), Telling Stories: Literature and Evolution, Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 50–63. Carroll, J., Gottschall, J., Johnson, J.A. & Kruger, D.J. (2009), “Human Nature in Nineteenth-Century British Novels: Doing the Math.” Philosophy and Literature 33(1), pp. 50–72. Carroll, J., Gottschall, J., Johnson, J.A. & Kruger, D.J. (2012), Graphing Jane Austen: The Evolutionary Basis of Literary Meaning, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Chudek, M. & Henrich, J. (2011), “Culture-Gene Coevolution, Norm-­ Psychology and the Emergence of Human Prosociality.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 15(5), pp. 218–226.

Dystopia and Utopia after Darwin  89 Cooke, B. (2010), “Human Nature, Utopia, and Dystopia: Zamyatin’s We,” in B. Boyd, J. Carroll & J. Gottschall (eds.), Evolution, Literature, and Film: A Reader, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 381–392. Dissanayake, E. (2000), Art and Intimacy: How the Arts Began, Seattle: University of Washington Press. Gangestad, S.W. & Simpson, J.A. (2007), The Evolution of Mind: Fundamental Questions and Controversies, New York: Guilford Press, pp. 233–363. Gottschall, J. (2012), The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human, Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Henkin, L.J. (1963), Darwinism in the English Novel, 1860–1910: The Impact of Evolution on Victorian Fiction, New York: Russell & Russell. Jonsson, E. (2012), “‘Man is the Measure:’ Forster’s Evolutionary Conundrum.” Style 46(2), pp. 161–176. Joseph, T.W. (2015), “Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race and an Anglo-Saxon Global ‘Greater Britain.’” Nineteenth-Century Contexts 37(3), pp. 233–248. Judge, J. (2009), “The ‘Seamy Side’ of Human Perfectibility: Satire on Habit in Edward Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race.” Journal of Narrative Theory 39(2), pp. 137–158. Kaplan, H.S., Gurven, M. & Lancaster, J.B. (2007), “Brain Evolution and the Human Adaptive Complex,” in S. Gangestad & J.A. Simpson (eds.), The ­Evolution of Mind: Fundamental Questions and Controversies, New York: Guilford Press, pp. 269–279. Kaplan, H.S., Hooper, P.L. & Gurven, M. (2009), “The Evolutionary and Ecological Roots of Human Social Organization.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 364(1533), pp. 3289–3299. Mazlish, B. (1993), “A Triptych: Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, Rider Haggard’s She, and Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 35(4), pp. 740–741. Nayder, L. (2004), “Bulwer Lytton and the Imperial Gothic: Defending the Empire in The Coming Race,” in A.C. Christensen (ed.), The Subverting Vision of Bulwer Lytton: Bicentenary Reflections, Newark: University of Delaware Press, pp. 212–221. Page, M.R. (2012), The Literary Imagination from Erasmus Darwin to H.G. Wells: Science, Evolution, and Ecology, Farnham: Ashgate. Seed, D. (2005), “Introduction,” in E. Bulwer Lytton (ed.), The Coming Race, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, pp. xiii–liii. Wagner, G. (1965), “A Forgotten Satire: Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race.” Nineteenth-Century Fiction 19(4), pp. 379–385.

5 Is this the Futu.re? Russian Cosmism and the Construction of an Immor(t)al Utopia Iril Hove Ullestad

Introduction Nearly ten years ago, when Aleksandr Chantsev labelled Russia The Antiutopia Factory, it was a perspicacious observation of a trend in ­Russian popular culture. The end, in apocalyptic sense, has never been far away from the Russian perspective, but never has it been nearer than it was at this time. The antiutopian novel, with or without an impending apocalypse, has become “an increasingly important factor in public life” (Chantsev, 2009, p. 9). It is mass produced, sold in great numbers and consumed by a seemingly insatiable generation of young readers. It is my belief that the popular novel can be used as a cultural litmus paper that can reveal the degree of optimism (or lack thereof) in a given society. If the utopian text marks the pinnacle of optimistic renderings of the future, the antiutopian text is also there, on the same axis of optimism, although on the other end of the scale. Dmitry Glukhovsky’s novel Budushchee was released four years after Aleksandr Chantsev’s analysis of the recent trends in Russian literature, and translated into English by Andrew Bromfield with the clever title Futu.re (2013). Futu.re presents a seemingly utopian scenario: a future world where death has been abolished, and people expect to live in prosperity for the rest of eternity. However, the flipside of this immortal Utopia is soon revealed to reader and protagonist alike, and the utopian dream of immortality is meticulously deconstructed along with the novel’s fictional society. Futu.re indicates a trend in recent Russian antiutopian fiction: the idea of physical immortality. The idea is not new; it is fundamentally rooted in Russian culture. The immortality of the human body was turned into a philosophical programme by the librarian Nikolai Fedorov (1829– 1903), thereby laying the foundation for the philosophical movement named Russian Cosmism. Cosmism was highly influential in its time and is by all indications a reawakening of ideas that are starting to assert a noticeable influence on Russian culture today. What this article examines is a remarkable transfer of ideas – from the utopian sphere of Russian philosophy to the dystopian themes in popular literature.

Is this the Futu.re?  91

Russian Cosmism It may seem reasonable to assume that Cosmism has to do with cosmic space, with travelling to other worlds and exploring the universe, and in some ways it does. Russian Cosmism is a complex system of ideas centred around both meanings of the Greek word cosmos: it is a philosophy about the universe, but most importantly, it is a philosophy that insists on the restoration of order (cosmos) in the universe. Death is what interrupts this order. Death has thrown humanity into a constant chaos of immorality and disunity, and must therefore be abolished. Although often interpreted to be an orthodox Christian philosophy, Russian Cosmism is founded on the concept that the universe might not, in fact, offer any individual salvation. In other words, there is no hope of an afterlife. Death, our one common enemy, currently prevails over us because of disunity and lack of kinship, but it can be overcome. It is the individual’s own responsibility to partake in an active evolution, a task common to every human being in order to regulate nature. This active evolution takes on a variety of manifestations, mostly associated with the mortality of the physical human body, but also with its surrounding “blind and unfeeling nature” (Fedorov, 1990). In Michael Hagemeister’s (1997) words, Russian Cosmism is based on “a holistic and anthropocentric view of the universe which presupposes a teleologically determined… evolution” (p. 185). Yet in many ways it is “a highly speculative concept couched in vague terminology” (­Hagemeister, 1997, p. 186) and eludes critical definition. This, combined with its pronounced ‘­Russianness,’ is perhaps one of the reasons why it has been considered inaccessible and therefore is practically unheard of in the West, despite its considerable popularity in Russia. There is great variety in the different Cosmists’ primary area of interest; in some cases, their philosophical programmes even prove almost to be opposites of each other. However, even in their differences they revolve around the same problems: of the mysteries (and possibilities) concerning life and death, of the immense opportunities the universe proposes and of the different ways nature should be regulated and ­controlled by man. When considering the sometimes very different ­philosophical, political, scientific or artistic programmes that are ­covered by the Cosmist umbrella, one common idea clearly manifests itself: it is the radical expansion of human experience, whether physical, mental or environmental. Cosmism is, despite its long history, a relatively new movement. ­Expressions like “cosmic thinking,” “cosmic consciousness” and “cosmic philosophy” have their background in nineteenth-century mysticism and occultism, but the term “Russian Cosmism” first appeared only in the 1970s as a characterisation of a national tradition of thought (­Hagemeister, 1997, p. 185).

92  Iril Hove Ullestad The main philosophical issues associated with Russian Cosmism stem from two very different thinkers: Konstantin Tsiolkovsky (1857–1935) – the father of Soviet space travel – a famous scientist both in and outside of the Soviet Union, and the far lesser known Nikolai Fedorov (1829– 1903), a rebellious librarian and teacher from the Tambov province. Fedorov hardly published anything in his lifetime, but as a result of the work of his most devoted disciples, he still became well-known among some important circles of Russian intellectuals (Masing-Delic, 1992; Young, 1997). He was, however, more or less forgotten by the general reading public until he was rediscovered in the 1970s. In addition to these two authors, several great thinkers have been mentioned in connection with Cosmism.1 One thing they all seem to have in common is a willingness to think beyond conventional boundaries, combined with immense belief in the accomplishments of future science. Hoping that future technology will find a way to overcome the unpleasant things humanity now struggles with, from drought and flood to curing illnesses and prolonging life, is not unique for Russian Cosmism. Cosmism, however, is characterised by its uncompromising drive to see every idea through to its logical end, no matter how difficult, impossible or even outright fantastic it might seem. Fedorov had no patience with scholarly thought and discourse; active contribution to the common task was the only possible way to serve God and mankind. Cosmism, therefore, must be regarded as a profoundly radical movement, which perhaps could have found foothold in no other country than Russia, a country where “people have readily gone to extremes” (Berdyaev, 1992, p. 20). Fedorov preceded Tsiolkovsky by some 30 years, and a popular conception is that he met the younger man regularly and played a substantial part in forming his mind both spiritually and scientifically. Some sources even suggest that he guided a young Tsiolkovsky in the direction of space travel. If he did, it would indeed strengthen the notion of a solid philosophical fundament, and make Cosmism more of a coherent movement, with ideas being discussed and developed among its ancestors. However, recent research points to the opposite, and indicates that the contact between Fedorov and Tsiolkovsky may have been limited to one brief meeting, in which no words were exchanged at all. There is also uncertainty as to whether Tsiolkovsky ever read any of Fedorov’s work. 2 Consequently, Tsiolkovsky’s and Fedorov’s ideas may have developed in complete isolation from each other, and are only joined together in retrospect in order to form the basis of the philosophical movement that, also in retrospect, was given the name “Russian Cosmism.” This may explain the considerable differences in their philosophical programmes and in their understandings of life and death. However different their approaches to the existential questions in life may be though, with their philosophical texts they both express what seems to be a fundamental compulsion to explore the very limits of human capacity, in the physical as well as the metaphysical sense.

Is this the Futu.re?  93 Fedorov’s writings are collected in the posthumously published Philosophy of the Common Task [Filosofiya obshchego dela], which was not sold, but distributed among his followers and sent to libraries. Fedorov is considered a profoundly Russian thinker, “one that must appear strange to the West” as the Russian philosopher Nikolay Berdyaev describes him. “He desires the brotherhood of man not only in space but also in time” (Berdyaev, 1992, p. 226). Fedorov could never reconcile with the thought of death, but unlike many other thinkers he was not particularly interested in the potential immortality of the soul in a blissful afterlife, instead wanting physical immortality here on Earth. Fedorov wanted control over nature in the strictest possible sense, and his project does not stop where conventional argumentation does. Death is the singularly most destructive event that can befall a human being: “the most general evil affecting all – a crime, in fact – is death” (Fedorov, 1990, p. 80). This grim prospect taken into consideration, the only logical action would be for all of humankind to stop whatever pointless and time-consuming activities they waste their lives on, such as war, procreation or love, and join forces to overcome this one common enemy. If we all do this, Fedorov argues, there will be a cure for death. In this respect, Fedorov’s philosophy shares common ground, to a greater or lesser extent, with many movements that have become popular in recent times, such as cryonics, transhumanism, post-biological evolution and other anti-ageing or immortalist movements.3 Fedorov, however, goes further than most. Achieving true immortality will obviously demand a huge sacrifice by generations of people who will not live to see it fulfilled, and this he considers to be fundamentally wrong. To completely abolish death, every single human being who has ever lived must be brought back to life. Only then will life truly conquer death. Blind and unfeeling nature will be led by a united mankind: “­Nature itself may well become enlightened and sensitive and be brought to a stage where it will refuse to destroy life” (Masing-Delic, 1992, p. 34). Consequently, reanimation of the dead is a task of equal importance to that of finding a way to immortality: “kinship demands the return of the deceased, each one being irreplaceable” (Fedorov, 1990, p. 61). If each son or daughter succeeds in bringing his or her own father back to life, every lost generation will be restored, and nature’s biggest mistake, death, will truly be overcome. When this, the common task, is fulfilled, Earth will be populated by a constant number of men, who will neither die nor procreate. Their lives will be devoted exclusively to science and art. Tempting as it may be to see this as hubris in a religious man, Fedorov claims it to be God’s will. God wanted, and intended, eternal life for mankind, but the task of realising this falls to a united brotherhood of men – a sobornost, the “true Russian spirit of Christian collectivism” (Young, 2012, p. 139). Universal unity is necessary for the common task, and future mankind will voluntarily renounce anarchic freedom (­Masing-Delic, 1992). A consented autocracy would create the

94  Iril Hove Ullestad best conditions for executing the common task, and Fedorov’s grand project thus lay in creating such a society, one with the social, political and technological preconditions for resurrecting the dead (Groys, 2015). This prospected society would by all indications be purposeful and peaceful, but, as a consequence of his general ideas, conservative, chaste and totalitarian. Radical as this may seem, the idea in itself was not uncharacteristic of the general intellectual climate at the time. Per-Arne Bodin (1991) writes: “In his teachings, he [Fedorov] unites the orthodox church’s idea of resurrection with the optimism of the natural sciences, highly characteristic for the end of the 19th century” (p. 103, my translation).4 This could be part of the reason why it found immediate resonance with some of the leading contemporary intellectuals. Even if Fedorov himself was reluctant to publish his ideas, they still reached the receptive ears of influential thinkers like Fyodor Dostoevsky, Vladimir Solovyov and Leo Tolstoy through the untiring efforts of one of his most devoted followers, Nikolai Peterson (1844–1919). Dostoevsky wrote in a letter to ­Peterson in 1877: “I warn you that we here, that is, Solovyov and I at least, believe in a real, literal, personal resurrection, and one that will come to pass on earth” (Young, 2012, pp. 64–65). Contrary to what one might think, this was not in opposition to conventional Russian orthodoxy. The belief in resurrection on Judgement Day is central to orthodox Christianity, and not just the resurrection of the soul; the physical resurrection of the human body has traditionally been equally important. This concept is derived from Greek orthodoxy, where physical immortality has traditionally been a central part of the religious-mythological worldview (Endsjø, 2009). What is most radical in Cosmist thinking is that the aspects of Christian resurrection that have appeared most elusive now became the subject of sober investigation, for instance, the question of how a decomposed body can become whole again. This question is, of course, further complicated by the fact that bodies can be burned, eaten or destroyed in other ways that would make a reuniting of the organism seem rather difficult. As Endsjø (2009) shows, the Greek mythological tradition was surprisingly specific on this particular point: a body destroyed cannot be resurrected in its original form. To a large degree, Christianity maintains this same notion – the resurrected body of Christ bore the same wounds that he was given when still alive. It is also no coincidence that early Christian martyrs were executed in ways that made sure to destroy the body completely, such as being eaten by wild animals. If consumed by another organism, how then can the body resurrect on judgement day? Now, of course, the belief in a total resurrection of the body is further complicated by the fact that we know that every organism, ultimately, will be consumed by another. It has been the Church’s task to convey belief in the possibility of the resurrection of every dead body, although we

Is this the Futu.re?  95 must accept that we cannot understand exactly how it will come to pass. Fedorov refuses to wait for this passively, and his envisioned religious / technological engineering of the human body promises a literal resurrection of every single person on Earth, and it insists on our capacity to do this ourselves. It is important to keep in mind that even though for a modern reader this might classify as being situated within the (science) fictional, this was not the case for Fedorov and his most ardent followers. It was regarded not only as a theoretical possibility with future science, but as a command, a duty for mankind that is real and literal, to paraphrase Dostoevsky in his letter to Peterson. In order to resurrect the dead, every atom of the deceased body must be collected and then reunited. Everything in the universe is connected, and some of the atoms will find their way towards the stars. It will be necessary, then, to travel to space to find the particular atoms that belong to each human being. Fedorov does not exclude the possibility of using the Earth as a giant space ship in this process, but his reflections are rather speculative on this matter. A second incentive for travelling to space is to find planets suitable for human colonisation; such alternative settlements will be necessary to avoid overpopulating the Earth with its recently resurrected inhabitants. Tsiolkovsky, who regarded the atoms released from their human form in a very different way than Fedorov, and rejoiced in the thought of their liberation into space (Tsiolkovsky, 2015), had more tangible ideas of how the settlement of the universe would come to pass. Travelling to space to discover and/or conquer new civilisations was a central part of his philosophy. Despite the fact that Konstantin Tsiolkovsky was an acclaimed and widely published soviet scientist, the metaphysical side of his authorship was practically ­unknown – although he himself considered this to be his most significant accomplishment (Menzel, 2007, p. 9). With his more than 400 essays and articles on the topic, it is hard to disagree, even taking into consideration that most remain unpublished and more-or-less unknown. But both sides of his writings were decisive to the development of Cosmism as a philosophical movement. Scientifically, he made huge contributions to the Soviet space programme, thereby substantiating the possible exploration of space to resettle the soon-to-be-undead. The metaphysical side of his writings appealed to another fraction of the Cosmists, who defended a spiritual, mystic or even occult worldview. With regard to Fedorov, his reluctance to spread his ideas in writing undoubtedly contributed to his relative anonymity at the time. Still, his uncompromising nature combined with evident pedagogical gifts seem to have made a lasting impression on several of those he e­ ncountered – which were not few, given his work at The Rumyantsev Library (Moscow’s first free public library, today renamed the Russian State ­Library) – most famously on an ageing Tolstoy, who met Fedorov regularly during the 1880s

96  Iril Hove Ullestad and early 1890s. Tolstoy was at this time in a state of religious turmoil, and held Fedorov in the highest regard, a feeling that was not, however, fully reciprocated. Tolstoy himself is not considered among the Cosmists, perhaps because the most famous parts of his authorship show a conventional form of family values. However, if we were to consider the latter part of his writings in isolation – from 1880 onwards  – they ­certainly show enough in common with Fedorov’s teachings to imply some Cosmist affinity. Tolstoy was increasingly preoccupied with death, some might say almost to an unhealthy degree, but it is the uncompromising style of The Kreutzer Sonata that to the largest degree bears kinship to Fedorov. In this short novel, or povest’, written in the years 1887–1889, Tolstoy employs similar means as Fedorov, but to his own end: if every human being were to channel the energy they spend on the domestic intrigues of love, courtship, marriage and infidelity into activities that would genuinely benefit humanity, human suffering would end. To posterity, and to some degree also to his contemporaries, this aspect of the novel seems to be overshadowed by the fact that this call for sexual a­ bstinence came from the father of 13 (legitimate) children, in addition, of course, to the general supposition that it would never work. Unable to refrain from interpreting his own novel, Tolstoy spent close to 15 pages on refuting criticism and further explaining the moral background behind his most controversial claims, in an afterword that turns out to be equally interesting as the novel itself. In the afterword Tolstoy argues like a true Cosmist: in a morally traditionalistic, radical, all-encompassing and in effect decidedly totalitarian way, he encourages society to use ­every means imaginable to take active responsibility for something we accept, even though it is essentially wrong, every kind of human suffering.

Cosmism in Literature After this general introduction to Fedorov and Cosmist thinking, there can be no questioning how fascinating some parts of Russian philosophical history are. However, it would be timely to question how this is relevant to contemporary popular culture. After all, seeking immortality is not an invention of the Cosmists. Mankind has been searching for a cure for death ever since the mythological Gilgamesh swam the sea of Apsu in search for the plant of life, sometime around the year 1800 BC, but to no avail. With the growing interest in diverse, yet related cultural phenomena, ranging from cryonics and transhumanism to every possible anti-ageing or life-prolonging theory and technology, it is easy to define this yearning for youth and life as simply and universally human. Still, in Konstantin Frumkin’s (2012) words: “despite the parallel in cultural processes between Russia and the West, Russia has been elaborating these themes in full independence. The long history of Russian immortalism is evidence of this” (p. 3, my translation).5

Is this the Futu.re?  97 So why date trends in popular literature back to Cosmism when the issues addressed seem to be universal? As with most intellectual movements in the Soviet Union, the Soviet era was a time of stagnation and suppression also for the Cosmists. It was not until the late 1970s and early 1980s that Fedorov was rediscovered, and a critical investigation of the different thinkers of his time could begin. This investigation led to the uniting of seemingly very different philosophers in the movement labelled ‘Cosmism.’ The result of this is that even though several of the thinkers and theories are old, the movement itself, and the accompanying interest in it, is relatively new. The centre for research on Cosmism, and on Fedorov’s intellectual legacy, the N. F. Fedorov Museum-Library, was officially established in 1993. The first ‘Fedorovian Readings,’ a conference which is now held almost annually, took place in 1988. Since then, readings on Fedorov and on Cosmism have grown fast in R ­ ussia. Today, “Cosmist ideas are regarded as a main tendency in Russian culture and thought”; it is “one of the most vigorous and productive of the[se] rediscovered intellectual tendencies” (Young, 2012, pp. 3, 4). ­Birgit Menzel (2007) attests to the same tendency: Cosmism is an ideology with… widespread popularity in post-­Soviet Russia… The impact of Cosmism on science in Russia today can be seen in the growing number of conferences, projects and ­college textbooks on topics ranging from bioenergy and the so-called ‘torsionic fields’ to UFOs and to extrasensory psychic phenomena. (p. 8) But Cosmism has also had an impact outside of the natural sciences, most notably in the visual arts, as well as in literature. Compared to the philosophical texts, the literary texts have the advantage of not being hypothetical and theoretical. They describe a vital, comprehensive, and, at best, believable future, where certain changes have come to pass. The antiutopian genre is flexible, playful and ­uninhibited – ideal for placing radical, abstract ideas under scrutiny. At its best, it is prepared to follow every idea through to its logical point of realisation, to watch unreservedly as it unfolds and develops, and adjust its worldview according to its success or failure. Tolstoy, for his part, did not write a novel in which the social changes he envisioned had already come to pass. This is perhaps unsurprising, as such a novel would require an open, tentative approach to the moral issues in question, and Tolstoy seemed to have limited confidence in a dialogic approach to moral questions. It would also require another genre altogether, where a fictional universe can be designed in order to put technological and philosophical theories to the test – the genre of science fiction. The Kreutzer Sonata and Fedorov’s theories do not predate science fiction as an independent literary genre by many years. As early as 1894,

98  Iril Hove Ullestad more than 30 years before the term science fiction was introduced to the English-speaking world,6 the term nauchnaia fantastika, scientific fantasy, was described to the Russian literary community by the magazine Priroda i liudi [Nature and People] (Banerjee, 2012, p. 1). It would not wait to prove itself a prolific and viable genre in Russia, but more remarkably, it would soon “metamorphose from a novelty of popular culture to an integral part of intellectual debates about the best way to engage with the new realities of the unfolding twentieth century” (Banerjee, 2012, p. 2). The same thing can be said about modern science fiction: it is an ongoing, intertextual debate about how to engage with the possibilities of future technology. The Cosmist perspective on this debate concerns how future technology can and will affect the human body. But according to the laws of the genre, it does not stop with the question: ‘Can the human body become immortal?’ to which the expected answer would obviously be ‘Yes.’ It goes on to a far more interesting series of questions based on the implied: ‘And then what?’ For example: ‘How will a society practically adjust to the no-longer-mortal state of its inhabitants’; ‘What will happen to religion and faith?’; ‘How will we control the population growth?’ and most importantly: ‘Is this really what we want?’ By answering these and other questions, a number of contemporary Russian science fiction novels examine and contemplate ideas that belong in the Cosmist tradition, each in its own way.

Futu.re Futu.re (2013) by Dmitry Glukhovsky is one of the novels that keenly accentuate the motif of physical immortality. Glukhovsky, one of the most popular of the generation of young, post-Soviet science fiction writers, owes his reputation primarily to the extraordinary success of his debut novel, the post-apocalyptic rollercoaster Metro 2033. Futu.re, written almost ten years later, is a more mature narrative, following a classical antiutopian plotline. In the future, immortality has become the natural state of the human body, or more precisely, of the European human body. The ageing centre in the human brain has been discovered and can, by all appearances relatively easily, be deactivated, and thus stop the ageing processes in the human organism. It is common in most of the narratives where physical immortality occurs for the ageing process to carry on quite naturally until it is stopped at a certain age. In this universe, as in most comparable literary worlds, that age is early adulthood. Sickness is also abolished, although the particulars behind this medical sensation are somewhat obscure. Against physical trauma, however, there is no protection. In addition to this constant threat, a person can be deprived of his or her immortality with immediate – even accelerated – effect by means of the sanctioning of unwanted behaviour. This leaves us with a universe where the human body is subject to a conditional immortality, regulated by the rich and powerful in the Western world.

Is this the Futu.re?  99 Futu.re is conventional where plot is concerned: a young man of some importance in the system, relatively content, although occasionally with a nagging uneasiness, meets a beautiful woman who opens his eyes and makes him an instrument in ruining the – now apparent for the reader – despotic world order. Living with immortality, as is turns out, is not as easy as one would think. The most urgent problem on a structural level is overpopulation. With a population of 120 billion registered residents, Europe has become close to being uninhabitable, and the population is governed by strict rules concerning reproduction. Regulating sexuality is a recurrent issue in societies with different forms of immortality. A disruption in the way human lives normally end also seems to bring some disorder into the process of starting it. In this particular universe, one of the parents must pay for the life of a child with his or her own immortality. However harsh the consequences, illegal childbirth is nevertheless turning into a considerable problem, and the novel goes so far as to suggest that the urge to have children – not to mention to care for and protect them – is stronger than the wish not to die. One can be tempted to ask why this society chooses not to solve the overpopulation problem by encouraging sexual abstinence or by enforced sterilisation. The relative mortality they experience would not threaten the population number in any foreseeable future, and sterilisation would certainly make life easier for everyone involved. On a general basis, the European government does not seem particularly reluctant to use force; in this case, however, it chooses not to. And enforced sterilisation might just ruin the point. In this universe, it is here that the meaning of life lies – in the passing of generations. For the protagonist, it is the experience of having a daughter that turns his worldview upside down, and leads him to forsake immortality for the traditional flow of generations. In this sense, the novel is remarkably conventional – conservative even. It implies that happiness, for any human being, has less to do with the quantity of life than with the quality, and that quality is connected to the traditional values of the nuclear family: the mother, the home, stability and the replacement of one generation with the next. Fedorov’s belief in future technology must have included its ability to make the (resurrected or recreated) body more or less immune to physical trauma and disease. Another possibility would be to have the body recreated a number of times, should it be destroyed in any way. This is, of course, facilitated by the belief in an undying soul that will return to the body once it has been restored: “The organism is a machine and consciousness relates to it like bile to the liver – so reassemble the machine and consciousness will return to it” (Fedorov, 1990, p. 99). For F ­ edorov, the combination of religious and technological optimism proved most advantageous on behalf of humanity. Glukhovsky’s universe, on the other hand, is depressingly void of any spiritual dimension. There is the expressed understanding that the afterlife, in a spiritual sense, has been

100  Iril Hove Ullestad exchanged for eternal life on Earth. Should this turn out to be interrupted, there is no mitigating factor – an afterlife is utterly denied all characters. No wonder then, that the fear of death is far greater in this universe than in those of many comparable literary works. Our hero in this world, Jan Nachtigall 2T, is an immortal in more than one understanding of the word. In addition to being immortal in the physical sense, he is also member of the so-called Immortals. This is a politically governed, ruthless secret police, whose function is to keep order in the unimaginably crowded megacity the continent of Europe has turned into. The Immortals’ main task is to find the people who have chosen to disregard the rules concerning child birth and therefore, out of fear of the consequences, have not registered a pregnancy or a child. Upon finding an old-fashioned family, or a nest, the Immortals will take the children away to be placed in orphanages. From Jan Nachtigall’s own childhood memories, the reader knows the orphanages to be a­ lmost unbelievably cruel. They will also take immortality away from one parent per child, using an accelerator that speeds up the ageing process, leaving the parent with only a few years remaining to live in a special reserve for old people. The Immortals’ role is in essence to ensure that a society based on immortality will function. This is one of the main themes in this novel, the task of keeping order in a society that is pushed to the limit by the practical consequences of immortality. When performing their duties to society, the Immortals carry a mask of the Greek god Apollo. We can deduce that this is done partly to protect their anonymity, partly to evoke fear, but also as a statement: Apollo is their emblem, and a justification for their highly unpopular job. Among his many functions in the Greek mythological world, Apollo was also a protector of order and harmony. In contrast stood his brother Dionysus, who created chaos. The two form a famous dichotomy: the Apollonian and the Dionysian, famously used by Nietzsche in his philosophical writings (introduced in The Birth of Tragedy, 1872). If the Dionysian is chaos, the Apollonian must be cosmos, following this same dichotomy. An interesting aspect of Glukhovsky’s narrative is how immortality is perceived by the immortals themselves. This seemingly utopian state is far from happy, even if death is, to a large degree, abolished. G ­ lukhovsky goes far to argue that life becomes pointless without death, and that most humans are not capable of living meaningful and productive lives without the mysteries connected with another sphere – the mysterious place that does or does not exist on the other side. This is naturally a religious question, and Futu.re is, in many ways, a pseudo-religious text. Even more important, though, is the question of procreation, and the prospect of being of reproductive age for a very long time, without having children. This, Glukhovsky implies, is why a society of immortals could never be happy. The constant replacement of generations is

Is this the Futu.re?  101 what gives meaning to life. Thus, after an exhaustive orchestration of Cosmist ideas, Glukhovsky’s text directly contradicts Fedorov’s most central doctrine. At the end of the novel, people lose their immortality – or more ­correctly, they choose mortality and the chance to live a ‘normal’ life over ­immortality. As it turns out, an immortal body is not part of the future after all. This is underlined by the last words in the novel: “ – The ­beginning – ” (Glukhovsky, 2013, p. 625) The beginning of the future, we might assume, comes after immortality has been taken away from everyone. This brings us to an interesting aspect of the novel that becomes clearer in translation than in the original. In the original Russian title Budushchee there is no wordplay or play with punctuation. It seems to be part of English translator Andrew Bromfield’s interpretation of the novel. The fact that the English word future ends with the very potent suffix -re is a happy coincidence that Bromfield has taken successful advantage of. This suffix has the double function of indicating either repetition (‘regenerate’) or backward motion (‘revert’). By use of clever punctuation, Bromfield directs the reader’s attention towards an important aspect of the novel. A common literary approach in antiutopian novels is to construct a semi-medieval society and imply that it is the future, possibly by inserting some science fictional element. Vladimir Sorokin does so is several of his antiutopian novels, for example, The Blizzard (2010) and Day of the Oprichnik (2006). Another strategy is to construct a semi-medieval society and simply state that it is, in fact, set in the future, as Tatyana Tolstaya does in The Slynx (2000). This gives the impression that things will never change, that Russia is almost bound to be medieval. Both Sorokin’s and Tolstaya’s novels can be said to carry a sharp critique of what they perceive to be backward tendencies in society, simply by overdoing these elements in the text – implicitly saying that a change for the less barbaric should be expected in the future. Consequently, it can be argued that however dark and dystopic these narratives are, they are still in ‘forward motion,’ because that is what they want to achieve. In Futu.re, the narrative achieves the opposite effect – it constructs a highly advanced future society that carries in it a ‘backward motion,’ or a wish for backward motion. By playing out and then discarding ideas that are normally associated with progress and societal development, such as an increased human longevity, it looks longingly back to other values and ideals. The sense that we are moving towards the future in a backward motion gives this title in translation an oxymoronic quality that the original does not have. Interestingly, the entire novel seems to have a similar oxymoronic quality, though not on an orthographic level, but on a thematic one. Immortality must be considered the ultimate utopian idea. Here we have it, but it only seems to make people unhappier and more subdued. The fact that a utopian idea constitutes the fundament in an antiutopian narrative

102  Iril Hove Ullestad is an oxymoronic quality that could be described as part of the essence of the antiutopian genre. One of the genre-defining qualities is that it is always in communication with utopian ideas. I argue that in the Russian context, several of these ideas are Cosmist, therefore making Russian Cosmism an important subtext for the Russian antiutopian genre. A quote from the text that can illustrate this, and provide another example to the same effect, deals with space travel. As we have seen, space travel is one of the most central Cosmist ideas. The Cosmists knew very well that the Earth could not possibly sustain so many generations of revived consumers (however modest they might be, following Fedorov’s ascetic example), and considered the colonisation of other planets a crucial part in the project of resuscitation. Tsiolkovsky’s efforts on this matter made the entire Soviet space programme possible, in many ways providing a utopian idea with flesh and bone and making it part of Russian and Soviet self-defining rhetoric. It represents hope for the future, for technology, for transcending the entire human experience. Consequently, variations of space travel is a recurrent theme in science fiction from the entire Soviet period. It is also a common object in various kinds of Soviet propaganda, such as murals. One of these murals appears in Futu.re, by some miracle kept intact since Soviet times. Jan describes it this way: The wall that we walk out of has been transformed into a vast mural – its immense surface is entirely covered in graffiti: naive, bright and mawkish. Mighty, swarthy-skinned, smiling hero-figures with square chins and soap bubbles on their heads… and above them, merging into the blueness of cosmic space, a cloudless sky, with dozens of white “Albatross” ships setting out across it, clearly readying themselves to leap across interstellar space to other worlds, conquer them and build bridges to them from an Earth that is chockful to the brim with happy little people. The title of this rosy-cheeked utopia is written between the sky and the cosmos in letters several metres high: THE FUTURE… God only knows when this daub was created… Probably a very long time ago, since they still believed in the conquest of space. (Glukhovsky, 2013, pp. 49–50) However, in all these years the mural has never been cleaned and it is starting to look worn: The sky has turned sullen. Under this greasy lamination, the people have an unhealthy look: their smiles expose yellow teeth, their goggling eyes have yellow whites, and their joy seems somehow forced, as if a newspaper photographer has arrived in a concentration camp and told everyone to smile. (p. 50)

Is this the Futu.re?  103 Space travel, which is a Cosmist and utopian dream, and the solution to the overpopulation problem, is impotent and dead in this universe. The depleted planet Earth is all that is left. It is no longer “open from every side,” as Fedorov (1990) enthusiastically wrote (p. 91). It has become an introvert, stagnant unit, preoccupied with the spectacle of its own end. Space travel has been turned into an antiutopian device, in much the same way as the theme of immortality. In this universe, immortality has given rise to despotism, decadence, the break-up of families and – ironically enough – murder. For Fedorov and the Cosmists, immortality was the only way to create o ­ rder and harmony in the universe. For ­Glukhovsky, immortality leads to utter chaos. He removes it for the same reason – to ensure order and harmony. Interestingly enough however, the ending is not pessimistic. Taking away an immortality that is seen as unnatural, immoral and defiant of the laws of nature seems almost to liberate people from sin. As our hero Jan comes to accept his own mortality (advancing, by the way, with unexpected speed), he still triumphs in saving his daughter, and achieves immortality in another way; he will live on as a father and a forefather for generations to come via the traditional replacement of one generation with the next. The last word in the novel underlines this. The beginning is not the beginning for Jan, whose life is coming to an end, but the beginning for his daughter and for all the other children who are waiting to be born – who have the right to be born, because that is how Glukhovsky’s future is made. When interpreted this way, the English translation of Futu.re proves itself to be clever in a double way, by also indicating its other meaning of repetition. The future gets another beginning, and humanity one more chance.

Notes 1 Vladimir Solovyov, Sergei Bulgakov, Pavel Florensky, Aleksandr Bogdanov, ­Nikolai Berdyaev, Vladimir Vernadsky and Aleksandr Chizhevsky among others. 2 George Young (2012) presents the history of friendship and tutorship between Tsiolkovsky and Fedorov in The Russian Cosmists (pp. 146–148). Asif Siddiqi (2016), however, refutes this narrative in “Tsiolkovsky and the Invention of Russian Cosmism” (pp. 144–145). 3 See also Anya Bernstein’s (2015) “Freeze, Die, Come to Life: The Many Paths to Immortality in Post-Soviet Russia.” 4 “Han förenar i sin lära den ortodoxa kyrkans uppståndelsestanke med den naturvetenskapliga optimism, som i hög grad var karakteristisk för slutet av artonhundratalet.” 5 “несмотря на параллелизм культурных процессов в России и на Западе, Россия обладала полной самостоятельностью в разработке темы. Об этом свидетельствует длительная история русского иммортализма.” 6 The term was introduced by the American editor Hugo Gernsback in 1926, according to Banerjee (2012, p. 2).

104  Iril Hove Ullestad

References Banerjee, A. (2012), We Modern People: Science Fiction and the Making of Russian Modernity, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Berdyaev, N. (1992), The Russian Idea, Hudson: Lindisfarne Press. Bernstein, A. (2015), “Freeze, Die, Come to Life: The Many Paths to Immortality in Post-Soviet Russia.” American Ethnologist 42(4), pp. 766–781. Bodin, P.A. (1991), Den Oväntade Glädjen: Sju Studier i den Rysk-Ortodoxa Andliga Traditionen, Skelefteå: Artos. Chantsev, A. (2009), “The Antiutopia Factory.” Russian Studies in Literature 45(2), pp. 6–41. Endsjø, D.Ø. (2009), Greek Resurrection Beliefs and the Success of Christianity, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Fedorov, N.F. (1990), What Was Man Created For? The Philosophy of the Common Task, London: Honeyglen Publishing. Frumkin, K.G. (2012), “Bessmertie: strannaya tema russkoy kul’tury.” Novyj mir, 4. Glukhovsky, D. (2013), Futu.re, Scotts Valley, CA: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform. Groys, B. (2015), “Russkij kosmizm: biopolitika bessmertija,” in B. Groĭs (ed.), Russkij Kosmizm.: Antologija, Moskva: Ad Marginem Press, pp. 6–29. Hagemeister, M. (1997), “Russian Cosmism in the 1920s and Today,” in G. Rosenthal (ed.), The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture, Ithaca, NY: ­Cornell University Press, pp. 185–202. Masing-Delic, I. (1992), Abolishing Death: A Salvation Myth of Russian ­Twentieth-Century Literature, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Menzel, B. (2007), “The Occult Revival in Russia Today and Its Impact on ­Literature.” The Harriman Review 16(1), pp. 64–77. Siddiqi, A. (2016), “Tsiolkovskii and the Invention of ‘Russian Cosmism’: Science, Mysticism, and the Conquest of Nature at the Birth of Soviet Space ­Exploration,” in P. Betts & S.A. Smith (eds.), Science, Religion and ­C ommunism in Cold War Europe, Oxford: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 127–156. Tsiolkovsky, K. (2015), “Panpsikhizm, ili vse chuvstvuet,” in B. Groĭs (ed.), Russkij Kosmizm: Antologija, Moskva: Ad Marginem Press, pp. 201–227. Young, G.M. (1997), “Fedorov’s Transformation of the Occult,” in G. ­Rosenthal (ed.), The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, pp. 171–183. Young, G.M. (2012), The Russian Cosmists, New York: Oxford University Press.

