Posts Tagged ‘atwood’

I have to admit, I didn’t see the evil hour this book depicts, at first. It seems pretty normal: the town priest cares for the people and they care for him; the mayor has a toothache but is too proud to go to the dentist; the judge is determined to have sex three times a night even though his wife’s pregnancy is advancing; normal sorts of things. But as the book goes along, you start to see the cracks in society, the party lines, the weaknesses, the power structure, the discontent.

What’s happening is that there isn’t a single fortune in this country that doesn’t have some dead donkey behind it.

There are scandals in everyone’s lives, and the smaller the community, the fewer secrets people are permitted to have. In this community, though, things go beyond idle gossip. Someone starts writing the secrets on paper and posting them on people’s doorways.

“Justice,” the barber received him, “limps along, but it gets there all the same.”

There’s a poster-related death almost immediately, but for the most part, life goes on as it ever did. The posters only reflect the common gossip of the town; there are no real, shocking revelations. It’s a paradox that we in the United States don’t live with, but based on my own experience, it’s what happens in rural, poor South America – everyone is all up in everyone else’s business, but they don’t much care what people say about them, so long as it doesn’t end in violence. Perhaps it’s my experiences in Brazil that lead me to have this attitude: don’t do anything you’re going to be ashamed of, but if you do, face it and accept the consequences. These lampoons, these pasquinades, don’t bother most people that much, nor do they reveal much about the community or individuals. People who were circumspect before become even more so, but otherwise, it’s not that big a deal. For most.

The big deal is how the authorities in the town respond. The religious authority, Father Angel, is completely ineffectual. Some of the parishioners pressure him into writing a sermon about the pasquinades, but he wimps out at the last minute. He’s too afraid of conflict to resolve any of the actual issues. That sounds a lot like me, so I try not to judge too harshly.

It doesn’t seem to be God’s work, this business of trying so hard for so many years to cover people’s instinct with armor, knowing full well that underneath it all everything goes on the same.

This has always been my problem with religion. People are created one way, and then someone tries to make them something else. They surround people with rules to control their behavior, hoping to change them from the outside in. The only empirical evidence we have of God’s character is the personality of the people S/He created, and it’d be much more in line with the divine will to reveal and unfold that personality instead of twisting and pruning it. It would look more like loving God instead of finding fault with Her/His creation. I’ll admit that it’s a tricky business since people get so bent by the bad things that happen to them, but healing God’s children is a more worthy endeavor than torturing them with guilt. Especially things they may not feel guilty about.

There’s also the political authority. As I mentioned, the mayor and Judge Arcadio are two of the most important characters. But these aren’t the patriarchs that I think of when I hear these titles; they’re my age, or younger. The mayor especially is haunted by feelings of inadequacy and illegitimacy. People keep calling him Lieutenant – as time goes on, it becomes clear that the town is under martial law. The mayor is a soldier, not a politician, and he was appointed, not elected. He refuses to go to the dentist because the good doctor is on the opposing side. Eventually he decides to take a strong stand, instituting curfews, hiring extra “police officers,” guys who get pulled out of a bar and handed guns despite their complete lack of credentials. His poor decisions lead to a mass exodus; it’s implied that the community unmakes itself by the end of the story. I suppose it could be argued that the military not-really-mayor undoes it because he keeps the town in an unnatural state of things, a state of fear and the constant threat of danger.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, “getting up every morning with the certainty that they’re going to kill you and ten years pass without their killing you.”

“I don’t know,” Judge Arcadio admitted, “and I don’t want to know.”

“Do everything possible,” the barber said, “so that you’ll never know.”

I’m with the judge on this one. And the barber. Having been born in the United States to a white family, one of my privileges is that the government isn’t trying to kill me. Given that I’m gay and the homophobes are taking over my country, this privilege may not last forever, but I don’t think we’re becoming The Handmaid’s Tale overnight. This situation will change. I believe that people are good, and their collective better instincts will win in the end. Especially in the age of the Internet, when information spreads quickly and widely. It’s not an age of logic or enlightenment; emotions rule the day, and images provoke compassion. I’m still haunted by the pictures of that guy who got beat up in Paris a year or two ago. I don’t remember his name, but his face, with its blood and bruises, stays with me.

