Posts Tagged ‘murder’

The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)

I love this book so much. It’s about a competition between two magic teachers – they each train a student, then bind them together in a magical fight to the death. Of course the two fall in love. The first time I saw that much, but this time I saw just how important everyone else is, the clockmaker, the contortionist who survived the last challenge, the fortuneteller who uses Temperance to keep them balanced, the teenager who teaches the magician about stories, the woman who sees behind the scenes and runs mad, the boy who falls in love with the circus and saves it. Of course I love the circus as well, all the magical tents that don’t seem to match what I remember of circuses – The Wishing Tree, The Pool of Tears, The Ice Garden… It’s beautiful and emotional, and not at all outsized or self-conscious the way I picture circuses. I want Morgenstern to write more books.

 

The Poisoned Island (Lloyd Shepherd)

This book starts with a rape, and rubs the symbolism in as it continues to tell the story of English botanists raiding Tahiti. It’s marketed as literary fiction, but don’t be fooled: this is a dark Regency-era murder mystery with a strong social-justice message. It’s also the second in a series, which didn’t become clear until I got curious about all the references to the characters’ shared history and checked Amazon, and sure enough, the major characters are mentioned by name in the description of Shepherd’s previous novel, The English Monster. So read them in order. I’m not saying it’s poorly written, because I think it’s a good book – I use ‘literary fiction’ as a genre rather than as a description of quality. But seriously, the body count gets up to nine or ten, and the protagonist takes a really paternalistic attitude toward his wife, who seems like a brilliant scientist if men would stop hampering her activities.

 

The Earthsea Trilogy (Ursula K. Le Guin)

I thought this would be a good way to slow down the way I’m burning through my book collection, reading a three-in-one, but it didn’t work. It went so fast. Three titles: A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, and The Farthest Shore. In some form, all three books are about the human conflict with death. Le Guin points out that death is to be respected, but not sought after, not worshipped, not feared. The protagonist of the first one turns into a guide in the other two, but while it makes sense, it’s a little sad – the first book makes it clear that he has dark skin, as do most of the people in Earthsea, but the next two books have white protagonists, and Ged becomes another magical Negro spirit guide. There are important things here about who we are and what it means to be human, but the racial stuff did make me sad. There are more books now, so maybe the people of color come back to the center in Tehanu, but I don’t know yet.

 

The Lightning-Struck Heart (T. J. Klune)

I loved this book so much. Again, it’s sort of thick so it should have taken me a while, but I went through it so fast and loved it all. Highly recommended for anyone who thinks that bitchy twinks who make sex jokes in a fantasy landscape can be hilarious. Fantasy/gay rom-com, completely genre-appropriate. Sam is a wizard’s apprentice whose best friends are an angry glittery unicorn and a half-giant. He’s in love with Knight Delicious Face, engaged to Prince Justin – the prince gets kidnapped by a sexually aggressive dragon who has been deified by a local town with mind-control corn, so the baby wizard and the knight go on a quest. I am super excited about the fact that there are three more that I can put on my list.

 

Oh, and by the way, today is my seven-year anniversary on WordPress. You’ve come a long way, Angry Ricky, but you’re still yourself, even though you thought you might lose yourself along the way.

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I would like to say that after a few weeks I still have a strong impression of this book, but that wouldn’t be true. It’s a murder mystery that takes place over the course of an evening, and at 160 pages, it can be read in the same period of time. By 1964 the original author who wrote as Brett Halliday had already been retired for a few years, but the publishers were still cranking out Mike Shayne novels at the rate of one or two a year. I haven’t yet read anything between the very early Bodies are Where You Find Them and these later ghostwritten stories, so I can’t speak to whether the writing changes abruptly or gradually, but this is a much simpler story than that earlier one.

Tim Rourke, our favorite newsman, comes to Mike Shayne, Miami private eye number one, with a problem. His friend Ralph Larson is terribly jealous as a husband and is likely to do something violent to the man he thinks is screwing his wife Dorothy. Shayne has a talk with the wife and considers the matter closed, but later that evening she calls and asks him to stop her husband doing something terrible. He and Tim race out to the lover’s house, only to catch the husband in the act of shooting him. Conviction seems like a cinch, until it becomes clear that the gunshot didn’t kill him after all – he was already dead.

