The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks
February 2019
This novel has kept appearing in every list of controversial books I've researched online a few years back, and when I finally got my hands on a copy, I should have been more excited to immediately dive in. Alas, I had too many books I wanted to prioritize first, so I decided to come back to this on a later date. And so here I am, two months into the new year, and a couple of other things also occurred in my life that affected the frequency in which I read and consumed books. 'Book Diets' was a trend I started for myself since 2014, which coincided with the time I first joined Goodreads community as well. I remember being equal parts insatiable and ravenous to read and read and write about what I've read through the reviews which I've collected in four separate book blogs.
I can pinpoint to the moment I started to read less and that was midway through 2017 when my interests have been inevitably pulled to writing for Twitter roleplay, which meant there was less time for me to indulge in consuming literature. Still, I wanted to get back on track again because I'm a believer that a well-balanced schedule consisting of work, hobbies and passions should keep someone of my temperament sane and sociable. Hence my decision of picking up after slacking off for so long. And what better way to open the Book Diet for 2019 than Iain Bank's intriguing box of horrors and epiphanies entitled The Wasp Factory? |
Before I begin reading this book, I had to browse through a few reviews from mutual friends at GR and found that the reception was a mixed bag. Let me state here foremost before we go through the rest of the review that I absolutely thought that this book was phenomenal, but that is only when parts of the story are taken separately. There's a lot at work here, layers that should be peeled off in order to appreciate how much their bulk weighed on the grander scheme of the narrative itself. At its core, The Wasp Factory is an ontological horror that lent itself many subtleties in spite of the brute force in which the anti-hero wielded his malice that was as homegrown as the rest of his assorted weapons of intimate destruction.
The book has less than two-hundred pages in length (187, I think, with the copy I have here). True enough, the first few chapters did meander for a while, given Banks' rather bare prose that reads quite analytical and sparse in its sentiment. Written in the first-person point of view of the eighteen-year old Frank Cauldhame, The Wasp Factory delved on the psychology of someone who had been mutilated at a young age, and how much of that trauma pushed him to commit heinous acts of violence. I actually struggled to keep going five chapters in, because of how unexpectedly dry Banks' style was the entire time, but I was fascinated by certain passages and Frank himself nonetheless, so I held my ground and kept reading.
My patience and anticipation were soon rewarded by graphic details of stomach-churning child murders committed by no other than a child himself. Now, don't get me wrong, I wasn't delighted in a sadistic sense; my interest was more objective. As a writer, I was impressed of the caliber in which Banks wrote these scenes. He didn't go overboard and even chose to tackle the route by having Frank come off both callous and innocent as he looked back on the thought process of his murders. I met each passage narrating this with wry indignation that also masked my more gritty amusement. As woeful as I am to admit it, I like the curtailed style Banks employed as he told what should have been emotional scenes of children losing their lives. It established Frank as a cold-blooded yet also naive young killer at his prime, and enhanced the unsettling feeling a reader will readily associate with any character who comes across as devoid of humanity yet also dangerously close to mimicking it enough that they become so compelling to understand.
With that said, I can see why several readers' reviews of this book at GR discredited the novel as a whole based on the scenes that portrayed the senselessness in the motivations of a budding sociopath like Frank as he targeted his younger brother and cousins alike. It just feels so uniquely hollow, to read things like that because it calls into question how moral relativity can fuck us over as an individual. Yes, the child murders were a lot to sit through, especially if you're someone who is easily uncomfortable with violent depictions of young people dying.
But that's the thing too; Banks never explicitly described the details in a way that sensationalizes the killings themselves, which means that, to an average fan of fore, the chapters themselves don't give them enough of that rush. These kind of 'ghoulish' readers who actually partake a lot in stories that do have gore elements (and may even be desensitized to it) will not find Banks' delivery shocking or gruesome enough, and will also rightfully dismiss the novel as a farce because they can always find books (sequential art like manga or comics) that can do it better.
Look, I know what I'm talking about. I was a ghoul of a reader too because horror is my most favorite genre to this day; and the more fucked-up a story is, the better I can savor the depravity. But I suppose becoming older has curtailed that appetite too.
In that sense, the readers' reception for the horror and violence in The Wasp Factory sits precariously in the middle in which you're either turned off by it, or you aren't, say turned on enough. I personally thought that such a sensitive subject matter was handled well by the author without sacrificing the quality and diminishing the impact of the crimes themselves through over-the-top showmanship. To me, real horror lies on how the mind processes the violence rather than the acts committed. Nothing is more frightening than a young mind like Frank's, that has yet to develop cognitively alongside the range of emotional intelligence he never got to grow either because of mitigating circumstances of his past.