I’ve been passing through my own evil hour this summer. Last week he admitted that he’s not emotionally investing in me because he expects me to leave him and go back to the South. It was hard to hear, and I’m trying not to be hurt or paranoid about it, but it makes things simple. When it’s time, I’ll just go. I’m mentally preparing myself to move away, including moving away from him, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. I suppose I’m more callous than I like to believe. We’re living more like friends than lovers, and he has plenty of family to fill his time. More than he’d like; there’s a reason he doesn’t know how to love without manipulating and taking advantage of people. But as I said, it simplifies things. Very soon it will be time to go, and I doubt I’ll be coming back.

I think that I want to like Garcia Marquez more than I actually do. He’s a bit like Toni Morrison – terrible stories beautifully written. I need to focus my attention on more uplifting literature.

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I come from a large family of people who are not especially kind. When I was young, I got angry quite easily, but I recognized how powerless I was to vent my frustrations on my older siblings, so I’d grip my little hands into fists and turn red and grit my teeth until smoke poured out of my ears. Those older siblings enjoyed the show so much that they spent all their leisure time making me angry for no other purpose than to watch me get angry. What does a child learn from this? First, he learns to conceal his feelings. I was so adept at this that I myself didn’t know what I was feeling for most of my life. Now, I’m shy enough that when people meet me, I seem not to have any personality at all, so they project their opinions, desires, and prejudices onto me as if I were a tabula rasa. It gives me a chance to try being different people, but the real me always surfaces eventually, often to jarring effect.

Second, he learns that the world is an unfair place, inimical to his own interests. Those with power make others suffer with impunity, and those who are responsible for keeping him safe are either too busy with other matters, too indifferent, or too powerless to do any good. Life isn’t fair, and there’s nothing you can do about it. As I got older, I’d occasionally try to create some sort of justice, but I quickly discovered that I have no sense of proportion. Any attempt of mine to right the scales of justice leaves them leaning too far to the other side. When you don’t expect the world to be fair, you don’t try to make it fair. When injustice is normal, justice no longer seems like a goal worth reaching toward. As I’ve gotten along, I’ve tried to supplement my deficient sense of justice with moral rules, but everyone knows that rules only really matter in board games. This is why I try so hard to be kind; there’s a baseline of fairness that makes it possible for us to live in a society, that I am lacking. Though I often apply the principle inconsistently, I find kindness easier to manage, and I also find that people don’t mind if you’re unfair if you’re unfair in their favor.

I’ve enjoyed Margaret Atwood’s fiction for quite some time – The Blind Assassin was new when I first loved it – but this is the first nonfiction book of hers that I’ve read, and it is quite good. The reading goes very quickly, and the book takes stories and concepts that we are familiar with and presents them to us in a new light. Five chapters, forty pages each, but they don’t feel that long. If it were a novel, I’d try to read it as an Elizabethan drama, but it’s not a connected story. Well, maybe it is.

Part one, Ancient Balances. Humanity’s earliest laws governed the balancing of accounts, as did our earliest religions. The Egyptians believed that after death, a human heart was weighed against truth, and justice claimed the soul for either good or ill. This belief spread through the other pagan religions, as well as into Judaism and its descendants, Christianity and Islam. In fact, it seems to have predated our evolution into human beings, as primates also have an acute sense of justice. The interesting thing about justice, though, is that it’s always represented as being female. I think that it’s because our sense of justice comes from our mothers, the primary caregivers in most societies. My mother had too much of a temper to manage her children effectively; sometimes punishments were excessive, sometimes they were insufficient because they had been excessive, and sometimes they were nonexistent. I guess it’s easier to love some children if you don’t look too closely at what they do. The ex-wife is also a woman of quick temper who loves babies, but she has a rather extreme sense of justice, which occasionally makes me uncomfortable. By getting divorced, we kept her from having more children than she can manage, so hopefully my children will be more emotionally healthy, more human than I have been.