6 The Mexican Sicario Against the End of the World Gabriela Mercado

Introduction When discussing apocalyptic literature, a common agreement is that this type of fiction is closely tied to times of conflict and social crisis (Berger, 1999; Mousoutzanis, 2009; DiTommaso, 2014). Mexico does not have a long tradition of apocalyptic fiction in comparison with its ­English-speaking equivalent, though an apocalyptic mentality can be traced to the very beginnings of the nation. The discovery of America in the fifteenth century became the concretisation of the lost paradise that nourished for centuries the European imagination. The idea of a utopian society based on paradise, and whose social organisation revolved around Christianity was of great interest for the evangelisation of these new territories by the Spanish Catholic Church (López-Lozano, 2008, p. 5). However, for the natives in Mexico and the rest of the Spanish colonies, the process of colonisation became an apocalyptic event, a cataclysm that destroyed their paradigms and imposed a new social and spiritual sovereignty. Regardless of these origins, the apocalypse first became a popular theme in Mexican literature in the late 1980s and 1990s. During these decades, it was evident that the project of modernisation of Mexico was failing, particularly after opening its economy to international markets. With the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) coming into force in 1994, the neoliberal economic model and increased globalisation became consolidated. Neoliberalism brought a rapid increase in inequality and poverty, given the conditions of such an economic system: a free market that privileges transnational economic interests, free trade without economic regulations and monetary and social policies favourable to business (Holguín Mendoza, 2011, p. 420). The economy of the nation prioritised transnational and foreign companies at the expense of social actors and programmes. Other problems stemming from these changes were an uncontrolled urbanisation and industrialisation of the metropolis, as well as overpopulation, ecological damage, currency devaluation and political corruption. The apocalyptic genre in Mexican literature prospered in this context, which is in line with criticism that associates its presence to times of conflict and social crisis. The boom of Mexican apocalyptic literature at the

106  Gabriela Mercado end of the twentieth century began with a group of writers known as the crack generation. They sought to distance their fiction from the ideological lines of the Mexican mainstream, and also aimed to make a strong critique of nationalist modernity and the neoliberal model. They “used the apocalyptic novel and, particularly, the imaginary destruction of Mexico City to symbolise the fall of the symbolic and ideological order of M ­ exican modernity” (Sánchez Prado, 2007, p. 11, my translation). N ­ otable apocalyptic works of the crack generation writers include ­Memoria de los días by Pedro Ángel Palou (1995), El temperamento melancólico by Jorge Volpi (1996), Si volviesen sus majestades by Ignacio P ­ adilla (1996) and El día del hurón by Ricardo Chávez Castañeda (1997). In addition to these, other authors belonging to the Mexican mainstream contributed apocalyptic novels that reflected the same context, most prominently Cerca del fuego by José Agustín (1986), Cristóbal Nonato by Carlos Fuentes (1987), La leyenda de los soles and ¿Con quién sueñas cuando haces el amor? by Homero Aridjis (1993 and 1995 respectively) and Cielos de la tierra by Carmen Boullosa (1997).1 Both these mainstream authors and the crack generation are responsible for the Mexican apocalyptic novel of the 1990s, which has been the main object of study of most of the criticism dedicated to apocalyptic literature in Mexico. On the other hand, the twenty-first century saw an increasing number of writers taking on popular genres such as science fiction and fantasy in order to imagine the end of the world beyond that tradition of neoliberal criticism. Most of them began their careers in the 1990s through independent publishing and government cultural projects, 2 which allowed them to work outside of the lines of mainstream nationalist literature. In the 2010s, the imagination of disaster was further revitalised and these authors began publishing their personal apocalypses in more mainstream publishing houses. Although this generation of writers, who have dedicated their work to popular genres, began to consciously avoid the Mexican context in their works, some of them continued to look into the national reality to imagine the end of the world. However, they did not turn to the already-assimilated crisis of neoliberalism in the country, but rather to the more contemporary war against the narco.3 This chapter focusses on a short story written in this ­twenty-first-century context. “Fuego, camina conmigo” (Fire, Walk with Me)4 by Óscar ­Luviano was published in the anthology Así se acaba el mundo: cuentos mexicanos apocalípticos (Thus Ends the World: Apocalyptic Mexican Short S­ tories) in 2013. In this story, Luviano imagines how two sicarios5 working for a drug cartel in the north of Mexico spend their days before the end of the world. “Fuego, camina conmigo” presents a near-future set in the desert between Ciudad Juárez and Piedras Negras, cities located by the ­Mexican border with the United States. The story follows El Comandante (the ­Commander) and J.R., two sicarios working under the orders of drug lord Jesús Ortega. The actions take place during the last days before the

The Mexican Sicario  107 presumed end of the world. It is never revealed the way this will happen, but textual evidence makes it easy to assume that it will be an event of mass destruction. That is why El Comandante and J.R. have the mission to transport a space shuttle to Jesús Ortega, a craft which the drug lord intends to use to flee the apocalypse. In addition to this mission, they are also ordered to go through Piedras Negras to kidnap a singer of narcocorridos,6 el Consentido del Noreste (the Northeast Favourite), for having composed a song about Jesús Ortega without his authorisation. On their way to Piedras Negras, El Comandante and J.R. witness different signs that seem to be related to the coming apocalypse: all towns they come across are deserted, fires are seen on the horizon and their subordinates begin to fall into a catatonic state, in which they lose all sense of themselves and begin to voraciously devour desert sand. These events are intertwined with memories of El Comandante and conversations between him and J.R., one of which particularly stands out, revealing as it does that the corpses of women executed in Ciudad Juárez have begun to grow roots, becoming a forest inside the city. At the end of the story, El Comandante and J.R. arrive at Piedras Negras, where they too start to eat sand, as the end falls upon them. In what follows, the figure of the sicario is analysed in the midst of the end of the world as it is imagined in Luviano’s short story. In this, the hypermasculine behaviours of the criminal subject are further exaggerated in fiction by placing them in the realm of the apocalyptic, having as result a sicario defined by insensitivity, and a violent demeanour that comes naturally to them even when facing the possibility of the total destruction of the planet. By placing such a figure within the confines of apocalyptic literature, the hypertrophy of violence resulting from social and economic factors in Mexico is further highlighted and denounced by the author. Lastly, it will be seen that the apocalyptic catastrophe is used by the author to bring order (however fictional) to the chaos stemming from the narco crisis in the nation.

Mexican Drug War As neoliberalism was slowly assimilated (together with its negative effects), the beginning of the new Millennium brought with it more than mere turnof-the-century anxiety to Mexico. The year 2000 saw for the first time a change in the governing political party since the beginning of Mexican democracy, though it only lasted for two presidencies ­(2000–2006 with Vicente Fox and 2006–2012 with Felipe Calderón Hinojosa). The Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) was then substituted by the National Action Party (PAN), a centre-right party that promised, among other things, an end to political corruption. This change of government destabilised the already shaky balance in which organised crime, in the form of drug cartels, worked in the nation. Before this change, drug cartels, in complicity

108  Gabriela Mercado with PRI local authorities, managed to keep a low-profile business dedicated to the export of illegal drugs to the United States (Vázquez del Mercado, 2012b; Heinle et al., 2014, p. 10; Zavala, 2014, p. 185). This complicity, which began to crumble in the 1990s when the PRI started to lose local municipalities to other political parties, was further damaged after the political changes of the year 2000. The situation made it more difficult to keep a low profile, while other factors made it beneficial to abandon the old practices of organised crime: the rise of the US market for synthetic drugs, which are easier and cheaper to produce making it easier for new criminal organisations to be born; the hardening of migration controls after 9/11, which increased the recognition of an internal market of drug consumers; the broadening of the scope of criminal organisations, which expanded their activities to include kidnapping, extortion, human trafficking and piracy, among other things (Vázquez del Mercado, 2012b). This context created fiercer competition between organisations, and violence became common practice. In an attempt to regain control of the nation, President Felipe Calderón began an official national war against drug cartels in 2007, which led to a surge of homicides and violence one year later. During his presidency the number of murders stemming from the Drug War grew steadily at a national level, although there were local variations that made some states and cities more dangerous than others (see Espinal-Enríquez & Larralde, 2015). These circumstances have generated a series of studies that try to understand the dimensions of the problem. Terms such as narco violence and gore capitalism seek to provide not only an explanation, but also the full scope of the causes of this unrelenting violence. Fingers usually point not only at the drug cartels, but also the very government that claims to be fighting against them (see Valencia, 2010; Michael, 2013; Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2015). These studies also concur that violence becomes a way of redemption in the realm of an impoverished society that has to compete against an endless stream of wealth that only reaches the small and corrupted elite. Therefore, the increase in numbers and of violent acts on the part of organised crime can also be said to stem from the crisis brought by the implementation of neoliberalism in Mexico. Crime is closely related to the need for survival in the face of sociopolitical instability, which has been the recurrent condition of Mexican affairs since its beginnings as a nation. This instability is, to a large extent, the result of a governmental system characterised by corruption, authoritarianism and favouritism, which establishes laws that do not benefit the entire population. It can be inferred that, for the average citizen, following the law of a corrupted state is not advantageous. Héctor Domínguez Ruvalcaba (2015) defines this as a legitimation of crime which becomes a necessity of evil for social survival. It is the evil that binds, that propels collective emotions; it is the evil that makes order possible.

The Mexican Sicario  109 In an environment of terror and insecurity promoted by an authoritarian and simulated state, survival becomes a virtue. (pp. 11–12, my translation, emphasis added) This legitimation of crime in Mexican culture that Domínguez Ruvalcaba points to, which includes a legitimation of certain criminal figures, is reminiscent of the concept of gore capitalism, which Sayak Valencia (2010) applies to the situation in locations on the Mexican border to the United States. This concept refers to a strategy used in attempting to catch up with a First World that is controlled by the economy. In order to do this, the Third World tends to see a recurrence of ultraviolence, among other problems, thus making criminality a profitable way to compete and survive in the capitalist arena (Valencia, 2010, p. 15). Like Domínguez Ruvalcaba, Valencia links the actions of criminal subjects to their struggle for survival in adverse conditions. She aims to explain practices such as the ultraviolence enforced by drug cartels using the logic of gore capitalism.

Sicarios: A Masculine Profession Studies about violence in Mexico concur that criminal subjects are generally men, particularly in the case of those involved in drug cartels (see ­Valencia, 2010; Michael, 2013; Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2015). The profile of an average homicide victim during the presidency of Calderón ­(2006–2012) is of a young man of between 24 and 35 years, with a family, basic to no education, poor and living by the border with the United States, while the average profile of homicide perpetrators diverges from this only in their ages: they tend to be between 19 and 30 years old (Turati, 2012). As a matter of fact, one general characteristic of violence is that it is a behaviour that is presented more in men than in women (see Buss, 2005; Alvarez & Bachman, 2008; Cross & Campbell, 2014). Studies that have reached these conclusions are careful to distinguish between violence and aggression. John Archer (1994) writes about the importance of making this distinction when measuring gender violence. For this, he states that the main difference between violence and aggression is the damage caused (Archer, 1994, p. 2). While aggression is limited to the act, violence is aimed at having lasting or permanent physical consequences. In other words, all types of violence are acts of aggression, but not all acts of aggression can be said to be violent. An act of physical aggression could be, for example, to push a person, while an act of violence would be hitting said person. Knowing this distinction, several studies conclude that, although men and women do not show significant differences in levels of aggression, there is a marked difference in levels of violence, with men being responsible for most of the acts that count as violent (see Archer, 1994; Buss,

110  Gabriela Mercado 2005; Cross & Campbell, 2014). There are several stances that seek to explain why this marked gender difference exists. From genetic predispositions, hormonal levels or brain damage to social and economic factors, the causes of this behaviour are still not completely understood. What is better understood is that, irrespective of culture, the vast majority of violent acts are perpetrated by men (see Archer, 1994; Buss, 2005; Alvarez & Bachman, 2008; Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2015). In the case of drug cartels, violence becomes a currency to make business prosper. It is used by these organisations for strategic competition in order to expand or simply maintain the control of their territories and routes, as well as to protect and increase their value in the market. In addition, violence becomes a central element in some of their illegal activities, such as kidnapping, extortion, robbery and human trafficking. Finally, in order to intimidate rival organisations, the police and military included, cartel members often fall back on brutality. To classify a murder as resulting from organised crime, some characteristics that are considered include the presence of signs of torture, dismemberment or even the public display of bodies (Heinle, Rodríguez & Shirk, 2014, p. 12). These hyperviolent practices are not sought, but rather imposed upon the new members of drug cartels. Therefore, it has become common for members of these criminal organisations to go through initiation processes that are intended to numb their reactions to violence. Furthermore, the militarisation and professionalisation of drug cartels have also served to create more violent cartels. This militarisation has been made possible by deserters from the police and the army, who join drug cartels in order to earn better salaries. These men are put in charge of the training of recruits, or even form operation groups that aid the cartels by being their mercenary wings. Military codes and practices have become regular to these organisations: instead of nicknames, the members get codenames or positions (such as El Comandante in Luviano’s story), and dehumanisation of the enemy and civilians is achieved through the use of torture, executions and dismemberment, among other practices (Córdova Plaza & Hernández Sánchez, 2016, p. 573). Criminal masculinities are key images in the formation of the Mexican national identity, since they have been perceived in history as dominant models of masculinity that originate from the harshest of circumstances: “the pirate, the bandit, the drug lord, as well as the revolutionary, are all desirable subjects that lead the most exciting narratives of Mexican cultural history” (Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2015, p. 11, my translation). Of course, the image of the criminal as an adventurer “dissipates just as soon as one sees his or her own basic human rights coerced” (Holguín Mendoza, 2011, p. 418). Nevertheless, the criminal subject is one source that informs the culture of machismo in Mexico and Latin America. According to Donald L. Mosher and Mark Sirkin (1984), the culture of machismo is, in itself, a form of hypermasculinity, which they define

The Mexican Sicario  111 through three main behaviours: rough sexual attitudes towards women, violence and the inclination towards danger (p. 151). These behaviours serve as a way of defending one’s masculinity and are thus important in order to keep face: “[a]ny situation that challenges or threatens masculine identity activates this structure, thereby motivating and organizing the personality for participation in hypermasculine behaviours” (p. 152). In the Mexican context, situations that threaten masculine identity arise constantly, given all the economic, social and political inadequacies. According to Claudia Holguín Mendoza (2011), [s]ince NAFTA, migration has increased and accelerated, especially from rural zones… Hence, many young people in rural Mexico, especially male, face a grim reality. They can either remain in poverty as farmers, migrate to the United States, or get involved with the local narco-economy, often while becoming migrants. (p. 425) In addition, Córdova Plaza and Hernández Sánchez (2016) see the problem of men involved in drug cartels as a result of the lack of value and opportunity their lives hold in conditions of poverty, where working with criminal organisations represents not only the possibility to make a living, but also to make a name for themselves and overcome the lack of value they grow to believe they have. It is not only a way to make a living, but also to save face as men. However, by involving themselves with drug cartels, their lives remain of little value in the eyes of the State, society and opposing criminal groups, who now see their disposal as desirable (p. 569). This also serves to make men the most common victims of the Drug War.

“Fuego, camina conmigo” As a reaction to the criminality stemming from drug cartels, a new, debated, genre of narco literature has appeared in Mexico. In short, narco literature dedicates fiction to the problem of drug cartels, at least thematically, and its aim is to oppose the culture of criminality and the violence it stems from in Mexico (Michael, 2013, p. 52). This type of literature, particularly the novel, is highly realistic both in the use of language and in the way of presenting the actions in the story in order to mirror the reality to which they are juxtaposed. However, for “Fuego, camina conmigo,” Luviano goes beyond realism into the speculative and the extraordinary. In the story, the criminal subjects are presented as survivors amidst the apocalypse. However, it is not the end of the world that triggers their fight for survival. Despite the fact that the apocalypse in the story is manifested in their surroundings, the main characters pay little attention to anything unless it is directly connected to the mission

112  Gabriela Mercado assigned to them by their boss, Jesús Ortega. It is this behaviour that suggests that the apocalyptic element in the short story is there to exaggerate the hypermasculine behaviours of the criminal subjects. Moreover, there are also extraordinary events in the story that touch the realm of magic realism. David Roas (2014) defines this genre as a way to “denature the real and naturalise the unusual, that is, to integrate the ordinary and the extraordinary in a single representation of the world. Prodigious phenomena are thus presented as if they were something ordinary” (p. 21, my translation). The presentation of the unusual as ordinary is comparable to the insensitivity to violence that describes the behaviour of the sicarios in “Fuego, camina conmigo.” Thus, this indifference becomes ambiguous in the short story: is it the result of the characteristics of the genre or of the hypertrophy of violence these criminal subjects enact as part of their hypermasculinity? Although “Fuego, camina conmigo” follows the actions of El Comandante and J.R., the story begins with the introduction of Jesús Ortega, the drug lord for whom they work. This introduction is done through rumours and speculation about the boss’ personality. In addition to the rumour about how Ortega does not tolerate being given nicknames, it is also suggested that he does not tolerate others bearing the same name as him. The popularity of these speculations about the drug lord is evidenced by the fact that a singer of narcocorridos, El Consentido del Noreste, writes a song entitled “Nomás un Ortega” (Only one Ortega). The song presents these rumours as real, at the same time as it tells the story of how the drug lord murdered a man just for having the same name as his. Although it is revealed by the narrator that the murder of the other Ortega had a different motive, having this introduction to the drug lord as the opening of the story establishes him as a man to be feared and respected. That is why he decides that killing El Consentido del Noreste is as important as escaping the end of the world. As I have mentioned, the apocalypse in the story is always referred to by the characters as something that may or may not happen, though the text makes it clear that it will. By stealing the space shuttle, Jesús Ortega acknowledges that he considers the possibility of that being the case. However, it is more important to him to give a proper punishment to El Consentido del Noreste, so he commands his men to detour to different towns in order for El Comandante to kill the whole band and bring him the lead singer alive: “[w]hether the world ends or doesn’t, you bring me El Consentido. Tie him up on the ship, so he learns the rigor of the buzzards” (Luviano, 2013, p. 107). Clearly, reputation comes before anything, even the apocalypse. According to evolutionary psychologist David Buss (2005), “social reputation carries more dramatic consequences than a broken bone, a welt, or a wound” (p. 206). The image of the criminal subject is essential in the world of drug cartels, where hierarchies are won and maintained

The Mexican Sicario  113 by means of power. In order to construct and sustain a reputation of their own, members resort to different ways of enhancing their names, most of them through their violent deeds and cruelty, but even through the acquisition and deployment of their wealth. Another popular and traditional way in which both drug lords and sicarios build and maintain their reputations is through narcocorridos. Although this type of music has been censored in many parts of the country as a result of the war against drug cartels, it remains a popular genre of music, not only in the north of Mexico but even among Mexican communities in some southern parts of the United States. The main function of narcocorridos is to recount the “achievements” of the drug lord or the sicario to whom they are dedicated: they speak about their manhood, their power and fearlessness, setting them up as images of hypermasculinity. Narcocorridos are mainly requested by drug lords, individuals who have been established “as an image of power, capable of imposing dominance, rules and a series of opportunities that supplement those that the liberal democratic state has not been able to offer” (Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2015, p. 125). By introducing the figure of Jesús Ortega with the affair of the narcocorrido, the image of the drug lord is set as a powerful one. This is enhanced further by the fact that, unlike in other cases, his song was composed without his consent, which implies that his reputation is famous and powerful enough for a popular musician to want to take advantage of it. For a drug lord such as Jesús Ortega, reputation is important for inspiring fear in his subordinates and his competitors. The same goes for El Comandante, who is under the orders of the drug lord, but who is also in charge of a group of 15 sicarios, plus J.R. The narrator states that El Comandante always wears a ski mask, and the moment when he removes it to clean the sweat from his face, J.R. immediately turns away to avoid seeing the face of the man who has been his direct boss for three years: “others had earned their retirement for less” (Luviano, 2013, p. 99). The reputations of El Comandante and Jesús Ortega are thus constructed, to an extent, through what others believe is their power. The story also creates a hierarchy between these men, given that El Comandante fears the drug lord. After days of carrying on with their mission, including the murder of the musicians accompanying El Consentido del Noreste, they have still not heard anything from Jesús Ortega. The day on which the story begins, the protagonists realise that the nearest town is deserted, as is the internet, since a video of the executions performed that week has not been seen, nor removed from YouTube, though J.R. can clearly connect to the website without problems. Considering that the story is set during the end of the world, these circumstances can easily be related to this event. However, El Comandante shows no concern about the lack of people or the desolation, only about the silence of a single person: Jesús Ortega. He fears the consequences

114  Gabriela Mercado this silence may imply, because the mission is behind schedule and “delays were paid with the same currency as homonymy with Jesús Ortega” (p. 99), in other words, with death. The character never assumes that Ortega’s silence may be related to the announced end of the world, nor that it may be related to the absence of people, as if the drug lord was beyond that. Buss states that for survival, a good strategy is “giving preferential attention to those at the top” (2005, p. 199). In the world of drug cartels, the drug lord is in the highest position, one reached through brutality and the imposition of fear. El Comandante and J.R. are part of this hierarchy, in which the end of the world is not as threatening as the wrath of Jesús Ortega. Thanks to their reputations, both Ortega and El Comandante are feared and respected by their subordinates. But reputation is nothing without deeds, and the story goes on intertwining memories of El Comandante and his encounters with the drug lord with the plot of the space shuttle. In these memories Jesús Ortega is physically described as follows: still lame from both legs due to some quarrel, he had left the sauna supporting himself on the two blondes he used as crutches (each one, El Comandante recalled, with her own television show). The brown flesh marked in all places by war scars: cigar burns, bullet scars, the intricate snake left by daggers when biting the chest. (Luviano, 2013, p. 107) The image is that of a man who has experienced violence first-hand, and with this description the author confirms the roughness of the drug lord that the narration has been constructing for the readers through the memories of El Comandante and the narrator. As for El Comandante, the only physical description of him is given the moment he removes his ski mask: “thorny hair and hard beard” (p. 99). Unlike Jesús Ortega and J.R., he is the only character fully rounded in the story, through the narration of his childhood memories of a time when he was fascinated with space rockets. This childhood fascination of his is not at any time expressed to J.R. or Jesús Ortega. He remains the cold, calculating sicario through and through. In one flash-back, El Comandante alone manages to tame a hippopotamus that had been stolen for Ortega, making the once wild animal scared of the sicario. Also, he is the last of his men to fall into the salt-eating trance, which in a way makes him the last man standing. The characterisation of both Jesús Ortega and El Comandante is parallel to their position in the cartel hierarchy. El Comandante becomes a more approachable character since it is through him that the story is focalised. However, his behaviour is also hypermasculine in relation to the other characters, and he never loses face regardless of the circumstances that arise on that day the world ends.

The Mexican Sicario  115 The image of the hypermasculine sicario is not only built through interactions with other men, but also with the opposite sex. As mentioned, another characteristic of hypermasculinity is the use of violence against women, which can even be extended to their objectification. The two blonde girls who Jesús Ortega uses as crutches lick the residues of water off his body after the sauna in front of El Comandante (p. 108). Aside from these two, the rest of the female characters who are given any space in the story are murdered young women. From this circumstance, Luviano develops the clearest element of magic realism in the story, which is the emergence of trees that grow from the bodies of the women executed in Ciudad Juárez. So many are murdered that the once-desert city becomes a forest, where people enjoy picnics and walks. This is a reference to femicides7 in Ciudad Juárez, where the murder of young women increased dramatically with the arrival of manufacturing plants (maquilas or maquiladoras in Spanish) in the cities along the Mexican border in the 1980s and 1990s, as part of the neoliberal model of economy. According to Kathleen Staudt and Holguín Mendoza, this situation gave a new economic power to women, who found job opportunities in these factories since most of the maquiladoras work with textiles, and therefore, preferred female employees. This circumstance affected the traditional family system, as well as the economic power that used to be held almost entirely by men in Mexican households (Staudt, 2008, p. 45; Holguín Mendoza, 2011, p. 429). This does not account for the motives for all the executed women in the Mexican cities in the border, but it is presented by Staudt and Holguín Mendoza in their respective investigations as a likely reason as to why a culture of violence against them became so widespread during those years, and up to the present day. As mentioned, a consequence of NAFTA was the accelerated and increased migration of people from rural zones into the cities, especially to those by the border. Aside from manufacturing plants, not many other jobs were to be found for the massive wave of migrants who arrived at Ciudad Juárez in the 1990s. While textile maquilas opened many opportunities for women, for men, especially young ones, the best financial opportunities were often related to criminal organisations. This is another reason why violence increased in the border cities, with C ­ iudad Juárez being an especial case in point. According to Molly Molloy, 10% of all homicides that happened during the presidency of Felipe Calderón happened in Ciudad Juárez (cited in Esquivel, 2012). In 2012 it was estimated that in the period from the 1 January 2007 to 21 October 2012, 11,114 intentional homicides were registered in this city, which translates into 5.8 homicides per day (Molloy, cited in Esquivel, 2012). Regarding femicides, from 1993 to 2007, 3,538 women were registered as having been murdered in Ciudad Juárez, an average of 0.7 per day (Molloy, cited in Esquivel, 2012), and during the presidency of Calderón the numbers

116  Gabriela Mercado rose to reach the 304 femicides in 2010, an average of 0.83 per day (Itzel González, cited in Ávila, 2016). One of the reasons femicides and general violence are so rampant is impunity. In Mexico, fewer than 25% of all crimes are reported, and of these only 2% are punished (Heinle, Rodríguez & Shirk, 2014, p. 13). According to Itzel González, impunity with regard to femicides in ­Ciudad Juárez worsened with the war against drug cartels during the presidency of Calderón, since “the arrival of the military and the federal police made gender violence invisible, everything was drug cartels” (cited in Ávila, 2016, my translation). At the same time, although the majority of femicides were perpetrated by relatives or men known to the victims, drug cartels used violence against women as a way to exert power. In the case of the sicarios, Domínguez Ruvalcaba (2015) argues that “this form of [female] victimization points to socialization of a culture of violent sexuality that is a part of… the practices of consolidation of male domination that we find repeatedly in narratives referring to criminal organizations” (p. 183). Women become another object that serves the purpose of expressing hypermasculinity, an easy target that is not involved with cartels and is not well protected by the law in places like Ciudad Juárez. In “Fuego, camina conmigo,” the first woman to become a tree in the city is murdered by her boyfriend, a sicario who shot her after having sex, and then threw her body onto the street outside her house. The low resolution of cases of executed women is reflected in this scene, as well as the endless number of murders that make this particular crime meaningless: “[t]hey would fit one body on top of the other, and let’s go, to the next one” (Luviano, 2013, p. 104). However, this time the police cannot remove the body of the murdered girl, for it suddenly weighs so much that not even a crane can lift her. During the night, it is discovered that roots have emerged from her, and a mangrove-like tree begins to rapidly grow from her body, reaching the height of 20 meters in two days. By that time, another five women have been murdered, and their bodies have also turned into trees. This extraordinary circumstance is treated in the story as an element of magic realism. A whole forest soon appears inside the city, thanks to the excessive number of murdered women. Yet, this is not met with apprehension, not even considering that it happens just as people find out that the world is coming to an end. On the contrary, given the reality lived in Ciudad Juárez, people welcome the forest: “[w]ith so much tree, the climate changed. You know how the heat was in Juárez, suffocating, horrible, but with the forest it was bearable. There were even those who did picnics. You really just wanted to sit under them” (p. 110). In the story, violence against women gives birth to something beautiful, albeit something that should at the same time be a reminder of the atrocities committed against the victims, or at least a sign of the coming end of the world. However, people can seldom remember where the trees came from.

The Mexican Sicario  117 When J.R. tells this story to El Comandante, he adds that the boyfriend of the first girl-mangrove dressed her before leaving her body on the street, and he speculates that maybe he did it out of love. This twisted romanticism is repeated at two other moments when he sees bodies of murdered women. On both occasions, he states the same: they looked like someone you would want to marry (pp. 103, 110). Whether as blond crutches, as trees, or as could-have-been brides, women have no voice in the story, only a presence that depends on what these hypermasculine men choose to do with them. However, to the reader their presence is noticeable, particularly in the case of the women of Ciudad Juárez, for which the author invoked poetic justice. This is thus an example of how the extraordinary and the apocalyptic accentuates the disaster that is the violence of drug cartels, not just with the imagery itself, but also when considering the reactions of the characters. Whether it be a result of violence or danger, it is clear in “Fuego, camina conmigo” that the characters are completely insensitive towards death. In the case of Mexico, violence and crime became so common in certain locations during the Drug War that homicide was seen as somewhat ordinary. As an example, in the northern states of Nuevo León and Tamaulipas the percentage of murders increased 500% and 1,419% respectively between 2009 and 2010 (Vázquez del Mercado, 2012a). In Luviano’s story, murder is just another necessary step to finish whatever mission Jesús Ortega commands. When leaving the tunnel with the truck carrying the space shuttle, El Comandante does not hesitate to unceremoniously drive over his men who are just sitting by the floor eating sand. They show no mercy when slicing the throats of the three musicians that played with El Consentido; on the contrary, they record each of the murders and edit them into a musical video to upload to YouTube. Finally, in a scene close to the ends of both the story and the world, El Comandante and J.R. arrive at Piedras Negras and decide to enter into a church to look for El Consentido, whom they still hope to take to Ortega. Here, they find that a priest has beheaded all of the parishioners, afterwards setting both himself and his church on fire. The only reaction of the sicarios to this scene is a question: could the head of El Consentido del Noreste be among those of the parishioners? For the main characters of “Fuego, camina conmigo,” death is nothing more than an occupational hazard, and given the reactions of the characters, it becomes as ordinary in the story as the trees that grow from women, or the sand-eating sicarios. Likewise, the increasing imminence of the end of the world does not make this vision change or take on a different meaning. Óscar Luviano (2013) writes an epilogue to “Fuego, camina conmigo” in which he explains his motivations behind the story: It seemed logical to me that by the time the last day of the planet arrived, the sicarios would continue doing their stuff: the end of the

118  Gabriela Mercado world would barely be a catalogue of the horrors to which they are accustomed to. (p. 112, my translation) By placing the story in an apocalyptic scenario, full of uncertainty and fatalism, the author manages to recreate an image of hypermasculinity and hyperviolence that is characteristic of men working for drug cartels. At the same time, however, by making use of magical realism, the story becomes a potentially ambiguous picture of the sicario: is the indifference of these characters a result of genre conventions, or is it part of the reality the short story portrays? Both answers have the potential to be accurate, particularly the latter, considering the context of the Drug War that clearly inspired “Fuego, camina conmigo.” This seems to be the reading the author intended his readers to make: hence, the epilogue. In the Book of Revelations, the just and innocent are first taken to the Kingdom of Heaven during the rapture, while the evil are made to stay and suffer through the events of the apocalypse. The same can be seen in “Fuego, camina conmigo,” where the murdered women reach to the skies as mangroves, while at the very end of the world the only men left are the sand-eating sicarios. The apocalypse serves, then, not just as a background scenario that enhances the hypermasculinity of the criminal subjects that take part in the Drug War in Mexico, but also a discourse that allows for poetic judgement and justice for some of their victims.

Notes 1 For a further discussion on Mexican apocalyptic literature see Sánchez Prado (2007); López-Lozano (2008); Fabry et al. (2009); Manickam (2012). 2 Two events allowed for writers interested in popular literature to take part of the literary scene in Mexico in the 1980s. The first one was the creation of the Premio Nacional Puebla de Cuento de Ciencia Ficción (Puebla Prize of Science Fiction) in 1984, which led to the creation of the Mexican Association of Science Fiction and Fantasy (AMCyF) in 1992. The second event was the creation of the Editorial Fund Tierra Adentro in 1990, which published the first two science fiction anthologies, Más allá de lo imaginado I and II, coordinated by Federico Schaffler, in 1991. For a more detailed history of Mexican popular literature, particularly science fiction, see Larson (1977); Haywood Ferreira (2011); Sánchez Prado (2012). 3 Narco is a portmanteau of two Spanish words that is widely used in the context of Mexican drug trafficking: Narcotráfico (Drug traffic) and narcotraficante (drug dealer). The term narco is often used to refer to both: él es un narco (he is a drug dealer) and el problema del narco es la violencia (the problem with Drug traffic is violence). Its use has become so widespread that the term is now even used in English. 4 Not to be confused with the David Lynch movie of the same name. All translations of “Fuego, camina conmigo” are mine. 5 Sicario is the Spanish word for hitman, that is, a professional assassin. However, in the case of Mexican drug cartels, the title has more connotations. In the 1990s and 2000s, drug cartels resorted more frequently to

The Mexican Sicario  119 gangs for both the expansion and the protection of their routes, in addition to the work of sicarios becoming a product of globalisation in an impoverished country where crime became a profitable solution for those who could not compete in the new economy (Baquero-Pecino, 2010, p. 4). At the same time, there is an increase of members who defect from the police and the military, and who begin to train the assassins of the criminal organisations in a more military, professional way (Córdova Plaza & Hernández Sánchez 2016, p. 573). Therefore, a sicario in the context of Mexican drug cartels is also a member of the criminal organisation whose main function is to impose violence as a practice to attain the interests of the group, usually through murder. Given its particular meaning, the word sicario will be used throughout the text instead of the less contextualised hitman or assassin. 6 The narcocorrido is a musical genre that celebrates “the deeds of the fearless narcos who engage in ‘adventures’ with the Mexican police, the United States Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), or the United States Border ­Patrol” (Holguín Mendoza, 2011, p. 417). It usually portrays the narco as a sort of Robin Hood that imposes social justice in a broken system and who follows a set of codes of honour that enhance his masculinity and worth. There are two types of narcocorridos: the commercial, which are commissioned by professional studios, and the private, which are commissioned by the ­i ndividual or relatives/friends of the individual to whom narcocorrido is dedicated (Simonett, 2004, p. 180; Rashotte, 2016, p. 397). 7 Femicide was established in the Mexican Federal Criminal Code in July 2012 and it is considered as a homicide committed for reasons of gender (Heinle, Rodríguez & Shirk, 2014, p. 11).

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120  Gabriela Mercado Espinal-Enríquez, J. & Larralde, H. (2015), “Analysis of México’s Narco-War Network (2007–2011).” PLoS ONE 10(5), pp. 1–15. Esquivel, J. Jesús (2012), “Juárez, símbolo de la mortandad….” Proceso, 8 November. www.proceso.com.mx/324640/324640-juarez-simbolo-de-lamortandad. Accessed 14 March 2018. Heinle, K., Rodríguez Ferreira, O. & Shirk, D.A. (2014), Justice in Mexico Project: Drug Violence in Mexico: Data and Analysis through 2013 Special Report, San Diego, CA: University of San Diego. https://justiceinmexico.org/ wp-content/uploads/2014/09/2014_DVM.pdf. Accessed 8 March 2018. Holguín Mendoza, C. (2011), “Dining with the Devil: Identity Formations in Juárez, Mexico.” Identities 18(5), pp. 415–436. López-Lozano, M. (2008), Utopian Dreams, Apocalyptic Nightmares: ­Globalization in Recent Mexican and Chicano Narrative, West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press. Luviano, O. (2013), “Fuego, camina conmigo,” in E. Aldán (ed.), Así se acaba el mundo. Cuentos mexicanos apocalípticos, Mexico: Ediciones SM, pp. 97–112. Michael, J. (2013), “Narco-violencia y literatura en México.” Sociologías 15(34), pp. 44–75. Mosher, D. & Sirkin, M. (1984), “Measuring a Macho Personality Constellation.” Journal of Research in Personality 18(2), pp. 150–163. Mousoutzanis, A. (2009), “Apocalyptic SF,” in M. Bould, A. Butler, A. Roberts & S. Vint (eds.), The Routledge Companion to Science Fiction, New York: Routledge, pp. 458–462. Roas, D. (2014), “El reverso de lo real: Formas y categorías de lo insólito,” in J. Ordiz (ed.), Estrategias y figuraciones de lo insólito en la narrativa mexicana (siglos XIX–XX), New York: Peter Lang, pp. 9–29. Sánchez Prado, I. (2007), “La utopía apocalíptica del México neoliberal.” ­AlterTexto 5(10), pp. 9–15. Staudt, K. (2008), Violence and Activism at the Border: Gender, Fear, and ­Everyday Life in Ciudad Juárez, Austin: University of Texas Press. Turati, M. (2012), “Los muertos de Calderón: asesino y asesinado, rostros en un espejo.” Proceso. www.proceso.com.mx/329082/los-muertos-de-calderonasesino-y-asesinado-rostros-en-un-espejo. Accessed 13 March 2018. Valencia, S. (2010), Capitalismo Gore, Spain: Editorial Melusina. Vázquez del Mercado, G. (2012a), “Elementos para analizar la violencia del narcotráfico en México.” Letras Libres, June 12. www.letraslibres.com/­ mexico-espana/elementos-analizar-la-violencia-del-narcotrafico-en-mexico. Accessed 30 August 2017. Vázquez del Mercado, G. (2012b), “Radiografía del crimen organizado en ­México.” Letras Libres, June 5. www.letraslibres.com/mexico-espana/­ radiografia-del-crimen-organizado-en-mexico. Accessed 30 August 2017. Zavala, O. (2014), “Las razones de Estado del narco: Soberanía y biopolítica en la narrativa mexicana contemporánea,” in M. Moraña & I.M. Sánchez Prado (eds.), Heridas abiertas: Biopolítica y representación en América Latina, Madrid: Iberoamericana, pp. 183–202.

7 Post-apocalyptic Play Representations of the End of the City in Video Games Emma Fraser

Introduction This chapter considers, in part, the relationship between digital video games set in post-apocalyptic cities and the longer history of popular imaginaries of the apocalypse – for example, in art, film and literature. Through the theme of catastrophe and the apocalypse, the chapter also sketches a conceptual approach to the critique of video games that emphasises the importance of counter or hypothetical histories within the context of Frankfurt School theorist Walter Benjamin’s work on the concept of progress, historical linearity, and the allegorical positioning of ­post-apocalyptic worlds in video games as sites of popular critical encounters with the ruins of cities that are recognisable to the audience. In this chapter, the video game series Fallout will come under particular scrutiny, linking to imaginaries of apocalypse through four key tropes that represent popular apocalyptic imaginaries (discussed in the following section). The Fallout series is known for experimental historical timelines, re-imagining the contemporary present through narratives or historical events that challenge and diverge from the worlds or possibilities that we know. The eponymous ‘fallout’ is a citation of popular visions of nuclear apocalypse, familiar from science fiction films and novels – Fallout 3 in particular (which will be the key case of this chapter) evokes the sorts of landscapes that audiences would recognise from the representations of the end of the world in alien invasion films from the 1950s onward, or literature about survival in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Fallout 3 (Bethesda Softworks, 2008) is an open world action/role playing game, with first person shooter elements, played in either first- or third-person view. Fallout 3 disrupts historical discourse by reproducing the ­retro-futuristic aesthetics of an indulgent 1950s nuclear era projected into an alternative timeline and hypothetical future (Rowan, 2012). In its alternative historical format, Fallout 3 is an intentionally political game that unambiguously (if somewhat nostalgically) depicts the apocalyptic ruins of capitalism and the end of American civilisation. Fallout 3 has been extensively written about within the field of game studies, as it presents a particularly complex playground by manipulating

122  Emma Fraser the post-apocalyptic setting to set the player up as a hero making moral choices, with cascading effects on future gameplay. Fallout 3 is also one of the few games to receive critical attention from disciplines such as history, cultural and film studies, and sociology, largely because of the way that it engages historical narratives, nostalgia, and retro aesthetics (see Knoblauch, 2013; Kemmer, 2014). As William Knoblauch (2013) describes in his analysis of games and nuclear anxiety, Fallout 3 presents a “first person apocalypse,” bound up with the history of nuclear catastrophe, “combining Cold War kitsch with futuristic technology,” an “apocalypse born of a distant, but culturally familiar, 1950s era” (p. 134), marking “the return of atomic explosions” (p. 136) to popular culture. The Fallout series (1997–) engages this familiar post-apocalyptic imaginary of the end of the world, representing the nuclear apocalypse that has reduced the Fallout universe to a bleak and gritty wasteland populated with ruins. Ruins – and associated rubble and wastelands – are key signifiers of the apocalypse through which the catastrophic end of civilisation can be immediately and tangibly expressed (Hell & Schönle, 2008, p. 7). This chapter begins from a prior understanding of contemporary ruination – ruins of a recent past, or the present reimagined in ruins – as a trope deployed as a shortcut to a historical framing of rise and fall, civilisation collapse and urban (and, by implication, societal) decay. As communicative and symbolic tropes, contemporary ruins have been read as indicators of the anxious history of the post 9/11 era, even as an ontological imperative, reaching back to anxieties of hyper-technological Cold War ­annihilation  – or worse (as often portrayed in p ­ ost-apocalyptic sci-fi), survival (Hell & Schönle, 2008, pp. 4–5). The symbolism is enduring, linking to the ruins of the First and Second World Wars, recorded through film and photography, and written into literature (see, for example, WG Sebald’s Air War and Literature [2003]). Even these modern ruins are interpreted through an even longer imagination of ruin, citing the destruction and abandonment of Rome, Carthage or Nineveh to express catastrophic mass destruction that leaves behind a field of ruins (Hell & Schönle, 2008, pp. 172–175). The fundamental function in such citation of the ruin – from the romantic sublime to contemporary pop dystopia – is to express (symbolically, metaphorically, allegorically) a degree of destruction and decay that is extreme and evocative. For example, in Theses on the Philosophy of History, Walter Benjamin’s “Angel of History” looks out across an accumulating wreckage, the catastrophic debris of history (Benjamin, 2003, p. 392), a figure which relies on the image of the ruin to communicate the horror of Benjamin’s own destructive present, in exile in Paris in the early years of the Second World War. As a response to Paul Klee’s oil transfer drawing Angelus Novus (which B ­ enjamin purchased in 1921), the Angel is a melancholy figure with a wild gaze, whose rubble-­ pile offers a critique of historical progress, amassing ruin upon ruin,

Post-apocalyptic Play  123 so fragmented that no whole can be reassembled. Such images of ruination work upon the viewer as shortcuts to meaning; basic tropes or memes that communicate complex and historically contingent themes of flux, endings, catastrophe and the apocalyptic. Whether an image of a material ruin (like the ruins of war or ­postindustrialisation) or a representation of imagined destruction and decay, ruins are always more than the literal wreck of a piece of architecture, or discarded remnant. A table may just be a table. A ruin is never just a ruin – and a ruined city is more than an inert pile of bricks or stone. These visions are updated for every era (for example, the emergence of the nuclear threat as an apocalyptic vision represented in mushroom clouds, poisoned wastes and charred ruins). Although a simple fragment can relay a complex allegorical formation (as in Benjamin’s Angel), images of ruin nevertheless rely heavily on clichéd forms and aesthetics handed down from eschatological imaginings as well as historic happenings. Ruins – and especially ruined cities – serve as some of the most dominant representations of catastrophe and apocalypse, the remnants that survive the end of the world. The use of recognisable ruin-tropes refers back to the grand narratives of history, in which images of wrecked castles and crumbling temples function as linguistic and figurative tools, telling of the fall of great civilisations by deploying fragments and remnants to remind of eternity and transience. ‘Tropes’ tend to refer to metaphorical language, or the use of one thing to stand in for or symbolise another, and ruins are particularly pertinent to this interpretation of the trope. As Walter Benjamin (2008) expresses, ruination is itself a symbolic medium – writing of his study of German ­Romantic theatre (or Trauerspiel), he states “in the spirit of allegory it is conceived from the outset as a ruin, a fragment” (p. 235). Elsewhere, Benjamin links the image of the ruin to catastrophe, progress and history, including the allegorical formation of fragments as signifiers of decay: [i]n the ruin history has physically merged into the setting. And in this guise, history does not assume the form of the process of eternal life so much as that of irresistible decay. Allegories are, in the realm of thoughts, what ruins are in the realm of things. (pp. 177–178) Benjamin here links the character of historical thought that assembles critique from fragmentary parts with the nature of the material ruin, engaging decay and destruction, symbolically, to express history as a process of decline. In the discussion of the Trauerspiel, Benjamin argues for the relevance of the study, suggesting that although German ­Romantic theatre may appear shallow, the way that it engages with history through ruins reveals its critical capacity, despite its popular form. For Benjamin, what is most problematic about historical progress is its link to a perceived future void, as if historical progress must focus

124  Emma Fraser on occupying that void, rather than an understanding of history as a consummate interrelation of different temporalities and eras. The relationship between Benjamin’s work on the construction of history and ­post-apocalyptic ruins in games is made evident in his two different conceptions of catastrophe: one, the shattering revolutionary fragmentation that blasts events from their contexts and attempts to destroy the dominant order altogether; the other an insistence on perpetual progress that generates catastrophic ruination, and a constant reconfiguration of the world that does not bring about any meaningful – lasting, political – change (see Benjamin, Theses on the Philosophy of History, 2003). In Fallout 3 the events of history are blasted into fractured ruins, the dominant order has decayed and catastrophe characterises the entire universe. Further, the game engages multiple temporalities by presenting the ruins of a long-vanished world, ruins that are simultaneously a citation of our own historical reality, but which also cite the imagined history of alternative world in which the game is set. This meshing of eras – past, present and future time – reflects the sort of fractured and non-linear history that Benjamin deemed necessary to resist the very processes that bring such catastrophic ruin. In Fallout 3 the 3D post-apocalypse uses the medium of the ruin to challenge traditional conceptions of historical temporality and linearity (despite also reinforcing notions of linear historical progress through narratives of rise and fall). This challenging of history is particularly effective in games like Fallout 3, with hypothetical or counterfactual scenarios set in imagined futures or alternative presents, where the ruined cities are recognisably contemporary sites, and where the story, gameworld, action and other aspects present some sort of commentary on the nature of history by inverting or challenging the contemporary present. This chapter will argue that despite being apparently non-historical games post-apocalyptic video games can be critically read in relation to historical discourses and imaginaries, which tend to take the form of visions of ruination. In some cases, the use of ruins and implied master narratives and tropes tends to reinforce notions of historical progress and development, but as counterfactual histories (Apperley, 2013, p. 191) such games also ­re-contextualise historical thinking by imagining the world in ruins. As Dora Apel (2015) describes when reflecting on games including Fallout 3, and the idea of a modern ruin imaginary “[s]uch fantasized scenarios extend the ruin imaginary into fresh media spheres and encourage the participation of a new generation in exploring the projected sensual spaces of ruination while aesthetically mediating the anxiety of decline” (p. 65).