And that's another issue that Banks presented near the end of the novel's conclusion; a surprise twist that felt just a tad rushed to me even if it does fit the overall arc Frank's character was going. It would be a complete spoiler if I talk about it here, but let's just say I would have preferred Banks used his gift for subtlety again in those very last paragraphs since they came off somewhat too on-the-nose. But I digress.
The most memorable part of The Wasp Factory was the eponymous vessel itself, a craftsmanship of haunting quality where Frank would entrap insects (specifically wasps) and watch as they try to fight for their lives through the many chambers allotted within the mechanism. An entire chapter celebrated this invention in all its macabre glory. There's something to be said about Banks' deft descriptions of it that truly made it come alive in the reader's mind. Someone actually recreated the factory itself, and it's just as brutal and barbaric as it's supposed to function, but nevertheless a work of art:
The book has less than two-hundred pages in length (187, I think, with the copy I have here). True enough, the first few chapters did meander for a while, given Banks' rather bare prose that reads quite analytical and sparse in its sentiment. Written in the first-person point of view of the eighteen-year old Frank Cauldhame, The Wasp Factory delved on the psychology of someone who had been mutilated at a young age, and how much of that trauma pushed him to commit heinous acts of violence. I actually struggled to keep going five chapters in, because of how unexpectedly dry Banks' style was the entire time, but I was fascinated by certain passages and Frank himself nonetheless, so I held my ground and kept reading.
My patience and anticipation were soon rewarded by graphic details of stomach-churning child murders committed by no other than a child himself. Now, don't get me wrong, I wasn't delighted in a sadistic sense; my interest was more objective. As a writer, I was impressed of the caliber in which Banks wrote these scenes. He didn't go overboard and even chose to tackle the route by having Frank come off both callous and innocent as he looked back on the thought process of his murders. I met each passage narrating this with wry indignation that also masked my more gritty amusement. As woeful as I am to admit it, I like the curtailed style Banks employed as he told what should have been emotional scenes of children losing their lives. It established Frank as a cold-blooded yet also naive young killer at his prime, and enhanced the unsettling feeling a reader will readily associate with any character who comes across as devoid of humanity yet also dangerously close to mimicking it enough that they become so compelling to understand.
With that said, I can see why several readers' reviews of this book at GR discredited the novel as a whole based on the scenes that portrayed the senselessness in the motivations of a budding sociopath like Frank as he targeted his younger brother and cousins alike. It just feels so uniquely hollow, to read things like that because it calls into question how moral relativity can fuck us over as an individual. Yes, the child murders were a lot to sit through, especially if you're someone who is easily uncomfortable with violent depictions of young people dying.
But that's the thing too; Banks never explicitly described the details in a way that sensationalizes the killings themselves, which means that, to an average fan of fore, the chapters themselves don't give them enough of that rush. These kind of 'ghoulish' readers who actually partake a lot in stories that do have gore elements (and may even be desensitized to it) will not find Banks' delivery shocking or gruesome enough, and will also rightfully dismiss the novel as a farce because they can always find books (sequential art like manga or comics) that can do it better.
Look, I know what I'm talking about. I was a ghoul of a reader too because horror is my most favorite genre to this day; and the more fucked-up a story is, the better I can savor the depravity. But I suppose becoming older has curtailed that appetite too.
In that sense, the readers' reception for the horror and violence in The Wasp Factory sits precariously in the middle in which you're either turned off by it, or you aren't, say turned on enough. I personally thought that such a sensitive subject matter was handled well by the author without sacrificing the quality and diminishing the impact of the crimes themselves through over-the-top showmanship. To me, real horror lies on how the mind processes the violence rather than the acts committed. Nothing is more frightening than a young mind like Frank's, that has yet to develop cognitively alongside the range of emotional intelligence he never got to grow either because of mitigating circumstances of his past.
And that's another issue that Banks presented near the end of the novel's conclusion; a surprise twist that felt just a tad rushed to me even if it does fit the overall arc Frank's character was going. It would be a complete spoiler if I talk about it here, but let's just say I would have preferred Banks used his gift for subtlety again in those very last paragraphs since they came off somewhat too on-the-nose. But I digress.