Because this is a Mike Shayne novel, there are organized crime and local politics, and police officers who are convinced that the private detective is the murderer himself, but these are details that elude me, being outside my realm of experience and interest.

He got out a cigarette and lit it, and looked around him slowly. It was a pleasantly furnished and comfortably cluttered, feminine-looking room. The long sofa along one wall was covered with gold brocade and littered with small soft cushions in bright contrasting colors that managed not to clash. There were end tables with big utilitarian ashtrays on them, and two comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs ranged against the wall opposite the sofa. The muted music he had heard through the door was coming from a stereo set with twin speakers that were detached from it and set at right angles in different corners of the room. The music was not familiar to him, classical, he thought, probably one of the three B’s. A door at the end of the room directly in front of him opened onto a bedroom with a big double bed that was unmade and had two rumpled pillows at the head of it.

Shayne liked everything he saw as he stood there and heard clinking sounds of glass against glass in the kitchen, and he frowned and tried to analyze the warm feeling of contentment that welled up inside him. It was definitely a woman’s place, and yet it welcomed his masculinity and made him feel immediately wanted. He did not know why that was, or how the woman in the kitchen had managed it so well, but he did know instinctively that she had managed it, not consciously probably, but as an expression of herself.

The woman who lives across the hall from Tim’s friends is fascinating, in an odd way. She’s here as a distraction, to illustrate just how focused Shayne is being on this one night, despite how much drinking he’s doing. I suppose I find sirens fascinating because I’m interested in the way people are moved by love and lust, and the different things that work to attract someone. I mean, I don’t find May’s apartment all that alluring, any more than I’d be drawn to the woman herself, with a little too much lipstick and a blouse that’s a little too sheer. It’s not every man that she can draw into her home; Shayne says that it is, and the narrator doesn’t disagree, but I do. There’s a specific sort of man that she can draw in, and it’s that sort of man that is being normalized here. Mike Shayne represents one type of masculinity, but there can be more than one. Despite the apparent lack of substance, this novel has a firm sense of gender roles and gender identity, and woe betide the woman who crosses those lines.

I heard recently that in BDSM relationships, it’s the sub who has the power, and I guess that makes sense. Once he (or she) decides to stop playing the game, it’s over. The situation persists because someone chooses passivity, and if he were to stop being passive then the dom would stop too, because consent is critical to BDSM success. That’s why there are safe words. This is the paradigm that is normalized for romantic relationships in this book, but without the safe words. Mike Shayne keeps muttering about how women don’t know what they do to men, as if men are irrational slobs ruled solely by their emotions and it is women’s work to keep them happy so they don’t run around killing each other. Men are violent, but women are powerful. Dorothy Larson tries to adopt the masculine role of actively choosing a lover (note May’s passivity, and think about how sirens are like spiders), so she fails in the civilizing-of-man role society assigned to her. It’s really her fault that her husband is a murderer, not his. With Dorothy as the active, Ralph is somehow made passive, so he’s powerless in the grip of his jealous anger. Other men feel sorry for him because the cuckolding makes him less of a man in their eyes, someone insufficiently dominant.

Which is, of course, rubbish. Every man is responsible for his own actions, both in reality and in the eyes of the law. It is not women’s job to civilize men or fix them in any way. It is not even women’s job to design a shag pad to seduce men who happen to pass through the corridor. To me, it is society that emasculates men by limiting their range of emotions and denying them access to healthy expressions of those emotions. I also blame society in general for restricting women’s access to education and the professions. I mean, Dottie is acting precisely as she’s expected to: Unhappy with your man? Get another! Don’t get a job or try for any sense of personal fulfillment apart from being a sex doll who cooks and cleans! You’re a woman! It’s like 1960s gender roles cut every person in half and expected them to be content as half a human. No wonder there was so much protesting.