Imagining and Representing Ruins The representational capacities of games are (perhaps surprisingly) much-contested within the field of game studies, where it is commonplace to dismiss the visual and symbolic content of games (sometimes

Post-apocalyptic Play  125 even including narratives and characters) as incidental to the code, hardware and software, and ‘choice architecture’ that distinguishes digital and computational media from more traditional media forms. There is some sense to this when reflecting on early titles that imagine an apocalyptic vision of the end of the world – for example, one of the first games set in a post-apocalyptic world, Psychic City (Hot-B, 1984), was a PC game with simplistic and flat graphics, representing the ruins of New York as a distant and blocky background. Though advanced for its time (it was also one of the earliest games to use cutscenes, for example), the representational content was highly abstract, little more than vectors and shading, in parts top-down or merely text-based. For such early games, it was broadly true to claim that their meaning content was not primarily visual, but rested in the interaction between player and code, through the computer interface. Contemporarily, however, games exploit an array of multimedia functions, and as such have become sophisticated in their symbolic representations (visual and otherwise). As a consequence of ever-improving graphics and hardware capabilities, digital video games increasingly realistically represent places in the world – archetypal cities, domestic spaces like homes and hospitals, streets, forests or roadways that are no longer pixelated and distant suggestions, but clearly recognisable worlds and situations. In the context of game studies and related fields, the representational qualities of games – including post-apocalyptic games – are typically under-researched and dismissed as shallow or relatively meaningless (Fraser, 2016). To resist this, the symbolic weight of ruination in post-apocalyptic games is a particularly evocative site for analysis, due to the history of images of the apocalypse, and the meaning production facilitated by the figure of the ruin. In considering representation and video games, it is important to consider play, particularly in conjunction with ruins. As play scholar Miguel Sicart (2016) says of Brian Sutton-Smith’s understanding of play: it is a human mode of activity that is “appropriative, expressive, personal, and autotelic,” that is, it is creative but also purposeful; it takes on existing meanings and structures and reinvents them (p. 28). Play is an end in itself, and it is this playful aspect of video games that can distinguish them from other media (for example, from film or television, or from non-game-oriented software). Sicart (2016) goes on: play is always in precarious balance between creation and d ­ estruction – play has a compulsion for disorder that is closely related to its capacity to create order. To play is to keep a balance between the sublime creation of order and pleasurable destruction. Similarly, ruins – real or imagined – do something in their ambiguous signification, disintegration and modularity: they balance between the

126  Emma Fraser sublime and the disordered. The affinity between games, play and ruins manifests in this mediation between creation and ruination, and the moment a post-apocalyptic ruin is placed in a digital gaming environment, it begins to do important work in setting the scene for play, deploying imaginaries and presenting a space of pleasurable destruction. Ruined cities frequently feature in video games, whether as aesthetic tropes, incidental scenery, symbolic representations, or – increasingly – as fully furnished spaces in which the key action of the game is made possible. It has also become much more common for games to imagine the future ruin of existing cities – Hellgate: London, the S.T.A.L.K.E.R series (Pripyat and Chernobyl), The Last of Us (Boston and Pittsburgh), Horizon Zero Dawn (Denver) and Fallout 4 (Boston) are all key examples. The settings, especially the imagined endings of places that exist in the player’s present, are often situated within a hypothetical future society, and the ruinous worlds signify and reproduce a particular kind of contemporary historical imagining that is linked to the visioning of the apocalypse. The deployment of ruined cities is often atmospheric, and the representations – in the form of images, but also 3D models – of urban ruin rely on a shared library of ruin tropes, but also collective fears, to construct post-apocalyptic worlds for players to explore. For example, Horizon Zero Dawn (Guerrilla Games, 2017) is set in a post-apocalyptic world long after the collapse of a hyper-technological society; the gameplay includes the remnants of ancient architecture that is recognisable as that of our own world. In The Last Of Us (Naughty Dog, 2013) functional US cities are depicted as empty and abandoned following a disease outbreak, replicating existing imaginaries of urban decay and exploration through an aesthetic that also evokes the image of known American cities ruined and returning to nature in the 2007 film, I Am Legend. These examples reflect a notable tendency, in games that represent real-world sites that we might know, to be preoccupied with catastrophe and apocalypse. Catastrophe here stands as a marker for the collapse of a multitude of social and cultural norms, the end of the march of history, the cessation of the everyday. Strange, then, that (as with many popular imaginings of the apocalypse) these games set at the end of the world largely take place after the apocalypse has happened, within what James Berger (1999) calls a “paradoxical, oxymoronic character of post-apocalyptic discourse” (p. xv), an accepted narrative of events that take place after a world-shattering cataclysm seen to end the world as we know it – and yet the world goes on. As Berger (1999) states, “nearly every apocalyptic text presents the same paradox. The end is never the end” (p. 5). In post-apocalyptic games the hero survives to find out what happens after an event that dramatically ruptures the usual course of the world (in most games, the hero is also the avatar used by the player to navigate and play the game). History continues to be ‘made,’ and arch narratives

Post-apocalyptic Play  127 of progress and transience, saviour and rescue dominate in violent and chaotic scenarios – a particularly American tendency in which “the insistent denial of the traumatic events of our history has brought about the need for these repeated apocalyptic purgings, both real and imaginary,” tales of conflict and bad guys, darkness and doom, ending (or, actually, starting) with Armageddon (p. 135). At the same time – also in common with other popular representations of life after the world as we know it has ended – video game worlds are strewn with banal artefacts, and the gameplay (though following a typical narrative of a hero saving the world) also demands hours of routine, even ordinary, life. In Fallout 3 this involves trekking through the dust to find supplies, scavenging everyday objects from scattered of refuse, or seeking out an unexpectedly habitable hideout to sleep in among the abject ruin of civilisation. Writing on historical video games, Jeremiah McCall (2011) notes that the postmodern historical consciousness has been focussed on everyday people, with video games no exception to this trend. For McCall, this gives games the potential to promote knowledge and understanding about the world around us. Just as history (and social and cultural studies) have moved to the daily lives of citizens, so too have end-of-the-world narratives moved from tales of kings and empires, to survival among familiar ruins – a pronounced trend in many video games. The use of first- and third-person games to explore what had previously been restricted to science fiction films, comic books and literature can add to these tales about survival in the ruins of places that we know, torn between creativity and destruction by the mechanism of play, using game elements to present an individually driven examination of the ruins of civilisation, with key conflict coming from zombies, vampires, aliens and robots or cyborgs (sharing many similarities with post-apocalyptic worlds in other media). Not quite the messianic day of reckoning or judgement found in religious and eschatological visions of the end of the world, the popular everyday apocalypse presents a banal, dust and bones image of the end of the world in which iconic cities fall to ruin, their identifiable landmarks collapsed, with most people dead or absent. This is a popular imaginary with a long heritage that exploits the complex nature of ruins themselves, wherein the ruined city always signifies more than its own demise, whether the tragedy of being on the wrong end of history, or the possibility for all things to collapse in ruin. The imaginaries of the post-apocalypse that appear and reappear in such games can be studied via an archaeological analysis of the history of representations of ruination, in line with Frederic Jameson’s Archaeologies of the Future (2005), which considers social and cultural imaginaries that operate discursively to foreground visual regularity and repetition in textual media (in Jameson’s case, through science fiction narrative, utopian thinking, imagined worlds and futures, or genres, for

128  Emma Fraser example). Apel (2015) further relates Jameson’s critical work in terms of hypothetical ruins and the imaginary, noting that “the global ruin imaginary may be understood as a response to global zombification” (p. 152) amidst the near impossibility of imagining a coherent alternative to capitalism as a widespread economic and political system, thus linking the ruin imaginary – even in the most fantastical mode of zombies and ­horror – to a politics in imagining an alternative (albeit ­post-apocalyptic) society through ruins. Another contemporary imaginary that appears in popular ­postapocalyptic games is the “vertical sublime” of the ruins of the World Trade Centre (Huyssen, 2003, p. 160), what Terry Smith (2006) terms an architecture of spectacle that has drastically redeveloped in a post 9/11 context and bears all the modern anxieties of urban terrorism, economic catastrophe and social alienation, with a visual manifestation that moves away from visions of war-torn Europe, towards scenes of towering skyscrapers, collapsing to nothing. The vertical sublime – which appears in games like The Last of Us as well as Fallout 3 – is also linked to the end of classical modernist architecture and a rupture in experience which defines a post 9/11 era (Huyssen, 2003, p. 160). This spectacularisation of recognisably contemporary ruin has a fascination with the catastrophic at its heart, an apocalyptic rhetoric and social anxiety born “of human fantasy and pleasure cast within the shadow of eternal doom” (Lewis, 2012, p. ix). Video games that represent the apocalypse through ruins manifest a long tradition of sublime ruination, but with modern settings and anxieties. In its earliest forms, this urban-focussed definition of the sublime ruin, unlike the romantic ruins of abbeys or castles, also encompasses what Walter Benjamin (1999) knew of catastrophic currents of global change, witnessed in his lifetime: A generation that had gone to school on a horse-drawn streetcar now stood under the open sky in a countryside in which nothing remained unchanged but the clouds, and beneath these clouds, in a field of force of destructive torrents and explosions, was the tiny, fragile human body. (p. 732) For Benjamin, his life influenced by two great wars, pondering ruination brought forth the ruin and catastrophe of modernity – and the destructive, not constructive, gaze of a fractured spectator, like that of Apel, Lewis or Jameson’s anxious modern subject. The frame of the spectacular modern ruin relays, in its closer relation to a present or future ­moment in time, a political charge of shock that transforms the base form of clichéd ruin and decay into a vital critique of presumed historical progress, and the destructive capacities of modern societies.

Post-apocalyptic Play  129

Fallout 3 Fallout 3 is one of the most successful titles of the Fallout franchise (though it is not the most recent – Fallout 4 was released in 2015, with a number of spin-off games since), a post-apocalyptic series set in an alternative imaginary of the future in which several key technological developments never take place (leaving the Fallout universe perpetually playing out a retro past, stranded in the early 1950s). Fallout 3 takes place after the hypothetical Sino-American War between China and the USA, a conflict that has resulted in a nuclear exchange which has obliterated major American cities, leaving little more than a radioactive landscape of ­desolation and ruin. The game is largely set in a broken-down p ­ ost-apocalyptic world marred by chaos and catastrophe, a world that is consciously cited ingame as a kind of fulfilment of the dreams of 1950s capitalism, “yesterday’s world of tomorrow” (Rowan, 2012), structuring a meta-level experience of historical disintegration throughout (mostly taking place in and around the “Capital Wasteland” of Washington D.C.). Developed by team at Bethesda Studios (who acquired the rights from the previous developer Black Isle Studios), the play of Fallout 3 mostly takes place in the retro-futuristic ruins of Washington D.C., where the abandoned suburbs, towns and city centre are open for exploration. In an open world game such as this, the gameplay involves seeking out encounters in the open space – usually by travelling between locations which are more enclosed than the rest of the drab and grey open world. A major proportion of the gameplay in Fallout 3 consists of travelling the ruins of Washington D.C., scavenging the wasteland around the Washington Monument and National Mall, or looking out across the ruins of nearby towns. As an open world game, progression from one stage to the next isn’t clearly linked to following a specific path, but instead is focussed on meandering explorations of empty and ruined zones, in between a few settlements that have sprung up among the wasteland – perhaps a citation of films like Mad Max (1979) or Waterworld (1995). In ­Fallout 3, exploration means wandering a city and encountering ­rubble-filled streets, collapsing architecture and wrecked landmarks, which are often designed to have some significance to the overarching narrative of the game. Fallout 3 presents a kind of curated space of exhibition amidst the turmoil – quests and side quests, for example, demand the exploration of ruined monuments, many of which are discernible as particular landmarks that exist in the ‘real’ D.C., identified by plaques posted in front of the buildings, or inside the doorways. This includes references to sites like the Air and Space Museum, or the National Archives, looted and decaying but still full of labelled exhibits that tell the alter-history of the city of Washington in the Fallout universe. The representation of ruins in Fallout 3 extends beyond distant visual spectacles to encompass close up details of a multitude of remnants

130  Emma Fraser and places, encounters with mutants and others who have also managed to survive in the post-apocalyptic world, and storylines linked to the alternative histories of different sites. As a citation of imaginaries of the apocalypse, the ruins in Fallout 3 offer a kind of counter-spectacle of urban modernity – a conscious development decision to render the ­National Mall and the Capitol, and the modernist D.C. Metro stations, in a state of decay and dereliction, as a kind of reversal of the usual state of Washington as the capital city of the USA (usually crowded with tourists, government workers and press). This active reversal (or subversion) can be linked to Walter Benjamin’s own dialectics of reversal, manifested in urban encounters that sought the unusual, hidden, decaying and disordered parts of the city (Calderbank, 2003). Rather than revisit familiar representations of the apocalypse that have been cited elsewhere in this chapter (and in this volume), and working from ideas around reversal and imaginaries of post-apocalyptic worlds, the following four examples describe key apocalyptic tropes as they appear in Fallout 3. In this context, as described above, tropes are modular, often taking the form of images that refer to widely circulated ideas or concepts using familiar signs and signifiers (not only in the sense of Barthes’ semiotics, but also in the sense of science fiction films, comic books, and repeated popular culture and conceptual formations, such as the end of the city [Lewis, 2012]). Though these present a somewhat limited initial assessment of the way in which post-apocalyptic ruins appear in games, they demonstrate a shared notion of the modern, nuclear apocalypse, and the significance of the figure of the ruin (in many forms and guises) to the expression of the post-apocalyptic, especially in popular culture. Fall – this is a classical historical framing, citing visions of the ruins of antiquity, sublime aesthetics and romantic discourses of decay. The trope of the fall replicates prior ‘end of civilisation’ discourses (many of them religious in origin), in which society suddenly ends, leaving little more than ruins to show it ever existed. This vision is often the source of critique for post-apocalyptic and ruin-centric narratives, dismissed as a melancholic revelling in the end of empires and visions of a subsequent return to nature which is built on colonial era ruin lust (Apel, 2015, p.  12). In Fallout 3 the melancholic fall is clearly represented by the image of the United States Capitol Building, not just an iconic site, but the seat of the national government. This image features prominently in marketing materials – in cover and concept art, and in cutscenes – ­marking it out as a compelling image of the end of America, shown with the dome of the building half collapsed, affected by visible organic decay and destruction (including war fortifications), with a grey sky framing piles of rubble amidst dirt, puddles and dust. Reversal – in this post-apocalyptic framing, recognised icons become ruined, iconic objects destroyed and populated places abandoned. This trope relies on standardised depictions (for example, showing known

Post-apocalyptic Play  131 monuments damaged and overgrown), and has been cited as a key trope of modernity (Hell & Schönle, 2008). In reversal, nothing solid exists anymore. For Frederic Jameson (2005), the imagined future ruins of our present – like those in H.G. Wells’ Time Machine – are “a prophetic archaeology” a “time paradox [of] reversal,” in which the shock of encounter is brought about through an imagined confrontation with the “sorry history of cyclical catastrophe and resurrection” (p. 100), not unlike Benjamin’s interpretation of the German Trauerspiel. In Fallout 3 reversal is particularly palpable not in the ruins of the Capitol Building (which only feature in a small way within the game itself), but in the relentlessly grim wastelands around the National Mall and major ­monuments – a headless Lincoln Memorial, a foetid reflecting pool, the vertical sublime of the Washington Monument with missing panels allowing light to pass through the skeletal remains. Dead city – the city, as a centre of cosmopolitan culture, becomes, in fall and reversal, the subversion of the urban norm. The framing here relies upon the figure of the ruined city. Not just a ruined landmark, but the mass destruction of vast areas of places we know in the present, wherein everyday life has ended, and the populated city lies dormant. “Representations of the dead city can be related more generally to the apocalyptic imagination” but they are sometimes criticised for the way that they generate fear and stymie political action by making catastrophe seem inevitable or unavoidable (Dobraszczyk, 2017, p. 4). Conversely – as this chapter argues – “dead cities can be a powerfully imaginative tool” for critical reflection by presenting counter possibilities to the present (p. 5). In Fallout 3, the use of the rubble-strewn Washington Metro as a key site of play particularly communicates the sense of an empty and dead city, and the scale of the ruination of Washington D.C. is especially compelling when one of the most crowded and busy locations of the modern city appears more like a mausoleum. The critical point here is in death or mourning – bearing witness to the slow, corpse-like decay of an iconic city, a symbol of American power, immobilised and defenceless. Global apocalypse – ideas of fall, reversal and the end of the city are imagined and communicated largely through formulaic and r­ uin-centred images – for example, the vision of a derelict Golden Gate Bridge that has appeared in The Earth Abides (1947), Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011) and other popular texts functions to communicate the impact of global collapse by displaying an iconic landmark in ruins as a sign of a wider apocalyptic scenario. This vision also often cites a kind of sacking or intentional attack on important sites that populations have a symbolic attachment to – locations that are embedded in local and national histories. Similarly, key tropes like return to nature, the deserted or flooded city and mass decay signify major societal collapse on a scale beyond that of one city alone. Jeff Lewis (2012), in the title of his book on global media, terms these Cultural Imaginings of Doom, interlinked

132  Emma Fraser collections of end-of-the-world tropes, from super volcanoes, to marauding looters, from environmental disasters to invading fleets, or giant tidal waves. After these events, the world is represented by pastiches of rubble, repeated scenes of ruined monuments from around the globe, a variety of discarded objects or empty places, all in familiar locations or settings that work to replicate and proliferate an easily recognisable apocalypse from even the smallest cultural units and images. All of these feature in Fallout 3, as described above – the city of Washington D.C. is a particularly widely shared trope of apocalyptic catastrophe, its demise a signifier of a collapse of US society. In promotional material, Fallout 3 layers image upon image of symbolically loaded remnants, all discarded among the ruins; a doll, a bus, a radio, drink cans – alongside the wrecks of suburban homes, and the decaying monuments of downtown Washington D.C. Through these tropes, video games like Fallout 3 make use of ruin aesthetics to render a post-apocalyptic playground cobbled together from powerfully signifying (and sometimes centuries-old) imaginings. These interlinked frames are deployed again and again, relying heavily on ruins to do the critical work of imagining the end of the world through contrast, disintegration, destruction and epic visions that mirror the Baroque or Romantic sensibilities for ruin and chaos, created from what Benjamin (2008) called “the highly significant fragment,” which, as each trope repeats in a slight variation, moves from clichéd and empty stereotype to a kind of intensification of decay, a form of critique through fragmentation: That which lies here in ruins, the highly significant fragment, the remnant, is, in fact, the finest material in baroque creation. For it is common practice in the literature of the baroque to pile up fragments ceaselessly, without any strict idea of a goal, and, in the unremitting expectation of a miracle, to take the repetition of stereotypes for a process of intensification. (p. 178)

Catastrophic Images What is interesting about studying video games as a medium, therefore, is that they are fractured and fragmentary in nature, with the possible action of the game (and especially role-playing games, RPGs) typically structured by multiple and dislocated possibilities. In all games, ruinous or otherwise, the fracturing of timelines and narratives facilitated by the fundamental architecture of game software and design is already embedded in the form. The creative/destructive nature of play itself also lends the digital media form to the exploration of alternative historical possibilities, multiple timelines and ruinous or apocalyptic scenarios.

Post-apocalyptic Play  133 Moreover, the design of assets in games – individual models; skins and polygons; landscapes and digital art, all jumbled together – replicates the baroque practice of ceaselessly piling up fragments, and means that a ruined city makes more sense for a setting than a pristine urban space. Browns and greys, random dead ends, dim lighting and incomplete structures or glitching textures seem less out of place at the end of the world than they would in a simulation of an ostensibly habited and functioning contemporary city. That is to say: it is not simply a sign of the times that the end of the world is an increasingly common trope in video games; the post-apocalypse shares an affinity with video games because the virtual gameworld is inherently chaotic and fragmented (Fraser, 2016). While games themselves – in terms of what is possible in play and what is required to make successful games – already tend to rely on narratives of fractured time (for example, speeding up, skipping or replaying), titles which represent through ruins tend to exploit this fragmentary form even further, becoming ruinous in both form and content (like Benjamin’s Trauerspiel, plays about death and transience, featuring symbols of decay and catastrophe, delivered in fractured and incomplete forms [Benjamin, 2008]). In part, this is because a ruined city immediately presents a field of action – catastrophe (conceptually, but also symbolically) is a productive site for play and exploration among ruins, affording crisis storylines, monstrous characters (human and otherwise) and searching ­meta-narratives of societal collapse. What is perhaps most interesting about the post-apocalypse that is delivered largely through ruinous tropes in Fallout 3 is the explicit engagement with non-linear histories in the context of catastrophe. What Fallout 3 plays upon is the dialectical contrast between the image of a living and active – and symbolically powerful, widely imagined – city of modernity, and the imagined moment when “it too will decay” (Frisby, 1985, p. 235) – replicating, broadly, the key tropes set out above. Again, to some extent this is as a result of an affinity between digital video games and ruination itself. As Julian Stallabrass explains, games not only revel in destruction because of common scenarios of the apocalypse, but digital simulations also offer a particular insight into death and destruction, between utopian imaginings and absolute endings: in these games there is a tenebrous dance of the utopian and the apocalyptic, an ambiguity which it is tempting to resolve by saying that it presents the apocalypse as a utopian scenario. If this is so, it is because the absolutes of destruction and death are sought as an escape from the virtuality and artificiality of everyday life. Ironically, this can only be achieved in a digital simulation, though its effects may spill back into the real world. (Stallabrass, 1993, p. 105)

134  Emma Fraser What Fallout 3 and its tropes of apocalypse represent in visions of ruin is simultaneously the dialectic of the new and antiquated, the modern and the apocalyptic, through the reversal of a famed and iconic city, reviving tropes of civilisation ending, cities crumbling, and familiar apocalyptic ruins in a virtual simulation (that is, more than a fiction). It does this partly through the repeated foregrounding of the space of play as the end of the American capital city, partly through the visual representation of the ruination of known monuments, and partly through the constant kitschy and nostalgic referencing of a lost past (through objects, artefacts, posters, and so on). In relation to Adorno and Benjamin’s disagreement over the redundancy of popular forms of culture, Julian Stallabrass (1993) notes that “[b]oth these contrasts [the new and the antiquated] are very evident in the computer game, and they are presented in the manner of frozen, dialectical, allegorical images” (p. 105). This frozen allegorical image is the ruinous vision of the apocalypse that Benjamin studied throughout his writings, appearing in the moment of contrast between progress and ruination – a moment captured by the retro-futuristic ruins of Washington in Fallout 3. In Benjamin’s work, progress, catastrophe and history are related by the constant pursuit of order and newness, which in fact generate perpetual destruction, the allegorical image is one that shatters the illusion of wholeness through intentional destruction, leaving telling piles of rubble to construct an open field of possibility, much like the allegoricist who builds critique from the ad-nauseum repetition of the significant fragment. As Naomi Stead explains: For Benjamin, it is the rubble left in the aftermath of destruction that unmasks the present and provides a field of possibilities to the ­allegorist. It is only through an examination of these melancholy traces, the detritus left after the “catastrophes” of history, that the allegorist or historian can critically approach the present. In his conception, the act of destruction places everything in new juxtapositions, shatters old relationships, and opens history up for examination. (Stead, 2000, p. 11) Thus, it is only on the point of destruction that we can begin to understand our world, and only through opposition (fall, reversal, the dead city, the apocalypse itself) that we can see beyond the currents of the present age into the origin of an era, revealing totality as the illusion of wholeness, which, in turn, enables a more genuine conception of the truth of history, in fragments. Fallout 3, in many ways, replicates linear narratives of progress, heroism, and historical authority, and yet it is through the politics of reversal – of juxtaposition and shattering ­reorientation – that the game is able to reimagine both history and the post-apocalypse, in ruins.

Post-apocalyptic Play  135 In this form, the destruction of modernity through ruin is also a r­ eversal – akin to the Surrealist technique of reversal in which banal or trivial elements become significant through play (Flanagan, 2009), and the monumental becomes banal or is diminished. The “contours of the banal” presented through Surrealist (and related) approaches reveal the world as a kind of puzzle or “rebus” to be solved (Chisolm, 2001, p. 241): much like the presentation of the space and landscape of Washington from the very beginning of Fallout 3, in which a key aspect of the gameplay is to locate the hero within a disorientating landscape. The wastelands and ruins are banal puzzles to be solved by the exploration of everyday spaces, reversed in ruin. Such a puzzle is often, in Benjamin’s work, directly related to a representation of a lived history – what is different here from Benjamin’s (or Jameson’s) archaeological excavation of banal history in the present moment is that the game doesn’t offer a photograph, postcard or piece of film footage, but rather a spatial and interactive reimagining, using the visual representation to launch a complex world, narrative and site for play. This is a reworking of the imagination of the apocalypse, visited on the cities of modernity, not only a revisioning of the future of the present as a counterfactual history, but also melancholic nostalgia for a past that never was. Fallout 3’s nostalgic post-apocalypse takes the fall of a great civilisation and turns it into a critical re-interpretation of the present – as Dianne Chisolm (2001) suggests in relation to Benjamin’s allegorical method, nostalgia can be a way of imagining, through the assembly of historically loaded fragments, alternative histories and futures. Svetlana Boym’s (2017) retrospective nostalgia for something that never came to be is directly linked to the political capacity of “ruinophilia” (p. 43), which – rather than presenting catastrophe and ruination as inevitable violence – instead links ruin (including the end of the city) to freedom and possibility. “A tour of ruins leads you into a labyrinth of ambivalent temporal[ities]… that play tricks with causality. Ruins make us think of the past that could have been and the future that never took place” (Boym, 2017, p. 43). This is precisely the effect of Fallout 3, a critical nostalgia through a future that never took place, a p ­ ost-apocalyptic scene in ruins, haunted by the collective (now failed) ambitions of p ­ rogress-driven 1950s capitalism, and populated with images gathered up from a canon of ruin tropes and imaginaries, wreaking destruction not only on the imagined city, but the history that it represents. The destruction sought by Benjamin is deeply critical, as Anson ­Rabinbach (1997) suggests, identifying the concept of “apocalypse”  – real and imagined – as a useful tool for reimagining both past and present, and intercepting alternative histories and historical formations (pp.  27–65). Benjamin’s famed Angel of History, gazing upon an ever renewing pile of debris is a symbolic manifestation of this apocalyptic thinking as a critical tool for unravelling the false presumption of linear

136  Emma Fraser time: “[w]here a chain of events appears before us, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it at his feet” (2003, p. 392). In this vision, modernity is a shattering and fracturing force in terms of the speed of change and development, leaving literal and figurative ruin in its wake. History, then, is a process of relegating the past to the rubble heap, rather than arch narratives of victory and progress – at its worst, the march of progress brings catastrophic ruination. Rabinbach (1997) likens Benjamin’s catastrophic vision to the apocalypse: “[i]n his allegory of the angel of history, Benjamin conceived of modernity as an apocalyptic tempest roaring toward the present” (p. 10). In Fallout 3, this tempest has arrived, and Benjamin’s apocalypse is no longer presided over by the Angel of History alone – through the nuclear catastrophe, the player walks amidst the very wreckage that the Angel could not make whole, and (like the Angel) the hero is powerless to put a stop to inevitable catastrophe, and is left instead to gaze upon the ruins that, as tropes of the post-apocalyptic, tell of dead cities, civilisational collapse, and the reversal of the everyday. The message, in both cases, is that the aggressive pursuit of technologically driven progress begets inevitable ruin.

References Apel, D. (2015), Beautiful Terrible Ruins: Detroit and the Anxiety of Decline, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Apperley, T. (2013), “Modding the Historians’ Code: Historical Verisimilitude and the Counterfactual Imagination,” in M. Kapell & A.B.R. Elliott (eds.), Playing with the Past: Digital Games and the Simulation of History, New York: Bloomsbury Academic, pp. 185–199. Benjamin, W. (1999), Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings Volume 2, Part 2, 1931–1934, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Benjamin, W. (2003), Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, Volume 4, 1938– 1940, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Benjamin, W. (2008), The Origin of German Tragic Drama, London: Verso. Berger, J. (1999), After The End: Representations of Post-Apocalypse, ­Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Boym, S. (2017), The Off-Modern, New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Calderbank, M. (2003), “Surreal Dreamscapes: Walter Benjamin and the ­A rcades.” Papers of Surrealism 1(Winter), pp. 1–13. Chisolm, D. (2001), “The City of Collective Memory.” GLQ: A Journal of ­L esbian and Gay Studies 7(2), pp. 195–243. Dobraszczyk, P. (2017), The Dead City: Urban Ruins and the Spectacle of ­Decay, London: I.B. Taurus. Flanagan, M. (2009), Critical Play: Radical Game Design, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Fraser, E. (2016), “Awakening in Ruins: The Virtual Spectacle of the End of the City in Video Games.” Journal of Gaming and Virtual Worlds 8(2), pp. 177–196.

Post-apocalyptic Play  137 Frisby, D. (1985), Fragments of Modernity: Theories of Modernity in the Work of Simmel, Kracauer and Benjamin, Abingdon: Routledge. Hell, J. & Schönle, A. (2008), Ruins of Modernity, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Huyssen, A. (2003), Present Pasts, Urban Palimpsests and the Politcs of Memory, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Jameson, F. (2005), Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, London: Verso. Kemmer, M. (2014), “The Politics of Post-Apocalypse: Interactivity, Narrative Framing and Ethics in Fallout 3,” in G. Sedlmayr & N. Waller (eds.), Politics in Fantasy Media: Essays on Ideology and Gender in Fiction, Film, Television and Games, Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., pp. 97–118. Knoblauch, W. (2013), “The Pixelated Apocalypse: Video Games and Nuclear Fears 1980–2012,” in M. Blouin, M. Shipley & J. Taylor (eds.), The Silence of Fallout: Nuclear Criticism in a Post-Cold War World, Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, pp. 122–142. Lewis, J. (2012), Global Media Apocalypse: Pleasure, Violence and the Cultural Imaginings of Doom, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. McCall, J. (2011), Gaming the Past, New York: Routledge. Rabinbach, A. (1997), In the Shadow of Catastrophe: German Intellectuals between Apocalypse and Enlightenment, Berkeley: University of California Press. Rowan, D. (2012), “Destroying Yesterday’s World of Tomorrow Playing in the Wasteland.” Reconstruction: Studies in Contemporary Culture 12(2). http:// search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=hlh&AN=86285788&site= eds-live&authtype=ip,guest&custid=s1226370&groupid=main&profile=eds. Accessed 24 June 2019. Sebald, W.G. (2003), On the Natural History of Destruction, New York: Random House. Sicart, M. (2016), “Play and the City,” in J. Ackermann, A. Rauscher & D. Stein (eds.), Playin’ the City: Artistic and Scientific Approaches to Playful Urban Arts, Siegen: University of Seigen Press, pp. 25–40. Smith, T. (2006), The Architecture of Aftermath, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Stallabrass, J. (1993), “Just Gaming: Allegory and Economy in Computer Games.” New Left Review 1(March/April), pp. 83–106. Stead, N. (2000), “The Ruins of History: Allegories of Destruction in Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum.” Open Museum Journal 2(August), pp. 1–17.

8 The Future in Ruins The Uses of Derelict Buildings and Monuments in Post-apocalyptic Film and Literature Jerry Määttä Introduction Science fiction has an uncanny ability to stress the fact that our fluid present is incessantly and inevitably congealing into the history of the future. Fredric Jameson has even described one of its main functions as that “of transforming our own present into the determinate past of something yet to come,” and that science fiction “enacts and enables a structurally unique ‘method’ for apprehending the present as history” (Jameson, 2006, p. 288). Nowhere, perhaps, is this as evident as in its post-apocalyptic depictions of a future in ruins, of derelict buildings and monuments and ruined cityscapes. Since the turn of the millennium, post-apocalyptic narratives have been extremely popular in various media, from films, TV series and video games depicting zombie apocalypses or nuclear wastelands to Young Adult (YA) fiction by authors such as Suzanne Collins and ­Veronica Roth, or literary fiction such as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006) or Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy (2003–2013). ­Central to most post-apocalyptic narratives is that the apocalypse is understood as a secular, albeit fictional, event – usually a global disaster such as a nuclear war, a pandemic, climate change or a collision with a celestial body. The genre – or retroactively a subgenre of science fiction – originated in the early nineteenth century with seminal works such as ­Jean-Baptiste Cousin de Grainville’s posthumous Le Dernier Homme (1805) and Mary Shelley’s The Last Man (1826), where mankind is eradicated by a future epidemic.1 Regardless of the form of the catastrophe, the break with the contemporary world is often manifested through portrayals of ruined landscapes. In fact, these scenes are so common that they have almost become a visual shorthand for the ­post-apocalypse (see ­Newman, 1999, p. 18). The aim of this chapter is to investigate the use of ruins in ­postapocalyptic film and literature, from what functions they serve and how these relate to older forms of ruin romanticism, to the particular forms of estrangement – especially temporal and historical – that are made

The Future in Ruins  139 possible by viewing the contemporary world through the eyes of a ruined future. As the subgenre consists of hundreds, if not thousands, of novels and films, only a small number of examples and cases can be examined, most of them belonging to the minor classics of post-war Anglophone post-apocalyptic literature and film. Besides exploring some common motifs and tracing their origins, the chapter discusses differences related to the types of ruins depicted and the historical contexts of the narratives. In short, are these imaginary future ruins just used for the same old melancholy purposes as ruins have always been used, or is there in fact something new at work here? Might there even be examples where ruins are used as symbols of hope and rebirth, or to highlight the possibilities of both the present and the future?