The most memorable part of The Wasp Factory was the eponymous vessel itself, a craftsmanship of haunting quality where Frank would entrap insects (specifically wasps) and watch as they try to fight for their lives through the many chambers allotted within the mechanism. An entire chapter celebrated this invention in all its macabre glory. There's something to be said about Banks' deft descriptions of it that truly made it come alive in the reader's mind. Someone actually recreated the factory itself, and it's just as brutal and barbaric as it's supposed to function, but nevertheless a work of art:
So, what are my final thoughts for this book? Well, I would recommend it, but not to everyone I know. I'll probably handpick only a few who I think will like the darkness enclosed in the pages. If you can look past the crimes and themes that the book tackled, then I suppose you may even find humor in the situations that surrounded Frank especially after he was forced to confront the truth about his person in the end. Did Wasp Factory deserve to be listed as a controversial book? Absolutely. I don't think I would read anything like this story in prose form again, nor will I ever want to again. For what it's worth, the book can spark certain discussions concerning gender crisis and child formation during early years. How does a child lose his or her innocence, and what is the cost of that? How do you reconcile with a child who displays symptoms of depravity like this and where should the healing and rehabilitation begin? Are people who are spiritually impoverished and morally inept born or made? As Banks himself concluded for Frank:
❝Believing in my great hurt, it seems to me that I took life in a sense too seriously, and the lives of others, for the same reason, too lightly. Our destination is the same in the end, but our journey--part chosen, part determined--is different for us all, and changes even as we live and grow.❞
❝Believing in my great hurt, it seems to me that I took life in a sense too seriously, and the lives of others, for the same reason, too lightly. Our destination is the same in the end, but our journey--part chosen, part determined--is different for us all, and changes even as we live and grow.❞
Song of Kali by Dan Simmons
April 2019
Life is an ongoing struggle between hope and despair; one often prevails yet the other consumes without mercy or reprieve nonetheless. In Dan Simmons' Song of Kali, his own characters and readers alike walk a tight rope with an almost naive understanding of the depths that awaited them below. One false move, and they're falling straight into a pit of horrors.
What this novel mainly has going for itself is how it utilized one of my favorite and understated literary tools in fiction; a searing depiction of the time and place which the story is enacted upon. You see, I find that setting is so easy to dismiss as an element of storytelling unless the scope is cinematic, just like in films when setting is used either as context or a major piece that sets the tone of the entire narrative. In books, however, setting becomes very distinguishable which depends on the author's caliber to deliver the goods. Simmons is one such writer, whose uncompromising and unflinching look at Calcutta in India has turned the city itself a main character for the book. Said city has inspired countless of poetry from its natives, with a rich tapestry of emotion and insight that ranged from shock, disgust, reverence, melancholy and hardly affection. Each chapter even begins with quotes from said poems, that added to the pervasive mystique that Calcutta is engulfed with. |
There is nothing glamorous about this city, no. It's rife with cultural and religious conflicts, as steeped as its areas of squalor are in monsoon and shit. Daring to venture Calcutta meant abandoning hope, and the husband and wife characters Robert and Amrita Luczak will find that the hard way.
After a decision to pursue an assignment about an infamous Indian poet named Das (who disappeared), editor and literary enthusiast Robert Luczak brought his wife Amrita along as his translator, all while their one-year old infant Victoria stayed with them. His wife was a brilliant mathematician who migrated from Delhi to London when she was just a girl, and was fluent in a lot of the dialects from her homeland. She assisted Robert in the communication aspect of their trip, but even with her very calm and composed personality and sparkling intelligence, she herself was intimidated by the elusive Calcutta and the secrets it hoarded. Robert, on the other hand, was determined to find Das and get his hands on the manuscript of new poems.
They encountered some unpleasantness on the way, however, the more Calcutta was cut open before their very eyes, and each layer that was unraveled served chilled their souls. This novel is a horror fiction after all, but the suspense the story was wrapped up in is so meticulously well-paced it lulled you to seek solace in spite of the dread. It had stomach-churning surprises in the most unforgettable scenes of the book, like a predator patiently watching from the shadows until the prey loses its self-awareness and let its guard down at the most heart-stopping last second.
After a decision to pursue an assignment about an infamous Indian poet named Das (who disappeared), editor and literary enthusiast Robert Luczak brought his wife Amrita along as his translator, all while their one-year old infant Victoria stayed with them. His wife was a brilliant mathematician who migrated from Delhi to London when she was just a girl, and was fluent in a lot of the dialects from her homeland. She assisted Robert in the communication aspect of their trip, but even with her very calm and composed personality and sparkling intelligence, she herself was intimidated by the elusive Calcutta and the secrets it hoarded. Robert, on the other hand, was determined to find Das and get his hands on the manuscript of new poems.
They encountered some unpleasantness on the way, however, the more Calcutta was cut open before their very eyes, and each layer that was unraveled served chilled their souls. This novel is a horror fiction after all, but the suspense the story was wrapped up in is so meticulously well-paced it lulled you to seek solace in spite of the dread. It had stomach-churning surprises in the most unforgettable scenes of the book, like a predator patiently watching from the shadows until the prey loses its self-awareness and let its guard down at the most heart-stopping last second.