A straight person recently told me that she had a strong value for the gay community because of our blending of both masculine and feminine traits, then told me that I was still halfway in the closet because of my traditionally male gender presentation. It was a weird conversation, and one that troubles me because of the larger conversation about gender and sexual orientation going on in the United States. We’re often told that being gay means being gay in the 1970s, when gay men tended to go to extremes of gender performance – either completely effeminate or so over-the-top butch that they dressed primarily in leather and motorcycle police helmets. But this is 2018, and being gay doesn’t threaten my masculinity. I don’t have to operate at a gender extreme, or seem androgynous to others. People can if they want to – I’m not saying we should blend into straight society. I am saying that we all have the right to determine what is natural for ourselves and the right to perform our own natures in the way we choose (so long as it doesn’t involve harming others). Some men wear nail polish and makeup; I don’t. Some men drive big trucks and hunt deer; I don’t. Some men wear a lot of black and play guitar; I do. Some men do none of these things, and that’s fine too. They’re still men.

It’s not a masculine or a feminine thing; it’s a mature adult thing to recognize societal expectations and decide for oneself how to interact with those expectations. Everyone gets to choose their own gender performance.

Unless you live in Miami in the 1960s. Then, men either keep their women at home through constant fucking or kill the men who step in as substitute fuckers. Mike Shayne’s world is fictional, but it’s the fantasy of the people of its time. People imagine a world that is simple and easy to understand because the one we live in is so far beyond us. There are so many things to be understood that there’s no way for any one person to understand them all. I mean, scientists have recently found a way to use one egg cell to fertilize another egg cell and create healthy offspring capable of reproduction. I don’t know if those mice really are lesbians, but in another fifty or a hundred years it might be possible for same-sex couples to have children who are the genetic offspring of both parents. It’s a concept I’m having a hard time comprehending, or maybe it’s something I hope for so much that my brain won’t let me think of it. With so much beauty and wonderment in the world, why reduce it to binary opposites? I’m not arguing against black and white when there are shades of grey – I’m arguing against black and white when there are green and blue and red, concepts that black and white can’t understand. Let the world be what it is, a huge sticky mess of colors and concepts and genders and sexes and sex acts, life and death and all the what-the-fuckery in between. Let people be who they are, no matter whether they match you in language, skin tone, or gender presentation. It’s a bit odd that I read a detective novel and extracted the message that we should all mind our own business, but it’s an odd world, and the more we learn the odder we find it. Welcome the odd.

As it is, this collection wasn’t put together in Lawrence’s lifetime. Three of them were published together, with one of those having been previously published in a periodical. This group of three is from the early 1920s, around the time of Aaron’s Rod, Kangaroo, and Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious. The fourth story is from the very end of his career, after Lady Chatterley, at the time of The Virgin and the Gipsy. These are all love stories, but as one might expect from Lawrence, they’re all a little unusual.

LOVE AMONG THE HAYSTACKS

This is the one from the end of his life, but it really feels a lot more similar to his earlier work focusing on the lives, loves, and opportunities of the rural poor. Maurice is young and in love with the vicar’s young foreign governess. It seems a little miraculous, because there are not many young people in the area, and he and his brothers haven’t had much romantic experience. His older brother Geoffrey is jealous and surly – not because he wants this woman, but because he wants a woman. As they’re harvesting hay, they meet a homeless man and his unhappy wife. That night, Maurice stays in the field to guard the hay, and his Polish lady comes to him. When it starts to rain, she helps him cover the hay, but at the top of one of the stacks the ladder falls down and they’re stuck there all night. Geoffrey comes round to help cover the hay and sees what happened. He covers the hay himself and leaves them to it. The unhappy woman from earlier pops by looking for her worthless husband, and Geoffrey comforts her. By the morning, he has plans to run off to Canada with her, and Maurice and his girlfriend are not as pleased with each other as they had been.

So yes, sex means different things to different people, and at different times. For Maurice and Paula it seems like a disappointment. They are all impatient to make it happen, but afterward they’re bickering and unpeaceful. For Geoffrey and Lydia, it solidifies their feelings for each other and gives them motivation to press forward, even though there are some substantial obstacles to their being together. I know that we euphemize the activity as making love, but it seems to prove and strengthen love, not create it. I suppose I’m supposed to be shocked at the fact that Lydia cheats on her husband and then leaves him, but that’s not content that shocks me any more. A man can’t marry a woman and assume he’s done his part. Relationships bring expectations, and there’s no reason for her to stay with someone she can’t love.