Old Functions and New Even at first sight, it is clear that post-apocalyptic depictions of ruins have inherited many functions from earlier forms of ruin romanticism. Although this is not the place to fully explore the use of ruins in the history of European art, architecture and literature – or their heydays in the Baroque and Romantic periods – the best way to delineate their new functions is to contrast them with the old. As Rose Macaulay described in her monumental Pleasure of Ruins (1953), the use of ruins as symbols goes back to biblical times. Even though the objects of interest have varied through the centuries – for instance, the idealisation of antique ruins during the Renaissance, or the romanticisation of medieval (often Gothic) churches and castles, and exoticisation of oriental ruins, during the eighteenth century – there have been several constants: ruins have most often been used to illustrate the inevitable march of time, the deterioration of all things material, the briefness of human lives, the ultimate futility of all human endeavours, and to evoke feelings of melancholia, loss and loneliness (Macaulay, 1966; Woodward, 2002). As symbols, ruins are nevertheless ambiguous and ambivalent. On the one hand, they have been used as monuments to idealised civilisations of the past, such as the Greek or Roman Empires, and have even, perhaps, been seen as manifestations of the continuity of history (especially when they have been claimed in nationalistic projects evoking past greatness). On the other hand, they have often been used as reminders of the inevitable fall of all empires and civilisations, of the capriciousness of history itself. Even on a personal level, there is often a paradoxical lure oscillating between melancholy meditations over the transience of all things, and a sublime aesthetic indulging in the slow, inevitable decay and deterioration of everything we take for granted. Part of the attraction can also be attributed to the fact that ruins are fragments, and thus allow their viewers to fill in the voids, to the extent that the imagined whole becomes more suggestive than the original could ever have hoped to be

140  Jerry Määttä (see Woodward, 2002, p. 15). Add to this the sharp contrast between a then and a now, and the fact that ruins depict how all things man-made are worn down by wind and rain, and conquered by plants and animals: entropy slowly turning architecture into nature, form back into matter. In a wider perspective, ruins can of course be seen as symbols for entropy as such, the basic condition of all matter, not least all forms of life, however much they try to postpone the inevitable. One of the most concise summaries of the manifold functions of ruins has been given by the author and art critic Brian Dillon, who also includes some of their modern functions: Consider what the ruin has meant, or might mean today: a reminder of the universal reality of collapse and rot; a warning from the past about the destiny of our own or any other civilisation; an ideal of beauty that is alluring exactly because of its flaws and failures; the symbol of a certain melancholic or maundering state of mind; an image of equilibrium between nature and culture; a memorial to the fallen of an ancient or recent war; the very picture of economic hubris or industrial decline; a desolate playground in whose cracked and weed-infested precincts we have space and time to imagine a future. (Dillon, 2014, p. 5; see also Woodward, 2002, pp. 2–3) Many of these functions are also to be found in our modern, p ­ ostapocalyptic narratives, albeit sometimes in slightly altered forms. With the future ruin, however – and its estranging time perspective in which our present is seen as the history of the future – a number of new functions arise. Many of these have to do with the fact that the ruins depicted are often of the very symbols of our modern age and lifestyle, from famous skyscrapers, bridges, statues and monuments, to modern apartment buildings and other forms of infrastructure. The fact that we can relate to these as parts of our everyday life makes them much more eerie as ruins compared to aqueducts, amphitheatres or medieval churches and castles. With portrayals of modern ruins, our perspective on the present is dislocated and unsettled, and the taken for granted suddenly appears transient, perishable and fickle. That science fiction often works through related forms of estrangement has become somewhat of a commonplace in science fiction studies since the 1970s, and the early writings of Marxist scholar Darko Suvin. In his often quoted Metamorphoses of Science Fiction (1979), one of the main arguments is that science fiction is characterised by what he calls cognitive estrangement, by which he means that the genre mixes the estrangement of non-realist narratives (such as myths, fairy tales and fantasy) with the scientific and materialistic world-view of literary realism, but also that its main value lies in its defamiliarisation or distancing

The Future in Ruins  141 effects, which force its readers to see their contemporary situation from a new perspective, ultimately making science fiction a genre with a unique potential for indirect political critique (pp. 3–15, 84). Interestingly, this form of estrangement through the use of future ­ruins is much older than modern science fiction. Some of the most famous examples in art history are Hubert Robert’s (sometimes called ­“Robert des Ruines”) painting of the Louvre as a future ruin (1796), Joseph G ­ andy’s painting of Sir John Soane’s contemporary Bank of ­England as a ruin – first its rotunda (1798), and later on the whole building (1830) – and ­Gustave Doré’s wood engraving The New Zealander (1872), which ­features a future tourist from New Zealand sitting on the ruins of L ­ ondon Bridge, sketching St. Paul’s Cathedral in ruins (Woodward, 2002, pp.  1–2, 152–156, 161–165; Dillon, 2014, pp. 17–20). A much later example in architecture is Albert Speer’s so-called “Ruinenwerttheorie” (sometimes referred to as “Die Theorie vom Ruinenwert,” or Theory of Ruin Value) and the Third Reich’s policy of using persistent materials such as marble and brick in important buildings, so that their ruins would inspire the German people far into the future. In fact, Speer even provided the Führer with sketches of planned Nazi constructions in ruins (Woodward, 2002, pp. 29–30; Speer, 2003, pp. 68–69; Hell, 2010, pp. 182–188). In the history of literature, one famous example is Volney’s Les Ruines, ou méditation sur les révolutions des empires (1791), in which there is a short passage on modern cities as future ruins (Woodward, 2002, pp. 156–157; Hell, 2010, pp. 172–174). Like Robert’s and G ­ andy’s paintings, this stems from the time of the French Revolution, and there does indeed seem to be a connection between interest in future ruins and periods of political and social unrest. Another example of the previously mentioned figure of the future New Zealander had its origins in an article by Thomas Babington Macaulay in the Edinburgh Review in 1840, where he mentions a future “when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul’s” (Macaulay, 1850, p. 536; see Dingley, 2000). This figure became extremely popular in the mid- and late nineteenth century, and appeared in the most unexpected contexts, often as a playful memento mori for the British Empire. The idea, however, goes back at least to Horace Walpole, who in a letter from 1774 mentions a future when “some curious traveller from Lima will visit England and give a description of the ruins of St Paul’s” (Dingley, 2000, p. 20). 2 A striking development in the history of future ruins is that they seem to take a serious turn during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, but it does not appear to be until the late nineteenth century that they start to depict contemporary symbols of modernity (see Dingley, 2000, pp. 20–23). In contrast to Macaulay’s original figure, Doré’s etching shows not only St. Paul’s Cathedral, then more than 150 years old,

142  Jerry Määttä but also modern symbols of trade and communication, such as Commercial Wharf and the newly built Cannon Street Station (see Dillon, 2014, p. 20). It is conceivable that this interest in future ruins is somehow related to the emergence of a modern historical consciousness around the turn of the nineteenth century, which, together with the archaeological excavations of the time, risked depoeticising the ruins of antiquity and the middle ages (Starobinski, 1964; Macaulay, 1966, pp. 201–202, 225). The relationship between time, history and the architecture of decay is at any rate what has made thinkers such as Georg Simmel and ­Walter Benjamin take an interest in ruins. They are, for instance, found in ­Benjamin’s famous image of the angel of history, who, “turned toward the past… sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet,” while progress, this “storm… blowing from Paradise… irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward” (Benjamin, 2019, p. 201). In Simmel, this interest is perhaps at its clearest in his essay “Die Ruine” (1907), where the ruin becomes an image of the spirit’s struggle against nature, or even of a cosmic tragedy in the return to nature after a moment of equilibrium.3 For Benjamin, but to some extent also to Simmel, the ruin becomes the consummate concretisation of the passing of time and history, of a continuous process of decay of which we are all part. Perhaps it is also our contemporary interest in history that has led to a widespread fascination with ruins even outside of post-apocalyptic narratives. In the last decade or so, modern, contemporary ruins have become especially popular on web sites devoted to urban exploration, and in coffee table books filled with pictures of abandoned sites such as closed-down factories and industries, subterranean bomb shelters and uninhabited apartment blocks, often subject to dust and rust.4 Besides their visual aesthetics, one of their main attractions seems to be nostalgia, and a sense that in this age of rapid change, even one’s own lifetime is partially immersed in history (Burström, 2011). Related to this trend is the half documentary, half fictitious (see Cornea, 2013) depictions of what would happen to the remains of our civilisation if humanity were to disappear. The most famous is Alan Weisman’s The World Without Us (2007), which seems to have been the main inspiration for the History Channel series Life After People (2008–2010). While contemporary ruins often evoke a sense of intimacy, as we can relate to them and their former uses more easily than with older ruins (see Dingley, 2000, p. 20; Burström, 2011, p. 122), the post-apocalyptic ruins add a further dimension, as the ruined buildings and monuments they depict have not yet become ruins, leading us perhaps to see, with estranged eyes, the potential ruins of still intact buildings. Our attention is not, as is the case with contemporary ruins, focussed on our near history, the passage of time and the briefness of our own lives, but on our

The Future in Ruins  143 own present and the near future. The effect is, however, ambivalent, as the present is, on the one hand, seen as volatile and fragile, and on the other, as malleable, as the contingency and uncertainty of the present also entails a promise of change. A related ambiguity characterises the relationship between postapocalyptic narratives and the contemporary moment in which they originated. While older depictions of ruins often alluded to ideas of a lost golden age, and thus indirectly pointed out the prosaic present as in some sense lacking, the effect of future ruins is often the opposite: our present is frequently idealised as the culmination of modernity, progress and civilisation, all lost in the post-apocalypse, and this often has reactionary implications. As always, however, there are examples of the reverse, where post-apocalyptic pastorals filled with ruins of famous monuments serve to highlight all the faults and shortcomings of our contemporary society, and where the future ruin is used as a memento mori or a demonstration of the wasted opportunities and false pretensions of our present age – a reminder of how vain or hypocritical our current beliefs in freedom, progress and democracy might one day seem. Regardless of which of these tendencies is dominant in a particular post-apocalyptic narrative, many of them contain the same lure bordering on the morbid that was observed by Jacques-Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (1809, pp. 78–87). When it comes to post-war science fiction, it was aptly described by Susan Sontag in her essay “The Imagination of Disaster” (1965), where she discusses “the fantasy of living through one’s own death and more, the death of cities, the destruction of humanity itself,” and of “the peculiar beauties to be found in wreaking havoc, making a mess” (Sontag, 1966, pp. 212–213). If this destruction on a massive scale was restricted to the imagination until the 1940s, since then it has been a real threat, primarily in the form of nuclear war. Since the Second World War, apocalyptic narratives have also become an increasingly lucrative part of popular culture and the fiction industry. In the same way as the ruins of antiquity and the middle ages found some of their strongest expressions in the visual arts, it is far from surprising that future ruins have been especially prominent in modern media such as film, television, graphic novels and video games, where their forceful visual expressions have been taken advantage of (see Emma Fraser’s chapter in this volume). Apart from highlighting a widespread obsession with apocalyptic stories, this increasingly commercial use of ruins calls our attention to the fact that ruins in post-apocalyptic narratives are always, in some sense, artificial and fictitious constructions. Even if artificial ruins were all the rage in eighteenth-century gardening – with specialised ruin architects arising as a new profession – these were not part of a global, inter- and multimedia industry, and the ruins of known buildings were created only occasionally (Macaulay, 1966, pp. 23–39). The fact that post-apocalyptic

144  Jerry Määttä ruins are mediated artificial fantasies also means that they are highly interesting to analyse as rhetorical or literary statements, with all that it entails regarding examining techniques and intended effects. This also means that the original functions of the buildings are immensely relevant, as it is often through distorting these and the specific symbolisms of a building or a monument that the fictitious ruin becomes most interesting.

Liberty in Ruins, Progress in Dispute By far the most famous example of a future ruin in science fiction is the final scene of the film Planet of the Apes (1968), where the main character Taylor, played by Charlton Heston, discovers the battered remains of the Statue of Liberty on an empty beach. He immediately realises that the planet populated by intelligent apes, where most of the film has taken place, is in fact Earth in the far future. He falls on his knees, pounds the wet sand with his fist and holds the concluding monologue of the film, where he condemns mankind for bringing about the downfall of civilisation through the use of nuclear weapons: “We finally really did it. You maniacs! You blew it up! God damn you! God damn you all to hell!” The film ends with a zoom out, showing the Statue of Liberty and the downcast Taylor on the beach, accompanied only by the swelling of the waves and a witness in the form of the uncomprehending, mute woman Nova. The scene is effective and its symbolism seems obvious: the Statue of Liberty is not only a symbol or synecdoche for New York, the United States or even the Western world, but through its history and original symbolism also for the American belief in freedom, independence and the Enlightenment heritage (its full name is Liberty Enlightening the World). Considering its location in the New York harbour, where it has welcomed numerous visitors and immigrants, it can also be seen as a symbol for the United States as a land of opportunity, perhaps even the American dream. Its symbolism is, however, peculiarly imprecise, almost watered down, as it has been used so frequently through the years, and in so many different contexts. For many, Americans and others alike, it is only a vague symbol for the United States, freedom, hope, democracy or Western values – and as a ruin it stands for the end of all this, of America or the West as a thing of the past, washed up on the beach as a piece of historical flotsam. This scene, one of the foremost examples of deferred exposition in the history of cinema, has no counterpart in Pierre Boulle’s novel, La Planète des singes (1963), on which the film is based. Instead, it was probably inspired by Alex Schomburg’s cover illustration for the ­August-September 1953 issue of the science fiction magazine Fantastic Universe, or possibly Schomburg’s new version of the motif on the cover for the February 1964 issue of Amazing Stories, which was most likely published close to when the film was planned.

The Future in Ruins  145 These are, however, far from the first examples of the Statue of ­Liberty in ruins. In fact, there is a large number of similar depictions from the first half of the twentieth century, most of which were possibly inspired by Joseph Pennell’s 1918 poster for the fourth campaign for Liberty Bonds, where Lady Liberty stands headless and torchless, surrounded by the flames of war.5 An even earlier example, from just a few years after the statue was erected in 1886, is the blue cover of the first edition of John Ames Mitchell’s The Last American (1889), where a ship arrives at New York harbour in the twilight, with a derelict Statue of Liberty sticking out of the ruins of Liberty Island. The short novel, probably inspired by Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes (1721) – but possibly also by the figure of the New Zealander – takes the form of a diary from the year 2951, written by the prince and admiral Khan-Li, who led a Persian expedition to explore the remains of a United States devastated and depopulated by climate change, and especially the future ruins of New York and Washington – or “Nhu-Yok,” as the former is called in the novel’s parodic Persian (the “Dimph-Yoo-Chur” of the subtitle should, for instance, be read “dim future”). The main point of the novel is to mock Mitchell’s contemporaries and their customs and traditions, and the picture it paints of “Mehrikans” is far from flattering: they are presented as having been a restless, greedy, pleasure-loving people with few virtues (apart from technological know-how); they lacked originality and imitated other nations in everything from their curious and impractical clothing to art, literature and music; they worshipped success and were extremely conformist, and their foremost passion was to buy and sell things (Mitchell, 1889, pp. 3, 10–11, 18–19, 29, 33).6 The Persian expedition visits Liberty Island and explores the Statue of Liberty, but in the text it seems in surprisingly good shape, despite it being the year 2951 – almost as if the novel, published three years after its erection, was presenting the statue to its readers for the first time: the future Persians examine its interior, with its iron stairs, head and torch, and apart from them running into a wasp’s nest, there is little to suggest that it is not fully intact (pp. 12–13). In Mitchell’s and F.W. Read’s illustrations, however, there are some defects, such as a few holes and cracks in its copper shell, and its pedestal is overgrown (Mitchell, 1902, pp. 15, 26). Considering that the novel depicts both the Brooklyn Bridge (see below) and the Capitol as ruins (Mitchell, 1889, pp. 36–43) – the latter described as “the great temple” (p. 37), where the Persians run into and accidentally kill the last few, feral Mehrikans – it is doubtful whether this had anything to do with misgivings about irreverence.7 A more reasonable explanation is that it appeared unlikely to Mitchell in 1889 that something as new and seemingly stable as an iron- and copper construction on a pedestal of stone would decay into a complete ruin, or that the statue was so new that its symbolism was difficult to use for parodic ends.

146  Jerry Määttä Contradicting this, however, is an even earlier example of the Statue of Liberty in disrepair – an etching by an unknown artist published in the centrefold of Life magazine on 24 February 1887, titled “The Next Morning: Being a view of the U. S. Navy and the city of New York taken after the arrival of a hostile fleet,” which may well have inspired Mitchell (who was one of the founders of Life). The illustration represents the devastation after a sea battle outside of New York, and the Statue of Liberty is here missing its head, has a large rift exposing the iron structure underneath its copper shell, and the pedestal is partially ruined. On its tablet is perched a bald eagle (the national bird of the United States).8 What is interesting about Mitchell’s The Last American and the etching in Life is that the Statue of Liberty has been depicted as a ruin almost from the beginning, starting the year after it was inaugurated, and that it has been in constant use as a fictitious ruin ever since. After Planet of the Apes, its most famous instance, a mangled or mutilated Statue of Liberty has indeed become commonplace in popular culture – it is overturned in Roland Emmerich’s Independence Day (1996); frozen over in the same director’s The Day After Tomorrow (2004); in Cloverfield (2008) its decapitated head lands in a busy Manhattan street – probably inspired by the poster for John Carpenter’s The Escape from New York (1981); in The World Without Us, Alan Weisman describes how the enormous copper statue, possibly covered in barnacles, stands a good chance of surviving the next ice age at the bottom of New York harbour (Weisman, 2007, pp. 37, 246–247); and in J. G. Ballard’s Hello America (1981), a future expedition from Europe discovers it under the water and first believes it to be a gigantic mermaid or sea goddess, whose nostrils have become home for a colony of lobsters (Ballard, 2011, pp. 19–22). The examples are numerous. What all these depictions of an abandoned, threatened, derelict or mutilated Statue of Liberty have in common is that they take an iconic and instantly recognisable monument that stands for many of the values we hold dear, and invert them in a more or less playful desecration, thereby pointing out the transient nature of the present, and the fact that even our dearest monuments will, much like our values and norms, in time change and turn into ruin. In an analysis of a further example of the Statue of Liberty in ruins, Howard Purcell’s cover illustration for the December 1966 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Tom Shippey even names this phenomenon “the cancellation of iconicity,” and sees it as one of many examples of how in science fiction nothing seems sacred: On it a group of five figures stand round a giant half-buried statue, which appears to have been recently excavated, their poses signifying puzzlement, incomprehension… What the picture says is that in some future time the Statue of Liberty, icon of America, will not

The Future in Ruins  147 only have been felled but also forgotten, forgotten so thoroughly that future excavators will not even be able to guess its purpose: Shelley’s “Ozymandias” in reverse, a symbol of the precariousness and provisional nature of meaning. To an American audience… this is a particularly threatening disfigurement of national myth. (Shippey, 2005, pp. 18–19; see also Shippey, 1990) Rather than an immediate inversion or a simple desecration, the effect is reminiscent of the one in Mitchell’s novel: the estrangement is brought about through depicting the statue in a future so remote that no one no longer knows what it once stood for, and is perhaps even less certain about what kind of society it was erected in. In a way, this can be seen as a projection of eighteenth-century ruin melancholia, which according to Jean Starobinski was predicated on the loss of meaning (1964, p. 180), into a fictitious future, but where the effect on a contemporary reader is still entirely dependent on the iconicity of the ruin. Another common object for similar forms of symbolic desecration is the adjacent Brooklyn Bridge. In the 2007 film adaptation of Richard Matheson’s novel I Am Legend (1954), with Will Smith in the leading role, a collapsed Brooklyn Bridge is used almost as a leitmotif, and is seen in the background of many of the central scenes.9 Apart from instantly signalling the post-apocalyptic condition of the diegesis, it becomes a clear symbol for the main character’s loneliness and literal isolation on Manhattan. So central is the bridge for the narrative that it figures in the background of much of the promotional material, and with its ­sepia-coloured, Gothic arches, the similarities to nineteenth-century ruin romanticism seem intentional.10 Besides the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the Brooklyn Bridge is probably the most famous bridge in the United States, if not the world. It was inaugurated in 1883 as the first suspension bridge using steel cables, and became, as one of the premier technological achievements of its day, a symbol for the modern, optimistic and forward-looking United States. Although a collapsed Brooklyn Bridge is easy to see as a general symbol of human vanity or hubris – of a ruined aspiration to build a road in the air – it can also be read as a wounded or even wrecked ­A merican idea of progress, an image of a United States that has lost its belief in the future. Interestingly, the Brooklyn Bridge was depicted as a ruin already in Mitchell’s The Last American. When the future Persian expedition sails up the East River a few days after visiting Liberty Island, they see two puzzling monuments close up: We sailed close under one of the great monuments in the river, and are at a loss to divine its meaning. Many iron rods still dangle from the tops of each of the structures. As they are in a line, one with the

148  Jerry Määttä other, we thought at first they might have been once connected and served as a bridge, but we soon saw they were too far apart. (Mitchell, 1889, p. 19; see also p. 6)11 This passage gives the impression that the Brooklyn Bridge, which had only been open for traffic roughly five years when the novel was published, was so admired by its contemporaries than not even Mitchell could make fun of it; on the contrary, he seems to indirectly express an admiration for the engineering capabilities of his fellow countrymen, who have managed to build a suspension bridge with such an impressive bridge span. This is also one of very few places in the novel where one can glimpse pride in the achievements of the United States.12 As Max Page (2008) has demonstrated, the ruins of the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge belong to a long tradition of depictions of a New York affected by disaster; since the Second World War, New York has, with some competition from Los Angeles (Davis, 1998) – the centre of the American film industry – and London (Dobraszczyk, 2017, pp. 23–52), indeed been the subject of a disproportional number of fictitious catastrophes. The explanation for this is perhaps to be found in one of the classics of the post-apocalyptic genre, George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides (1949), where one of the survivors of a global pandemic travels all the way from San Francisco to New York in order to see how the city has fared: “This, to every American, was the center of the world. According to what happened in New York, so in the long run, he could only think, it must happen elsewhere – ‘Falls Rome, falls the world’” (1999, p. 62).13

Verdant Cities in Ruins Besides famous buildings and monuments, post-apocalyptic narratives frequently depict whole cityscapes in ruins, often long after the disaster has taken place, and when plants and animals have invaded what was once an urban metropolis. In the first minutes of the film I Am Legend, for instance, we are led to believe that the last man on Earth hunts a deer in a red sports car through an overgrown, desolate Manhattan, and then climbs out of his car to stalk through the high grass on Times Square. The scenes are reminiscent of one of the most famous British post-war classics of the genre, John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids (1951). Even though it contains several descriptions of famous London settings, such as Westminster or Piccadilly Circus, it is the depictions of how nature ravages ordinary streets that probably make the strongest impression. So, for instance, when the main character, Bill Masen, returns to the crumbling ruins of London to find supplies, only to witness the continuing decay of the city: A year later the change was more noticeable. Large patches of plaster detached from house fronts had begun to litter the sidewalks.

The Future in Ruins  149 Dislodged tiles and chimney pots could be found in the streets. Grass and weeds had a good hold in the gutters and were choking the drains… Through many a window one had glimpses of fallen ceilings, curves of peeling paper, and walls glistening with damp. The gardens of the parks and squares were wildernesses creeping out across the bordering streets. Growing things seemed, indeed, to press out everywhere, rooting in the crevices between the paving stones, springing from cracks in concrete, finding lodgments even in the seats of the abandoned cars. (Wyndham, 2000, p. 197) The most extreme example, however, of such an abandoned and overgrown city is probably found in J. G. Ballard’s The Drowned World (1962), where London has been transformed into a tropical lagoon, submerged in water, and where the houses form small islands – for instance, the Ritz, where the main character has settled. It is not, however, only New York, Los Angeles and London that have had the dubious honour of having been depicted in ruins. In fact, many modern metropolises have been the subject of similar kinds of fictitious ruination, for example, Paris in films such as Chris Marker’s La Jetée (1962) and Cédric Klapisch’s Peut-être (1999), Moscow in Dmitry ­Glukhovsky’s Metro 2033 (2005) or Stockholm in Kalle Dixelius’ Toffs bok (2009). The motif is not purely a post-war phenomenon, either, but goes back to at least the nineteenth century. In the fictional preface to Mitchell’s The Last American it is pointed out that, in the remains of “Mehrika,” there are “hundreds of weed-grown cities,” and there are several passages and illustrations depicting the streets of New York recaptured by plants and animals (Mitchell, 1889, pp. 4, 7; Mitchell, 1902, pp. 22, 48). Behind this and later, similar, portrayals, one senses, on the one hand, the influence of Mary Shelley’s The Last Man (1826) and that of a novel published just a few years prior to Mitchell’s, the English nature writer Richard Jefferies’ After London; Or, Wild England (1885) – which describes in detail a depopulated Britain that has relapsed into barbarism and wild nature, and where London has been transformed into a poisonous swamp – and, on the other, the many, often much earlier accounts of abandoned cities (Macaulay, 1966, pp. 255–310) and descriptions of the ruins of Rome, for instance, the concluding chapter in Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–1788), which, in turn, is based on Poggio Bracciolini’s Ruinarum urbis Romae descriptio (1431) (Macaulay, 1966, pp. 165–204).14 Compared to depictions of famous monuments or buildings in decay, these scenes of everyday cityscapes in ruins often have a different function and effect. Instead of the predominantly abstract and symbolic (if still affective), they often evoke an intimate form of melancholia and a sense of loss, sometimes verging on the nostalgic. While it could seem

150  Jerry Määttä that the effect is the same as in older forms of ruin romanticism, the estrangement is here much more focussed on the actual, everyday lifeworld of contemporary urban life. Some of the best examples from recent years are perhaps found in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2010), 2006 where the intimate decay of the ordinary often mirrors the inner state of the main character (see Horn, 2014, pp. 232–240): They scrabbled through the charred ruins of houses they would not have entered before. A corpse floating in the black water of a basement among the trash and rusting ductwork. He stood in a living room partly burned and open to the sky. The water buckled boards sloping away into the yard. Soggy volumes in a bookcase. He took one down and opened it and then put it back. Everything damp. Rotting. In a drawer he found a candle. No way to light it. He put it in his pocket. He walked out into the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it. (McCarthy, 2010, pp. 137–138) Besides residential buildings, there are a number of other types of derelict buildings in post-apocalyptic narratives, all with their particular symbolisms which can be inverted for various purposes – from empty churches, libraries and museums to abandoned department stores, railway stations and casinos (the latter, for instance, in a scene in the film adaptation of Roger Zelazny’s Damnation Alley, featuring Las Vegas in ruins). There are also stories that depict various forms of infrastructure in disrepair, for instance, in George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides, which, apart from scenes with overgrown buildings and streets, takes care to note the slow erosion of highways and fallen telephone lines (pp. 47–48, 72). In most of the examples discussed thus far, future ruins have been used to concretely manifest the idea that our modern civilisation has come to its end and been replaced by something resembling a nightmare; even though the disaster is often portrayed locally, it is, as a general rule, alluded to as being global and all-encompassing. There are, however, cases where post-apocalyptic ruins are used to signal hope, rebirth and a longing for something else, for instance in the last minutes of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985), featuring Mel Gibson and Tina Turner in the leading roles. After a series of complications, a group of feral children end up in the dark and dusty ruins of Sydney, signposted by glimpses of Jørn Utzon’s Opera House and a collapsed Sydney Harbour Bridge. While a voice over narrates in a corrupted language – probably

The Future in Ruins  151 inspired by Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker (1980) – how the new settlement came to be, the film shows how the children grow up and have children of their own, and how they start to repopulate the city, which they call “Tomorrow-morrow Land.” Much as in some depictions of neoclassical ruins, those of Sydney become a symbol for optimism rather than decay, for the victory of culture over nature, although with the important difference that the ruins in question are those of a major, modern metropolis. Here, as in other scenes, the film clearly connects to mythical archetypes at the same time as it also depicts mythmaking, for instance, in the oral story of the final scene, where the main character, Max, becomes the subject of an apotheosis, after having sacrificed himself, Christlike, for the rebirth of civilisation (see Broderick, 1993). This scene of the ruins of Sydney also captures an essential theme in many post-apocalyptic narratives, namely, the breakdown of modern society, and its rebirth as something else. As Fredric Jameson has famously pointed out, it seems easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism (Jameson, 1994, p. xii; Jameson, 2003, p. 76). The numerous social experiments in post-apocalyptic narratives would also suggest that more than anything else, the post-apocalyptic setting or theme has become a way of imagining alternative forms of society (Määttä, 2017), and perhaps some of its ruins could be seen not only as symbols for a spiritual rebirth, but also an ideological one.

Conclusion As a genre, science fiction has long been obsessed with questions of time, history and change, and few things capture these as concretely as its depictions of a future in ruins. This chapter has explored the uses of ruins in a selection of Anglophone film and literature – their functions, how they relate to older forms of ruin romanticism, and how they use estrangement to give a new perspective on both the past and the present. To summarise, ruins in post-apocalyptic narratives have inherited several older functions from the Baroque and Romantic periods in particular, as ruins are still used to illustrate the passage of time, the briefness of human lives and the nothingness of it all, or to evoke emotions of melancholia and loneliness. The biggest differences compared to the ruin romanticism of earlier centuries lie in the fact that, rather than just demonstrating the continuity of history or the perishability of civilisations in general, they direct focus towards the present and the transience, volatility and fragility of our own civilisation, whether through a desecration of some of the most famous and symbolic monuments of our time, like the Statue of Liberty or the Brooklyn Bridge, through depicting some of our most important metropolises as depopulated and overgrown ruin landscapes, or through describing in detail dilapidated residential buildings or wrecked infrastructure.

152  Jerry Määttä Furthermore, it is highly significant that what is estranged in these stories are the very symbols of modernity, our values and our belief in progress and freedom that have characterised Western culture since the Enlightenment. Modern ruins also tend to evoke a stronger feeling of closeness and intimacy than, for instance, ruins from antiquity or the medieval period; in the case of derelict cities or residential buildings, it is often the concrete life-world of modern man that is cast in a new light. Through depicting the present as the history of the future, a whole range of different forms of estrangement are accomplished, which have diverse functions and tendencies. In many cases, the effect can be an ideologically reactionary romanticising of the present, which indirectly acknowledges our era as a golden age, lost in the future, and where the arguably universal fear of losing what one has is projected onto a whole society. In other cases, the profanation of a symbol such as the Statue of Liberty or an overgrown major city can direct attention towards the present as deficient in one way or another, as well as towards history as an ongoing, and thus still malleable, process. Historicising the present through a future in ruins can thus function as a call to action rather than passivity, which should also be seen in the light of post-apocalyptic narratives often dealing with themes of rebirth and reconstruction of a simpler, purportedly more natural society, with pastoral and utopian traits. It is probably not a coincidence that the contemporary interests in both history and apocalyptic narratives have seen a surge as the world has become perceived as increasingly threatened and threatening. There seems to be a prevalent sense of the end of history, or modernity, and of the old age and frailty of our time – or at least a heightened historical consciousness that is expressed in both private and collective attempts to capture or account for the past, for instance, in genealogy and the incessant opening of new museums. The future ruin seems to have been born around the turn of the nineteenth century, at the same time as a modern historical consciousness, and it is also intimately connected to our historical culture: instead of subsuming the chaotic past into an ordering chronology, the instability of history is projected into the future, often with the result that the imagined future casts a shadow over the present. As Georg Simmel (p. 295) and other thinkers have observed, the ruin as a symbol seems to be cyclical, catering either to the need for pathos in peaceful times, or mirroring the intensified death awareness of periods of war and epidemics. Since the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, the notion of a future in ruins has experienced clear fluctuations in popularity, which seem to correspond to periods of political unrest and escalation before future conflicts, such as the interwar period, the 1950s or the early 1980s (Määttä, 2015). With the increased interest in ruins since the turn of the millennium, it seems reasonable to suspect that it is the rapid technological development, globalisation, financial

The Future in Ruins  153 turmoil and the fear of terrorism, war, climate change and the streams of refugees that have led to artists, literary authors and popular culture again taking interest in apocalyptic narratives – to set one’s own, brief lives against a larger, historical background, to handle our fears for the future, but perhaps also to dream oneself away to an alternative, simpler existence on the other side of the impending, or already ongoing, catastrophe.15

Notes 1 See Clarke (2002) on Grainville’s novel and its influential, anonymous English translation. 2 Similar depictions of a London in ruins can be found in the dedication to Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Peter Bell the Third (written in 1819, but not published until 1839) and in Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s Eighteen Hundred and Eleven (1812) (see Dingley, 2000, p. 23). See also Skilton (2004) for the predecessors to Doré’s New Zealander and their contemporary impact. 3 Thanks to Hans Ruin for having brought Simmel’s essay to my attention. 4 This interest in modern, contemporary ruins has also engendered several academic studies, such as Hell and Schönle (2010), Dobraszczyk (2017) and Stoler (2013). 5 Several collections of cover illustrations for books, films, magazines, etc., depicting the Statue of Liberty in ruins are published on the internet. One of the best is Canavan (2008). 6 The references are to an e-book version of the novel, set at 53 pages in total. 7 See also the illustrations of the Capitol in ruins in Mitchell (1902), pp. 87–98 (set at 114 pages). 8 Mitchell’s novel actually depicts a sea battle outside of New York, but this is said to have taken place a couple of days sailing from New York (Mitchell, 1889, pp. 32–35/53). Thanks to Peter Leonard, who scanned this issue of Life for me at Yale University Library. 9 The novel has also been adapted as The Last Man on Earth (Ragona & Salkow, 1964) and The Omega Man (Boris Segal, 1971), with Vincent Price and Charlton Heston respectively in the leading role. 10 The ruined Brooklyn Bridge on the film cover is, for instance, reminiscent of some of Caspar David Friedrich’s most famous paintings, such as Klosterfriedhof im Schnee (1819) and Huttens Grab (1823). 11 The remains of Brooklyn Bridge also figure in two illustrations (Mitchell, 1902, pp. 38, 40), and the Life magazine centrefold likewise shows the ruins of the bridge, with a tangle of cables hanging down in the water. 12 Some of the other passages deal with the fact that ‘Mehrikan’ women are said to have been both emancipated and equal (Mitchell, 1889, pp. 11, 15–16). 13 The main character Ish also goes to Battery Park, from where he can see the harbour: “He noticed the Statue of Liberty. ‘Liberty!’ he thought ironically. ‘At least, I have that! More than anyone ever thought of, when they put the lady up there with her torch!’” (Stewart, 1999, p. 67). 14 These scenes can also be compared to later depictions of the ruins of antiquity, not least Dickens’ description of the Colosseum in Letters from Italy (1846) (Macaulay, 1966, p. 200; Woodward, 2002, pp. 12–13). 15 This chapter is part of the research project “The End of the World: The Rhetoric and Ideology of Apocalypse in Literature and Film, ca. ­1950–2010,” funded by the Swedish Research Council (dnr, 2010–1628), and was originally, in a

154  Jerry Määttä slightly different version, published as “Framtiden i ruiner: Förfallen modernitet och främmandegöring i den postapokalyptiska berättelsen,” in Victoria Fareld and Hans Ruin (eds.), Historiens hemvist, vol. 1: Den historiska tidens former, Gothenburg: Makadam, 2016, pp. 53–80. In 2018, it was a finalist for the Jamie Bishop Memorial Award, given by the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts (IAFA) for a critical essay on the fantastic written in a language other than English.

References Ballard, J.G. (2005), The Drowned World, London: Fourth Estate. Ballard, J.G. (2011), Hello America, London: Fourth Estate. Benjamin, W. (2019), “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” in H. Arendt (ed.), Illuminations: Essays and Reflections (trans. H. Zorn), Boston, MA: ­Mariner Books, pp. 196–209. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, J.-H. (1809), Studies of Nature, vol. 3 (trans. H. Hunter), London: Charles Dilly. Broderick, M. (1993), “Heroic Apocalypse: Mad Max, Mythology and the Millennium,” in C. Sharrett (ed.), Crisis Cinema: The Apocalyptic Idea in Postmodern Narrative Film (Post Modern Positions: 6), Washington, DC: Maisonneuve Press, pp. 250–272. Burström, M. (2011), “Creative Confusion: Modern Ruins and the Archaeology of the Present,” in H. Ruin & A. Ers (eds.), Rethinking Time: Essays on History, Memory, Representation, Södertörn Philosophical Studies 10, Huddinge: Södertörn University, pp. 119–128. Canavan, G. (2008), “Look on My Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair.” https:// gerrycanavan.wordpress.com/2008/01/21/look-on-my-works-ye-mighty-anddespair. Accessed 12 June 2019. Clarke, I.F. (2002), “Introduction,” in J.-B. F. X. Cousin de Grainville, The Last Man (trans. I. F. & M. Clarke), Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, pp. xix–xli. Cornea, C. (2013), “Post-Apocalyptic Narrative and Environmental Documentary: The Case of Life after People,” in C. Cornea & R.O. Thomas (eds.), Dramatising Disaster: Character, Event, Representation, Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, pp. 151–166. Davis, M. (1998), Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster, New York: Metropolitan Books. Dillon, B. (2014), Ruin Lust: Artists’ Fascination with Ruins, from Turner to the Present Day, London: Tate Publishing. Dingley, R. (2000), “The Ruins of the Future: Macaulay’s New Zealander and the Spirit of the Age,” in A. Sandison & R. Dingley (eds.), Histories of the Future: Studies in Fact, Fantasy and Science Fiction, Basingstoke: Palgrave, pp. 15–33. Dobraszczyk, P. (2017), The Dead City: Urban Ruins and the Spectacle of Decay, London: I.B. Tauris. Emmerich, R. (1996), Independence Day, Los Angeles, CA: Centropolis Entertainment. Emmerich, R. (2004), The Day After Tomorrow, Los Angeles, CA: Centropolis Entertainment.

The Future in Ruins  155 Hell, J. (2010), “Imperial Ruin Gazers, or Why Did Scipio Weep?” in J. Hell & A. Schönle (eds.), Ruins of Modernity, Politics, History, and Culture, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 169–192. Hell, J. & Schönle, A. (eds.) (2010), Ruins of Modernity, Politics, History, and Culture, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Horn, E. (2014), Zukunft als Katastrophe, Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag. Jameson, F. (1994), The Seeds of Time, New York: Columbia University Press. Jameson, F. (2003), “Future City.” New Left Review 21 (May–June), pp. 65–79. Jameson, F. (2006), “Progress versus Utopia; or, Can We Imagine the Future?” in F. Jameson (ed.), Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, London: Verso, pp. 281–295. Klapisch, C. (1999), Peut-être, France: Vertigo Productions. Määttä, J. (2015), “Keeping Count of the End of the World: A Statistical Analysis of the Historiography, Canonisation, and Historical Fluctuations of Anglophone Apocalyptic and Post-Apocalyptic Disaster Narratives.” Culture Unbound: Journal of Current Cultural Research 7(3), pp. 411–432. Määttä, J. (2017), “The Politics of Post-Apocalypse: Ideologies on Trial in John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids,” in C. Baron, P.N. Halvorsen & C. Cornea (eds.), Science Fiction, Ethics and the Human Condition, New York: Springer, pp. 207–226. Macaulay, R. (1966), Pleasure of Ruins, New York: Walker and Company [Nabu Public Domain Reprints]. Macaulay, T.B. (1850), Critical and Historical Essays, Contributed to The Edinburgh Review, London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans. Marker, C. (1962), La Jetée, France: Argos Films. McCarthy, C. (2010), The Road, London: Picador. Mitchell, J.A. (1889), The Last American: A Fragment from the Journal of KHAN-LI, Prince of Dimph-Yoo-Chur and Admiral in the Persian Navy, Edition de Luxe, ill. F.W. Read, Albert D. Blashfield & J.A. Mitchell, New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company. [e-book from project Gutenberg]. Mitchell, J.A. (1902), The Last American: A Fragment from the Journal of KHAN-LI, Prince of Dimph-Yoo-Chur and Admiral in the Persian Navy (1889), Edition de Luxe, ill. F.W. Read, Albert D. Blashfield & J.A. Mitchell, New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company. [e-book from project Gutenberg]. Newman, K. (1999), Millennium Movies: End of the World Cinema, London: Titan Books. Page, M. (2008), The City’s End: Two Centuries of Fantasies, Fears, and Premonitions of New York’s Destruction, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Ragona, U. & Salkow, S. (1964), The Last Man on Earth, [Motion Picture], USA & Italy: Associated Producers Inc. & Produzioni La Regina. Shippey, T. (1990), “The Fall of America in Science Fiction,” in T. Shippey (ed.), Fictional Space: Essays on Contemporary Science Fiction, Oxford: B ­ lackwell, pp. 104–132. Shippey, T. (2005), “Hard Reading: The Challenges of Science Fiction,” in D. Seed (ed.), A Companion to Science Fiction, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 11–26. Segal, B. (1971), The Omega Man, [Motion Picture], USA: Walter Seltzer Productions. Skilton, D. (2004), “Contemplating the Ruins of London: Macaulay’s New Zealander and Others.” Literary London: Interdisciplinary Studies in the

156  Jerry Määttä Representation of London 2(1), www. literarylondon.org/london-journal/ march2004/skilton.html. Accessed 10 June 2019. Sontag, S. (1966), “The Imagination of Disaster,” in S. Sontag (ed.), Against Interpretation and Other Essays, New York: Picador, pp. 209–225. Speer, A. (2003), Erinnerungen, Munich: Propyläen Verlag. Starobinski, J. (1964), “Melancholy among the Ruins,” in J. Starobinski, The Invention of Liberty, 1700–1789 (trans. Bernard C. Swift), Geneva: Skira, pp. 179–181. Stewart, G.R. (1999), Earth Abides, SF Masterworks, London: Gollancz. Stoler, A.L. (ed.) (2013), Imperial Debris: On Ruins and Ruination, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Suvin, D. (1979), Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Weisman, A. (2007), The World Without Us, London: Virgin Books. Woodward, C. (2002), In Ruins, London: Vintage. Wyndham, J. (2000), The Day of the Triffids, London: Penguin Books.

9 The Zombie as a Pronoun What Pronouns Are Used and Why? Linda Flores Ohlson

Preliminaries By way of introduction, consider the example below from del Toro and Hogan’s horror trilogy The Strain: He could be downstairs, breaking in through the kitchen window. Soon it would be on the steps, climbing ever so slowly… And soon it would reach Zack’s bed. (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, p. 204)1 In this article I deal with the questions of what pronouns are used in reference to zombies in literary texts, and what the study of the pronominalisation in reference to zombies in these texts can tell us about the ­underlying attitudes that are responsible for the choice of pronouns. In the above extract, we can observe a fluctuation in the use of pronouns in reference to the zombie Zack has just seen through his ­bedroom ­window. Wales (1996) calls this fluctuation pronoun-switching, and states that with regard to the choice of pronoun, it “is all a matter of perspective” (p. 141). He claims that “the choice of pronoun even for the native speaker is not always an automatic or ‘logical’ choice… therefore, what pronoun the native speaker opts for in reference becomes particularly significant” (p. 136). He goes on to suggest that the non-­human ­pronoun is associated with “the ‘alien’, the unknown” and with “negative ­emotiveness” (p. 136). Wales indicates that “to be non-human is not simply to be inanimate [and] Extra-terrestrials and ‘aliens’… are ­commonly ­referred to as it” (Wales, 1996, p. 136.). Likewise with zombies, he ­argues that ghosts “might also present a problem for classification: they are supernatural, yet once human, and so commonly referred to by he/she as well as it” (Wales, 1996, p. 136.). According to Svartvik et al. (1985), the “choice between personal and non-personal gender is determined primarily by whether the reference is to a ‘person’, ie to a ­being felt to possess characteristics associated with a member of the human race” (p. 341). However, MacKay and Konishi (1980) state that ­“underlying attitudes toward the antecedent are responsible for all aspects of pronoun use” (p. 157).