❝I find in my own country here an ingrained racism that's probably beyond current comparison. I find here that the nonviolent philosophy which I was raised in and feel most comfortable with continues to be shattered by deliberate and callous acts of savagery by its proponents.❞
Readers will also feel themselves not only transported into this dangerous world, but also feel as if they are the tourists themselves navigating dim-lit streets without gagging over the stench of unimaginable poverty, or getting trampled by the heat-soaked desperation of the beggars during noon, who would rob them of their money, if not take something even more precious than that. The growing magnitude of Robert Luczak's misadventures reached a deafening crescendo when he realized that there's more to Das' disappearance than a simple case of possible abduction or suicide.
I don't want to provide any more definitive spoilers, but I will say that the atmosphere of this novel gave off the same vibes as the first season of HBO's True Detective; there was a nihilistic quality in how the characters in the background are portrayed next to the city that makes a prey of them, and how almost every dialogue and scene had a palpable tension that was consistently exploited by the author to make readers feel as if they're being driven to a corner too, forced to embrace the shadows that want to gulp them whole. It was not surprising, for this story was all about the forces beyond human comprehension, and the heinous things humans can do to one another in the name of gods and power.
Robert was looking for a poet and instead was found by a cult who called themselves Kaplikas, worshipers of the terrifying goddess Kali, who wanted him to personally deliver a message to the world at large. There was a rather steep price for crossing paths with them, hell, for being in Calcutta in the first place, and both husband and wife realized this too late and were forever changed by such harrowing circumstances.
Ultimately, however, the message of Song of Kali was more aligned with the latest season of True Detective. It may have the same trappings of existentialist angst of its predecessor, but that third season was a sublime affirmation of finding hope against the most insurmountable of odds. This book concluded with that important sentiment too. Simmons caused his characters an irreparable heartache by the end of the novel and, in turn, had the readers bore the full weight of that sorrow, but isn't it true that it's only in the midst of pain and adversity that hope finally reveals itself to us?
To me, a work of horror fiction truly excels among others when it can convey a silver lining from all that darkness; that in spite of the fear and the loss of self and even the violation of innocence, that we can all prevail and learn to live another day. In most of the familiar stories we know from this genre, there's a strong-willed woman who defeats the monster who murdered her friends, a vengeful who ghost either finds closure or is exorcised, then a family copes and heals, or a killer on-the-loose was brought to justice whilst the victims sought one another to patch up what was torn from them.
The reason I love horror stories so much is not really because I like the cheap thrills of being scared out of my seat by a well-timed tactic or get queasy due to realistic special effects during gore scenes, but mainly because I had been scared and scarred at a few points in my life where I had to deal with a darkness, and a horror story or film forces me to confront that trauma. If it's well-written enough, such a story could even help me rise above my fears.
I believe that was the point of stories like Song of Kali; we are all afraid of monsters, real or imagined, and it's only by going through a journey of scares and torture and grief that we discover how much bigger we are than these demons and that we can survive them, even when all hope seems forever lost.
I don't want to provide any more definitive spoilers, but I will say that the atmosphere of this novel gave off the same vibes as the first season of HBO's True Detective; there was a nihilistic quality in how the characters in the background are portrayed next to the city that makes a prey of them, and how almost every dialogue and scene had a palpable tension that was consistently exploited by the author to make readers feel as if they're being driven to a corner too, forced to embrace the shadows that want to gulp them whole. It was not surprising, for this story was all about the forces beyond human comprehension, and the heinous things humans can do to one another in the name of gods and power.
Robert was looking for a poet and instead was found by a cult who called themselves Kaplikas, worshipers of the terrifying goddess Kali, who wanted him to personally deliver a message to the world at large. There was a rather steep price for crossing paths with them, hell, for being in Calcutta in the first place, and both husband and wife realized this too late and were forever changed by such harrowing circumstances.
Ultimately, however, the message of Song of Kali was more aligned with the latest season of True Detective. It may have the same trappings of existentialist angst of its predecessor, but that third season was a sublime affirmation of finding hope against the most insurmountable of odds. This book concluded with that important sentiment too. Simmons caused his characters an irreparable heartache by the end of the novel and, in turn, had the readers bore the full weight of that sorrow, but isn't it true that it's only in the midst of pain and adversity that hope finally reveals itself to us?
To me, a work of horror fiction truly excels among others when it can convey a silver lining from all that darkness; that in spite of the fear and the loss of self and even the violation of innocence, that we can all prevail and learn to live another day. In most of the familiar stories we know from this genre, there's a strong-willed woman who defeats the monster who murdered her friends, a vengeful who ghost either finds closure or is exorcised, then a family copes and heals, or a killer on-the-loose was brought to justice whilst the victims sought one another to patch up what was torn from them.
The reason I love horror stories so much is not really because I like the cheap thrills of being scared out of my seat by a well-timed tactic or get queasy due to realistic special effects during gore scenes, but mainly because I had been scared and scarred at a few points in my life where I had to deal with a darkness, and a horror story or film forces me to confront that trauma. If it's well-written enough, such a story could even help me rise above my fears.