THE LADYBIRD

In the United States we call the titular insect a ladybug, as if it was somehow perturbaceous. The ladybird in the story is on the family crest of a German officer in a prison hospital in England during World War I. He sometimes uses it as a symbol for himself. The protagonist is a young woman he knew before the war; they met while she was on holiday with her parents. Now she’s married to a young officer believed to be dead, and she learns that her old friend is being held close by. He’s a little firecracker, not very tall but very passionate about his feelings and the sense of isolation. Daphne is his only connection to the happy life he knew before the Great War – he had given her a thimble with a ladybird on it as a keepsake. She doesn’t really like him, but she feels drawn to him in a way she can’t describe to herself. There’s something indefinably sexy about this fiery little German, and even though she keeps thinking she’ll stay away, she keeps coming back.

Then, of course, her husband isn’t dead after all. Basil comes back and he’s all light and conformity where Count Dionys is all darkness and rebellion. After a few nights Basil realizes he’s no longer interested in sex. It’s not that big a deal since they have separate bedrooms anyway (tradition in wealthier English families – I hope they’ve given it up). So when they invite the German count to stay with them before his return to the Continent, it’s easy for her to sneak into his room at night. There’s a lot of social pressure for Daphne to be with Basil – he’s the right sort of husband, socially speaking – but I think that in a different society, one where women were free to be themselves and choose for themselves, she would have chosen the Count, and not just at night.

She never saw him as a lover. When she saw him, he was the little officer, a prisoner, quiet, claiming nothing in all the world. And when she went to him as his lover, his wife, it was always dark. She only knew his voice and his contact in darkness. “My wife in darkness,” he said to her. And in this too she believed him. She would not have contradicted him, no, not for anything on earth: lest, contradicting him she should lose the dark treasure of stillness and bliss which she kept in her breast even when her heart was wrung with the agony of knowing he must go.

No, she had found this wonderful thing after she had heard him singing: she had suddenly collapsed away from her old self into this darkness, this peace, this quiescence that was like a full dark river flowing eternally in her soul. She had gone to sleep from the nuit blanche of her days. And Basil, wonderful, had changed almost at once. She feared him, lest he might change back again. She would always have him to fear. But deep inside her she only feared for this love of hers for the Count: this dark, everlasting love that was like a full river flowing for ever inside her. Ah, let that not be broken.

THE FOX

This is the one that was published in a magazine, which I find sort of odd because it’s the one that takes on LGBT issues the most obviously. March and Banford are two women who live on a farm during the war. Their farm isn’t super productive, either because gay relationships don’t lead to childbirth and are thus sterile or because they’re not that great at farming. They end up focusing on chickens, which still isn’t that successful because there’s a fox that keeps stealing hens. March sees him once and is shocked into stillness, like that Annie Dillard piece about weasels. Winter is hard on animals, so I don’t really begrudge him the chickens, but then again, they’re not my chickens. Banford is furious about it. She may also be angry that the situation is out of her control; she tends to the house (the traditional women’s work) so she isn’t the one with the gun. March is the more masculine of the two (because even gay relationships have to conform to heterosexual norms), but after staring into the fox’s eyes she can’t kill it.

That was the symbol. The rest of the story is the reality. At war’s end the soldiers are coming home, and one of them wanders into their house. He had lived there with his grandfather before the war, and something vague and unimportant (probably death) led to the women renting the place. He’s young and handy – he even kills the fox for them. But he himself is the fox in this henhouse. Something about March’s defiance of gender roles draws him in. I wonder about him being closeted himself because he’s turned off when he sees her in a dress. He likes March to be mannish, and to be March instead of Nell. Even though he’s much younger, he talks her into marriage, which she of course breaks off once he’s out of the house.