158  Linda Flores Ohlson According to this rule, the non-human pronoun it can be used in reference to antecedents that “lack a prerequisite to personhood such as… the capacity to behave rationally” and that the use of human ­pronouns is related to antecedents that “possess the prerequisites of personhood” (p. 157). Furthermore, the authors argue that an attitude of personal involvement determines use of human ­pronouns for specific, central, and familiar or frequently mentioned antecedent, while the non-human pronoun is chosen when the speaker is not ­personally attached to the referent or wishes to devalue it. (pp. 155–156) The apocalyptic narratives in which zombies invade the world and mercilessly attack humans are not a new invention. Despite being more numerous in the twenty-first century, their characteristics are reflected in early texts such as The Last Man (Shelley, 1826) and I Am Legend (Matheson, 1954). The most striking feature of twenty-first-­century Gothic ­literature is that now vampires are accompanied by other ­fantasy ­creatures like demons, fairies, werewolves and, above all, ­zombies (Spooner, 2015, p. 180). In the words of Cohen (2012) “The future belongs to the rotting, groaning, lumbering, hungry, herdlike walking dead” (p. 398). Boon (2011b) indicates that the “proliferation of zombie mythology into mainstream culture during the past three decades has established the zombie as the predominant symbol of the monstrous other” (p. 50). This Other could just as well be another group of humans, ones we do not see as individuals. They present the single human collective about whom we can without hesitation speak in terms of determinative mental traits, communal bodily designators, and stereotyped characteristics… We feel no shame in declaring their bodies repulsive. They eat disgusting food. They possess no coherent language; it all sounds like grunts and moans. They desire everything we possess. (Cohen, 2012, p. 403) Most importantly, zombies constitute a group of humans/monsters that we can physically abuse any way we like without committing a crime (p.  403). However, zombies, which we perceive as clearly being the Other, can at the same time be interpreted as a symbol of ourselves (­Adams, 2008, pp. 77–81). Spooner (2015) states that the modern z­ ombie is used to explore a variety of themes directly related to humankind, such as capitalist consumption, viral pandemic, environmental disaster, military irresponsibility and celebrity culture (p. 183). Nevertheless, Spooner also indicates that many of the more recent texts show signs of a new era for the zombie, i.e. an assimilation into society through

The Zombie as a Pronoun  159 rehabilitation  of  some kind. 2 They are thus no longer the non-human monsters we find in traditional Gothic literature but rather “a metaphor for alienated otherness” (Spooner, 2015, p. 183). According to Holm (2015), George A. Romero with his legendary movie Night of the Living Dead (1968) places zombie movies in the genre of disaster movie instead of the gothic genre (p. 206). Holm claims that the most interesting thing about modern disaster fiction is that it exposes the process of drawing a line between those inside and those outside the jurisdiction. Fictional disasters have a tendency to create what I call a zombified space: they do not just decimate the human race, they also divide it into humans and non-humans. (Holm, 2015, p. 212) Holm’s zombified space which divides the human race into humans and non-humans is in contrast with Kee’s (2011) claim that, as the figure of the zombie evolved from a creature born out of Haitian exorcism into the monster we find in the disaster movie genre, “the zombie’s explicit ties to the exotic and the Other were… weakened. Without a clearly recognized Other against which we define the self, it became that much harder to draw the line between us and them” (p. 22). It is thus clear that for the zombies of the twenty-first century, any one of us can, at any time, become one of them, and as several writers observe in their analyses of zombie movies and literature, sometimes those labelled as we share the same or similar characteristics as the zombies. Weinstock (1999), for example, in his discussion of The Night of the Living Dead notes that “there is little to distinguish the living from the dead” since some of the living characters are “as vapid and unemotional as the zombies they mercilessly pick off, one by one” (p. 8). Hence, humans frequently show the characteristics typically related to zombies, and thus the boundary between us and them can sometimes be hard to point out in an exact and accurate way, which is extremely important since the survival of the human race depends on it. On the basis of this binary nature of the zombie, on the one hand, as the monstrous Other, and on the other, as a symbol of humankind, the attitudes of the human protagonists towards the zombie will be ambivalent, and the choice of pronoun in reference to zombies will reflect this position. For the purpose of this study, I have analysed the use of subject and possessive pronouns in reference to the creatures that I interpret as ­zombies in del Toro and Hogan’s trilogy The Strain (2009, 2010, 2011). Parting from MacKay and Konishi’s (1980) theory previously presented, I will also make use of Yamamoto’s (1999) hypothesis of Animacy and Reference which states that “[t]he concept of ‘animacy’ can be regarded as some kind of assumed cognitive scale extending from human through animal to inanimate” (Yamamoto, 1999, p. 1). Yamamoto also takes

160  Linda Flores Ohlson into account supernatural beings such as Gods, angels and spirits and renders them as “supernaturally animate” (p. 17). Yamamoto’s Individuation Scale, i.e. “the degree to which we see something as a clearly ­limited and identifiable entity” (p. 3) will also be taken into consideration. Yamamoto states that it “seems natural for us to ascribe a stronger sense of animacy to an entity who/which is highlighted or activated as an individual in our mind than to one which is part of an indeterminate mass” (p. 28).3 A significant factor within the Animacy and Reference framework is empathy since it characterises “the concept of animacy in human language and cognition” (p. 16). As stated before, mass murder of zombies is rarely or never considered a crime, and in this article I argue that the lower the levels of animacy, individuation and empathy are, the more legitimate we find the violence committed towards the zombies and simultaneously, the more likely the use of the non-human pronouns. The high or low levels of animacy of Yamamoto’s (1999) hypotheses can be related to the concept of “higher” and “lower” animals presented by Wales (1996). This distinction is not a zoological or evolutionary one, but culturally determined and anthropocentric. Higher animals are those of special interest or use to human beings… “Lower animals” are defined implicitly, and negatively, i.e. those of no special relevance to human beings, or without a close connection. (Wales, 1996, pp. 141, 143) According to Wales (1996), “lower animals” are more frequently referred to with it than “higher animals.” However, in line with the presumption that it is all a matter of perspective, Wales (1996) argues that “the ­distinction between ‘higher’ and ‘lower’ animals is not absolute, and inevitably so, since it is a vague distinction in the first place” (p. 142). With regard to the zombie as an animate/inanimate or high/low ­creature, I claim that the distinction is as vague and ambivalent as can be, and because of the fact that we are dealing with a fictional creature, the choice of pronoun will not merely show us the underlying attitudes towards this creature, but also play an important part in the creation and characterisation of it. In formulating notion, I draw from Dahl and Fraurud’s (1996) idea that “there is a strong connection between the animacy of a referent and the choice between different ways of referring to it” (p. 56). I argue that there is a strong connection between the level of animacy that we perceive or ascribe to a referent, together with the grade of empathy that we feel for this referent, and the choice we make when we select our way of referring to it. Wales (1996) states that the use of it “is undoubtedly the most damning” (p. 159) way to insult a referent and reduce it to a non-human, or even inanimate entity, i.e. to dehumanise it. Haslam (2014) explains that

The Zombie as a Pronoun  161 there are different levels of dehumanisation. At the most extreme end of the spectrum “humanness denials… are explicit. Here participants make a direct evaluation of the lack of humanness of the target and have reflective awareness of doing so” (p. 37). It is in this way the term is used in the present article. As I show in the analysis, however, the presence of a reflective awareness varies from one text to another. In his analysis of the novel I Am Legend (Matheson, 1954) and its various movie interpretations, Holm (2015) comments briefly on the use of the noun male in relation to man and on the pronoun it instead of she in order to refer to the zombies, and he argues that the zombification is not just a physiological but also a cultural ­process. [The main character’s] sovereign decision about the [­zombies’] non-human status is based on a preceding and pre-­ conscious interpretation in which his social imaginary frames the ontopolitical status of infected. They are monsters. (Holm, 2015, p. 215) Holm (2015) claims that the use of the words male and it in regard to the zombies plays an important part in the dehumanisation process, but does not go any deeper into the subject (pp. 211, 213). The zombie has evolved a great deal from its origin as a conscienceless single slave acting under the spell of a voodoo master in Haiti (Lauro & Embry, 2008, pp. 87–88; Kee, 2011). The first important transformation was when it was turned into the ghoul of George A. Romero’s movies, of which Night of the Living Dead (1968) was the first. In the twenty-­ first century we find the plural rotting creatures that threaten to erase the entire human race such as those appearing in the TV series The ­Walking Dead (Darabont, 2010–), Fear the Walking Dead (Kirkman & Erickson, 2015–) and Z Nation (Engler & Schaefer, 2014–2018), or the sometimes domesticated or rehabilitated zombies of stories such as the novel Breathers. A Zombie’s Lament (Browne, 2009), the TV series In the Flesh (Mitchell, 2013–2014) and the movie Warm Bodies (Levine, 2013), which is based on the novel with the same title (Marion, 2010). According to Boon, the zombie is a non-human creature: the absence of some metaphysical quality of their essential selves. This may be the soul, the mind, the will, or in some cases, the ­personality. But every zombie experiences the loss of something ­essential that previous to zombification defined it as human. (Boon, 2011a, p. 7)4 Myhill (1992) states that some linguists substitute the concept of human/ non-human with animate/inanimate (p. 38). The conclusion could therefore be that zombies are inanimate creatures since they are, according to

162  Linda Flores Ohlson Boon, not human. However, as noted before, animacy and inanimacy should not be seen as a clear-cut dichotomy, but rather as a concept of gradience (Yamamoto, 1999, p. 14). Likewise, as has been argued, the zombie can be interpreted as the monstrous Other (Boon, 2011b, p. 50), which is clearly not human, and simultaneously as a symbol of ourselves (Adams, 2008, pp. 77–81). Myhill (1992) indicates that referents that are “animate but non-human, basically animals and supernatural beings” constitute problematic cases and suggests that “it is best to code these separately from both humans and non-humans until it is clear how they are being treated” (p. 38). Fowler (1977) argues that animate entities “are capable of initiating actions and change by willed or unconscious drive, whereas [inanimate beings] lack this faculty of responsibility, this power to cause the world to change” (pp. 16–17). There is no doubt that the zombies in the texts I analyse initiate actions and cause the world to change, although in most cases it seems to be done in a rather non-­ conscious way. Furthermore, Fowler (1977) states that “animacy versus inanimacy is one of our basic conceptual distinctions, and we show our respect of this dichotomy by growing anxious about phenomena which behave on the borderline: thunder, electricity, ghosts, gods” (p. 17). Since the zombie presents borderline characteristics, my basic presumption about the ambivalent attitudes towards the zombie is reaffirmed. The concept of empathy felt for referents, as argued by Yamamoto (1999) “is one of the most significant factors which characterise the concept of animacy in human language,” and in discussing the concept of empathy in regard to the gradience of animacy, Yamamoto observes that “one will feel a little more empathy with a water flea that with an ameba, because a water flea has a ‘face’ and something like arms” (p. 16). However, Yamamoto notes that the levels of empathy are lower with creatures that are biologically distant from human beings: “It is more difficult for one to feel empathy with entities belonging to totally different domains than to feel empathy with entities belonging to the same domain, or to domains similar to one’s own” (Yamamoto, 1999, p. 16). In this sense, the question of animacy and empathy levels in regard to the zombie is especially intriguing, because, on the one hand, this creature clearly belongs to the same biological domain since it used to be human, and has a human body, and on the other hand, the zombie typically lacks human characteristics such as soul, mind, will and personality. Yamamoto (1999) further argues that “[w]e can ‘meet’ something belonging to the same domain as our own” but not something belonging to another domain. So we could say “I met a strange man/cat/dog this morning but cannot say, I met a strange water flea this morning” (p. 16). However, Yamamoto indicates that books of fantasy are an exception to this rule, and therefore it is significant to remember, and as I discuss in the next section, that the language studied in this article is of a literary nature and cannot be analysed as naturalistic discourse.

The Zombie as a Pronoun  163 Another concept of importance, closely related to the notion that an animate creature is someone you can meet, is the Individuation scale. Yamamoto (1999) claims that a “clear manifestation of the Individuation Scale is the distinction between plurality and singularity” (p. 4). He further states that “[a]ssociated psychologically with the scale of immediacy / directness (and remoteness / indirectness), plurality sometimes weakens the sense of animacy because the identity of the referent can be blurred” (p. 4). Zombie-related vocabulary often contains words such as herd, mass, sea, flood, invasion, and other lexemes that refer to the zombies as anonymous masses rather than distinct individuals. This clearly adds more force to the low levels of animacy in regard to the zombie. Yamamoto (1999) also explains that there is a “significant difference between addressing or referring to someone by their name… and doing so by their role” (p. 4), which is in line with Wales’ (1996) argument about the association of proper names with relative pronouns (p. 142). This could be related to the fact that some of the zombies that appear in the texts I will analyse are individuals that were known to the main characters of the story before they were transformed into zombies, and these creatures are consequently referred to by their (human) names, which also seems to affect the use of pronouns used in reference to them. The Individuation Scale, in turn, can be related to the hierarchy of definiteness as presented by Dahl and Fraurud (1996): Definite>Specific indefinite>Non-specific indefinite (p. 48). Dahl and Fraurud (1996) indicate that “animacy and definiteness or high referentiality tend to go together” (p. 53). The following concepts given in Table 9.1 are taken into account in the analysis:

Table 9.1  Zombie animacy scale related to pronoun use Animate / Human

Inanimate / Non-human

– The zombie as a symbol of the human kind. – Capable of rational actions/ central, familiar, frequently mentioned. – High levels of empathy/­personal involvement. – Same/similar biological domain as humans. – When characterised as d ­ istinct individuals. DEFINITE

– The zombie as the monstrous Other. – Lacks human characteristics such as soul, mind, will, personality. – Low levels of empathy/desire to devalue referent. – Different biological domain from humans. – When characterised as anonymous masses. SPECIFIC INDEFINITE

NON-SPECIFIC INDEFINITE

164  Linda Flores Ohlson In summary, the human pronouns will be predominant when the referent is associated with the characteristics presented to the left in the list above, while the non-human pronoun will mainly be used when the zombie is related to the features to the right. This means that the ­human pronouns are used for entities with high levels of animacy, and the non-human pronouns for entities with low levels of animacy.

The Study of Language in Literary Production It is imperative to stress that the language analysed in this article is of literary character, and due to the fact that the pronouns we study make reference to a purely fictional creature, we have to keep in mind that the pronominalisation processes in the texts may be the result of the authors’ intentional use of language in order to simultaneously express the human characters’ underlying attitudes towards the zombies, and an emotional reaction or position in the reader. Greene and ­Mohammad (2010) state that since we lack “a good supply of Undead to study, it simply isn’t possible to proceed by studying them as scientists might” and we therefore have to “begin with our ideas or concepts of the Undead”  (p.  39). The  fact that no reader can possibly have any real-life experiences of zombies gives the authors complete power over how to characterise these creatures, a notion that can be compared with the presentation of gender: Such categories as… gender… are systematically elaborated in language and are not so much discovered in experience as imposed upon it because of the tyrannical hold that linguistic form has upon our orientation of the world. (Sapir, 1964, p. 128) In this citation, gender could be exchanged with animacy in regard to the zombie in fictional texts. Wales (1996) argues that the use of pronouns “is often a crucial factor in the assignment or recognition of personification, indeed often the only signal” (p. 146). Hence, it is the author, through the use of linguistic forms and descriptions of the zombie’s actions, that decides whether this creature should be depicted as a human or a non-human creature, and the use of pronouns is one of the most powerful tools through which this can be done.

The Trilogy The Strain by Del Toro and Hogan My analysis of the subjective and possessive pronouns used when referring to zombies is based on del Toro and Hogan’s trilogy The Strain (2009), The Fall (2010) and The Night Eternal (2011). This is a story that takes place in New York, about a group of people fighting to resist

The Zombie as a Pronoun  165 a vampiric Master and his army of zombie drones5 which have taken control of the planet and incarcerated the humans in blood camps.6 There are six main characters. The youngest is the boy Zack, who is captured and brought to the Master by his mother after she is turned into a zombie drone. Zack’s father, Dr. Ephrain ‘Eph’ Goodweather, head of a rapid response team that handles biological threats, is also one of the main characters, as is Eph’s coworker Nora Martínez. The oldest character is Second World War concentration camp survivor Setrakian, who has been hunting the zombies since the day he managed to escape the camp in Treblinka. The last two are the Latino gang member Gus, and the rat exterminator Vasily Fet. The Strain is one of the most complete zombie narrations published in the twenty-first century, in that the three books tell the story from the very beginning until the end of the zombie apocalypse. What makes it especially interesting is that it contains the narration of various encounters with zombies, and they appear not only as large anonymous masses but also as single individuals. The fact that the creatures in the trilogy maintain a kind of bond to their loved ones and consistently seek them out provides for a more complex relation between them and the humans. Throughout the three novels we follow the main characters’ struggle to accept the non-human status of the creatures they fight against, and the fear and pain of being forced to kill a zombie that used to be a family member, a friend or a neighbour. In the other texts briefly discussed in this paper, there are only glimpses of the zombie apocalypse. In World War Z (Brooks, 2006), for example, the narration only contains more or less short scenes from a large number of different characters, which means that the complete story of the characters is not told. Another example that shows how the other texts are not as complete as The Strain is the case of The Zombie Bible (Litore, 2011), since the story does not tell the very beginning or the end of the zombie apocalypse. To be sure, The Strain provides a text rich in interesting examples of pronoun use to analyse.

Examples of Pronoun Use The zombie invasion starts when an airplane filled with dead bodies lands at JFK International airport. The bodies soon mysteriously disappear from the morgue, and the dead start to show up on their families’ doorsteps. The first zombie to walk the streets of New York is described and perceived as a “fat, naked guy shuffling across the street” (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, p. 191). Gus, the Latino gang member and his friend Felix, ascribe his odd behaviour to alcohol, but realise that there is something strange going on when the man opens his mouth so wide that the jaw is dislocated (p. 192). Although Gus sees one of the parasitic worms being choked out of the man’s mouth, and as he stabs the man and observes how he bleeds white, he still perceives the man as human

166  Linda Flores Ohlson and uses only human pronouns to refer to him. The same happens to the peripheral character Gary Gilbarton (pp. 195–200) whose dead daughter Emma comes back in the middle of the night. Even though Gary soon realises that she is no longer Emma but “little more than a ghost of his daughter” (p. 200), he uses only human pronouns when referring to her. This is also true of the abused wife Glory, who finds her dead husband asleep in the attic and thinks that “[h]e was a ghost now… A man returned from the dead, a presence meaning to haunt her forever” (p. 292). These cases, and several others in Book I, can be seen as examples of the use of human pronouns for specific, central and familiar referents with whom the human characters experience a personal involvement (MacKay & Konishi, 1980, p. 157). Furthermore, Wales (1996) notes that when the referent is called by a proper name, the human pronouns are more likely to occur than it (p. 42). The first character who realises that these creatures are not human is the boy Zack, one of the story’s main characters. Zack has no knowledge of what is going on in the city and since he does not know the man he sees through his bedroom window, he feels no personal involvement with the referent. Zack looked out his window and saw a guy. A naked guy… skin pale as moonlight… It [his silhouette] was old but appeared ageless… around seventy, but there was a vigor to his step and a tone to his walk that made you think of a young man. (p. 202) As Zack starts to notice the typical zombie characteristics of the man, the process of dehumanisation begins, as there is a fluctuation between the use of human pronouns, which are still in the majority, and their non-human counterparts: The pale creature circled the house… Zack heard a soft moan… Flabby arms hanging at his side, his chest deflated – was he even breathing?… It looked up toward Zack’s window… This was the first time he saw the guy frontally. During the whole time, he had been able to see only a flank of the man’s skin-draped back, but now he saw his full thorax- and the paly Y-shaped scar that crossed it whole. And his eyes-they were dead tissue, glazed over, opaque… He knew that scar, knew what it meant. An autopsy scar. But how could that be?… Seeing naked male corpses walking in the street… The dead eyes looked at him with intense hunger. (pp. 203–204)7 It is when Zack asks himself if the man is breathing, i.e. is alive, that he uses the non-human pronoun it for the first time, in reference to the

The Zombie as a Pronoun  167 zombie. When Zack recognises the scar as being from an autopsy, he accepts the fact that the man is not alive and the dehumanisation process becomes more salient, as does Zack’s fear: The man was gone, but he was everywhere now. He could be downstairs, breaking in through the kitchen window. Soon it would be on the steps, climbing ever so slowly – could he hear his footsteps already?… And soon it would reach Zack’s bed… He feared the man’s voice and its dead stare. Because he had the horrible certainty that, even though it moved, the man was no longer alive. Zombies. (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, p. 204)8 It is noteworthy that “the man’s voice” and “its dead stare” appear in the same sentence. This could be because voice is more closely related to humans, while animals, statues and other non-human and even inanimate entities can possess stares. However, we also find “it moved” and “the man” in the same sentence which can be an indication of how Zack sees that there is something that used to be human, but now that the man is moving even though he is dead, he can no longer be human since he shows a characteristic that does not belong to the human biological domain. There is another example of a familiar antecedent referred to with a proper name when Zack’s father, Dr. Goodweather (Eph), encounters a zombie for the first time, when he examines Captain Redfern, who is in the process of transformation. All through the examination, and even later as Dr. Goodweather is forced to fight against Redfern, he only refers to him with human pronouns and his name. It is the zombie expert Setrakian who tries to make him understand that this man is no longer human: “He is like a drone now, becoming part of a hive. A body of many parts but one single will… This thing must be destroyed… He is no longer your friend… He is your enemy” (pp. 285–286). The narration starts with the use of human pronouns, and then the ­deictic expression this thing is used. According to Wales (1996), deictic expressions like the thing, the poor sod, the bastard “do not say anything new about the referent… but indicate the speaker’s attitude or stance” (p. 6). In this case, the use of the thing indicates the beginning of the dehumanisation process. It is also noteworthy to see that this thing occurs in relation to a call for violence. Hence, because Redfern is no longer human but a thing, killing him will not be a crime. Being a doctor, however, Eph refuses to accept this and emphasises the difference between doctors, who treat humans, and veterinarians, who treat animals: “he is still my patient… We are not veterinarians here. We can’t just put down people who are too ill to survive” (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, p. 286). The next time Eph encounters zombies is when he, Setrakian and Nora kill Gary Gilbarton and his daughter Emma in the basement of

168  Linda Flores Ohlson their home. In this scene there are numerous references to the two of them, all of which are deictic expressions (“the young girl,” “she,” “her,” “the father,” “his,” pp. 299–301). It is nevertheless clear that something non-human is hiding beneath the human surface: “The girl hissed and [Eph] saw the dark shade inside her, beneath her skin, a demon snarling to be let out” (p. 300). At the end of the scene, Nora notes that they “just killed two people in the cellar of their own home.” At this point, however, Eph takes his first step towards acceptance: “This thing is spread by people. By unpeople.” Nora insists: “Don’t demonize the sick,” but Eph continues to show his burgeoning acceptance: “But now… now the sick are demons” (p. 303). The process of dehumanisation is rapid in the text, because the next time the three characters meet a zombie, i.e. the husband and father who has chained himself in the dog shed, they no longer see the creature as human at all: The thing attacked. It charged… but then the leash chain caught, snapping the thing back. They saw it now – saw its face. It sneered, its gums so white it appeared at first that its bared teeth went all the way up into the jaw. Its lips were pale with thirst, and what was left of its hair had whitened at the roots. It crouched on all fours on a bed of soil, a chain collar locked tight around its neck, dug into the flesh. (pp. 399–400) In the dialogue that follows this scene we can appreciate how Eph and Nora, who are new to the existence of zombies, are still in the process of acceptance and feel the need to emphasise the dehumanisation, while the more experienced Setrakian is capable of jumping from having a human to a non-human perspective of the creatures: Setrakian said, never taking his eyes off it, “This is the man from the aeroplane?” Eph stared. This thing was like a demon that had devoured the man named Ansel Barbour and half-assumed his form. “It was him.” “Somebody caught it,” said Nora. “Chained it here. Locked it away.” “No,” said Setrakian. “He chained himself.” (p. 400) The man they are talking about, Ansel Barbour, was found in the airplane that arrived at JFK. He was already infected with the parasitic zombie worms, but his transformation started later, and as he began losing control over his actions, he killed the family’s dogs. Right before the transformation was completed, he chained himself in the dog shed in order to prevent himself from hurting his wife and children too. In the example above, Setrakian uses the man and he when referring to the human he was before the transformation. Since he chained himself, it can be argued that

The Zombie as a Pronoun  169 he still had a will of his own at that point. This means that he was still at least partly human at the time he chained himself, which is why Setrakian uses he when he emphasises that no one else had chained him. However, Eph and Nora use this thing and it in order to refer to the z­ ombie they are facing. To them it is a creature without a will of its own that was captured and chained like an animal. In this scene, we can appreciate how the protagonists point out the before and after of the transformation by using nouns and pronouns referring to humans or non-humans. It should also be noted that it appears as a direct object while he is used in referring to the man / zombie as the subject of the sentence. When rat exterminator Fet fights two zombies in Book III, human pronouns are used at the beginning of the encounter, when the creatures are described, and then change into non-human pronouns as Fet uses violence against the zombies: The nails embedded deep into the cheekbone and forehead of the first charging vampire, a nicely suited man in his sixties. Fet fired again, popping the man’s eye and gagging him with silver, the brad buried in the soft flesh of its throat. The thing squealed and recoiled… Fet saw it approach – this one a slender woman in jogging sweats, her shoulder wounded, exposing her collarbone… Fet shot at the approaching creature. It kept creeping toward him even as its face was festooned with silver. Its goddamn stinger shot out of its pincushion face. (del Toro & Hogan, 2010, p. 129) At the very end of Book I, Eph and his son Zack meet Kelly, ex-wife and mother for the first time after she has been transformed. In a similar manner as the family members of the peripheral characters mentioned previously, in this scene only human pronouns are used when referring to her, even though it is a fact to Eph that his ex-wife is no longer human: “Kelly Goodweather was turned. A dead thing returned to its home. Her gazing eyes found Zack. Her Dear One. She had come for him… She was a demon. A vampire. One of them. She was gone to him forever” (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, p. 494).9 Kelly is no longer human. However, the memory of her as Eph’s wife and Zack’s mother, and the important role she continuously plays in their lives since she is still connected to them has an important effect on the level of animacy or humanness, and hence the empathy they feel even for the zombie version of her. This might be the explanation for the nearly exclusive use of human pronouns in regard to Kelly throughout the trilogy. Even in the long scene where Eph finally fights and kills her, she is only referred to with human pronouns (del Toro & Hogan, 2011, pp. 499–502), although, as stated before, it is clear to him that she is no longer human, as can be observed in Kelly’s death scene: “For a m ­ oment  – probably

170  Linda Flores Ohlson imagined by Eph, but he accepted it anyway – he saw the formerly human Kelly behind her eyes, looking at him with an expression of peace. Then the creature returned and sagged in release” (p. 501). Zack still refuses to accept the dehumanisation of his mother, and Eph tries to make him understand: “‘You killed her,’ said Zack. ‘I killed the vampire that had taken her away from us. Away from you’” (p. 502). In this extract Eph makes a clear distinction between the non-human vampire and the human Kelly. The non-consistent use of pronouns in regard to the Master, the creature all the zombies obey, is interesting. In Book I, the noun phrase (NP) the Master appears 94 times and it is not until Eph meets the Master for the first time (del Toro & Hogan, 2009, pp. 435–439) that the non-human pronouns are used. In this scene there are 20 possessive pronouns used in referring to the Master. Eight of them are the non-human its, and 12 of them the human possessive his. There is no pattern in the use of the pronouns, i.e. the human and non-human pronouns occur mixed throughout the whole scene. The same body parts of the Master are referred to both with its and his, for example its skull/his head, its huge hands/his free arm, its eyes/his oryx eyes, its throat/his throat/his mouth/his jaw/his tongue. There are only two subjective pronouns, one of each kind (it gripped, he went over), and six NPs, all of which indicate non-human features and add negative connotations to the utterances (this thing, the giant being, the demon, the giant vampire, the monster). In the rest of the book, the use of human pronouns is in the vast majority, even when the Master’s inhuman traits are emphasised, as in, for example, his inhuman face, the blinded beast, the Dark One and the king vampire. It can be observed that in all parts of Book I where the Master is being mentioned, but is not present in the scene, exclusively human pronouns are used, while in two of the few scenes where the protagonists meet him, there is a mixture of the pronouns. The second time that Eph meets the Master is a violent scene where he and his allies almost defeat their enemy. In this scene, there are a total of 50 occurrences of the human pronouns (he, him, and his), and three instances of the non-human pronoun (its) in reference to the Master. In Book II, the Master is mentioned over 200 times, not counting the numerous times he is referred to with other expressions such as The One Young, the vampire king, the monster, the creature, etc. Even though the mixture of pronouns is similar to the one we find in Book I, where the human ones are in the majority, there is an increase of the use of non-­ human pronouns in reference to the Master. The non-human pronouns do not only occur in scenes where he is present, and on three occasions only non-human pronouns are used (del Toro & Hogan, 2010, pp. 120– 121, 163–165, 200). In the first of these three scenes there is a total of 25 non-human pronouns in reference to the Master (it, its and itself). In Book III, the NP “the Master” occurs over 500 times, and the increase of the non-human pronouns in relation to it is exceptional. There

The Zombie as a Pronoun  171 are only a few scenes in which human pronouns are used and there are several ones where only non-human pronouns appear. The following extract can serve as a typical example of how the pronouns are used in the last book of the trilogy: The Master will be on his way here; that’s guaranteed. We need to challenge it. To scare it. The Master pretends to be above all emotion, but I have seen it angry. It is, going back to biblical times, a vengeful creature. That hasn’t changed. When it administers its kingdom dispassionately, then it is in complete control. It is efficient and detached, all-seeing. But when it is challenged directly, it makes mistakes. It acts rashly. Remember, it became possessed of a bloodlust after laying siege to Sodom and Gomorrah. It murdered a fellow archangel in the grip of a homicidal. It lost control. (2011, p. 441) It is thus obvious that the Master is seen as “a clearly limited and identifiable entity” (Yamamoto, 1999, p. 3), and figures as a central, frequently mentioned character (MacKay & Konishi, 1980, p. 157). Despite this, and although he is not seen as an anonymous entity within a mass of others, he can still be referred to as a non-human being. The Master is at the same time a monster that lacks all human features and shows no empathy whatsoever, i.e. it/he is the source of all evil in the story, and the level of empathy the main characters feel for it/him is low or even non-existent. It/he can nevertheless be referred to as a man with he, his and him. Simultaneously, the use of it can be seen as a way to devalue the referent (MacKay & Konishi, 1980, p. 155). This constant pronoun-switching recurs throughout the three books, as we have seen in reference to the Master, as well as in encounters with other zombies. In contrast to The Strain, although there is no clear-cut structure, a general tendency towards the use of non-human pronouns in order to distinguish the living from the zombies can be identified in several other texts, such as World Was Z (Brooks, 2006), The Zombie Bible (Litore, 2011) and The Rising (Keene, 2003). In the following extract, for instance, we see how the character immediately changes into using non-human pronouns as he realises that the widow he has gone to see has been turned: Something moved near him, then he saw her silhouette and knew by its movement that it was not her. He leapt backward through the door, into the sunlight, and it follow him out. It was terrible. It had the widow’s face, except that the nose had been chewed away, and one eye was gone. One arm hung broken at its side… That a body made to bear life into the world could be turned into that. (Litore, 2011, p. 48)

172  Linda Flores Ohlson When a blind man who survives on his own in the wilderness encounters a zombie, he changes the pronouns into non-human ones once he starts to detect the zombie characteristics of the creature: From the height of his mouth, I could tell he was taller than me. I heard one foot dragging across the soft, moist earth and air bubbling from a gaping wound in its chest. I could hear it reaching out to me groaning and swiping at empty air. I manage to dodge its clumsy attempt… I centered my attack on the source of the creature’s moan… The creature fell back. (Brooks, 2006, p. 274) Since the man is blind, he cannot know at first that it is a zombie he has come across. However, the way the creature moves, dragging its foot, and the fact that it is walking although it has an open wound in the chest, reveals its inhumanity, and the man starts to refer to it with the non-human pronouns. In The Zombie Bible (Litore, 2011) there are two examples of the humanisation process of zombies that have been killed. In the first case, the main character, a priest, struggles and kills a zombie girl: This creature had been a girl, perhaps twelve winters old… Yirmiyahu stumbled to his feet on weak and aching legs as it snapped its jaws and fought to get closer to him… It had been a girl, a little girl. The creature’s milky eyes were fixed on him, its mouth opened in a long growl… he took its head in his hands… the creature was very strongand dragged the corpse to the wall… The creature kept writhing and kicking, trying to twist its head in his hands to bite him… He kept hitting the creature’s head into the wall until it was still at last. Then he stood over it numbly… The girl’s chest had torn farther open; a few ribs now jabbed out through the skin and the torn garment it wore… What right had he to wish her rest after violating her body, and when none of his deeds and none of his words had sufficed to protect her. (p. 46) The switch from the non-human pronouns into the use of the girl and her at the end of the extract indicates how, in the mind of the character, the creature again becomes the girl she was before the transformation. The same character fights another zombie in the dark. In this scene there are only non-human nouns and pronouns (it, the thing, cadaver, dark form) (Litore, 2011, p. 72). When daylight comes, the priest discovers that the zombie he killed was his own wife. In this part of the narration, there is no use of it or other words referring to non-human entities: It was her face. It was shattered, it was distorted, the eyes emptied of everything and flesh torn from her, but it was her… his hands

The Zombie as a Pronoun  173 cupping her head, pressed his face into her shoulder… and twined his fingers into her hair. He kissed her again as he wept. (pp. 75, 87) The change from non-human to human pronouns in these two scenes from The Zombie Bible (Litore, 2011) could be explained by the levels of empathy that the character experiences towards the zombie girl he is forced to fight and his infected wife, whom he kills unknowingly. Furthermore, in The Strain neither the characters nor the narrator make metalinguistic comments, or give hints on the use of pronouns in referring to the zombies. However, this can occasionally be found in other zombie stories. In Z Nation (Engler & Schaefer, 2014–2018), for example, there is a scene where a character talks about having had to kill his father who had been bitten by a zombie, and was thereby about to become one himself: “What did you do? I killed it. Damn kid, you had to put down your own dad? I didn’t kill him, I killed it” (Engler & Schaefer, 2014–2018: “Full Metal Zombie”). In this dialogue, the character who killed his infected father stresses the two pronouns in his last sentence in order to make clear that he sees a great difference between killing his father, who was human, and killing the zombie his father turned into, which was not.10 In Carey’s novels The Girl with All the Gifts (2014) and The Boy on the Bridge (2017) there are two different kinds of zombies: the regular, braindead ones and zombie children, born of mothers who were infected while they were pregnant. These zombie children are more humane, can learn how to speak, can show feelings and do not merely act on cannibalistic instinct. The surviving humans’ attitudes towards these zombie children are clearly expressed as ambivalent. In the first book, as the humans discover the existence of the zombie children, they decide to capture a few of them for examination, and one of the scientists says to the soldiers: “Bring us one of those kids. Let’s take a good long look at him/her/it” (Carey, 2014, p. 78). By contrasting the human and non-human pronouns in the text, the difficulty of determining whether these creatures should be seen, and consequently treated as human beings or not, is made clear. Several zombie children are captured, and are taught to read and write, at the same time as they are chained and treated as dangerous monsters, and subjected to inhumane scientific experiments, and the variation in attitudes towards these creatures among the different human characters (such as a school teacher, a scientist, and some soldiers) plays an important role in the plot. In the second novel, in which the braindead zombies are called hungries, there is a scene in which one of the scientists reflects quite conspicuously on the pronoun use in reference to a zombie child: Should he classify the dead child as a hungry? Amazingly… he is still undecided. For: the boy had the Cordyceps infection in an advanced

174  Linda Flores Ohlson form, and some of the salient behavioural symptoms. Specifically, he had the consuming urge to feed on fresh protein from a living source. Against: in other ways his behavioural repertoire was more like that of a human being. He was still capable of though, and of emotional attachment. If he was an animal, he was a social animal. And a tool-using one… He notes, with a slight prickle of alarm, that by using the personal pronoun he has partially prejudged the question he is meant to be deciding. (Carey, 2017, loc 3069) If we recall what Sapir (1964) says about gender, that it is “elaborated in language… because of the tyrannical hold that linguistic form has upon our orientation of the world” (p. 128), we can see a similarity in how the human character notices that by using the human pronoun, the characterisation of the zombie as a human creature has already been done. In other narratives, the importance of differentiating the humans they used to be and the zombies they presently are in order to survive is emphasised, as, for example, in this scene from World War Z (Brooks, 2006): The first G I saw was small, probably a kid, I couldn’t tell. Its face was eaten off, the skin, nose, eyes, lips, even the hair and ears… It was stuck inside one of those long civilian hiker’s packs, stuffed in there tight with the drawstring pulled right up around its neck… it was splashing around… Its brain must have been intact… It couldn’t moan, its throat had been too badly mangled, but the splashing might have attracted attention, so I put it out of its misery, if it really was miserable, and tried not to think about it… don’t try to imagine who they used to be, how they came to be here, how they came to be this. I know, who doesn’t do that, right? Who doesn’t look at one of those things and just naturally start to wonder? It’s like reading the last page of a book… your imagination just naturally spinning. And that’s when you get distracted, get sloppy, let your guard down and end up leaving someone else to wonder what happened to you. I tried to put her, it out of my mind. (pp. 220–221) The female pilot in the above extract has come a long way in the dehumanisation process. She refers to the zombies with the letter G, which is probably an abbreviation of ghouls, and Zack, an anthroponomy used in military fashion, similar to Charlie as a reference to the Vietnamese in the war in Vietnam.11 As cited above, “plurality sometimes weakens the sense of animacy because the identity of the referent can be blurred” (Yamamoto, 1999, p. 4). The use of a generic term, such as G or Zack

The Zombie as a Pronoun  175 for a specific zombie, certainly blurs the zombie’s identity and consequently weakens the level of animacy. The level of dehumanisation is also clear when we look at the pronouns she uses, which are, with a sole exception, it/its. It can be observed how she reminds herself of the zombies’ lack of feelings (“if it really was miserable”), and directly afterwards stresses the importance of not thinking of who they used to be when they were still human. Her opinion is clearly that the human origin of the zombies has to be neglected if one wishes to stay alive. Moreover, the way she immediately corrects the use of the human pronoun her in referring to the zombie child makes the importance she lays on the dehumanisation obvious. Nevertheless, later on in her narration, she refers to the zombie in the pack as “the little faceless kid” (Brooks, 2006, p. 222). In another narration in the same novel, pronouns are contrasted in a way that makes clear how the character differentiates between humans and zombies: “I was also comforted by the layer of ash on the carpet. It was deep and unbroken, telling me that no one or nothing had walked across this floor” (p. 260). In World War Z (Brooks, 2006) there are several examples where the two sets of pronouns in English are used to differentiate the living from the dead; nevertheless, in a similar way to The Strain, no consequent use of them can be identified.

Conclusion The aim of this article was to investigate which pronouns are used to refer to zombies in a few selected written and audiovisual narratives. I have also investigated what the pronominalisation of the zombies tells us about the underlying attitudes that are responsible for the choice of pronouns. I found that while both the human pronouns (he/she/his/ her) and the non-human ones (it/its) are used in a non-systematic way throughout the three books, this pronoun-switching reveals a desire to dehumanise the zombies and differentiate the dead from the living. The universe created in The Strain is, however, not black and white, since even the most inhuman and evil creatures are often referred to with human pronouns. In the analysis I show that, due to the binary nature of the zombie, on the one hand as representative of the monstrous Other and on the other, as a symbol of humankind, the attitudes towards the zombie are ambivalent, which, in turn, is reflected through the constant pronoun fluctuation. Throughout the analysis it was made clear that the zombie cannot be defined as either an inanimate/non-human creature or an animate/ human one. If we look at the characteristics that belong to high levels of animacy, we can see that the zombie has some of them. For example, it is capable of actions, and since it has a human body, it can be interpreted as belonging to our biological domain. It is also sometimes represented as a distinct individual with a human name, i.e. in a definite

176  Linda Flores Ohlson form in the terminology of Dahl and Fraurud (1996, p. 48). However, the zombie generally shows no signs of having a soul, a will of its own or a personality. Despite the fact that it is dead, it is animated and capable of performing actions, which separates it from the biological domain of both human and animal. Furthermore, it frequently appears in anonymous masses, i.e. in non-specific indefinite forms (Dahl & Fraurud, 1996, p. 48). These are characteristics that all clearly speak in favour of extremely low levels of animacy and humanity, and accordingly, of the use of the non-human pronouns. As for the constant fluctuation between human and non-human pronouns in relation to the concept of dehumanisation, in The Strain, and to a certain degree in other texts briefly commented on in this article, it is worth citing Haslam (2014) who states that “‘de-’ need not imply an absolute negation: Decapitation may indeed involve a nonpartial removal of one’s head, but other terms (demoralize, devaluation, decaffeinated, etc.) may refer to a (relative) reduction rather than an (absolute) removal” (p. 44). Therefore, in the texts I have analysed, the pronoun-switching can be interpreted as a non-complete process of dehumanisation. That is, the characters are not always human or zombie, but can also be portrayed as something in-between. In some examples, the characters use language in a way that clearly differentiates between who they perceive as human and non-human. In the texts I have studied, there also seem to be a certain tendency to increase the use of non-human pronouns in violent scenes. It should therefore be remembered that the zombies constitute a group of creatures that we can shoot in the head, or use any other kind of horrendous violence against without committing a crime (Cohen, 2012, p. 403). In considering that the line between human and zombie is not always clear, since the humans sometimes show the same characteristics as the zombies (mindless, emotionless, cruel, acting on instinct), the justification of violence towards the zombie can easily be related to the dehumanisation discourse found in many of the horrendous crimes humankind has committed towards vulnerable groups in society. Lauro and Embry (2008) claim that the concept of monstrosity is deeply associated with disabled bodies. The same should, of course, be said of zombies. The mentally ill historically have been portrayed as having a consciousness that is morally suspect or a total lack of subjectivity. (p. 103) Moreover, Cohen (2012) argues that the way zombies are pictured and treated, “[a]pplied to any other group, such homogenizing reduction and obsession with physicality, communal menace, and fantastic consumption would constitute racism” (p. 403).

The Zombie as a Pronoun  177

Notes 1 The emphasis in all citations is added, unless otherwise indicated. 2 See, for example, the struggle to assimilate into mainstream society of the people suffering from PDS (Partly Diseased Syndrome) in the TV series In the Flesh (Mitchell, 2013–2014), the romantic comedies Warm Bodies (Levine, 2013) and Fido (Currie, 2006) and the novel Breathers (Browne, 2009). 3 See also (Comrie, 1989). 4 See also Ní Fhlainn (2011, p. 139). 5 Although the monsters that threaten the survival and above all freedom of the human race in The Strain are referred to as vampires, I consider them to show more characteristics generally ascribed to the zombie rather than the vampire. 6 It is worth mentioning that in Book II, these blood camps are directly compared to the Second World War concentration camps (del Toro & Hogan, 2010: 361). 7 Original emphasis. 8 Original emphasis. 9 Original emphasis. 10 This can be compared with the scene in The Strain discussed above, where Eph explains to his son how he killed “the vampire that had taken [Kelly]” (del Toro & Hogan, 2011, p. 502) and not really Kelly herself. 11 The Vietnamese army was named Viet Cong, abbreviated V.C., which in the American military alphabet was Victor Charlie (Moser & Drejer, 1955).