I believe that was the point of stories like Song of Kali; we are all afraid of monsters, real or imagined, and it's only by going through a journey of scares and torture and grief that we discover how much bigger we are than these demons and that we can survive them, even when all hope seems forever lost.
❝The Song of Kali is with us. It has been with us for a very long time. Its chorus grows and grows and grows.
But there are other voices to be heard. There are other songs to be sung.❞
But there are other voices to be heard. There are other songs to be sung.❞
Evil and the Mask by Fuminori Nakamura
August 2019
❝That's how humans have been since the very beginning, creatures with the potential for evil. Even though they are fundamentally designed not to kill their own kind, they are also able to contemplate entering that forbidden territory, to possess passions of all kinds.❞
One night, a patriarch of an influential Japanese family talked to his son whom he treated less of a person and more of an extension and eventual fulfillment of his most malevolent ambition. He told the boy Fumihiro that his fate is to become a 'disease' which meant he will commit heinous things that aim towards tainting humanity. Nihilism is a family tradition, apparently. It was a legacy that has fallen on the shoulders of all the men sired in their family, going back as far as a few generations. It simply must be done, for that is the purpose of the boy's birth to begin with.
The boy Fumihiro would remember this conversation years later during his adolescence. In fact, it understandably consumed him as he tries to make sense of these seeds of darkness that, according to his father, were genetically implanted. His formative years were comparably average, given that ominous prophecy, as he navigated the usual struggles of identity, budding romantic feelings for a girl he grew up alongside with, and plans for the future beyond what his cruel father wanted for him. |
What I find very fascinating in Evil and the Mask's narrative was how its premise was almost a subversion of the nature vs. nurture argument. In a few of the stories that resembled this set-up somewhat (notable popular examples are Darkly Dreaming Dexter and We Need to Talk about Kevin), the parent does his or her best to raise a damaged child by incorporating morally driven guidelines or at least helping the child curb the latent sadistic and/or homicidal tendencies. The story for this book is on the opposite end of that spectrum since it deals with the fact that a parent actually wants the child to be evil, to perpetuate crimes against humanity which was why the patriarch here normalizes deviant behaviors that he hopes his son would manifest.
Told in the first-person perspective of the astute and intelligent Fumihiro, the book jumped back and forth between the present and the past in which certain key events fleshed out and enriched the protagonist's inner world and how often he rebelled against this macabre path that his father wanted him to succeed in. The readers also uncovered clues and secrets with Fumihiro regarding his awful family, all while he portrayed himself (both intentionally and not) as a kind hybrid individual torn between binary moral constrictions yet also seeing past such limitations in order to form a sense of control over the turbulence his life became the more the decay that has plagued his soul worsens. The one person who anchors him to his humanity was Kaori, his childhood friend and highschool sweetheart. They became estranged later on, however, though his connection with her meant that she's bound to get into trouble one way or another, due to people who would exploit her relationship with Fumihiro's family as a means to an end.
The book dealt with the subtle complexities of trauma, and how long-lasting psychological effects can create this bottomless loss of control in a person on top of a shaky identity and self-worth. Fumihiro was insightful and earnest over the course of the narrative; his sheer understanding of human nature and people's predilections towards misdeeds make him anticipate the behaviors of others, although the real mystery he desperately wants to solve was the enigma that made up his own conflict. There were times in the book, squeezed into pages of tension and suspense, that readers will glimpse a sympathetic side to Fumihiro, though more often than not these moments are immediately undercut by the disconcerting actions he is capable of for the sake of outmaneuvering bigger monsters. He plays the game well, even though he's also aware that winning such a thing would only turn him darker.
Told in the first-person perspective of the astute and intelligent Fumihiro, the book jumped back and forth between the present and the past in which certain key events fleshed out and enriched the protagonist's inner world and how often he rebelled against this macabre path that his father wanted him to succeed in. The readers also uncovered clues and secrets with Fumihiro regarding his awful family, all while he portrayed himself (both intentionally and not) as a kind hybrid individual torn between binary moral constrictions yet also seeing past such limitations in order to form a sense of control over the turbulence his life became the more the decay that has plagued his soul worsens. The one person who anchors him to his humanity was Kaori, his childhood friend and highschool sweetheart. They became estranged later on, however, though his connection with her meant that she's bound to get into trouble one way or another, due to people who would exploit her relationship with Fumihiro's family as a means to an end.
The book dealt with the subtle complexities of trauma, and how long-lasting psychological effects can create this bottomless loss of control in a person on top of a shaky identity and self-worth. Fumihiro was insightful and earnest over the course of the narrative; his sheer understanding of human nature and people's predilections towards misdeeds make him anticipate the behaviors of others, although the real mystery he desperately wants to solve was the enigma that made up his own conflict. There were times in the book, squeezed into pages of tension and suspense, that readers will glimpse a sympathetic side to Fumihiro, though more often than not these moments are immediately undercut by the disconcerting actions he is capable of for the sake of outmaneuvering bigger monsters. He plays the game well, even though he's also aware that winning such a thing would only turn him darker.