I don’t see on what grounds I am going to marry you. I know I am not head over heels in love with you, as I have fancied myself to be with fellows when I was a young fool of a girl. You are an absolute stranger to me, and it seems to me as if you will always be one. So on what grounds am I going to marry you? When I think of Jill, she is ten times more real to me. I know her and I’m awfully fond of her, and I hate myself for a beast if I ever hurt her little finger. We have a life together. And even if it can’t last for ever, it is a life while it does last. And it might last as long as either of us lives. Who knows how long we’ve got to live? She is a delicate little thing, perhaps nobody but me knows how delicate. And as for me, I feel I might fall down the well any day. What I don’t seem to see at all is you. When I think of what I’ve been and what I’ve done with you, I’m afraid I am a few screws loose. I should be sorry to think that softening of the brain is setting in so soon, but that is what it seems like. You are such an absolute stranger, and so different from what I’m used to, and we don’t seem to have a thing in common. As for love, the very word seems impossible. I know what love means even in Jill’s case, and I know that in this affair with you it’s an absolute impossibility.

So of course he decides to kill one lesbian so he can marry the other. Men can be so depressing and predictable.

Most relationships have to deal with some jealousy at some point. We don’t put our eyes out when we tell someone we love them, and I’m sure even blind people’s eyes wander metaphorically. Jill Banford’s approach, to try to control the situation, is normal, natural, and ineffective. Telling someone what to do and how to interact with others seldom feels like love. That type of fear-based behavior can actually become abusive. But when someone decides you have to die, it’s normal and natural not to like them.

I feel sorry for March, because she has a choice between two people who want to control her and doesn’t see a third option for herself. The soldier boy is the poorer choice, what with the violence and the demand for her to be only a part of herself. One could argue that Banford is the same, but the condition on Banford’s love is that she be loved in return, not that March actively deny a large part of her identity and put up with the death of her lover.

The hetero love story here is really weird and powerfully fucked up. As love often is. But we do see some happiness for March and Banford, so the story isn’t unrelentingly sad. As with so many stories about foxes, it’s a warning. Not that lesbians shouldn’t reject male suitors, they absolutely should, but it’s wise for everyone to be vigilant about people on the edge of violence. Appeasement is a dangerous habit.

THE CAPTAIN’S DOLL

A Scottish captain is stationed in Germany, after the danger of the War has past. He’s sleeping with a local countess who makes dolls to earn her living. She makes one that is obviously him, the military coat and the plaid trousers and everything, and then his wife comes to visit and sees it. The Countess, Hannele, is mystified by their attitude toward sex, that sexual monogamy is insignificant. What matters is the emotions behind it. They can sleep with anyone they want so long as their actual love is only directed at each other. He doesn’t seem to love much of anyone, or at least not very strongly, so it’s of little moment to him, but it’s a big deal to Hannele. She’s not used to this idea, that his soul belongs to his wife but his penis is his own to do with as he likes, and she doesn’t like the situation it puts her in. She thinks that sex means something, and that the fact that he’s fucking her means he cares about her. The situation becomes a little too well known, so of course the wife takes him away. Fucking another woman is fine, but doing it indiscreetly is not. But Hannele won’t sell her the doll.

Years later, the wife dies and the captain comes back to Germany, desultorily looking for Hannele. Instead, he finds a still life painting of his doll. Suddenly the doll becomes this intense symbol of everything that he can’t handle about relationships; he sees women as making men into dolls, homunculi they can pose and speak for at tea parties. He doesn’t feel like a human when he’s in a relationship with a woman. I think that men can be equally guilty of creating an image of the beloved in our minds and forcing women to live up to the image; part of the captain’s anger is that he’s being treated the way men treat women. And then, of course, she had sold the doll after all, to a stranger. The shoe is on the other foot now – he thought he meant something to her, but she moved on. No promises of eternal love and fidelity to a man who treated her like shit.

He starts to pursue her with some of that intensity we saw in The Fox; he only wants a woman when she doesn’t want him, apparently. I know that this happens, and is even pretty common, that people go after those who are unavailable to them. I’ve heard it said that men want the challenge, but I think there’s more to it than that. People (not just men) take rejection as a sign that they’re not good enough, as if we all existed on a scale from one to ten and it was easy to say that one person is a two and another is a nine. Everyone wants to believe that they’re a ten, but getting rejected by a seven means that we’re obviously a six or less. We don’t pursue the seven because they represent a challenge in itself; we pursue the seven to prove to ourselves that we are a seven or higher. Basing one’s self-esteem on the esteem of others (particularly their interest in sharing genital contact) is absolutely ridiculous and leads to these absurd and dangerous situations. Lawrence’s stalkers and murderers need to learn how to love themselves apart from their ability to fuck any woman they want.