References Adams, J.J. (2008), The Living Dead, London: Orbit Books. Boon, K. (2011a), “And the Dead Shall Rise,” in D. Christie & S.J. Lauro (eds.), Better Off Dead, New York: Fordham University Press, pp. 5–8. Boon, K. (2011b), “The Zombie as Other: Mortality and the Monstruos in the Post-Nuclear Age,” in D. Christie & S.J. Lauro (eds.), Better Off Dead, New York: Fordham University Press, pp. 51–60. Brooks, M. (2006), World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, New York: Broadway Paperbacks. Browne, S.G. (2009), Breathers: A Zombie’s Lament, New York: Broadway Books. Carey, M.R. (2014), The Girl with All the Gifts, London: Orbit. Carey, M.R. (2017), The Boy on the Bridge, London: Orbit. Cohen, J.J. (2012), “Undead: A Zombie Oriented Ontology.” Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts 23(3), pp. 397–412. Comrie, B. (1989), Language Universals and Linguistic Typology, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Currie, A. (2006), Fido, [Motion Picture], Canada: Anagram Pictures. Dahl, Ö. & Fraurud, K. (1996), “Animacy in Grammar and Discourse,” in T.  Fretheim & J.K. Gundel (eds.), Reference and Referent Accessibility, ­A msterdam: John Benjamins, pp. 47–64. Darabont, F. (2010–), The Walking Dead, New York: AMC. del Toro, G. & Hogan, C. (2009), The Strain, London: Harper Collins. del Toro, G. & Hogan, C. (2010), The Fall, London: Harper Collins.

178  Linda Flores Ohlson del Toro, G. & Hogan, C. (2011), The Night Eternal, London: Harper Collins. Engler, C. & Schaefer, K. (2014–), Z Nation, Burbank, CA: The Asylum. Fowler, R. (1977), Linguistics and the Novel, London: Methuen & Co Ltd. Greene, R. & Mohammad, S.K. (2010), Zombies, Vampires, and Philosophy: New Life for the Undead, Chicago, IL: Open Court. Haslam, N. (2014), “What is Dehumanization?” in P.G. Bain, J. Vaes & J.-P. Leyens (eds.), Humanness and Dehumanization, New York: Psychology Press, pp. 34–48. Holm, I.W. (2015), “Zombies and Citizens,” in O.C. Gil & C. Wulf (eds.), ­Hazardous Futures, Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 205–222. Kee, C. (2011), ‘“They Are Not Men… They Are Dead Bodies!’ From Cannibal to Zombie and Back Again,” in D. Christie & S.J. Lauro (eds.), Better off Dead, New York: Fordham University Press, pp. 9–23. Keene, B. (2003), The Rising, Portland: Deadite Press. Kirkman, R. & Erickson, D. (2015–), Fear The Walking Dead, New York: AMC. Lauro, S.J. & Embry, K. (2008), “A Zombie Manifesto: The Nonhuman ­Condition in the Era of Advanced Capitalism.” Boundary 2 35(1), pp. 85–108. Levine, J. (2013), Warm Bodies, Burbank, CA: Mandeville Films. Litore, S. (2011), Death Has Come up into Our Windows: The Zombie Bible, Las Vegas, NV: 47North. MacKay, D.G. & Konishi, T. (1980), “Personification and the Pronoun ­Problem.” Women’s Studies International Quarterly 3, pp. 149–163. Marion, I. (2010), Warm Bodies, London: Vintage Originals. Matheson, R. (1954), I Am Legend, New York: Tom Doherty Associates. Mitchell, D. (2013–2014), In the Flesh, Birmingham: BBC Drama Productions. Moser, H.M. & Drejer, J.J. (1955), The Evaluation of the Military Alphabets: Speech Monographs 22(5), pp. 256–265. Myhill, J. (1992), Typological Discourse Analysis: Quantitative Approaches to the Study of Linguistic Function, Cambridge: Blackwell. Ní Fhlainn, S. (2011), “All Dark inside: Dehumanization and Zombification in Postmodern Cinema,” in D. Christie & S.J. Lauro (eds.), Better off Dead, New York: Fordham, pp. 139–157. Romero, G.A. (1968), Night of the Living Dead, [Motion Picture], USA: ­I mage Ten. Sapir, E. (1964), “Conceptual Categories in Primitive Languages,” in D. Hymes (ed.), Language in Culture and Society: A Reader in Linguistics and Anthropology, New York: Harper & Row, p. 128. Shelley, M. (1826), The Last Man, Hertfordshire: Worldworth Editions Limited. Spooner, C. (2015), “Twenty-First-Century Gothic,” in D. Townshend (ed.), Terror and Wonder: The Gothic Imagination, London: The British Library, pp. 180–207. Svartvik, J., Quirk, R. & Crystal, D. (1985), A Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language, New York: Longman. Wales, K. (1996), Personal Pronouns in Present-day English, Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press. Weinstock, J.A. (1999), “Zombie TV.” Post Identity 2(2). Yamamoto, M. (1999), Animacy and Reference, Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

10 A Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic/Dystopian Texts Joe Trotta

Introduction Apocalyptic and dystopian narratives are perhaps some of the best examples of how humans can exploit one of their most amazing abilities: the power to imagine life and situations beyond the immediate, the right-here, right-now. As one of the most speculative kinds of speculative fiction, such ominous stories of the future allow us to explore what could happen if certain present-day trends were to continue in potentially dangerous directions; they can function as a textual Petri dishes in which we can experiment with any number of scenarios that would be impossible in genres that would typically require more real-life verisimilitude. Instead, not completely unlike mercurial deities, we can play with plots, settings and characters that allow us to test out our ideas about ethics, morality and humanity simply by, with pen, paper, computer, whatever, fictionalising protagonists in extreme and challenging circumstances. Naturally, this can sometimes be for sheer entertainment, but often with these genres in particular, they speak to us about themes that reflect our anxieties about the future and invite us to reflect upon them more critically. To some degree, this chapter too has a speculative quality – it explores a possible nexus between traditional approaches to literature and digital, mostly linguistic, methods. Using linguistic approaches to study literature is not a new field of study by any means (see Background), but in this chapter the goal is not to perform the type of investigation one might expect via linguistic practices, e.g. a stylistic analysis or a text-type comparison, but rather it tests the viability of using these tools and methods to better understand the fictional worlds of apocalyptic/­dystopian texts – to reveal similarities, differences and simply any angle on the texts that might not have been apparent or intuitively study-worthy previously. In more specific terms, the main aim of this chapter is to explore the potential usefulness of a corpus-informed,1 linguistic methodology in investigating so-called apocalyptic and dystopian fiction. 2 In doing this, focus is placed on three main questions: (1) Can a corpus-informed study provide a useful platform for a qualitative analysis of these two

180  Joe Trotta genres? (2) Can this method, which relies heavily on automatic tagging of lexical items and key semantic domains, reveal in what ways apocalyptic and dystopian fiction are similar and in what ways they are not? In other words, what do the prevalent semantic domains in the texts say about their ‘aboutness’? And (3), with a view to possibly understanding the relationship between these genres and the attendant societal concerns, fears or anxieties in which they were produced, the present ­chapter looks at whether a major world-event, like the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the USA, may have entered, affected or changed these narratives in some way. It is important to note that even though this is a linguistic approach to the material, it is not an attempt to understand the material in terms of text-types. Broadly speaking, the difference between the notions of ‘genre’ and ‘text-type’ is that the former is a way of grouping texts together based on the ways in which texts can resemble each other, i.e. they may share the same themes, settings, intended audiences, etc., but the latter is a categorisation that uses linguistic methodology to establish differences based on features of the language used, which may be a combination of grammatical and lexical characteristics along with ­measurements of features like sentence length, lexical density and type-token ratios (see, e.g. McEnery & Wilson, 2001; Barnbrook, 2006; Biber, 2011). The present chapter does indeed explore apocalyptic and/ or dystopian fiction from a linguistic perspective; but the emphasis is on features that may reveal the underlying concepts in the texts examined, in some cases, this should be obvious and intuitive (e.g. one might justifiably expect words like death, destruction and disease to be fairly frequent), but the intention here is to show that some semantic categories would not surface as an object of investigation based on intuition alone, but rather the corpus perspective reveals features that would otherwise be difficult to discover.

Background Though corpus methodologies are hardly controversial in mainstream linguistics these days, such empirical techniques have not been widely welcomed among researchers in other liberal arts disciplines. In particular, literary scholars have strongly questioned the usefulness of quantitative approaches, with reactions to Franco Moretti’s influential Graphs, Maps, Trees (2007), demonstrating an ever-growing schism in the field. Some view work like Moretti’s as offering confirmable and generalisable ‘scientific’ results, whereas others see this hard-science angle on literary analysis as contributing only trivial insights at best, at worst it is viewed as circular since, according to the critics, its results depend on dubious coding and labelling practices that are based on a priori understandings of the very concepts under investigation.

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  181 Regardless of one’s stance on this ongoing polemic, digital technologies are making inroads in many fields of scholarship traditionally deemed unsuitable for such methods. Quantitative research in literary analysis, which according to Hoover (2008) has been conducted and discussed since at least the 1960s, is still far from being a clear field of research with a verified and acknowledged methodology. Most studies applying corpus methods to literary analysis are carried out in the field of stylistics, building a relatively new research area of corpus stylistics, also called stylometry, such as Mahlberg’s (2013) work on literary characterisation in Dickens fiction or Balossi’s (2014) examination of literary language in Virginia Woolf’s The Waves. Some studies focus on ­content-related questions such as the analysis of plot or characterisation and the exploration of relations between and role of different characters, as in the work of Mahlberg (2013) and Culpeper (2002), developing new ways of exploring these literary features, e.g. via the application of ­social network analysis (Elson et al., 2010; Moretti, 2011; Agarwal et al., 2012). Besides this area, there are numerous other approaches, like the attempt to investigate the phenomenon of “literary creativity” (Hoey, 2007; Trotta, 2014) or ways for automatic recognition of literary genres (Allison et al., 2011). The underlying characteristics of a corpus-based approach to language study are that it is empirical, it ideally uses a large collection (corpus) of natural texts collected on a principled basis, computer and manual analyses of the corpus are carried out, and both quantitative and qualitative techniques of analysis are employed. The consequent strengths of such an analysis lie in both its scope and reliability (Biber et al., 1998). Another advantage of using computer software is its ability to identify potentially significant textual features which have gone unnoticed by literary critics (Stubbs, 2005). Researchers like Barnbrook (1996) often advocate using a larger general corpus as a norm, against which smaller corpora can be compared, to enable us to “marshal hosts of instances too numerous for our unassisted powers” (Burrows, 1992, cited in Barnbrook, 1996). For example, it has been with the aid of computers that some of the most interesting stylistic work on Shakespeare has taken place in recent years. Such corpus-based studies have examined differences between female and male language in Shakespeare (Sobhan Raj Hota & Moshe Koppel, 2006), key semantic domains and metaphor in the love tragedies and love comedies (Archer et al., 2005), characterisation in Romeo and Juliet (Culpeper, 2002), and imagery in Macbeth (Zyngier, 1999). Other major methodological approaches of this field are, according to Biber (2011), Mahlberg (2007) and Hoover (2008), the study of keywords and word frequencies, co-occurrences, lexical clusters (also called bundles or n-grams) and collocational as well as concordance analysis. Additionally, the need for cross-investigating and comparing the results with other corpora (be it a general corpus of one language or other

182  Joe Trotta small, purpose-built corpora) is emphasised to discuss the uniqueness of the results. However, despite the rising interest in this field of research in recent decades, there is still much reluctance towards the implementation of such methods. This reluctance notwithstanding, the possibilities and advantages of corpus linguistics come to the foreground especially if one is not interested in aspects of uniqueness or particularity but in commonalities and differences between large amounts of literary texts too many to be read and compared in the classical way.

Material Against the background of the corpus-assisted methods outlined above, one in which the objective is to reveal overriding linguistic trends and patterns in the literature under investigation, the selection of material necessarily requires forethought and special consideration on a number of points. The texts that constitute the corpus should be sufficiently balanced as to include as many relevant variables as possible so that the most salient comparisons can be made, but also there should be flexibility and foresight so that the corpus is not too limited in what it can used for. For example, texts from various periods can tell us if the concerns of the genre have shifted over time, texts from both male and female authors allow for a comparison of how the author’s gender may affect the text, in the same was as such information about the author’s age, nationality, ethnicity and so on, might do. Highly relevant in this context, a balance between the genres involved (apocalyptic vs dystopian fiction) can be crucial in revealing potentially significant patterns. Ideally then, the texts selected should be (or have been, in relation to publication dates) popular, influential and representative for the presumed (sub) genre, i.e. apocalyptic, post-apocalyptic, dystopian or some combination of these. Both male and female authors should be represented and, as far as it is possible, that nationalities of the authors should be varied. Though such selection criteria can seem self-evident, straightforward and most importantly, crucial in securing valid and reliable results, how these criteria can be applied systematically to a large number of diverse texts, spread out across various time periods and written in different contexts with different goals, is a much thornier issue. The first potential problem concerns genres: labelling, mislabelling, blurring, bending and recalcitrant categories. As noted in the introductory chapter to this anthology, genre labels in themselves are often disputed and problematic; in the worst-case scenario they are unreliable or simply incorrect. In this regard, I have relied on the labels/descriptions used by researchers, critics, reviewers, publishers and retailers. Although absolute certainty about the genre category cannot be guaranteed, it is not necessary since the classification itself is partly what is under investigation here. Each text has been checked via several sources to provide

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  183 reasonable justification for inclusion in this study and, with the many texts used, if a small number of them are not completely accurate, it should not affect or skew the overall results. Other than the genre labelling dilemma, the second and third problems for the selection of suitable texts are related: is it possible to measure or evaluate popularity and influence? There are no reliable sources for book sales (see Maatta, 2014) and, even if such sources could provide us with potentially usable data, sales can be misleading. If, for the sake of argument, we draw a hypothetical divide between ‘literary’ successes (those that are well-received by critics and scholars along with works one might find on university reading lists) and ‘best-selling’ successes (popularity based on sales and/or adaptations to/from other media), then this is a question of degrees. Luckily, this is not a question that requires an answer here but rather the general idea is that the texts have been recognised as examples of the apocalyptic/dystopian fiction, and they have all been acknowledged as such from the sources listed above. Another consideration was that, for obvious reasons, the material had to be limited to texts that could be accessed in digital form. Other than the fact that it is necessary to search the texts, it is also important that the texts can be combined in various ways to create a corpus with various subcorpora that can be compared to other reference corpora and to each other. This meant that, even though there are texts available in many forms of popular culture, e.g. film scripts, video/online games, board games, or comic books and graphic novels, these were not included since much of those texts, if they are available at all, would be misleading in comparison. For example, film scripts are comprised of mostly dialogue and do not contain the entire semiotic package of the film, board games include much more than flavour text, e.g. rules and illustrative examples. Comic books are interesting and relevant for the topic under examination, but the differences in media create problems since it is very time-consuming to convert comic book texts into digital texts, and there are obvious problems with the different vehicles for story-telling (see Kahn, this volume, for another perspective on this matter). The semiotic potential of comics allows for narratives that do not compare well with ‘pure’ texts and do not work with basic corpus concordancing tools. A final issue to be considered in relation to material selection concerns balancing the corpus in terms of possibly relevant variables and dealing with the concrete limitations a study of this nature presents. It has been mentioned above, e.g. that the type of corpus analysis proposed here could, in principle, be used to compare and/or contrast variables such as nationality, gender, ethnicity, age, etc.; for such comparisons to be possible, some consideration must be taken to ensure that a ‘reasonable’ number of these variables are included. This, however, this was not fully possible within the scope of the present study (e.g. the ages of the authors

184  Joe Trotta were not considered, inclusion of various nationalities was very limited and ethnicity was not taken into account), but as this is a type of exploratory study for which only a certain limited number of variables can be meaningfully compared, this is not an issue that should render the study invaluable somehow; the material can be supplemented in future research and any insight gained here can trigger further questioning as a part of the natural process of research. Conversely, one must consider if some limitations to inclusion should apply – e.g. how many works by the same author should be included? What about volumes or series? For instance, should the highly popular Hunger Games trilogy be counted as one work or three? For the present work to be as varied and representative as possible, book series such as Hunger Games or Divergent were included, but only the first volume of each series was selected. If entire series were covered in the corpus, it would potentially distort the topics, themes, salient semantic domains, etc. On a similar note, unless it was necessary, multiple works by the same author were not considered, even if those works were separate ­titles, so as to avoid an overrepresentation of some linguistic features because of any individual author’s stylistic choices. Exceptions were made for several authors who were deemed of particular importance for the genre, but even then, the limit was two works. For example, Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake are included, but not The Year of the Flood or MaddAddam. Stephen King’s The Stand and The Running Man (written under the pseudonym of Richard Bachman) are in the corpus, but not works like Under the Dome or The Dark Tower. Similarly, because of their status as leading authors in the genre and the influence of their work, Philip K. Dick, Neal Stephenson, H.G. Wells, George ­Orwell, John Wyndham and Angela Carter each have two of their works included in the corpus. In many of these cases, the authors in question have produced works of both types, e.g. The Handmaid’s Tale is labelled dystopian, Oryx and Crake is apocalyptic, The Running Man is dystopian, The Stand is apocalyptic and so on. These problems of material selection are clearly challenging, but not insurmountable. To address them as pragmatically as possible within the scope of this article, I have used the following principles: (1) The works should be clearly considered to be important or relevant examples of apocalyptic or dystopian fiction by scholars and critics (cf. Maatta, 2014). (2) If the status of (1) is unclear, so-called ‘bestsellers’ were ­prioritised, though the concept of financially successful and critically successful may seem to stand in contrast to each other, the list is sufficiently long to include both even if they do not regularly correspond. (3) Regardless of the status of (1) or (2), if a text has had an impact outside of literature, say in adapted movies, TV, video games, etc., it would lend additional support for inclusion, e.g. The Running Man (Stephen King), The Maze ­Runner (James Dashner) and Make Room! Make Room!

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  185 (Harry Harrison), among others. Other criteria were straightforward and grounded more in practical concerns: (4) Only texts originally published in English were included, so a text like We by Yevgeny Zamyatin, though immensely well received and important, was not considered. (5) If there was any uncertainty about what should or should not be included, and if other variables were relevant, then I choose a female author over a male, a non-US writer over a US author and I opted for time periods that seemed underrepresented otherwise. Based on the selection criteria mentioned above, the material for this study is comprised of 92 texts (see Appendix, Table A.1), which as a corpus is referred to here as the ApocaDys Corpus. The two main subcorpora, for self-evident reasons, are referred to as the Apoca Subcorpus and the Dys Subcorpus. For a complete list of the texts included, see Appendix, Table A.1. The objective was originally to have 100 texts, proportionally split among the four most important variables (50 apocalyptic vs 50 dystopian and 50 pre-9/11 vs 50 post-9/11), but for practical reasons, this was not possible (e.g. several texts were not available in a suitable format; modern dystopia fiction has not been a genre for as long as apocalyptic fiction which made it difficult to balance the corpus completely across the relevant timespans, among other practical obstacles). Despite these shortcomings, the scope and variety texts that are included in the corpus were deemed to be sufficiently balanced in terms of the most important variables and the corpus is large enough for the purposes of the present study. Some of the texts were available for free Project Guttenberg website (Project Gutenberg, n.d.), and the rest were purchased in digital form and converted to the appropriate format (.txt) for use with the various corpus tools employed in this study (WordSmith, Scott, 1999; Wmatrix, Rayson, 2003; AntConc, Anthony, 2019). Each of the titles included were organised in an excel document, which allowed for the inclusion of many possible and relevant ‘tags’ (such as gender, nationality, etc.), Thereafter, each text file was given a name that would allow for easy identification and various groupings, e.g. Shelly’s The Last Man was labelled ‘A_1826_TheLastMan_Shelly’ since genre type – A – and date were of particular importance in this study, and the book title and author’s name are obviously useful when going through concordances. This labelling, along with the information in the excel sheet facilitates not only identification but also allows for easy reference to other variables that, for practical reasons, cannot be used in the text file name, mostly because the file names then become too long and unwieldy. Again, it should be kept in mind that although tags other than publication date and genre were to categorise the texts, comparisons involving these other possible points of comparison are not performed in this study as considering all possible variables would be well beyond the scope of this

186  Joe Trotta work, Additionally, it would give a fragmented impression – the goal here is to look at the works together to discover what a digital approach can reveal, my point in describing the labelling process in this much detail is that forward thinking and appropriate labelling of texts can create opportunities for much further analysis at a later stage. In the end, the corpus used for this study consisted of 45 apocalyptic texts and 47 dystopian ones (see Appendix, Table A.1 for a full list of the texts included). The entire corpus comprised nearly 12 million words, with roughly 5.75 million in the apocalypse texts and 6.25 in the dystopian (see the Appendix, Table A.1 for a complete list of the texts used).

Analysis and Results The number of words in the entire corpus amounted to 11,987,976, and Table 10.1 shows a breakdown of the texts in terms of their presumed genre status, whether they were written before or after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 and, in this one instance, information about the gender of the authors is offered for comparison: The corpus was not compiled to be an exhaustive account of all apocalyptic and dystopian fiction; therefore, any analysis of the breakdown here is necessarily speculative and tentative. However, even though this is not an exhaustive collection of texts from these subgenres, the way in which the texts were collected (i.e. simply including the most well-received and popular texts) can also be very telling and indicate an area that could be fruitful for further study; in other words, there is good reason to believe that a much larger scale study would find similar patterns and that is an interesting angle to pursue. With those caveats, the table shows that, contrary to what might seem commonsense, apocalyptic texts decreased after 9/11 and there is some suggestion that dystopian texts may have increased. This could be an indication of a pre-existing trend, but even so this is an interesting potential development that warrants further, more extensive study. Another interesting preliminary result here is that it appears that in relative terms, women seem to produce more dystopian texts than men and men apparently write more apocalyptic works than women. Whether this is due to some female authors using this subgenre to produce allegories of how many Table 10.1  Breakdown of ApocaDys corpus, pre- and post-9/11 and male vs female

Apocalyptic Dystopian Total

Pre-9/11

Post-9/11

Males

Females

26 19 45

19 28 47

36 26 62

 8 20 28

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  187 women experience life in a male-dominated world (i.e. society is already dystopian in this sense and these narratives seek to expose this with the possibilities offered in speculative fiction), or for some other underlying reasons, remains to be seen, but the way in which this distribution fell out in the present study as indicated in the table can at least serve as a sufficient reason to pursue the issue further. I now move on then to the more substantial and less tentative results found using the corpus-informed approach adopted in this study. In accordance with typical procedures in distance reading, no systematic close readings of the texts were effected, but rather if/when a possible point of interest was suggested by a corpus result (which could be, e.g. a keyword analysis, selected concordance or n-gram), specific stretches of texts were more closely examined and analysed; in some cases even further reading was required to better understand or contextualise the relevant linguistic feature. Using two concordancing tools AntConc (Anthony, 2019) and WordSmith (Scott, 1999), the corpus was first scrutinised in terms of a number of standard corpus procedures, e.g. (1) word listing and counting; (2) isolating and tracing repeated occurrences of words/phrases; (3) generating concordances of relevant words and (4) examining the context of a word/phrases, i.e. looking for information about collocations (see Römer, 2006, who presents some basic techniques for using corpus tools in examining literary texts). However, most of these corpus methods are better suited to s­ tudying much shorter and more manageable samples of language, for instance, a single text or a small number of short texts. In the context of the present work, generating concordances of relevant words is possible, but to scrutinise every example produced this way would be far too ­time-consuming for a pilot study like this since such words can result in thousands of lines of text. Additionally, presenting each of these results, which require individual attention and often a good deal of explanation, does not give a clear understanding of the possible ways apocalyptic/dystopian text are constructed semantically and in what ways these presumed separate genres are conceivably or demonstrably different as text-types. In other words, such a fine-grained approach is counterintuitive in an exploratory study such as this. In order to streamline the results and make them more palatable with the scope of this chapter, I have instead focussed exploring the usefulness of so-called ‘keywords’ (using AntConc and WordSmith) and thereafter, ‘semantic domains’ (using Wmatrix). Finally, for the sake of including some mention of text-types and how these two genres compare to each other in that regard, I also present a brief glimpse at a type-token ratio comparison of apocalyptic texts vs dystopian (using WordSmith). First, let us see what keyword lists can offer this study of apocalyptic/ dystopian fiction. Keywords are typically those words in a text which

188  Joe Trotta appear more frequently than one might expect would randomly occur in comparison to a reference corpus, which should, of course, be sufficiently broad and varied as to be useful in such a comparison. In this regard I did not follow the received advice from some well-regarded corpus linguists; this advice being that one should prioritise a reference corpus made up of texts that are as similar in nature as possible to the target corpus, other than the variables one wishes to investigate (see, e.g. Culpepper, 2009, p. 35). Other linguists (e.g. Scott, 2009) have pointed out that if a reference corpus is sufficiently large, you can still get reliable indications of the key words and semantic domains that aid in understanding the ‘aboutness’ of a text. From the perspective that it is not completely obvious what kinds of similar texts would be suitable (Romance fiction? Westerns? Dramas?) and given the concern that using a reference corpus of other ‘similar’ texts might not be as useful in getting at what characterises apocalyptic/ dystopian fiction, I opted for a more generic and broad reference corpus. Therefore, in generating the keywords for the ApocaDys corpus, I first used the so-called Brown Family of corpora as the reference corpus (also referred to henceforward as BFC); The Brown Family includes four, one-million word corpora of a variety of text-types and genres over a 40-year period (for details of the individual reference corpora, see the ICAME corpus manuals, n.d.). Based on the logic and attention to balance used in compiling the BFC, and its relatively large size, it is reasonable to assume that the BFC makes for a suitable reference corpus. If we want to investigate what keywords, Semantic Domains, etc., are represented in contrast to texts of varied types across an acceptable time range, it makes for a good starting point for discussion upon which further research can be based. Consider now Table 10.2 which lists, with each genre separate, the keywords in both the apocalyptic and dystopian texts when compared to the BFC: Table 10.2  Keywords in the apocalyptic and dystopian texts, BFC as reference corpus Rank

Apoca SubCorp

Dys SubCorp

 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9 10

Back Eyes Got Looked Head Face Dead Boy Saw Hands

Like Know Back Says Eyes Face Think Head Look Voice

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  189 Since this chapter is concerned with meaning and semantics and not grammatical features, I have ignored the grammatical or function words along with proper names here and only listed the first ten lexical words for each category. It is clear from this table that using a keyword list for this type of study has its limits. The aim of the present work is to see what patterns can emerge using corpus methods; in this case a keyword comparison of two subcorpora, both of which include many texts, by different authors over different periods. Without a careful look through the concordance listings, it is even hard to know if some of the words are simply similar word forms (with unrelated, or related but different meanings) rather than being one and the same word with the same meaning. For example, back could be a part of the anatomy (I’ll give you the shirt on my back) or it could be an adverb indicating direction (She went back to where she started) or it may be a verb meaning roughly ‘give support’ as in (He won’t back our plan). Also, the two lists have a number of words in common, like eyes, head and face, but how should that be interpreted? Many linguists, myself included, know the value of using keywords in analysing texts, but here the tool does not really fit the job at hand. A deep dive into the keyword lists for the present corpus material would surely yield valuable and worthwhile results, but again these corpus methods are probably better suited to more delimited research on smaller corpora. Since the ApocaDys corpus can be examined on the level of separate works or smaller groupings of works, this can surely be done at some later date, but for now, I leave this corpus method and move on to Key semantic domains instead.

Semantic Domains As has been discussed above, the usefulness of keywords in the best-case scenario is that they can reveal distinctive features of apocalyptic and dystopian fiction; the relevant issue here is if these keywords can show that there is a discernible difference in the ‘aboutness’ of the texts. As was observed above, keyword lists do not seem to be the most suitable analytical tool for this study. In addition, even when this method yields clearer results, the lists only deal with individual words and thus can miss larger connections and associations with similar words, potentially giving prominence to concepts that are not quite as accurate or relevant as they may seem. However, there is a corpus tool, Wmatrix, that can tag words based on their semantic domain and group them together (see Rayson, 2003, 2007, 2008). Those groupings can then be compared to a reference corpus (in our case, the BFC once again), and thus show which semantic domains are overrepresented in the chosen target corpus. With the help of this tool, the remainder of this section shows the results of the comparisons of the apocalyptic texts with the reference corpus, and

190  Joe Trotta similarly with dystopian texts, thereafter apocalyptic texts are compared directly with dystopian. Following those comparisons, similar discussions are presented regarding the pre-9/11 and the post 9/11 texts. Table 10.3 presents the first 20 key semantic domains in the apocalyptic texts side by side with the dystopian texts along with the log-likelihood score (or LL) given by Wmatrix (for a technical definition of log-likelihood, see Baron et al., 2009, but for our purposes, a simplified understanding will suffice: the higher the LL, the more likely it is that, given the data used for the target corpus and the reference corpus, the overrepresentation is not simply random or accidental). The LL cut-off point was set to 6.63 (this is the setting suggested by Wmatrix), since any score above that should be considered reliable – even if there is any uncertainty about the correct value for significance, the extremely high LL scores shown the tables leave no doubt that these categories are clearly overrepresented. Table 10.3  Comparison of key semantic domains in apocalyptic vs dystopian texts Rank Key domains – apocalyptic

LL score

 1  2

99726.50 27080.09

 3  4  5  6  7  8  9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Pronouns Anatomy and physiology Moving, coming and going Location and direction Putting, pulling, pushing, transporting Sensory: Sight Objects generally

Key domains – dystopian

Pronouns Anatomy and physiology 19537.04 Moving, coming and going 9095.32 Discourse Bin 8540.46 Sensory: Sight 7804.55 7308.88

Speech: Communicative Putting, pulling, pushing, transporting Discourse Bin 7157.34 Parts of buildings Geographical terms 6247.15 Sensory: Sound Grammatical bin 5725.95 Negative Sensory: Sound 5700.25 Location and direction Parts of buildings 4959.55 Objects generally Living creatures: 4590.34 Colour and colour animals, birds, etc. patterns Colour and colour 4464.21 Clothes and personal patterns belongings Negative 4118.81 Happy Speech: Communicative 3628.75 Disease Dead 3425.70 Knowledgeable Weather 2975.88 Thought, belief Disease 2957.05 Exclusivizers/ particularizers Temperature: Hot / on 2947.31 Stationary fire

LL score 133320.56 35544.36 14079.03 10496.54 8745.14 8046.96 7714.81 6441.38 6082.36 5718.40 5554.82 4612.75 4488.61 3743.08 3525.39 3159.79 2612.41 2604.69 2222.12 2175.24

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  191 For the sake of expedience, I provide no discussion here about the non-lexical categories that were overrepresented in the apocalypse/­ dystopian texts (listed in Table 10.3 as ‘pronouns,’ ‘grammatical bin,’ ‘discourse bin’ and ‘exclusivizers/particularizers’). This is not to say that these categories are not important or interesting since they can reveal a great deal about the style of a given text or author, but rather that they are not relevant to the present study, in which the emphasis is on key concepts rather than stylistic categories. Most of these labels are ­self-explanatory (see Rayson, 2008 for a thorough description of each category) and give a clear indication of what one might expect to find under these headings. For example, the category of anatomy and physiology3 (rank 2 for both apocalyptic and dystopian texts) includes words like eyes, face, hands, etc.; similarly, moving, coming and ­going (rank 3 in the table) includes words like go, leave, run, walk, etc. A few of the labels are not so transparent, e.g. negative which simply means words/multi-word units that have a negative or restrictive meaning; this includes obvious items like no, not, nor but also items like nothing, not_really, anything_but, and so on. Naturally, the parser (called ‘Semtag’ for the Wmatrix program) used for these categorisations can mislabel words; e.g. how can such a parser differentiate between instances of words like went in sentences like he went home and he went crazy. A detailed description of how the Semtag parser works is not possible here (see Rayson, 2008 for a full discussion), but it suffices to say that the parser applies a sophisticated combination of lexical and part-of-speech information to assign any particular word or multi-word unit to a semantic domain. For example, in he went home, the parser would recognise home as a noun phrase and therefore it is likely a location in this construction, thus went is categorised as an indicator of direction. In he went crazy, the parser would work from the starting point that crazy is an adjective, therefore went is most likely a copular verb and not a verb indicating direction. Though no such automatic parsing program can be expected to be perfect and some errors will occur, the sheer number of texts used in the present study should compensate for this (Rayson, 2008). Continuing with a discussion of Table 10.3, what stands out immediately is how similar these two subgenres are in regard to which domains are represented, though ordered somewhat differently, they share 14 of the top 20 key semantic domains. Several of these semantic categories are predictable because of the nature of the main themes in these books; one might easily guess that domains like disease and negative would occur for both genres; similarly, it requires little imagination or scholarly rigor to explain how dead, weather and temperature: Hot/on fire would be overrepresented in apocalyptic fiction. Likewise, the presence of domains like Movement, coming and going and Location and direction are intuitive; in a world that is falling apart (apocalyptic

192  Joe Trotta fiction) or in a world in which characters are often fleeing or escaping misery (dystopian fiction), it makes sense that there should be a focus on a lexicon of movement and location.4 But how can the domain of happy be overrepresented in a genre that is typically associated with misery, hardship and despair? The first 20 words listed in this category for the dystopia texts are smile, smiled, happy, laughed, laugh, smiling, smiles, laughing, funny, relief, fun, laughs, laughter, joke, grin, happiness, joy, grins, grinning, chuckled, grinned, amused and jokes. A quick look at examples of smile, happy and laugh show that, although they are often used in their typical positive sense (it is not contradictory for there to be moments of happiness and joy in these texts), there are many cases in which these words are used ironically or to indicate an insulting, condescending or demeaning manner, as in examples 1–3: 1 … and hates the AAs and how they all seem like limp smug moronic self-satisfied shit-eating pricks with their lobotomized smiles and goopy sentiment and how he wishes them all violent technicolor harm in the worst way. From Infinite Jest (Wallace, 1996) 2 … workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. From Nineteen-Eighty-Four (Orwell, 1949) Thomas barked a sarcastic laugh at the idea, but Newt wasn’t s­ miling. From The Maze Runner (Dashner, 2009) In addition, it is a fairly common practice in English fiction to use verbs like smile and laugh as reporting verbs (as in four and six) or in connection with typical reporting verbs (as in five): 3 “There-you see?” Lillian smiled at Philip. “To enjoy life and people is not so simple as pouring a ton of steel.” From Atlas Shrugged (Rand, 1957) 4 “Jonas,” she said with a smile, “the feeling you described as the wanting? It was your first Stirrings.” From The Giver (Lowry, 1993) 5 “What a marvellous switchback!” Lenina laughed delightedly. From Brave New World (Huxley, 1931) The rest of the domains in Table 10.3 undoubtedly trigger a scholarly curiosity in better understanding what exactly these domains mean in the context of the primary material; this curiosity will remain unsatisfied for the meantime since the objective of this study is to illustrate such situations rather than scrutinise them closely.

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  193 However, in closing this section, I wish to comment on one domain, Anatomy and Physiology, that appears to be of high importance in both the apocalyptic and the dystopian fiction genres. It seems fair enough to assume, as a starting hypothesis, that in narratives in which infections, war, destruction, pandemics, torture, forced physical competition, survival, etc. feature prominently, descriptions of the human body would be frequent. Equally, in stories about being human in the context of decay, misery and inhuman conditions, human bodies may symbolise, at one and the same time, the fragility and resilience of the species and the so-called human spark. A quick look at the words included in this domain (the top ten in order being eyes, head, face, hand, hands, feet, back, body, hair, arms), it is hard to ignore the fact that eye (and its inflected and related forms) is a hugely overrepresented word for both categories. This definitely requires further study, but it may not be so odd given that eyes are probably the most ­i mportant ­symbolic sensory organ. They are marvellous vehicles of expression that can be used to convey many qualities, such as intelligence, ­sensuality, ­vigilance, morality, wisdom, indifference, simplicity and omniscience, among many others, and are often considered to be a ‘gateway into the soul.’ 6 In the midst of them all stands Anden, his face a mask of fury, his jaw tense, and his eyes a deep, brooding storm. From Legend (Lu, 2011) 7 Those eyes on her, brutal and profound and even paternal. And when he says it, he says it like signing a grave contract… From The Reapers Are the Angels (Bell, 2010) 8 She studied her wide gray eyes that were so very gray, that were always alive with light and vivacities … From The Scarlet Plague (London, 1912) Eyes are also excellent means in a narrative to convey a human perspective, i.e. as a narrative technique, they can communicate not only what is transpiring, but also the fact that an event is also being internalised by a human character, contextualising the event and anchoring it in the human experience. 9 The dark-adapted eye can see the quantum universe at work. The rods and cones of the fovea are sensitive enough to register the impact of a single photon. From Necroville (McDonald, 1994) 10 Skirting the hot, steady glow of the sun, Alex’s eyes took in the dusty scatter of the galactic wheel. From Earth (Brin, 1991) 11 My sleepy eyes take inventory of the space I’m in, but there’s not much to consider. I’m lying in bed. There are 4 walls. 1 door. A small table beside me. From Shatter Me (Mafi, 2011)

194  Joe Trotta While speculations like these naturally require further examination in order to refute, confirm, deny or perhaps expand and develop them, this basic starting point seems to be a good one in recognising how an emphasis on the physicality of humans may also explain other domains in Table 10.3, such as Sensory: sight and Sensory: sound. There is clearly more to explore in the data provided in Table 10.3, but at this point I leave this side-by-side comparison and turn my attention the semantic domains that occur in only one of the genres and not the other, i.e. Tables 10.4 and 10.5 are the results of comparing one subcorpus (say, apocalyptic or ‘A’), with the other (which, naturally in this case is dystopian, or ‘D’). These tables do not, and should not. Overlap – a semantic domain cannot be overrepresented in both subcorpus A and D if the reference corpus for one (A) is the other (D) and vice versa. Consider the first of these two tables (Table 10.4), which uses apocalyptic texts as the target corpus and dystopian texts as the reference. This quick window into the key domains of apocalyptic texts opens many potential avenues of investigation. The majority seem reasonable given the global nature of the main theme – Geographical terms, Geographical names, Places, Weather, The universe, and so on. Also, the prevalence of domains like Living creatures: animals, birds, etc, along with Farming & Horticulture and Plants seems justifiable in the contexts of a world that is crumbling and in which other Table 10.4  Key semantic domains in apocalyptic fiction compared to dystopian fiction Rank

Key domains

LL score

 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Geographical terms Grammatical bin Warfare, defence and the army; weapons Living creatures: animals, birds, etc. Sailing, swimming, etc. Geographical names Religion and the supernatural Weather Vehicles and transport on land Places People: Male Dead The universe Farming and Horticulture Location and direction Substances and materials: Liquid Moving, coming and going Plants Measurement: Distance Objects generally

5074.14 2185.35 2016.10 1784.58 1775.20 1588.71 1261.86 941.25 899.86 833.44 832.14 830.09 751.93 482.92 414.22 403.24 399.23 387.49 385.51 295.31

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  195 animals and plants are suffering the same fate, or, as can be expected in these narratives, are essential features for the survival of humans. The emphasis on destruction is also clear in categories like Dead and Warfare, defence and the army; weapons, which are routine elements in end-of-the-world stories that commonly include catastrophic dangers to the planet and efforts to protect it from both human and non-human threats, in particular the ever-present zombie. Turning now to looking at the domains in dystopian fiction in comparison to apocalyptic fiction, Table 10.5 is provided. Here again, many domains appear to be consistent with received ideas about the nature of dystopian fiction. Politics, Thought, belief, Education in general, are all par-for-the-course in narratives where ideologies, persuasion and indoctrination are natural and fundamental topics. In connection with this, the domain of Language, speech and grammar makes sense since rhetoric is an obvious means to influence the way people perceive of and internalise their reality. Given that modern dystopias often include the omnipresent and ever-increasing dangers of the misuse of technology in the form of surveillance, hacking, artificial intelligence or post-biological evolution, it is no surprise that Information technology and computing ranks high in the table. Several of the domains here will necessarily remain uncommented upon for the present, but it is interesting to note that grammatical Table 10.5  Key semantic domains in dystopian fiction compared with apocalyptic Rank

Key domains

LL score

 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Pronouns Speech: Communicative Anatomy and physiology Wanted Unmatched Happy Kin Discourse Bin Mathematics Politics Medicines and medical treatment Thought, belief Knowledgeable Speech acts Education in general Information technology and computing Belonging to a group Language, speech and grammar Evaluation: Good/bad Clothes and personal belongings

3962.05 1160.71 976.12 804.32 670.20 573.73 564.42 490.53 405.35 324.30 309.24 308.13 292.82 282.36 1264.13 250.94 246.83 246.73 239.53 227.85

196  Joe Trotta categories like Pronouns, Speech: Communicative and Discourse bin are key domains in comparison with the apocalyptic texts, raising the question of whether there is some basis for postulating that apocalyptic fiction and dystopian fiction are not merely two genres, but also, to some degree, two text-types that have a huge area of overlap. As a final, brief venture into how the corpus could be used to study other research questions related to semantic domains, I turn my attention to the hypothesis that a dramatic and major world event of massive impact could influence the two genres in terms of possible differences in semantic domains. Consider now Table 10.6 that provides a side-by-side overview of the top 20 semantic domains in pre-9/11 and post-9/11 in comparison to a reference corpus (again, the BFC). Table 10.6  Comparison of Key semantic domains in Pre-9/11 texts vs Post-9/11 texts Rank Pre 9/11 texts

LL score

Post 9/11 texts

 1  2

92279.14 21771.13

7267.39 6675.42

Pronouns 143797.12 Anatomy and 42598.61 physiology Moving, coming and 19130.99 going Discourse Bin 9960.75 Putting, pulling, 9942.75 pushing, transporting Sensory: Sight 9276.79 Location and direction 8378.12

6453.74 6235.95 4896.34 4725.78 4634.30

Parts of buildings Sensory: Sound Speech: Communicative Objects generally Negative

7817.16 7279.18 6728.04 5670.88 4810.68

4570.79

4369.06

2548.99 2365.92

Colour and colour patterns Disease Clothes and personal belongings Living creatures: animals, birds, etc. Happy Dead

2797.18 2464.77

2312.18

Stationary

2413.70

 3  4  5  6  7  8  9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Pronouns Anatomy and physiology Moving, coming and going Discourse Bin Sensory: Sight Grammatical bin Putting, pulling, pushing, transporting Location and direction Objects generally Negative Sensory: Sound Speech: Communicative Colour and colour patterns Parts of buildings Geographical terms Clothes and personal belongings Disease Substances and materials: Solid Temperature: Hot / on fire Weather

14967.86 7647.15 7382.23

3942.10 3716.21 2706.12

2287.23 Knowledgeable

LL score

3666.71 3351.49 3171.36

2384.66

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  197 Table 10.7  Type-token ratio (TTR) comparisons between apocalyptic and dystopian texts

Apocalypse Dystopia

Tokens

Types

TTR

Standardised TTR

TTR std. dev.