❝When people believe they have a good cause, the violence within them bursts forth unrestrained,
as if their good angel has given permission for it to escape. Basically, that's how wars are started.❞
as if their good angel has given permission for it to escape. Basically, that's how wars are started.❞
There were a few more subplots going on in this book aside from the character study of its protagonist, and the author deserves to be commended for managing to make a coherent picture out of such pieces that don't truly fit well enough to make sense either way. At certain points the momentum of the storytelling will stall, almost like an amateur cinematographer zooming in and out and panning left and right to gloss over details that seemed cumbersome. It does pick up eventually when the story needs to unravel some more, but these tiny pauses hover uncomfortably nevertheless, a bleak reminder that even the ordinary and commonplace can be a breeding ground for pain and cruelty.
Indeed there were more than a few passages that sent a chill down the spine, particularly in how Fumihiro conveyed his understanding of evil, in context of how his father opened his eyes to it and, later on, one of his brothers will reinforce its brutality. Melancholia was something the author was prone to indulge in, but he does so in careful doses that such an emotion only highlights the hollow desire of the wicked men portrayed in this book, so besotted they are with their own distorted version of reality in which violence seemed to be the only way they can communicate and even love.
On the other hand, Fumihiro's yearning for something other than a path of destruction is a turmoil we had all felt and gone through. He's been twisted into this version of monster the men in his family wanted, but he wrestled with that time and time again, even if the price was to become constantly vigilant of the darkness that threatens to turn him worse. I think Evil and the Mask's existential scope was complex but not too difficult to understand. Its elegant prose managed to address issues concerning moral relativity and the debatable definitions and aspects surrounding a sociopath that make such individuals in its spectrum a considerably intriguing study. Fumihiro, to me, is one, but there's more to his person than just simply evil.
My only gripe was possibly the way the female characters were written overall. Kaori was functional as Fumihiro's muse and moral foil. She didn't feel fully realized as her own person outside this sphere of relevance, though I cannot entirely accuse her as a mere plot device either. Perhaps the usage of first person simply limited her characterization this way, because Fumihiro was the reader's gateway to this world foremost, and we all know that unreliable narrators tend to happen when it comes to most character studies. It would have been interesting to learn more about her since she was a victim herself, physically and psychologically abused by Fumihiro's father, and readers can only speculate how that shaped her individuality from girl to woman.
❝People would probably tell me I still had a lot to look forward to.
But my youthful heart, which had experienced great joy and the torments of hell,
couldn't untangle the events and order them neatly.
They settled inside me, and as I grew old, they would warp me even more.❞
But my youthful heart, which had experienced great joy and the torments of hell,
couldn't untangle the events and order them neatly.
They settled inside me, and as I grew old, they would warp me even more.❞
In summary, I believe that Evil and the Mask is a memorable exploration of the complex tapestry that makes up people's flaws and triumphs, particularly the limiting scope of what is defined collectively as good and evil. It featured a character struggling endlessly with his dark compulsions in favor of finding a glimmer of light and beauty. The canvass that is the human experience is always painted with a burst of unexpected colors, alongside shades of gray, and yes, even the inevitable black that we often focus more on, in exclusion of everything else.
The absurdities and subtleties of the rational and intuitive
May 2020
I've always maintained that science fiction enables us to glimpse into the many shards of humanity as the writers of this genre do their best to put them together to create only the most moving and unforgettable portraits. I've only read two dozen books so far from SF Masterworks, but half of them could easily make it to some of my most favorite novels of all time. Isaac Asimov is an author in particular I've wanted to venture in for so long especially for his widely acclaimed Foundation series. However, I've decided to sample another work of his first, which was awarded with both Nebula and Hugo awards for Best Novel in 1972 and 73 respectively.