Part two, Debt and Sin. As we saw with the Egyptian scales, the things we do in this life are often seen as a series of moral debts and credits, that great accountant’s ledger in the sky. I’ve mentioned before how incomplete this metaphor seems to me, how easily it can be used to justify acts of great evil by balancing them with a series of small charitable donations. However, Atwood points out that it’s not only the debtor who is seen as the sinner; the creditor is also morally damaged by the lending of money. Think of our culture’s opinion of pawnbrokers, a career so questionable that it seldom appears outside of Dickens novels or TLC programs. We see them as profiting by taking unfair advantage of people who are at their most vulnerable, as if the pawnbroker forces them into sin. As if the act of borrowing money itself were a sin. My own debts make me uncomfortable; I’ve taken on a second job to try to pay them off. But they were also necessary; when I moved here, I needed some money for a security deposit on an apartment, and I was also in need of food. I got a new credit card because I couldn’t make it on my own. It’s like this: if I have a skillet, I can make healthy food for a few dollars a day. If I don’t have a skillet, I can eat unhealthy fast food at a rate of eight to ten dollars a day. So, it makes sense for me to buy a skillet. If I don’t have the money for a skillet, I’m stuck eating expensive food. I could decide not to eat for three or four days and so save enough money to buy a skillet, or I could borrow the money. I chose to borrow it. I don’t think that makes me a sinner, just a human being who values his health.

In this section, Atwood also talks about the importance of record-keeping. Remember Fight Club, when Jack/Tyler’s plan was to destroy all the credit card records? Apparently that’s a historical trend. Erase the record of the debt, cancel the debt without paying it. It’s what all we debtors really want, isn’t it? And what we refuse to do when we become creditors. Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

Part three, Debt as Plot. As Cecily points out in The Importance of Being Earnest, memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels one encounters. Specifically, memory of debts. The nineteenth century novel is full of debts and repayments. In graduate school, I once wrote about how Wuthering Heights is a rewriting of Byron’s “The Giaour,” where money has replaced religion. One of the strongest examples that Atwood uses is one of my favorite books, The Mill on the Floss. She also discusses the imaginative power of millers generally. In Eliot’s novel, life is a matter of inheriting and settling accounts; Maggie Tulliver tries to create a world where relationships are built on more than debts, and it eventually kills her. The next logical step is

Part four, The Shadow Side. Revenge. A good portion of this is about Shakespearean tragedy, which revolves around vengeance. There’s also The Merchant of Venice, which covers a humanized Shylock and his overgrasping vengeance. Atwood mentions a production that used a Native American actor for Shylock, which I think must have been quite compelling. For me, though, thoughts of Shakespeare generally turn to Twelfth Night, the play most interested in giving gifts, and the debts that gift-giving creates. Indeed, it’s a play about unwanted debts, where people become creditors against their will. Years ago, I decided that I would never lend money to a friend. I will gladly give, and if they want to return it that’s their choice, but I won’t give money to someone if I need it back. This practice can lead me into trouble, like when I gave money to someone who was a bad risk, and then he moved to a different continent while promising to pay it back. It would have come in handy a year later, when I was getting a new credit card instead of buying a skillet with my own money. Así es la vida.

I prefer to pay my debts off, but I will forgive any creditor who comes my way. Even those people who have repaid my love with violence and neglect. Let debts go, even those of emotion and soul. Let there be love and peace. Let forgiveness overcome our desires for war.

Part five, Payback. I believe that the human desire for payback leads to more unnecessary conflict than anything else. Jesus fuck, just let it go. It doesn’t matter if you have a right to exact vengeance; relinquish your rights and let it go. Clinging to your vengeance binds your debtor to you more closely. The only way to be free of him is to let go.

The bulk of this section is taken up by a rewriting of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, updated for our time. We can’t imagine a man so consumed by the love of wealth that he won’t spend on himself, so the Nouveau Scrooge does. But when he’s faced with the price of his wealth, the destruction of the earth led by the industrial age, he changes his mind and gives his money to support the preservation of nature. Atwood finishes her tale of human history with the renunciation of wealth, the reversal of the nineteenth century – a vision of a future where capital is used to benefit the earth instead of the individual, where species are saved, and we stop acquiring more than we need.

It may seem strange, to write a book about money and spend most of it talking about religion, fiction, and the environment, but it makes sense. Atwood has spent this book telling us who we are, what makes us human. Fair play, justice, getting into and out of debt, yes, but more importantly, we are the stories we tell. If we keep telling the story of capitalism, we will keep living in a world of more and more extreme capitalism. There are other stories to tell, though. Stories of community, stories of cooperation, stories of peace, stories of kindness. As the Barenaked Ladies once sang, It’s time to make this something that is more than only fair.