5,733,806 6,254,170

74,425 73,812

1.30 1.18

44.27 43.85

55.46 56.19

Though one might expect a noticeable shift in the main semantic domains between these two periods, what stands out in the table is how similar they still are in comparison to the reference corpus. Fifteen of the 20 domains occur in both categories, though ordered differently. Some of the differences may be due to trivial circumstances, e.g. the overrepresentation of Happy in the post-9/11 texts may be due to the fact that Happy is a more common feature of Dystopian texts and there are simply more texts of that type in the post-9/11 grouping. On the whole, however, the hypothesis that these texts may have shifted in terms of their ‘aboutness’ does not seem to hold. However, the idea should not be abandoned until other comparisons between the two periods are examined more thoroughly. As a way of rounding off this corpus-informed examination of the texts, this time with an emphasis on something other than semantics, I present Table 10.7, which shows a type-token comparison of apocalyptic and dystopian texts. As might be expected, the results here indicate that the two categories of texts are far more similar stylistically than they are different. The type-token ratios (TTRs) (both the standardised and non-standardised) are not identical, which would be unusual in any circumstance, but they are so close that the difference is not statistically significant. It should be kept in mind, however, that some of the results in Tables 10.4 and 10.5 provide some contradictory evidence; if the TTRs are for all intents and purposes the same, but the use of grammatical and function words is dissimilar, there may be some reason, however small, to claim that there are text-type differences in these two genres. Once again, this methodology provides justification to pursue the issue further.

Conclusion My aim in this article has been to explore how a corpus-informed study can be useful in investigating selected fictional worlds, in this case apocalyptic and dystopian narratives. With the help of key semantic domains, I have briefly looked at what these presumed subgenres have in common and in what ways they may differ. I have also examined whether this method can be used to shed light on a specific question, in this cause how these stories could be influenced by a major world event such as

198  Joe Trotta the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the USA. This specific question was a testrun of sorts, the idea being that with the appropriate corpus compilation techniques and with suitable balancing and annotation, many other questions can be examined. From the data that have been generated in this chapter, the preliminary results are promising, and the methods appear to be viable and useful. To the best of my ability, I have avoided drawing decisive conclusions but rather have focussed on the potential of this methodology to provide insights into these genres and, in the best of circumstances, how this analytical perspective can reveal trends that might not be observed otherwise. I emphasise that this approach is not intended to be a standalone technique for analysing texts, but rather must be used in connection with other methods to offer a clear, holistic and reasonably sound comprehension of the literature studied. It can provide empirical and quantitative support for pre-existing theories about the investigated material, but it can also provide new insights and inspiration for studies that might otherwise be ignored. This chapter is therefore, as stated in the introduction, speculative in nature, and like speculative fiction itself, it may serve to inspire critical thought about how we can investigate our fascination with apocalyptic/dystopian fiction and the ways in which these texts explore human potential and reflect our human experience.

Appendix Table A.1  List of the texts that comprise the ApocaDys corpus Apocalyptic texts (45)

Dystopian texts (47)

The Last Man, Shelly, M., 1826, A. After London, Jefferies, R., 1885, A. The Time Machine, Wells, H. G., 1895, A. The War of the Worlds, Wells, H. G., 1898, A. The Purple Cloud, Shiel, M. P., 1901, A. The Scarlet Plague, London, J., 1912, A, The Second Deluge, Serviss, G. P., 1912, A. When Worlds Collide, Balmer, E., 1933, A. Earth Abides, Stewart, G. A., 1949, A. The Day of the Triffids, Wyndham, J., 1951, A. I am legend, Matheson, R., 1954, A. On the Beach, Shute, N., 1957, A. Alas, Babylon, Frank, P., 1959, A. A Canticle for Leibowitz, Miller, W. M., 1959, A. The Drowned World, Ballard, J.G., 1962, A. Lord of Light, Zelazny, R., 1967, A. The Lathe of Heaven, Le Guin, U., 1971, A. Z fir Zachariah, O’Brien, R. C., 1974, A. Lucifer’s Hammer, Niven, L.; Pournelle, J., 1977, A.

Nineteen Eighty-Four, Orwell, G., 1949, D. Brave New World, Huxley, A., 1931, D. Fahrenheit 451, Bradbury, R., 1953, D. The Chrysalids, Wyndham, J., 1955, D. Atlas Shrugged, Rand, A., 1957, D. A Wrinkle in Time, L’Engle, M., 1962, D. Make Room! Make Room!, Harrison, H., 1966, D. This Perfect Day, Levin, I., 1970, D. The Infernal Desire Machines, Carter, A., 1972, D. The Shockwave Rider, Brunner, J., 1975, D. A Scanner Darkly, Dick, P. K., 1977, D. The Running Man, King, S., 1982, D. Neuromancer, Gibson, W., 1984, D. The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood, M., 1985, D. Snow Crash, Stephenson, N., 1992, D. Parable of the Sower, Butler, O., 1993, D. The Giver, Lowry, L., 1993, D. Infinite Jest, Wallace, D. F., 1996, D.

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  199 The Stand, King, S., 1978, A. This is the Way the World Ends, Morrow, J., 1986, A. Swan Song, McCammon, R., 1987, A. Earth, Brin. D., 1991, A. The Children of Men, James. P.D., 1992, A. Necroville, McDonald, I., 1994, A. The City of Ember, DuPrau, J., 2003, A. Cloud Atlas, Mitchell, D., 2004, A. Armageddon’s Children, Brooks, T., 2006, A. The Road, McCarthy, C., 2006, A. Windwracked Stars, Bear, E., 2008, A. Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse, Adams, J. (ed.), 2008, A. Day by Day Armageddon, Bourne, J.L., 2009, A. One Second After, Forstchen, W. R., 2009, A. Reapers are the Angels, Bell, A., 2010, A. The Host, Meyer, S., 2010, A. Angelfall, Ee, S., 2011, A. Zone One, Whitehead, C., 2011, A The Dog Stars, Heller, P., 2012, A. The Wastland Saga, Cole, N., 2013, A. The 5th Wave, Yancy, R., 2013, A. The Girl with all the Gifts, Carey, M. R., 2014, A. The Gospel of Z, Jones, S. G., 2014, A. The Sixth Extinction, Kolbert, E., 2014, A. Bird Box, Malerman, J., 2014, A. 45. American War, El Akkad, O., 2017, A.

Cryptonomicon, Stephenson, N., 1999, D. Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro, K., 2005, D. Uglies, Westerfeld, J., 2005, D. Glasshouse, Stross, C., 2006, D. Unwind, Shusterman, N., 2007, D. The Hunger Games, Collins, S., 2008, D. Little Brother, Doctorow, C., 2008, D. Gone, Grant, M., 2008, D. World Made by Hand, Kunstler, J. H., 2008, D. The Wind Up Girl, Bacigalupi, P., 2009, D. The Maze Runner, Dashner, J., 2009, D. Matched, Condie, A., 2010, D. Super Sad True Love Story, Shteyngart, G., 2010, D. Wool, Howey, H., 2011, D. Legend, Lu, M., 2011, D. Delirum, Oliver, L., 2011, D. Divergent, Roth, V., 2011, D. Shatter Me, Tahereh, M., 2011, D. Selection, Cass, K., 2012, D. Under the Never Sky, Rossi, V., 2012, D. The Circle, Eggers, D., 2013, D. Red Rising, Brown, P., 2014, D. Station Eleven, St. John Mandel, E., 2014, D. Nod, Barnes, A., 2015, D. An Ember in the Ashes, Tahir, S., 2015, D. Future Home of the Living God, Erdrich, L., 2017, D. Gather the Daughters, Melamed, J., 2017, D. The Belles, Clayton, D., 2018, D. 47. Red Clocks, Zumas, L., 2018, D.

Notes 1 By ‘corpus-informed’ I simply mean that corpus linguistic tools are used to investigate the material in whatever way that might prove helpful. The terms ‘­corpus-based’ and ‘corpus-driven’ are often used in the literature, though neither seems completely suitable or accurate for the present work. Both ­corpus-based and corpus-driven approaches typically deal with linguistic theories; a ­corpus-based approach tends to be deductive, testing existing linguistic theories, using the available corpus to prove or disprove the theory in question. A corpus-driven approach begins with the corpus material – it is inductive, thus theories about the language are produced from the empirical evidence. The present study is not concerned with linguistic theories, but rather explores how corpus linguistic tools can aid in the analysis of, e.g. literature or culture in general. 2 Throughout this article, I shall treat apocalyptic fiction as a single genre though I am well aware that one can further divide this category into, e.g. ­pre-apocalyptic (a world on the edge of an apocalyptic event), apocalyptic (the narrative takes place mostly during the [potentially] world ending catastrophe), and p ­ ost-apocalyptic (typically survival stories which transpire in the wreckage of a irreparably damaged world). Similarly, in this piece, I ignore specific labels for various dystopian narratives, such as anti-utopian and literary eutopian (see also Baccolini & ­Moylan, 2013, on the definitions of these notions).

200  Joe Trotta 3 In accordance with common practice, the names of semantic domains are presented in small caps. 4 It is also worth noting that several of the books in the dystopian category have a heavy emphasis on movement, such as The Maze Runner, The Hunger Games and The Running Man, among others.

References Agarwal, A. A., Corvalan, J.J. & Rambow, O. (2012), “Social Network Analysis of Alice in Wonderland,” in Workshop on Computational Linguistics for Literature, Montreal, pp. 88–96. Allison, S., Heuser, R., Jockers, M., Moretti, F. & Witmore, M. (2011), Quantitative Formalism: An Experiment, Palo Alto, CA: Stanford Literary Lab. Anthony, L. (2019), AntConc (Version 3.5.8) [Computer Software]. Tokyo, Japan: Waseda University. Available from www.laurenceanthony.net/software. Accessed 29 May, 2019. Archer, D., Culpeper, J. & Rayson, P. (2005), “Love – A Familiar or A Devil? An Exploration of Key Domains in Shakespeare’s Comedies and Tragedies.” AHRC ICT Methods Network Expert Seminar on Linguistics, Lancaster University, Lancaster. Balossi, G. (2014), A Corpus Linguistic Approach to Literary Language and Characterization: Virginia Woolf’s The Waves. Amsterdam and Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Baccolini, R. & Moylan, T. (2013), “Introduction: Dystopian and Histories,” in R. Baccolini & T. Moylan (eds.), Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, London: Routledge, pp. 1–12. Barnbrook, G. (1996), Language and Computers: A Practical Introduction to the Computer Analysis of Language, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Baron, A., Rayson, P. & Archer, D. (2009), “Word Frequency and Key Word Statistics in Corpuslinguistics.” Anglistik: International Journal of English Studies 20(1), pp. 41–67. Biber, D. (2011), “Corpus Linguistics and the Study of Literature. Back to the Future?” Scientific Study of Literature 1(1), pp. 15–23. Biber, D., Conrad, S. & Reppen, R. (1998), Corpus Linguistics: Investigating Language Structure and Use, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burrows, J. (1992), “Computers and the Study of Literature,” in C.S. Butler (ed.), Computers and Written Texts, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 167–204. Culpeper, J. (2002), “Computers, Language and Characterisation: An Analysis of Six Characters in Romeo and Juliet,” in U. Melander-Marttala, C. Ostman & Merja Kytö (eds.), Conversation in Life and Literature: Papers from the ASLA Symposium, Volume 15, Uppsala: Association Suedoise de Linguistique Appliquee, pp. 11–30. Culpeper, J. (2009), “Keyness: Words, Parts-of-Speech and Semantic Categories in the Character-Talk of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.” International Journal of Corpus Linguistics 14(1), pp. 29–59. Elson, D.K., Dames, N., & McKeown, K.R. (2010), “Extracting Social Networks from Literary Fiction,” in 48th Annual Meeting of the Association for Computer Linguistics, Uppsala, Sweden, pp. 138–147. Hoey, M. (2007), “Lexical Priming and Literary Creativity,” in M. Hoey, M. Mahlberg, M. Stubbs & W. Teubert (eds.), Text, Discourse and Corpora: Theory and Analysis, London: Continuum, pp. 31–56.

Corpus-informed Study of Apocalyptic Texts  201 Hoover, D.L. (2008), “Quantitative Analysis and Literary Studies,” in R. ­Siemens & S. Schreibman (eds.), A Companion to Digital Literary Studies, Oxford: ­Blackwell, pp. 517–533. Maatta, J. (2014), “Apocalypse Now and Again: Mapping the Bestselling Classics of the End of the World,” in J. Helgason, S. Kärrholm & A. Steiner (eds.), Hype: Bestsellers and literary Culture. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, pp. 147–184. Mahlberg, M. (2007), “Corpus Stylistics: Bridging the Gap between Linguistic and Literary Studies,” in M. Hoey, M. Mahlberg, M. Stubbs & W. Teubert (eds.), Text, Discourse and Corpora: Theory and Analysis, London: Continuum, pp. 217–246. Mahlberg, M. (2013), Corpus Stylistics and Dicken’s Fiction, Routledge Advances in Corpus Linguistics, London: Routledge. McEnery, T. & Wilson, A. (2001), Corpus Linguistics, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Moretti, F. (2007), Graphs, Maps, Trees. Abstract Models for Literary History, London: Verso. Moretti, F. (2011), Network Theory, Plot Analysis, Palo Alto, CA: Stanford Literary Lab. Rayson, P. (2003), Matrix: A Statistical Method and Software Tool for Linguistic Analysis through Corpus Comparison. Ph.D. thesis, Lancaster University. www.comp.lancs.ac.uk/computing/users/paul/phd/phd2003.pdf. Accessed 29 May, 2019. Rayson, P. (2007), Wmatrix: A Web-Based Corpus Processing Environment, Computing Department, Lancaster University. www.comp.lancs.ac.uk/ucrel/ wmatrix/ Rayson, P. (2008), “From Key Words to Key Semantic Domains.” International Journal of Corpus Linguistics 13(4), pp. 519–549. Römer, U. (2006), “Where the computer meets language, literature, and pedagogy: Corpus analysis in English Studies.” In A. Gerbig & A. Müller-Wood (eds.), How Globalization Affects the Teaching of English: Studying Culture Through Texts, Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, pp. 81–109. Scott, M. (1999), WordSmith Tools (Version 3.0). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scott, M. (2009), “In Search of a Bad Reference Corpus,” in D. Archer (ed.), What’s in A Word-list? Investigating Word Frequency and Keyword Extraction, Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 79–92. Sobhan Raj Hota, S.A. & Moshe Koppel, I.Z. (2006), “Performing Gender: Automatic Stylistic Analysis of Shakespeare’s Characters.” Paper presented at the Digital Humanities Conference, Paris. Stubbs, M. (2005), “Conrad in the Computer: Examples of Quantitative Stylistic Methods.” Language and Literature 14(1), pp. 5–24. Trotta, J. (2014), “Creativity, Playfulness and ‘Linguistic Carnivalization,’” in Å. Arping & M. Jansson (eds.), En dag i Dublin: om James Joyces Ulysses, Göteborg: Litteratur, idéhistoria och religion, Göteborgs universitet, pp. 159–188. Zyngier, S. (1999), ‘“Smudges on the Canvas?’ A Corpus Stylistics Approach to Macbeth.” Paper presented at the PALA XIX Conference, Poetics, Linguistics and History: Discourses of War and Conflict, Potchefstroom University, South Africa.

11 Original Sin as Salvation The Apocalyptic Boon in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials Houman Sadri

Introduction It is perhaps a sign of the times in which we live that narratives of imagined apocalypses and post-apocalyptic societies are currently in such vogue. It is worth remembering, though, that the idea of apocalypse need not be negative by definition, and that a post-apocalyptic landscape is not necessarily a dystopian one. This paper represents an investigation into the apocalyptic denouement of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy (2015), and the idea of Lyra, arguably the novels’ main protagonist, as the new Eve in terms of the ‘Ultimate Boon,’ the eleventh stage of Joseph Campbell’s (1993) Hero’s Journey (pp. 172–192). At the same time, the paper also appraises the concept of apocalypse itself as this boon writ large, with the transfigurative paradigm shift being pinpointed as something far older in nature than it may initially appear. It does this via a close reading of key sequences of Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, with special emphasis on the final volume, The Amber Spyglass (2015), as well as analysis of the relevant sections of The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1993). Attention is also paid to Eve as an archetype, with specific reference both to her Biblical iteration, and to the version presented by Milton in Paradise Lost (2005), in order to compare and contrast these disparate, yet similar, incarnations. The Hero’s Journey, or Monomyth, as defined by Joseph Campbell (1993) in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, represents a quest for enlightenment, with the hero in question crossing the threshold from the safety of home into a wider, more threatening world, in which he or she will face danger and temptation and be obliged to overcome great hardships before being reborn into a form enlightened enough to bring home a boon for the community. It is, as Donald Palumbo phrases it, about “getting past what you are in order to become what you are becoming” (Palumbo, 2014, p. 2). Based as it is within the tropes and traditions of mythology and scripture, this pattern has the potential to speak to and concern everyone, despite the fact that archetype-based criticism has, to some extent, become outmoded. One reason for the continued resonance of the Monomyth is plain: as structural anthropologists such as Claude

Original Sin as Salvation  203 Lévi-Strauss (1963) have noted, our shared cultural base of archetypal stories and figures can be seen as functioning in a similar way to Saussure’s linguistic theories, in as much as the synchronicity of structure acts as ‘langue’ – and therefore a shared cultural foundation – to each individual myth’s ‘parole’ (p. 209). In other words, archetypal patterns and story tropes both underpin and are underpinned by those parts of culture and society that humankind hold in common, and as such it is apt to investigate a text that is so steeped in scripture and Christian lore along Campbellian lines. At the end of The Amber Spyglass, the third volume of Pullman’s trilogy, the young protagonists, Lyra and Will, are able to save multiple alternate realities with an apocalyptic boon for mankind that explicitly serves as both a reappraisal and a re-contextualisation of Original Sin. Within this context, the characters’ sexual awakenings trigger self-knowledge and intellectual curiosity, with the concomitant loss of childhood, or prelapsarian innocence, framed as an entirely positive, transcendent change. The love and sexual desire the two characters feel for each other lead to Dust, a substance that within the texts represents pure divinity, clustering around them. Nascent sexuality, equated in Christian dogma with Original Sin and the Fall of Man, represents in this instance the acquisition of knowledge and even godliness. Pullman has been clear that he classifies Original Sin as a positive, going so far as to point to it as “the thing that makes us human” (Rosin, 2007), with temptation and fall as ideas that should be celebrated, as opposed to feared or vilified. Indeed, in his introduction to Milton’s Paradise Lost, a text upon which His Dark Materials is in part based, Pullman (2005) remarks: Suppose the fall should be celebrated and not deplored? As I played with it, my story resolved itself into an account of the necessity of growing up, and a refusal to lament the loss of innocence. The true end of human life… [was] the gaining and transmission of wisdom. Innocence is not wise, and wisdom cannot be innocent. (p. 10) It is my argument that, within the context of the novels, Original Sin and the Fall of Man are equivalent not only to apocalypse, in the true, biblical sense of the word, but also to the achievement of the Boon within Joseph Campbell’s monomyth.

Hero’s Journey and Fall of Man Within the context of the Hero’s Journey, enlightenment is earned by an individual, and as such represents his or her personal betterment, but ultimately also that of society, humankind, or even just those within the

204  Houman Sadri hero’s personal circle. As such, it stands for a change in both individual status and the wider status quo; a change which Campbell (1993), by juxtaposing it with the myth of the Buddha’s victory beneath the Bodhi Tree, posits as being akin to the creation of a new existential paradigm (pp. 191–192). Similarly, the idea of ‘apocalypse,’ a word and concept that has come to represent the end of the world and/or civilisation in the public ­consciousness, etymologically signifies the revelation of secrets and the subsequent establishment of new societal paradigms. This is most ­usually used in reference to the Book of Revelation (“Apocalypse – Oxford Reference,” 2017), but can also be used to refer to literary and cultural texts that deal with or discuss the fall of old truths and their replacement with newer paradigmatic structures. Indeed, as Himmelfarb (2010) points out, the Latin word revelatio, from which ‘revelation’ is derived, corresponds with the Greek apokalypsis, which “has nothing to do with the end of the world… [it means] ‘uncovering’… [T]he association with eschatology derives… from the content of the book of Revelation” (p. 1). We see, then, that when a text is described as ‘post-apocalyptic,’ the immediate implication is that it is concerned with the destruction of our reality and the dystopia that seems, in certain literary and cinematic genres at least, inevitably to ensue.1 Eugen Weber (1999) notes that much of this owes to the language and style of Revelations itself, with its “swarming imagery” of plagues, torments and suffering (pp. 29–30). Despite this, the term should not necessarily be seen to have inherently negative connotations. Indeed, a biblical apocalypse could be seen to represent an encapsulation of the monomythical boon: the replacement of older, o ­ stensibly more rigid, thought structures and societal ideas with new, ­potentially freer ones that benefit society in unforeseen but profound ways. As Campbell (1993) frames it, the monomythical hero “is the champion not of things become, but of things becoming; the dragon to be slain by him is precisely the monster of the status quo” (p. 337). It is thus important not to read the term ‘apocalypse’ as being synonymous with ‘end of days,’ because to do so is to relegate an important postlapsarian concept to the ghetto of dystopia and socio-political fatalism. In the context of Young Adult (YA) fiction, this distinction is an important one. Kay Sambell (2004) argues that dystopian narratives “reveal a prevalent crisis in confidence in the human species itself… which have led to a powerfully pessimistic conviction that hope is unreal” (p. 249), one which problematises the nature, status and practicality of heroism and heroic acts. This, Sambell argues, has a corollary within YA dystopian texts with the idea of the death of childhood, a trope which is often counterpointed by the presentation of “the ‘­child-as-utopian’… in an attempt to signal hope for a better world” (p. 252). In other words, the darkness of the dystopian worlds in such texts are thrown into relief, or even redeemed, by the innocence and heroism of the young protagonists.

Original Sin as Salvation  205 To an extent, this is the opposite of what happens in His Dark Materials’ apocalypse, in as much as it is the loss of innocence that redeems the worlds. Therefore, while it would be misleading to suppose or imply that dystopian narratives are intrinsically disempowering for young readers, it is also fair to suggest that Pullman’s interests lie in empowerment via a less idealised or polemical route. The text is steeped in scripture and mythology, but it is expressly Pullman’s version of these traditions that the reader experiences. It is also important to remember that not all biblical revelations are necessarily postlapsarian in nature. In fact, the Fall of Man, that is to say the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden for the crime of defying God’s will and eating the proscribed fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, can be seen as the first Christian apocalypse. Original Sin is parsed, in the Christian tradition at least, as divine punishment rather than a boon, with paradise – and innocence/ ignorance – being traded for the imperfect world in which we live. The fact that with this fall comes knowledge, indeed humankind’s first real instance of enlightenment, is often overlooked, as this knowledge can reasonably be considered to be a contributing factor in mankind’s eviction from what is essentially paradise. However, the prelapsarian society presented in Genesis had no room, scope or need for change or ­transcendence – these ideas came only with the advent of true awareness, in other words the eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. What this means is that the events immediately preceding the Fall represent the first true apocalypse. Therefore, if apocalypse can be equated with enlightenment, and therefore represented by the Boon, this aspect of this particular Hero’s Journey can be identified as being neither pre- nor postlapsarian in nature, but to occur on the cusp of these two states. This means that, of all the stages in the Hero’s Journey, the Boon has the potential to be seen as liminal, in as much as it exists both in-and-outside two very distinct realities, and in this it is similar to YA fiction itself, which tends to skirt the gulf between the adult author and his or her supposed audience (Nodelman, 1996, p. 15).

His Dark Materials as YA Literature In his 2001 article “The Republic of Heaven,” Pullman criticises what he frames as paranoia and bigotry on the part of C.S. Lewis who, in his treatment of the character of Susan in his Narnia series, 2 “proclaimed that an interest in lipstick and nylons was… an absolute disqualification for the joys of Heaven” (p. 660). Hatlen (2005) suggests that Pullman’s point of view frames His Dark Materials as “a kind of ‘Anti-Narnia,’ a secular humanist alternative to Lewis’s Christian fantasy” (p. 82). He goes on to pinpoint certain comparable yet contrasting situations within the respective narratives, which, he suggests, are intended to implicitly

206  Houman Sadri criticise Lewis’ version of Christian doctrine. Further, Pugh (2011) ­characterises the trilogy as representing a re-imagination of “the foundational Judeo-Christian mythology concerning human sexuality,” with the Fall of Man and Original Sin “reconceived as a modern-day, multidimensional conflict over the meaning of gender and eroticism” (p. 61). Pugh also explicitly connects His Dark Materials to Campbell’s Monomyth, pointing out that the “trilogy adheres to [its] basic structure while reframing… gendered contours” (pp. 62–63), and noting that while the myth-based hero to whom The Hero with a Thousand Faces refers back tends to be male, 3 Lyra is actually in a position where her gender and her surroundings are at odds at the start of The Northern Lights (2015). Cloistered as she is within the explicitly male environment of Jordan College, Oxford, Lyra’s constructed gender seems unknowingly to have skewed towards stereotypically masculine behaviour patterns and attitudes, in as much as she eschews the supposed trappings of femininity, and indeed, as Pugh also notes, shows signs of misogyny in the way in which she approaches and regards other girls, as opposed to boys (p. 62). As Kerry Mallan (2009) observes, literature written for children or younger readers can function as a means to expose “ideologies about the hierarchical arrangements of society” (p. 3), and Pullman evidently recognises this. Naomi Wood (2011) points out that his ideological iconoclasm extends even to the myths and story conventions he uses to build his narrative (p. 555), so it follows that, in a text that reframes both nascent sexuality and Original Sin, this should also be true of gender hierarchies and societal structures. Indeed, the idea that both gender and sexuality are constructed, and belonging to any specific subset is a result of culturally influenced acts, allows for this possibility, and it seems apt that such a challenge should be made within texts ostensibly written with younger readers in mind. This is particularly the case when one considers Peter Hollindale’s (1997) notion that successful examples of such texts are written in a way as to be “audible,” as he puts it, to their intended readers (p. 29). On the other hand, Jacqueline Rose (1992) argues that children’s ­fiction is “impossible… in that it hangs on… the impossible relation between adult and child” (p. 1), positing that novels that have theoretically been written for younger readers are, for the most part, more about what the adult wants both from and of a child than they are about the actual supposed audience. She frames this as “something of a soliciting, a chase, or even a seduction” (p. 2). From the point of view of the prospective reader, Nodelman (2008) stresses that for an adult to approach this type of literature without a proper awareness of the implied young audience at which it is supposedly aimed represents “willed and dangerous blindness” (p. 141). To some extent, His Dark Materials exists in the liminal space between these ideas about literature for children and young adults, in as much as it could be argued to fit all of Rose’s descriptions,

Original Sin as Salvation  207 while also blurring the lines to which Nodelman points. However, as Waller (2009) notes, the trilogy does not necessarily fit the YA category all that closely, in as much as all three texts are each “as long as an adult novel, with several subplots and a number of complex political and philosophical themes that are sometimes described in highly scientific or theoretical language” (p. 15), and Pullman himself has made it plain that he writes with all readers, not just younger ones, in mind (2011, p. 313). In other words, while Pullman explicitly posits adolescent sexuality and the onset of sexual desire and awareness in young teenagers as the salvation of multiple worlds, the “impossibility,” and indeed, potential inappropriateness that Rose describes, is sidestepped. His Dark Materials represents literature for children in as much as the narrative dismantles adult authority and underlines the idea that its imposition would doom multiple realities.

The Monomythical Eve The victory achieved by Lyra and Will within the text is inextricably linked to Original Sin. Lyra’s world is effectively governed by the ­Magisterium, which, in essence, corresponds to the Catholic Church, and she herself is expressly identified as being the new Eve (Pullman, 2015b, p. 313). This identity is what leads the ecclesiastical forces to work towards her destruction, as they fear that she will precipitate a second Fall of Man. On top of this, Mary Malone, the former nun who steps in to help the fugitive children, learns that her role is to advise and lead Lyra and Will towards this new Fall, making her in effect the modern personification of the serpent of Eden.4 Malone learns this when she is able to converse directly with Dust, the dark matter that within the context of the novels is equated, among other things, with pure divinity. It is important to note that this divine consciousness makes it plain that this new Fall is both vital and needed, telling her to “Waste no more time. You must play the serpent” (Pullman, 2015b, p. 249). 5 This is telling: it is clear that Pullman is encouraging us to rethink the story as it is laid out in the Bible. As Northrop Frye (1983) stresses, while Milton goes out of his way to show that all the suffering mankind undergoes is a result of the Fall, there is no real biblical imperative for this: “What man acquires in the Fall is evidently sexual experience as we know it, and something called the knowledge of good and evil, obviously connected with sex but not otherwise explained” (p. 109). Frye also notes that the association of the serpent with Satan is something that substantially post-dates Genesis, pointing out that it “is the symbol of the cyclical world of objective nature that man entered with his ‘fall’” (p. 110). This underlines both Pullman’s conviction that the Fall is something to be celebrated as opposed to vilified, and also the fact that the text’s true representation of the divine actively wants a new Fall

208  Houman Sadri to happen. Indeed, while Mary Malone represents the serpent of Eden, she markedly does not correspond to any satanic archetype – that role is filled primarily, though not exclusively, by Lord Asriel (Jahlmar, 2015, p. 273), a character who, crucially, functions as one of the main antagonists of the trilogy.6 It is also of interest to note that Campbell (1974) has himself observed that “[t]he biblical representation of God as somebody ‘up there,’ not the substance, but the maker of this universe, from which he is distinct, had deprived matter of a divine dimension and reduced it to mere dust” (p. 20). This is particularly apt, because it has parallels with the way in which the theocratic forces of Lyra’s world fight to keep their idea of what is divine and good sacrosanct, while doing their utmost to proscribe the particles that do actually correspond to God. Anne-Marie Bird’s (2001) assessment of the idea of Dust as being able to encompass an almost infinite number of connotations and definitions (p. 113) makes a great deal of sense, in as much as it exists in the text as both a physical substance and as a metaphor for Original Sin, while also being shown in The ­Subtle Knife to have sentience. It also represents both the spiritual – God – and the scientific, namely dark matter. This reflects the multiplicity of meanings and functions of, and for, the divine, across a multiplicity of worlds and cultures, both within and outside of the text. In all respects, though, the Dust of His Dark Materials – and indeed Dust must be seen as the dark material in question – is shown and proven to be positive, despite the fears of the Magisterium and the Oblation Board. If the biblical Fall of Man – and by extension the commission of Original Sin – is to be seen as the first ever boon for humankind, there is an extent to which the Hero’s Journey already has its own pre- and postlapsarian delineations: the young man or woman who embarks upon a monomythical journey must first choose to leave the safety of home,7 and it can be argued that this crossing of the threshold corresponds to the movement of mankind from the innocence of Eden to the knowledge and experience, or even jadedness, provided by the outside world. However, it is clear that as the boon represents enlightenment or transcendence, the true lapse must occur at this stage. In other words, the first Hero’s Journey is the one undertaken, albeit unknowingly, by Eve. In The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell equates Eve’s “ripe[ness] to depart the Garden of Eden” with the heroic archetype’s Call to Adventure: in other words, the first stage of the Monomyth (1993, p.  52). This implies that while Eve’s consciousness while still in Eden was, by definition, prelapsarian in nature, her movement towards taking part in a version of the Hero’s Journey was in some way inexorable. Eve’s blunder is what leads to the Fall, but as Campbell explains, “blunders are not the merest chance. They are ripples on the surface of life… [T] he blunder may amount to the opening of destiny” ­(Monomyth, 1993, p. 51). To some extent, the serpent’s ability to persuade Eve to take the

Original Sin as Salvation  209 proscribed fruit to Adam tends traditionally to be seen as the first recorded instance of satanic seduction. This is to say that without the knowledge and understanding of good and evil, Eve cannot know that the snake means to seduce her into doing that which she should not. Valerie Estelle Frankel problematises this still further, stressing that Eve’s purported role in the Fall is often seen as problematic enough that both the Islamic and Jewish traditions attempt to shift blame towards Adam (Frankel, 2010, p. 236). Further, she notes the propensity within Jewish feminism to identify with Lilith,8 while rejecting the supposedly “biddable” Eve so entirely as to render even her name off-limits to new mothers (Frankel, 2010, p. 109). However, as Marina Warner (1995) points out, medieval representations of the Devil’s temptations often mirror Eve’s face (p. 47), suggesting, however inadvertently, that Eve’s lapse was one she was already apt to make. Add to this the Gnostic idea that, as the being that leads Adam and Eve to knowledge, the serpent is actually an agent of honesty and goodness, acting to bring enlightenment to people against the wishes of a malign and envious God (Williams, 2001, pp. 38–40),9 and we can start to see microcosmic versions of monomythical tropes and structures begin to coalesce. One can plausibly argue that the Eve of the Old Testament sets out from the safety of her prelapsarian idyll, hears the Call to Adventure in the serpent’s offer of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and refuses this Call by demurring, as God has forbidden the eating of this fruit, while simultaneously crossing the threshold by continuing to converse with the snake. The latter’s perseverance can be seen as both supernatural aid and temptation, while Eve’s eventual acquiescence is a form of apotheosis, or life-in-death, in as much as it does not kill her, but dooms her to removal from Eden, corresponding to the end of the life she has known. This apotheosis leads inexorably to Eve offering the fruit to Adam, and their subsequent realisation and understanding of their nakedness. The obvious conclusion must be that this awareness leads to the knowledge of sexuality, but there is a far more important realisation that often goes un-remarked upon: the nakedness of which Adam and Eve become aware also represents their distinctiveness, both from each other and from their God. This is important, because it implies that before the Fall, the awareness of their separate identities either did not exist or was obfuscated. It is this knowledge, more even than that of sexuality, that corresponds to both the granting of the boon and the first apocalypse, both of which are forms of enlightenment earned for mankind by Eve. Lewis Hyde (1998) points to an additional psychological aspect to this knowledge, maintaining that an “organized body” corresponds to an ordered mind: “When Adam and Eve cover their genitals, they simultaneously begin to structure consciousness and to structure their primordial community” (p. 169). In learning shame, Hyde argues, they also learn to

210  Houman Sadri divide the areas of their bodies into specific zones, drawing metaphorical lines and assigning significance to places where none had theretofore existed. These new assignations of significance become definitions, and as such they both begin the process of formulating an understanding of themselves and their roles in this new societal paradigm. But coming as it does from the acquisition of knowledge, this shame – the very shame, in fact, that Pullman refutes – must be seen to have its inverse. As Hyde also observes, there must as a result of this shame always exist expressions of shamelessness, both in speech and in art, wherein the body is uncovered or discussed freely (p. 172), and His Dark Materials – in particular The Amber Spyglass – fits this category. Indeed, this aspect of the trilogy corresponds neatly with Pullman’s aforementioned philosophical differences with C.S. Lewis’ sexual politics and ideas about the implications of female sexuality and supposed sin. In these respects, both Eve and Lyra can to some extent be seen as ­Promethean figures, with mankind benefitting while they suffer, both physically and (especially in Eve’s case) in posterity, while the Hero’s Journey itself emerges as lapsarian in nature (to coin a term), with the granting of the boon occurring at the precise moment of the Fall, or apocalypse. The pattern straddles both the pre- and postlapsarian world, and so exists within both paradigms.

Lyra and Eve To some extent, then, to examine Lyra’s progression in terms of the monomyth entails the charting, juxtaposition and synthesis of two separate, yet intertwined Hero’s Journeys: the one undertaken by the character in question, and the one represented by Original Sin itself. In other words, Lyra’s journey is made on behalf of the worlds she and Will save at the end of The Amber Spyglass, but those worlds and all the people who inhabit them must also be seen to unknowingly take part. This is one aspect of His Dark Materials in which Lyra and Eve diverge from each other – the Fall of Man affected the children of Adam and Eve and all future generations of mankind, but the apocalypse it represents was precipitated and undergone by two people alone – the only two humans in existence at the time. Lyra and Will are responsible for the salvation of all living beings across multiple universes, and as such it can be argued that the scale of their sacrifice is larger, as is the scale of what they achieve by means of it. One way in which Lyra and Eve converge is in the commission of an act of rebellion that comes to alter the worlds in which they live, but which is predicated on both love and sexuality. In his introduction to the Penguin edition of Paradise Lost, Christopher Ricks (1968) points to the selflessness of Milton’s Adam when he falls, forsaking paradise for love, despite the knowledge that, within the text, the claims of the Creator are understood to be higher than those of Eve (p. xxi). As Abdullah

Original Sin as Salvation  211 ­ l-Badarneh (2014) puts it, “the nature of the love relationship between A Adam and Eve transcends all opposite binaries” (p. 106), and it is this transcendence that both dooms and saves humanity. In other words, Milton’s versions of Adam and Eve are possessed of a love for each other so marked that it comes to represent “imperfection within perfection” (Bowers, 1969, p. 265), which is to say that it supplants the supposed ineffability of the prelapsarian love of Adam for his creator. This appropriately chaste love precipitates the boon for mankind, but in the case of Lyra and Will, it is the onset of sexual awareness and the attraction they feel towards one another that achieves it. In The Amber Spyglass, Lyra’s reaction to Mary Malone’s tale of her first kiss is telling: Lyra felt something strange happen to her body. She felt a stirring in the roots of her hair: she found herself breathing faster… The sensation continued, and deepened, and changed, as more parts of her body found themselves affected too… She sat trembling, hugging her knees, hardly daring to breathe, as Mary went on. (Pullman, 2015c, p. 445) Lyra does not herself fully understand these sensations, but is canny enough to realise that they will soon become clearer to her, and this thought excites her still further (Pullman, 2015c, p. 449). Later, she and Will picnic together. In an explicit re-enactment of Eve’s offering of the forbidden fruit to Adam, she feeds him a red fruit, and the inherent eroticism of this act leads to their first kiss and the realisation of the love and sexual attraction they have for each other (Pullman, 2015c, pp. 468–469). Dust, the essence of the divine, is drawn to them – Mary Malone witnesses their return from this picnic, and sees in them “the true image of what human beings always could be, once they had come into their inheritance,” noting that the Dust had ceased to flow freely from the sky, congregating instead around Will and Lyra, who are seen to be “saturated with love” (Pullman, 2015c, p. 473). As Elizabeth Rose Gruner (2011) notes, this re-enactment actually represents the trilogy’s third retelling of the third chapter of Genesis (p. 280). In The Northern Lights, Lord Asriel reads to Lyra from their universe’s version of the Bible, and this retelling of the story of Adam and Eve contains an important detail specific to their world: unlike the version of the story with which we are familiar, theirs specifically mentions ‘daemons.’ These are essentially the souls of the people from Lyra’s world – they exist as external and separate entities which take animal form, but to forcibly separate a person from their daemon for an extended period of time, or worse, to physically cut the entity away as the Oblation Board do with their kidnapped children, is catastrophic and eventually fatal to the individual.

212  Houman Sadri In childhood, these daemons are able to change shape, but their form becomes permanent when the individual reaches adulthood. Importantly, the mention of daemons in this world’s Fall story states that after eating of the fruit the eyes of them both were opened, and they saw the true form of their daemons… until that moment it had seemed that they were at one with all the creatures of the earth and the air, and there was no difference between them. (Pullman, 2015a, p. 370, original emphasis)10 It is upon seeing the differences between them, and their daemons, and the other creatures in the world, that they grow ashamed and weave leaves together to cover themselves. They are specifically ashamed of their distinctness, as opposed to their sexualities. It is also important to note that this version of Genesis specifies that the Fall of Man led to the coalescence of Adam and Eve’s daemons into their permanent forms. This specifically pinpoints Original Sin as being comparable to the onset of adolescence, and – within the text – acts to foreshadow Lyra’s role as new Eve. Of course, this version of the Adam and Eve story is still framed as Biblical text, and as such is parsed within the context of the narrative as a negative occurrence – this is especially true in Lyra’s world, which is a Catholic theocracy. However, in The Amber Spyglass, the mulefa Atal tells Mary Malone her race’s version of the myth (Pullman, 2015c, pp. 224–225), and, as Gruner (2011) emphasises, it is joyous and triumphant, and involves no shame, despite the fact that it contains many of the same elements as the Original Sin narrative, including the presence of a serpent (pp. 280–281). Indeed, this serpent is essentially identified as a guide, as opposed to a tempter. Indeed, in the vernacular of the Hero’s Journey, the serpent can here be seen to fulfil the vital and central role of mentor, or supernatural guide. This, too, frames Lyra’s story, for it establishes that the narrative of the Fall – and Original Sin – need not be seen as negative, even when framed in a similar fashion to the Biblical tale with which we are familiar. However, even when framed as a positive, loss of innocence is still, unavoidably, a loss: after all, when something is gone one does not have it anymore.