The title is based on a quote from the German play The Maid of Orleans by Friedrich Schiller: "Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens," which means, "Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain". This quote was divided to act as separate titles for the three parts this novel was spliced in. The first part, 'Against Stupidity' took us to Earth in the twenty-second century where a device called the Electron Pump has been invented years prior, credited to a radiochemist named Hallam who has garnered both enemies and begrudging allies because of his forceful personality and stubborn pride. The invention took place through a series of lucky odds, starting upon the discovery of a new type of plutonium which made it possible for humans to work with a more sustainable source source of energy. There were a few pesky caveats, of course. |
❝He believes in his fantasy, and fights for it with a diseased fury. He's a pygmy with one talent: the ability to convince others that he's a giant.❞
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First of all, this plutonium did not belong in our universe but rather in another parallel universe, whose species may be more advanced than ours. They, too, must have their own Pump in place, and wished to keep it functional by ensuring we have built our own, hence why they sent a sample of that plutonium. For a time, this exchange was beneficial for everyone involved, but a certain scientist named Lamont (who has an axe to grind with Hallam himself) began to uncover worrying flaws in the mechanism's purpose which involved the possibility that the continuous use of the Pump would inevitably destroy the sun and annihilate the planet. They communicated with the so-called 'para-men' a series of messages that convey this concern (with some language barriers that both species have yet to bridge the gap on), and from what they could glean in the scarce response, the para-men also alluded to the fact that destruction might indeed be the case. However, Lamont couldn't provide more substantial evidence so he didn't fare well in this pursuit.
What Asimov did was not merely focus on the pros and cons of such an invention; the bulk of this first part--which would be a recurring theme across the entirety of the novel itself--is the personal politics involved in the scientific community for no institution of power is a monolith, and how one must make difficult decisions whether or not to pursue higher altruism for the sake of serving and saving humanity, which often comes with steep prices such as ridicule and disrespect from colleagues whose opinions would determine the success or failure of such an altruistic pursuit to begin with.
Evil vs. Good in such black and white terms is not the battle that Asimov presented across the conflicts that were tackled in this book, but rather every human being's ongoing struggle towards change and enlightenment. Whether it's about acknowledging that a crisis is happening rather than just ignoring the repercussions completely, or coming to terms that there are more things that hold weight aside from personal ambition, revenge, and convenience of a status quo, Asimov called attention to the fact that it's not always evil men with bad blood who could doom us. In fact, it's good intentions clashing with irrational fears present from the most ordinary citizens to our esteemed leaders that could do more damage to our society, all in the name of resisting hard realities and even harder truths that come with true progress. In The Gods Themselves, Asimov took the time to hold up this mirror to our souls, knowing that no matter how unpleasant the reflection may be, it's still an ugliness we must delve deeply into and overcome.
What Asimov did was not merely focus on the pros and cons of such an invention; the bulk of this first part--which would be a recurring theme across the entirety of the novel itself--is the personal politics involved in the scientific community for no institution of power is a monolith, and how one must make difficult decisions whether or not to pursue higher altruism for the sake of serving and saving humanity, which often comes with steep prices such as ridicule and disrespect from colleagues whose opinions would determine the success or failure of such an altruistic pursuit to begin with.
Evil vs. Good in such black and white terms is not the battle that Asimov presented across the conflicts that were tackled in this book, but rather every human being's ongoing struggle towards change and enlightenment. Whether it's about acknowledging that a crisis is happening rather than just ignoring the repercussions completely, or coming to terms that there are more things that hold weight aside from personal ambition, revenge, and convenience of a status quo, Asimov called attention to the fact that it's not always evil men with bad blood who could doom us. In fact, it's good intentions clashing with irrational fears present from the most ordinary citizens to our esteemed leaders that could do more damage to our society, all in the name of resisting hard realities and even harder truths that come with true progress. In The Gods Themselves, Asimov took the time to hold up this mirror to our souls, knowing that no matter how unpleasant the reflection may be, it's still an ugliness we must delve deeply into and overcome.
"ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀsɪᴇsᴛ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍis to deny it exists"
The second part, '...The Gods Themselves' focused on the 'para-men', or rather the species in this parallel universe that Earth became involved with unwittingly because of the Electron Pump. In this unnamed planet with its own unique ecosystem, there are two species called only the 'Hard Ones' and the 'Soft Ones'. While the Hard Ones were described to be formed as one fully developed entity individually (like humans in a way), the Soft Ones operate as three aspects for each sect known as Rationals, Emotionals, and Parentals. True to their namesakes, each part contributes to the triad depending on the function they were born with, particularly during sexual reproduction. Rationals and Parentals can only merge with an Emotional since they're the bridge in between that would allow a Rational to spread his seed into the Parental as the incubator. Asimov's descriptions of the sexual congress might get uncomfortable and amusing at the same time, considering that it barely resembles the human reproductive system, but I've enjoyed immensely the creativity and even symbolism involved in such a concept. It's definitely quite alien, devoid of the restrictions and morals which often become inseparable from the act when us humans beings have sex, since we engage in it without always considering the biological imperative of procreation.
This middle part of the book can be mind-boggling to some, but I find that this is probably the most engaging story Asimov had come up with for the novel precisely because it's bizarre and original. He crafted these species so different from ours (including the physics and chemistry of their world) to truly drive home that they would never have any kind of emotional stake with what could happen to our planet on the other side of the universe. However, the three Soft One characters presented here (Odeen the Rational, Dua the Emotional and Tritt the Parental) are sympathetic enough since they also resemble human qualities people possess in our world. Odeen the Rational loves to learn and finds more stimulation in the intellectual discourse he can share with the Hard Ones. Meanwhile, Tritt is only concerned with children and homemaking, finding his purpose in raising progeny then passing on.
The character I fiercely related to was Dua the Emotional, however. I'm not certain if Asimov was making a gendered specific argument when he wrote Dua's inner monologue in which she bemoaned the expectations of the triad from her as an Emotional, especially she felt more Rational just like her partner Odeen. But it's so sublime and poetic for me. There were several paragraphs in which I could see myself in Dua reflected back at me, particularly the fact that I've identified as a non-binary for as long as I could remember, even before I fortunately stumbled upon that term in my twenties. She was different from the rest, which she could feel at her very core, and therefore she could be difficult to handle during congress, much to Tritt's chagrin and Odeen's endless fascination. I also relate to her finding more joy in learning about the universe and how things work much like Odeen, and over the years I've come to despise it when people would tell me I can't do something on the 'virtue' that I was a woman. Socially and physiologically I might be, but I reject then and to this day the shackles that gender norms have imposed especially when they're outdated constructs.
Much like Dua, I have no interest in bearing children and raising them. It doesn't make our desires selfish or any less valid. Her relationship with Odeen also reminded me of how my father raised me, which was to say he never limited my freedom just because I was a girl in need of protection and gentility. It's probably why, much like Dua, I identify more with the masculine, but it's also complementary of the feminine aspects of mine that I define on my own terms, or often such traits don't even matter to me so long as I'm not being pigeonholed. Here is a quote that I think summarizes it:
"Why couldn't they teach her, then, as they had taught Odeen? Why only the Rationals?
Did she possess the capacity to learn only because she was a Left-Em, a perverted mid-ling?
Then let them teach her, perversion and all. It was wrong to leave her ignorant."
Did she possess the capacity to learn only because she was a Left-Em, a perverted mid-ling?
Then let them teach her, perversion and all. It was wrong to leave her ignorant."
I won't expound on what happens next to Odeen, Dua, and Tritt at this point because that would spoil the climactic reveal of the second part, but I will say that it was in that moment that this novel became a favorite of mine. The last installment is '...Contend in Vain?' with a notable question mark added. Rather than going back to Earth with the Electron Pump and the individuals in the scientific community concerned with the project, we instead travel to the Moon where a colony of new humans have either been born there or immigrated from Earth in the last part of the century.
A character only mentioned in bits and pieces in Against Stupidity became the center of this installment. Denison, a colleague of Hallam pre-Pump days and someone who's also been hailed more brilliant than the latter, wanted to live in the Moon after the disgrace he suffered when he tried to discredit the Electron Pump and warn the people of its dangerous effects of long-term use, way before Lamont took the mantle in a separate study. He met a Lunarite named Selene Lindstrom, who was no ordinary tour guide as will be later revealed in the succeeding pages. Together they learn how to work together as fellow humans--separated only by interplanetary customs and culture--in order to make a better, braver world for Earth and Moon subjects alike.
What follows here was a second shot at trying to prevent the Pump from further compromising their side of the universe, with its own set of caveats and resistance along the way just like the last time, of course. The opposing force is another physicist named Neville, who wanted to forego universal choice over a personal own. Humans are very fallible and will only ever learn either when the mountain of evidence supporting a claim is irrefutable, or when a disaster has struck and it's too late by then. Which outcome will it be for the people of the Earth and Moon? The only way to find out is to read the book!
It also occurred to me while reading this portion of the novel that Asimov has done a magnificent job when he juggled three separate yet interconnected narratives, with differing priorities and motivations among its chief characters for each section, and that it ultimately provided a breadth of clashing and complementary ideologies that make the themes of moral relativity and scientific responsibility resonate more as the pages go on. I also can't help but see layers of symbolism with the concept of trinity which was not only found in how the book was divided but also from the union of the Soft Ones as a triad configuration, and down to the characterizations of personalities among Hallam, Lamont, and Denison. Dua and Selene also mirror one another not only because they are the only two female characters in the book, but also because they were written to be the perfect blend of the rational and intuitive.
I've lived most of my life already, and I suppose I can argue myself into believing that I have no great cause to love humanity.
However, only a few people have hurt me, and ɪғ ɪ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴜɴᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ. "
However, only a few people have hurt me, and ɪғ ɪ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴜɴᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ. "
For the final part of the book, we could see that although Denison failed the first time back on Earth in helping his colleagues realize how dangerous the Pump can be, here he's more seasoned and wiser as shown in how he honors altruism above personal grudges. He does what all scientists must do when faced by the relentless ignorance of the majority, which is to shine a light of meaning in that darkness so truth and knowledge can prevail.