Loss as Triumph, Triumph as Loss Eve and Adam trade paradise for knowledge: this is their boon, but it is also their loss, and the price they must pay for gaining individuality. Lyra and Will save divinity and create a new paradigm for all worlds, but as a result are forced to be separated from each other. Slaying the dragon of the status quo does not leave either couple unscathed, and in a way, it is on the cusp of these two losses that the real temptation and

Original Sin as Salvation  213 fall exist. In the context of the Ultimate Boon, Campbell (1993) identifies spiritual growth as agonising, and equates this with “the agony of breaking through personal limitations” (p. 190), and this testifies to the idea that even after all the trials that beset the hero throughout his or her journey, the final reward cannot come without some degree of loss or sacrifice. Any paradigm shift must, by its very nature, be characterised by destruction, and therefore loss. Even in instances where this shift is a positive one, and so the loss felt by individuals of groups within its context can be seen to contribute to a beneficial end, pain and suffering are still powerful components of this experience, that is, within the parameters of what Frye (1990) terms “our grammar of apocalyptic imagery” (p. 141), which is to say the terms within which Revelations frames the concept. In other words, the benign and peaceful new status quo brought about by such an apocalypse can only exist after the forcible tearing-down of the old one.11 What we see, then, is that apocalypse, with all the pain, loss and suffering that the idea entails and encompasses, is itself the ultimate example of the monomythical boon. It is, as Frye (1990) frames it, an example of that which is actually to be desired, and contextually represents a framing of the idea of a paradigm shift in terms related to the desires of the texts’ individual authors themselves (pp. 157–158). The victory and sacrifice that Will and Lyra experience in The Amber Spyglass typify this, as do both the biblical story of the Fall and Pullman’s interpretation of the Miltonic reframing of it, from both of which the author has drawn his inspiration. In other words, if both apocalypse and ultimate boon are a change of paradigm brought about by the acquisition of new knowledge, then the concomitant loss that goes hand-in-hand with this must also be seen as an integral component. Destruction and construction both imply a change in aspect, and the two concepts are inexorably linked: in order to engage in the act of creation, one must first take raw materials and destroy them in order to bring something new into existence.12 Thus, destruction must imply loss, and this, then, must also be a component of the boon that mankind is granted. Within the context of His Dark Materials, the loss of Lyra’s sexual innocence leads to the loss of a societal paradigm. While the authorities are prepared to do anything up to and including the sacrifice of young lives – in other words create other instances of loss, albeit ones they perhaps deem less important or profound – in order to prevent this, it is clear that Lyra’s losses and this destruction are positive in nature. The Magisterium’s desire to prevent this change of paradigm can, in the end, be attributed to fear of change. In The Denial of Death, Ernest Becker (1997) argues that we fear death not because it represents an ending but rather because it is a great and permanent, and therefore intrinsically terrifying, shift in paradigm (p. 57). Loss and change, then, are frightening because they are equivalent to destruction on a paradigmatic

214  Houman Sadri level, and this fear is in itself equivalent to the supposedly divine command not to eat the fruit of the proscribed tree. In this context, the Hero’s Journey must be seen as the process of giving in to temptation and setting forth to bring about some form of apocalypse, however large or small. As Grant Morrison (2002) has phrased it, “[n]othing ends that isn’t something else starting” (p. 285)13 – new beginnings must by definition be dependent on endings, and thus the concept of apocalypse can be seen as the granting of the Ultimate Boon.

Conclusion Representing a more modern retelling of the story of Original Sin and the Fall of Man, Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy can be framed in terms of both pre- and postlapsarian narrative tropes and traditions. Equally, it is useful to consider the tale of a young girl who leaves the relative safety of the only home she has known, sets out into a wider and more dangerous world she does not yet entirely understand, confronts and overcomes great challenges, faces temptation and apotheosis, and ultimately emerges with a boon for her society, in terms of Joseph Campbell’s conception of the monomyth. More interesting and less evident, though, are the implications this raises for some of the paradigms Pullman has tried to reappraise within his text. As David Gooderham (2003) notes, Pullman’s use of religious imagery and terminology within His Dark Materials is explicit and unequivocal enough to result in controversy and anger within the Catholic church (pp. 155–156). Indeed, Gooderham himself states that the language and ideas Pullman uses “appear to comprise no less than the deconstruction of the traditional complex of Christian beliefs, values and practices” (p. 157). However, Chantal Oliver (2012) argues that “the ‘heretical’ re-workings we see in Pullman’s texts foreground the dangers and the difficulties of uncompromising and narrow religious understandings” (p. 302). In other words, while Christian doctrine and story form the blueprint for the text, it is important to extract and read the Original Sin and Fall narratives without the patina of dogma. If one is able to do this, the monomythical subtext becomes clearer. Lyra Belacqua is identified within the text as the modern equivalent of Eve, and partly as a result of this is predestined to embark upon a Hero’s Journey that mirrors that of her Biblical counterpart. It is this mirroring that calls attention to the journey itself, and to the fact that the Fall of Man – whether framed in negative or positive terms – represents both the Campbellian boon and an apocalypse, in the classical sense of the word. The implications of this are plain: if the Fall of Man represents the monomythical boon, and therefore transcendence, then this transcendence must be seen as neither pre- nor postlapsarian, instead occurring on the cusp of these two states of being, and therefore being intrinsically liminal

Original Sin as Salvation  215 in nature. As such, the Hero’s Journey itself is revealed as the process of seeking apocalypse, representing as it does the individual’s quest for an improved, altered or even shattered societal or personal paradigm.

Notes 1 Though it is important to note that depictions of dystopias are not always shown as resulting from some kind of apocalypse. 2 Susan Pevensie, the second eldest of the protagonists of Lewis’ Narnia series, is the only one of the children who is not present to be judged by Aslan and admitted to the true Narnia at the end of The Last Battle (1998). The implication is that this is because she has become a young woman and as a result has discovered her sexuality, which precludes her admittance. 3 Female protagonists tend to occur more frequently in folklore and fairy tales. 4 Though it is important to stress that this is only one aspect of her character, and that there is more to her role in the text than this prelapsarian symbolism alone implies. 5 As punishment for its part in Eve’s temptation, the biblical serpent of Eden is doomed by God to crawl on its stomach and “eat dust” forever (Genesis 3:14, 1989). Pullman’s choice of name for the text’s dark matter/divinity analogue can, in this respect, be seen to muddy the waters of damnation and salvation still further. 6 The name ‘Asriel’ translates as ‘Prince of God’ or ‘helped by god’ (“Asriel Name Meaning,” 2017), and this further emphasises the duality of the roles Pullman affords his proxies for the serpent, Satan and, indeed, the supreme deity. 7 Having first actively refused the call to adventure at least once. 8 In the Jewish tradition, Lilith was the first wife of Adam, who, after being cast out of Eden for refusing to be subservient to her husband, lived in a cave and consorted with demons, giving birth to all the succubae and incubi who plague humankind (Schwartz, 1988, pp. 5–6). 9 The link between Original Sin and sex was first established by St. Augustine in part as a reaction to Gnostic teaching (see Turner, 1993, p. 79). 10 In contrast, Genesis 3:7 (1989) reads, “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.” 11 And, of course, this is far from being an idea over which the Abrahamic religions have a monopoly – for example, the idea of Ragnarök, the twilight of the Gods at which time all reality will die in fire to be replaced by a new, more beneficial paradigm, is central to Norse mythology. 12 This is consistent with the ancient Greek word olethros, which translates as ‘destruction’ but does not necessarily have negative implications. 13 This occurs in the final chapter of The Invisibles, another text concerned with the concept of apocalypse as paradigm shift.

References Al-Badarneh, A.F. (2014), “Milton’s Pro-Feminist Presentation of Eve in Paradise Lost.” International Journal of Applied Linguistics & English Literature 3(4), pp. 105–109. doi:10.7575/aiac.ijalel.v.3n.4p.105.

216  Houman Sadri Apocalypse – Oxford Reference [WWW Document], 2017. www.­oxfordreference. com.ezproxy.ub.gu.se/view/10.1093/acref/9780199543984.001.0001/acref9780199543984-e-122. Accessed 31 January 2017. Asriel name meaning [WWW Document], 2017. www.sheknows.com/­babynames/name/asriel. Accessed 4 April 2017. Becker, E. (1997), The Denial of Death, New York: Free Press. Bird, A.M. (2001), “‘Without Contraries is No Progression:’ Dust as an ­A ll-Inclusive, Multifunctional Metaphor in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials.” Children’s Literature in Education 32(2), pp. 111–123. Bowers, F. (1969), “Adam, Eve, and the Fall in ‘Paradise Lost.’” PMLA 84(2), pp. 264–273. doi:10.2307/1261283. Campbell, J. (1974), The Masks of God: Creative Mythology, London: Souvenir Press. Campbell, J. (1993), The Hero with a Thousand Faces, London: Fontana. Frankel, V.E. (2010), From Girl to Goddess, Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Frye, N. (1983), The Great Code, New York: Harcourt Mifflin Harcourt. Frye, N. (1990), Anatomy of Criticism, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Genesis 3:7. (1989), New International Bible, London: Hodder and Staughton. Genesis 3:14. (1989), New International Bible, London: Hodder and Staughton. Gooderham, D. (2003), “Fantasizing It As It Is: Religious Language in Philip Pullman’s Trilogy, His Dark Materials.” Children’s Literature 31(1), pp. 155–175. Gruner, E.R. (2011), “Wrestling with Religion: Pullman, Pratchett, and the Uses of Story.” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 36(3), pp. 276–295. Hatlen, B. (2005), “Pullman’s His Dark Materials, a Challenge to the F ­ antasies of J.R.R. Tolkein and C.S. Lewis, with an Epilogue on Pullman’s N ­ eo-Romantic Reading of Paradise Lost,” in M. Lenz & C. Scott (eds.), His Dark Materials Illuminated: Critical Essays on Philip Pullman’s Trilogy, Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, pp. 74–95. Himmelfarb, M. (2010), The Apocalypse: A Brief History, Chichester: WileyBlackwell. Hollindale, P. (1997), Signs of Childness in Children’s Books, Stroud: Thimble Press. Hyde, L. (1998), Trickster Makes This World, New York: North Point Press. Jahlmar, J. (2015), ‘“Give the Devil His Due:’ Freedom, Damnation, and Milton’s Paradise Lost in Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman: Season of Mists.” Partial Answers: Journal of Literature and the History of Ideas 13(2), pp. 267–286. Lévi-Strauss, C. (1963), Structural Anthropology (trans. C. Jacobson & B. Grundfest Schoepf), New York: Basic Books. Lewis, C.S. (1998), The Last Battle, New York: HarperCollins. Mallan, K. (2009), Gender Dilemmas in Children’s Fiction, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Milton, J. (2005), Paradise Lost, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Morrison, G. (2002), The Invisibles: The Invisible Kingdom, New York: Vertigo. Nodelman, P. (1996), The Pleasures of Children’s Literature, White Plains, NY: Longman. Nodelman, P. (2008), The Hidden Adult, Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Original Sin as Salvation  217 Oliver, C. (2012), “Mocking God and Celebrating Satan: Parodies and Profanities in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials.” Children’s Literature in Education 43(4), pp. 293–302. doi:10.1007/s10583-012-9165-4. Palumbo, D.E. (2014), The Monomyth in American Science Fiction Films, Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Pugh, T. (2011), Innocence, Heterosexuality, and the Queerness of Children’s Literature, New York: Routledge. Pullman, P. (2001), “The Republic of Heaven.” The Horn Book Magazine 77(6), pp. 655–667. Pullman, P. (2005), “Introduction,” in J. Milton (ed.), Paradise Lost, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 1–10. Pullman, P. (2011), “Point of Departure,” in S.A. Wolf, K. Coast, P. Enciso & C.A. Jenkins (eds.), Handbook of Research on Children’s and Young Adult Literature, London: Routledge, pp. 313–314. Pullman, P. (2015a), The Northern Lights, London: Scholastic Press. Pullman, P. (2015b), The Subtle Knife, London: Scholastic Press. Pullman, P. (2015c), The Amber Spyglass, London: Scholastic Press. Ricks, C. (1968), “Introduction,” in J. Milton (ed.), Paradise Lost, London: Penguin, pp. vii–xxvii. Rose, J. (1992), The Case of Peter Pan, or The Impossibility of Children’s Fiction, London: The Macmillan Press Ltd. Rosin, H. (2007), “How Hollywood Saved God.” The Atlantic. www.­theatlantic. com/magazine/archive/2007/12/how-hollywood-saved-god/306444. Accessed 7 February 2017. Sambell, K. (2004), “Carnivalizing the Future: A New Approach to Theorizing Childhood and Adulthood in Science Fiction for Young Readers.” The Lion and the Unicorn 28(2), pp. 247–267. doi:10.1353/uni.2004.0026. Schwartz, H. (1988), Lilith’s Cave, New York: Oxford University Press. Turner, A.K. (1993), The History of Hell, New York: Harcourt Brace & Company. Waller, A. (2009), Constructing Adolescence in Fantastic Realism, New York: Routledge. Warner, M. (1995), From the Beast to the Blonde, London: Vintage. Weber, E. (1999), Apocalypses, London: Hutchinson. Williams, P.A. (2001), Doing Without Adam and Eve: Sociobiology and Original Sin, Minneapolis, MN: Augsberg Fortress. Wood, N. (2001), “Paradise Refigured: Innocence and Experience in His Dark Materials,” in J.L. Mickenberg & L. Vallone (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Children’s Literature, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 539–560.

Notes on Contributors

Editors Joe Trotta is an Associate Professor of English Linguistics at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Joe’s research has shifted from traditional linguistics to focussing nearly exclusively on the use of English in popular media. He is the founder and chair of the [GotPop] Research Group and the co-host of the GotPop Popular Culture Podcast. Houman Sadri  is a PhD candidate and teacher of English Literature, at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. He is the co-host of the GotPop Popular Culture Podcast. Zlatan Filipovic  is an Associate Professor in English and Comparative Literature at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. He has a PhD in English and Comparative Literature from Goldsmiths, University of London and has published extensively on deconstruction and affect in literary writing.

Contributors Linda Flores Ohlson is a senior lecturer in Spanish at the Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Her PhD is about Spanish in the USA. Emma Fraser is a lecturer in Media and Cultural Studies at Lancaster University. She has a PhD in Sociology from the University of Manchester and is a member of the Playful Mapping Collective. Michael Godhe is Senior Lecturer at the Department of Culture and Society (IKOS), Linköping University, Sweden. His research concerns Critical Future Studies with an emphasis on science fiction.

220  Notes on Contributors Iril Hove Ullestad  is a PhD candidate in Russian Literature at the ­Department of Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Her thesis project has the working title After the Apocalypse: The Construction of Dystopia as Space and Idea. Emelie Jonsson  received her PhD in English from the University of ­Gothenburg, Sweden, in 2017. She is an evolutionary literary scholar and associate editor of the journal Evolutionary Studies in Imaginative Culture (www.esiculture.com). Ariel Kahn is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of English and Creative Writing at Roehampton University, London. His first novel, Raising Sparks, was published in 2018 by Bluemoose Books. He has a PhD in Creative Writing from Roehampton University, and publishes widely on comics and graphic novels. Jerry Määttä is an Associate Professor at the Department of Literature, Uppsala University, Sweden. He specialises in sociology of literature  and has published on science fiction and the book market, on literary prizes and awards, and on apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic narratives in Anglophone film and literature. Gabriela Mercado  has a PhD in Spanish from the Department of ­Languages and Literatures, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Her research deals with Mexican short fiction about the end of the world.

Index

Note: Bold page numbers refer to tables and page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. absolute primacy of ethical relation 9, 16 Adlard, C. 7 Agamben, G. 9, 15–16, 19, 28 Agustín, J. 106 A Journal of the Plague Year (Daniel Defoe, 1722) 6 Alaimo, S. 52, 60 Al-Badarneh, A. 211 alienation 64–5 The Amber Spyglass (2000, 2015) 13, 202, 203, 210, 211 An Apology of Raymond Sebond (Montaigne) 49 Animacy and Reference hypothesis 12, 159–60 The Animal That Therefore I Am (Derrida) 57 anticipatory and contemporary knowledge 34–5 anti-utopia 34 Apel, D. 124, 128 apocalypse 1, 2, 6, 12, 13n1 apocalyptic fiction 4–5 Archaeologies of the Future (Frederic Jameson, 2005) 127 Archer, J. 109 Aridjis, H. 106 Artificial Intelligence 8, 195 assemblage 65–6 Atwood, M. 138 Baccolini, R. 46 Ballard, J.G. 8, 146, 149 Balossi, G. 181

bare life: being-for-the-other 16, 30n1; concentration camp 16; philosophy 16–17; political existence 15; and sovereignty 28; see also The Road (Cormac McCarthy, 2006) Barnbrook, G. 181 Becker, E. 213 being-for-the-other 16, 30n1 Benjamin, W. 121–4, 128, 132 Berdyaev, N. 93 Berger, J. 54–7, 60, 126 Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, J.-H. 143 Biber, D. 181 Big Questions (Anders Nilsen, 2011) 53–4, 64, 65 Bird, A.-M. 208 The Blizzard (2010) 101 Bloch, E. 34, 36, 38 Bodin, P.A. 94 Boller, A. 47 Boon, K. 158, 161 Boulle, P. 144 Boullosa, C. 106 Boym, S. 135 The Boy on the Bridge (Carey, 2017) 173 Braidotti, R. 53, 62 Brave New World (Aldous Huxley, 1932) 7, 34 Brazilian dystopian television series see 3% Breathers. A Zombie’s Lament (Browne, 2009) 161 Bromfield, A. 90 Brooklyn Bridge 147–8

222 Index Brown Family of corpora (BFC) 188 Budushchee (Glukhovsky) 90 Bulwer Lytton, E. 10, 74 The Burning World (J.G. Ballard, 1965) 8 business ontology 36 Buss, D. 112 Calderón, F. 108 Campbell, J. 202, 204, 208, 213 capitalist realism 36–7, 43 Carey, M.R. 173 Carpenter, J. 146 Cartesian dualism of mind/body 57–8 Castañeda, R.C. 106 Cerca del fuego (José Agustín, 1986) 106 Chantsev, A. 10, 90 Children of Men (2006) 34, 43 Chisolm, D. 135 Cielos de la tierra (Carmen Boullosa, 1997) 106 Claisse, F. 34, 35 Clarke, J. 57 Coetzee, J.M. 56, 57, 58 Cohen, J.J. 158 Collins, S. 138 The Coming Race (Edward Bulwer Lytton, 1871) 10; academic monographs 75; agonistic ambiguity 86; anti-utopia 78; climax 86; cosmic justice and intention 77; Darwinian evolution 76–8; desire for serenity 88; human imagination 79; human life cycle 76–7; imaginative culture 77; infelicities 86–7; interpretations 78–9; lost world 74–5; mythological cosmologies 76–7; occultism 87; prosocial morality 77; satiric utopias 78–9; social harmony 87–8; utopia and dystopia 86–8; Vril-ya civilisation (see Vril-ya) concentration camp 16 Con quién sueñas cuando haces el amor? (Homero Aridjis, 1995) 106 corpus-informed linguistic method: accessible digital form 183; analysis and results 186, 186–9, 188; AntConc and Word-Smith tools 187; author gender 182; breakdown of text 186, 186–7; Brown Family of corpora (BFC)

188; challenging 184–5; dubious coding and labelling practices 180; empirical techniques 180, 181; genres 182–3; keywords 187–9, 188; limitations 184; linguistic feature 187–8; literary analysis 179, 199n1; male vs. female 186, 186–7; materials 182–6; popularity and influence of texts 183; reluctance 182; scope and reliability 181; selection criteria, materials 182–5; semantic domains 189–97, 190, 194–7; Shakespeare work 181; stylistic work 181; stylometry 181; text file 185–6; ‘text-type’ vs. ‘genre’ 180; textual features 181; variables 183–4; Wmatrix tool 189–90 Cosmism 90, 91, 96–8 cosmological wound 10 crack generation 105–6 Cristóbal Nonato (Carlos Fuentes, 1987) 106 Critical Future Studies (CFS) 38 Culpeper, J. 181 Cultural Imaginings of Doom 131 Curtis, C.P. 47 cyborg identity 52 Cyborg Manifesto (Haraway, 1991) 52 Dahl, O. 160, 163, 176 Darwinian evolution 74, 76–8 The Day After Tomorrow (2004) 8 Day of the Oprichnik (2006) 101 The Day of the Triffids (John Wyndham, 1951) 8, 148 Defoe, D. 6 del Toro, G. 12, 159, 164 Delvenne, P. 34, 35 Derrida, J. 57 Dillon, B. 140 Divergent (2011–2013) 35 Dixelius, K. 149 Domínguez Ruvalcaba, H. 108, 109 Doré, G. 141 Dostoevsky, F. 94 The Drowned World (J. G. Ballard, 1962) 149 dystopia 2 dystopic-trope-ic approach: An Apology of Raymond Sebond 49; awareness and identity 50–1; Big Questions (2011) 53–4; children’s literature and posthuman 55–6;

Index  223 cyborg identity 52; misprision 50; prelapsarian self 51; rationalist discourse 48–9; Saga (2012) 52; Science Fiction 51–2; Sweet Tooth (2010) 52–3, 56–7; ‘The Death of Leroy’ (2011) 54; utopian idealism 49–50 Eagleton, T. 37 Earth Abides (1947, 1949) 131, 148, 150 El día del hurón (Ricardo Chávez Castañeda, 1997) 106 Elizabeth Costello (J.M Coetzee, 2003) 56, 57 Ellison, H. 8 El temperamento melancólico (Jorge Volpi, 1996) 106 Elysium (2013) 34, 35 Embry, K. 176 Emmerich, R. 146 Endsjø, D.O. 94 enlightenment 202 Eutopia 6 evolutionary psychology 10 Fall of Man 203, 205 Fallout 3 11; Bethesda Studios 129; dead city 131; exploration 129; fall 130; fragmentation 132; global apocalypse 131–2; open world game 129; post-apocalyptic expression 130; representation of ruins 129–30; retro-futuristic ruins of Washington D.C. 129; reversal 130–1; ruin aesthetics 132; Sino-American War 129; tropes 130; see also video games Fear the Walking Dead (Kirkman & Erickson, 2015-) 161 Fedorov, N. 10, 90, 92–5 femicides 114–16, 119n7 Fisher, M. 34, 36, 38, 43 Founding Couple 35, 37, 42 Fowler, R. 162 fragile hope 40–2 Frankel, V.E. 209 Fraurud, K. 160, 163, 176 Frumkin, K. 96 Frye, N. 207, 213 Frye, S. 16 “Fuego, camina conmigo” (Óscar Luviano): cartel hierarchy 113–14;

Ciudad Juárez 115–16; death 117; drug lord 113–14; femicides 114–16, 119n7; homicides 115; hypermasculine behaviours 111–12, 115; impunity 116; magic realism 112, 116; maquiladoras 115; motivations 117–18; narcocorridos 106–7, 112–13, 119n6; narco literature 111; reputation 112–14; romanticism 117; rumours and speculation 112; sicarios 112 (see also sicarios) Fuentes, C. 106 Futu.re (Dmitry Glukhovsky, 2013): afterlife 99–100; ageing processes 98; backward motion in future society 101; chaos 100; conditional immortality 98; illegal childbirth 99; immortality 90, 98, 103; Immortals 100; mortality 101; order and harmony 100; overpopulation 99; oxymoronic quality 101–2; pseudo-religious text 100–1; semi-medieval society 101; sexual abstinence 99; space travel 102–3; trend in Russia 90 future ruins see ruins Gandy, J. 141 Gatens, M. 63 genre categories/labels 3–5 Ghost in the Shell (1995) 8 Gibbon, E. 149 The Girl with All the Gifts (2014) 173 global uncertainty 8 Glukhovsky, D. 10, 90, 98, 149 Godhe, M. 9 González, I. 116 Goode, L. 38 Gooderham, D. 214 gore capitalism 109 de Grainville, J.-B. C. 138 Graphs, Maps, Trees (2007) 180 Great Plague of London 6–7 Greene, R. 164 Gruner, E.R. 211, 212 Hagemeister, M. 91 Haggard, H.R. 74 Haraway, D. 48, 52 Haslam, N. 160, 176 Hatlen, B. 205

224 Index Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream (1967) 8 The Heavens (Sandra Newman, 2019) 8 Henkin, L. 78 Hero’s Journey 12, 203–4 The Hero with a Thousand Faces 13, 202, 206, 208 Himmelfarb, M. 204 His Dark Materials trilogy (Philip Pullman, 2015) 12, 13; act of rebellion 210–11; ‘Anti-Narnia’ 205–6; apotheosis 209; children and young adults 206–7; daemons 211–12; Devil temptations 209; divine consciousness 207, 215n5; Dust 208, 211; Fall of Man 205, 207–8; future generations of mankind 210; gender and eroticism 206; Gnostic idea 209, 215n9; ideological iconoclasm 206; Lilith 209, 215n8; Lord Asriel 208, 211, 215n6; loss as triumph 212–13; loss of innocence 205, 212; love relationship 210–11; Miltonic reframing 213; monomythical journey 208; “organized body” and ordered mind 209–10; Promethean figures 210; Revelations 213; triumph as loss 214–15; ‘Ultimate Boon’ 202, 213, 214 Hoban, R. 7, 151 Hogan, C. 12, 159, 164 Holguín Mendoza, C. 111 Hollindale, P. 206 Holm, I.W. 159, 161 Homo Sacer (Agamben, 1998) 15 Hoover, D.L. 181 hope and despair 9 hope in dystopias: for better future 36; concept of hope 33–4; fragile hope 40–2; hope of salvation 37–8; optimism vs. optimalism 37; see also 3% humanity 9, 10 human spark 193 The Hunger Games trilogy (2008–2010) 35 Huxley, A. 7, 34 hybridity: animality and 47–8, 58–60; awareness and identity 50–1; binaries and hierarchies 54; Cartesian dualism of mind/

body 57–8; children’s literature and posthuman 55–6; comic being 52–4; cyborg identity 52; damaged and damaging human behaviours 53–4, 56; dual gaze 56; dwelling in the dissolve 60–2; embodied gaze 54–60; horror of doubleness 49; interspecies liveliness 61–2; liminal figure 60–1; liminality 50–1; misprision 50; mutuality 54–5; Platonic abstraction 58; prelapsarian self 51; rationalist discourse 48–9; reciprocal gaze 59; rocketship effects 61–2; science fiction 51–2; “silent” visual language 59–60; symbiosis 62; thematic ontological instability 48; trans-human 57; utopian/dystopian redundant 69–71; utopian idealism 49–50; vault of heaven 50; verbal posturing 59–60; visual signifier 62; zoontology 58; see also mythic modalities Hyde, L. 209 I am Legend (Richard Matheson, 1954) 7, 147, 158, 161 imaginative culture 77 immortal utopia see Futu.re (Dmitry Glukhovsky, 2013) In the Flesh (Mitchell, 2013–2014) 161 Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956 and 1978) 7 Jameson, F. 70, 127, 131, 138, 151 Japanese pop-cultural narratives 7 Jaques, Z. 55–6 Jefferies, R. 7, 149 Johnson, G.C. 6 Jonsson, E. 10 Joseph, T.W. 78 Judeo-Christian traditions 6 Judge Dredd (1977–) 7 Judge, J. 79 Kahn, A. 9 Kamandi, the Last Boy on Earth (1972–1976) 7 Katerberg, W. 43 Kee, C. 159 keywords 187–9, 188 King, S. 184 Kirkman, R. 7

Index  225 Klapisch, C. 149 Klee, P. 122 Knoblauch, W. 122 Konishi, T. 157, 159 The Kreutzer Sonata 96 Kumar, K. 34 Lagayette, P. 30 La leyenda de los soles (Homero Aridjis, 1993) 106 La Planète des singes (1963) 144 The Last American (1889) 145, 146 The Last Man (Mary Shelley, 1826) 6, 8, 158 The Last of Us 128 Lauro, S.J. 176 Lemire, J. 52 Les Ruines, ou méditation sur les révolutions des empires (1791) 141 Lettres persanes (1721) 145 Levinas, E. 16, 21, 22, 27, 30, 31 Lévi-Strauss, C. 203 Levitas, R. 33, 34, 37 Lewis, J. 131 linguistics 1, 12 log-likelihood score 190, 190 Luviano, Ó. 11, 117 Macaulay, R. 139 McCall, J. 127 McCarthy, C. 7, 9, 25, 138, 150; see also The Road (Cormac McCarthy, 2006) machismo culture 110–11 MacKay, D.G. 157, 159 Mad Max 2 (1981) 7 Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985) 150 magic voluntarism 37, 44n2 Mahlberg, M. 181 Mallan, K. 206 maquiladoras 115 Marker, C. 149 masculine identity 110–11 Massey, D. 18 Matheson, R. 7, 147 The Matrix (1999) 8 mauvaise conscience 27 Mazlish, B. 78 Memoria de los días (Pedro Ángel Palou, 1995) 106 Mendoza, H. 115 Menzel, B. 97

Mexican drug war 10–11; gore capitalism 109; government 107–8; homicides and violence 108; legitimation of crime 108–9; narco 106, 118n3; organised crime 107–8; synthetic drugs 108; ultraviolence 109; see also “Fuego, camina conmigo” (Óscar Luviano); sicarios Mitchell, J.A. 145 Mohammad, S.K. 164 Mohr, D. 46 Monomyth 12, 202 Montesquieu 145 Moretti, F. 180 Morrison, G. 214 Morris, W. 86 Mosher, D.L. 110 Moylan, T. 33, 44, 46, 47 Myhill, J. 161, 162 mythic modalities: alienation 64–5; amorphous nature of the human body 63; assemblage 65–6; dual mythic valances 67–8; figurations 66–7; future-oriented perspectives 62; humustity 68; hybrid children 63; nature’s fix 63; Orphic underworld 65–6; plurality 68; sympoetic tangling 64; “the Creator” 69; thought experiment 64; visual epigraph 66–7 Nagel, T. 64 narco 106, 118n3 narcocorridos 106–7, 119n6 Narnia series 205, 215n2 naturalistic cosmology 74 natural resource abuse 8 nauchnaia fantastika 98 neoliberalism 105 new critical dystopias 46, 47 Newman, S. 8 The New Zealander (1872) 141 Night of the Living Dead (George Romero, 1968) 7, 159, 161 Nilsen, A. 53, 54 Nineteen Eighty-Four (George Orwell, 1949) 7, 34–5 Nodelman, P. 206 Nolan, W.F. 6 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) 105, 111, 115

226 Index occultism 87 Offshore society 33, 35 Ohlsson, F. 12 Oliver, C. 214 ontological instability 47, 48, 56 ‘open’ dystopias 46–7 optimism and optimalism 37, 90 Original Sin: apocalypse 204, 215n1; archetypal stories and figures 202–3; Eve 202; Fall of Man 203; gender and eroticism 206; monomythical Eve 207–10; nascent sexuality 203, 206; reappraisal and re-contextualisation 203; revelation of secrets 204, 213; Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil 205; Young Adult (YA) fiction 204; see also His Dark Materials trilogy (Philip Pullman, 2015) Orwell, G. 7, 34 The Overstory (Richard Powers, 2018) 8 Owen, R. 43 Padilla, I. 106 Page, M.R. 78, 79, 148 Palou, P.Á. 106 Parrish, T. 22 parser 191 Pennell, J. 145 Pepperell, R. 47 Peterson, N. 94 The Philosophers and the Animals 57 physical ruins 11 Planet of the Apes (1968) 7, 144 Platonic abstraction 58 Plaza, C. 111 Pleasure of Ruins (1953) 139 The Poets and the Animals 57 post-9/11 dystopias 9, 35 post-Humanism 47 postmodern culture 43 Powers, R. 8 prelapsarian self 51 Process 33, 35–42 pronouns: choice of 157; non-human and human pronoun 157–8; pronoun-switching 157, 171–2; see also The Strain (del Toro and Hogan, 2009); zombies pronoun-switching 157, 171–2 Psychic City 125 Pugh, T. 206

Pullman, P. 12–13, 202, 203 pure being 21 Rabinbach, A. 135, 136 Ricks, C. 210 Riddley Walker (Russell Hoban, 1980) 7, 151 Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011) 131 The Road (Cormac McCarthy, 2006) 7, 9; anonymity of place 18–19, 31n2; bare life and sovereignty 28; being-for-the-other 26–7, 31n4; causality 17; economy of survival 20–1; Ego 27–8; ethics 26; goodness 30; humanity 15, 18–19, 22, 25–6; irreconcilability/resistance of ethics 24–5; language 23; late world 26; life liberation 20–1; material conditions of existence 19; mauvaise conscience 27; memories 24; philosophy 16–17; polis 28, 31n6–2n6; post-discursive world 19; “pure being”/sincerity of existence 21; religious breath 30; responsibility 28, 29; signification 17, 23–4; social relations 17; timeless 17, 18; violence 22; will to truth 25; world in temporal and spatial terms 18; zone of indistinction 19–20 Roas, D. 112 Robert, H. 141 Roman criminal law 15 Romero, G.A. 7, 159, 161 Rose, J. 206 Roth, V. 138 ruination 122–3 Ruinenwerttheorie 141 ruins: antique 139; artificial ruins 143–4; Brooklyn Bridge 147–8; cognitive estrangement 140–1; contemporary ruins 142–3; exoticisation 139; functions 140; liberty in 144–8; London 148–9; modern historical consciousness 141–2; monuments/buildings 149–50; neoclassical ruins 151; prosaic present 143; reactionary implications 143; romanticism 138, 139; Ruinenwerttheorie 141; science fiction 140–1; Statue of Liberty 144–7; Sydney 151; as symbols 139;

Index  227 time, history and the architecture 142; verdant cities 148–51 Russian Cosmism 10; brotherhood of men 93; Christian resurrection 94–5; concept 91; cure for death 96; Fedorovian Readings 97; future science 92, 95; future technology 98; immortality 93; intellectual movements 97; Judgement Day 94; life and death 91, 96; in literature 96–8; philosophical issues 92–3; radical 94; radical expansion of human experience 91; reanimation of dead 93; science fiction 97–8; travel to space 95; universal unity 93–4; see also Futu.re (Dmitry Glukhovsky, 2013) Ruvalcaba, D. 116 Saga (2012) 52, 61–2 Sambell, K. 204 Sánchez, H. 111 Sapir, E. 174 Sargent, L.T. 46 satiric utopias 78 Schomburg, A. 144 science fiction 138 Science Fiction (SF) 47, 48 Seed, D. 78 semantic domains: global nature 194, 194–5; human spark 193; keywords 189; log-likelihood score 190, 190; parser 191; pre-9/11 and post-9/11 texts 195–6, 196; received ideas about nature 195, 195–6; subgenres 191–2; symbolic sensory organ 193–4; type-token ratio (TTR) comparisons 197, 197; Wmatrix tool 189–90 Shaun Tan 71 Shelley, M. 6, 8, 138, 149 Shippey, T. 146 sicarios 11; criminal organisations 110; definition 107; femicides 116; gender difference 109–10; homicide 109; hypermasculinity 110–11, 115; militarisation and professionalisation 110; narcocorridos 106–7, 119n6; organised crime 110; poverty 111; professional assassin 106, 118n5–19n5; violence and aggression 109–10

Sicart, M. 125 Simmel, G. 142, 152 Sirkin, M. 110 Si volviesen sus majestades (Ignacio Padilla, 1996) 106 The Slynx (2000) 101 Smail, D. 37 Smith, T. 128 societal structures 5 Sontag, S. 143 Sorokin, V. 101 Space, Place and Gender (Doreen Massey, 1994) 18 space travel 102–3 species hybridity 9–10 Speculative Fiction 1, 6 Spooner, C. 158 Stallabrass, J. 133, 134 Staples, F. 52, 65 Starobinski, J. 147 Statue of Liberty: in disrepair 146; iconicity 146; in ruins 145–6; symbolism 144; values and norms 146 Staudt, K. 115 Stead, N. 134 Stewart, G.R. 148, 150 The Strain (del Toro and Hogan, 2009, 2010, 2011) 12, 157; braindead zombies/hungries 173–4; characters 165; dehumanisation 167–8, 174–5; deictic expression 167, 168; empathy 171, 172; generic term 174–5; humanisation process 172–3; human pronouns 165–7, 170; level of animacy/ humanness 169; metalinguistic 173; non-consistent use of pronouns 170; non-human pronouns 166–7, 171–2; noun phrase 170; possessive pronouns 170; pronoun-switching 171–2; pronoun use 165–75; subjective pronouns 170; transformation 168–9; vampiric Master 165, 177n5; zombie apocalypse 165; zombie children 173 stylometry 181 Survivors (1975–1977) 8 Suvin, D.R. 46, 140 Svartvik, J. 157 Sweet Tooth (2010) 52–3, 56, 58, 64

228 Index The Terminator (1984) 8 Theses on the Philosophy of History 122 3%: anticipatory knowledge 34–6; capitalist realism 36–7, 43; the Cause 40–2; contemporary knowledge 35, 43; cut-throat competition 39–40; fragile hope 40–2; hope 33–4, 36; magic voluntarism 37; Offshore society and the Process 35–42; optimism vs. optimalism 37; postmodern culture 43; sense of possibilities 34; social Darwinism 40; superstitious trust 38; survival of the fittest 39–40, 43; utopian thought 33, 38 The Time Machine (H.G. Wells, 1895) 7, 131 Tolstaya, T. 101 traditional dystopia 46 transgressive utopian dystopias 46 trans-human 57 Trauerspiel 123, 131 Tsing, A.L. 70 Tsiolkovsky, K. 10, 92–3, 95–6 12 Monkeys (1995) 8 type-token ratio (TTR) comparisons 197, 197 ultraviolence 109 ‘Ultimate Boon’ 202, 213 universal strife-rot 81 utopia 5, 7, 33, 38 utopian idealism 49–50 Valencia, S. 109 vampires 158; see also zombies Vaughan, B. 52 video games: abject ruin of civilisation 127; allegorical formation of fragments 123–4; allegorical image 134; Angel of History 135–6; capitalism and American civilisation 121; catastrophe and apocalypse 126–7, 133; catastrophic currents of global change 128–9; creative/ destructive nature of play 132–3; design of assets 133; digital simulations 133–4; end of the world 127; field of action 133; historical temporality and linearity 124; modern ruin imaginary 124; nostalgic post-apocalypse 135;

nuclear apocalypse 121–2; player as hero 122; post-apocalyptic imaginary 122, 127–8; postmodern historical consciousness 127; Psychic City 125; recognisable ruin-tropes 123; representational capacities and quality of 124–5; retro-futuristic aesthetics 121; reversal 135; ruination 122–3; ruined cities 121, 126; sublime and disordered balance 125–6; Surrealist technique of reversal 135; vertical sublime 128; see also Fallout 3 Vint, S. 36, 51 Voights, 47 Volf, M. 43 Volney 141 Volpi, J. 106 Vril-ya: absolute rule 84–5; aesthetics 85; agonistic modes 83–4; aristocratic horror 80–1; authoritarianism and conformity 82; capacity 85; Darwinian future 83; democracy 81; European aristocrat reasoning 82–3; extraordinary creation 74–5; fantasises 81; idle conformity 80; inhuman 85; pragmatic autocracy 86–7; ridiculousness 79–80; social order 84–5; social reform 86; society 79; universal strife-rot 81; vril power 84 Wales, K. 157, 160, 163, 164, 166, 167 The Walking Dead (2003–) 7 The Walking Dead (Darabont, 2010–) 161 Waller, A. 207 Warm Bodies (Levine, 2013) 161 Warner, M. 209 The War of the Worlds (H.G. Wells, 1898) 7 The Waves (Virginia Woolf) 181 Weber, E. 204 Weinstock, J.A. 159 Weisman, A. 142 Wells, H.G. 7 What Is It Like to Be a Bat (Thomas Nagel, 1979) 64 Why Look at Animals? 54, 56 Wmatrix tool 189–90

Index  229 Wolfe, C. 57 Wood, N. 206 Woodson, L. 25 Woolf, V. 181 World War Z (Brooks, 2006) 174, 175 Wyndham, J. 8, 148 Yamamoto hypothesis of Animacy and Reference 159–60 Yamamoto, M. 12, 162, 163 Young Adult (YA) fiction 204, 205 Y the Last Man (2002–2008) 8 Z Nation (Engler & Schaefer, 2014–2018) 161, 173 The Zombie Bible (Litore) 172 zombies 7, 11–12; Animacy and Reference hypothesis 159–60;

animacy vs. inanimacy 161–2; binary nature 159; decapitation 176; dehumanisation 160–1; disaster fiction 159; empathy concept 160, 162; “higher” and “lower” animals 160; Individuation scale 163, 163; linguistic forms and descriptions 164; mass murder 160; modern zombie 158–9, 177n2; monstrosity concept 176; monstrous Other 158, 159; non-specific indefinite forms 175–6; pronominalisation 157, 164; subjective and possessive pronouns 164; Undead concept 164; see also The Strain (del Toro and Hogan, 2009) zoontology 58