Women have the right to choose whom and when to fuck. They are the keepers of their own vaginas. They guard the access. Men who behave otherwise tend toward abuse and possibly violence. It’s certainly a misogynistic attitude, and it implies that the man who holds it is not ready for an adult relationship.

“Oh, that eternal doll! What makes it stick so in your mind?”

“I don’t know. But there it is. It wasn’t malicious. It was flattering, if you like. But it just sticks in me like a thorn: like a thorn. And there it is, in the world, in Germany somewhere. And you can say what you like, but any woman, today, no matter how much she loves her man – she could start any minute and make a doll of him. And the doll would be her hero: and her hero would be no more than her doll. My wife might have done it. She did do it, in her mind. She had her doll of me right enough. Why I heard her talk about me to other women. And her doll was a great deal sillier than the one you made. But it’s all the same. If a woman loves you, she’ll make a doll out of you. She’ll never be satisfied till she’s made your doll. And when she’s got your doll, that’s all she wants. And that’s what love means. And so, I won’t be loved. And I won’t love. I won’t have anybody loving me. It is an insult. I feel I’ve been insulted for forty years: by love, and the women who’ve loved me. I won’t be loved. And I won’t love. I’ll be honoured and I’ll be obeyed: or nothing.”

“Then it’ll most probably be nothing,” said Hannele sarcastically. “For I assure you I’ve nothing but love to offer.”

He’s upset, yes, and probably still sexy in his sixties (he is Scottish, after all), but he’s also wrong and ridiculous. Imagine the gall of a woman, to treat a man the same way he’s treated her. Men have robbed women of their humanity, their opportunities to express and be themselves, their right to make their own choices about their bodies, for too much of Western history. A hundred years ago men don’t seem to have been accustomed to recognize that fact. I feel like these three post-World War I stories could have been called Love Amid the Patriarchy. It places Lawrence in kind of an awkward position: some critics will say he’s doing it on purpose to reveal how harmful the patriarchy is, but some will say he’s doing it unconsciously because he’s really on the verge of being a murdering stalker himself. He just found a woman he wanted who wanted him back, so the violence is unnecessary. It’d be great if we could revive him long enough to ask him which.

In any event, all four of these stories are about love and its problems. The soldiers who returned from the war brought with them a set of attitudes that clearly harmed women, and the women themselves are complex, interesting people who deserve love and respect, even if they don’t know how to demand it. Lawrence’s vote is clearly on the side of sexual license, so long as both partners agree to it. His stories demonstrate the importance of talking plainly about sex and what it means. Partners should understand what it means to the other and be willing to accept the burden of expectation it creates, whether the expectation is to go about one’s business like it meant nothing or to be involved with the partner for the rest of one’s life. Being of the same religion, or ethnicity, or orientation, is no guarantee that two people will have the same attitude about sex. You have to talk about it.

Lawrence’s politics are sometimes upsetting, but his language is exquisite. I’ll probably always enjoy his writing, misogynistic and proto-Fascist as it was. These stories are very much in his vein, so whether you like them or not, whether you should read them or not, really depends on how you feel about him. They’re all good examples of what he does, representative pieces of the man. I enjoy them, but you’ll have to make your own choice on that subject.

I feel like there really isn’t a whole lot to say about this book, except that this is how colonialism works. Or would work under this set of circumstances. In previous readings I’d focused on the first part of the book, all the different initial contacts between America and Mars, but this time I was more interested in what happens to the earth. The stories are placed between 1999 and 2026, so of course his timeline is off (In 2018, the extent of our Martian travel is a droid that sings Happy Birthday to itself once a year), but that is what science fiction is all about – telling us about human nature, revealing the cultural moment, it’s never about A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, it’s about the here and now. Bradbury’s here and now is the United States of the late 1940s; several of these stories were published in periodicals in 1948, though the entire collection came out in 1950.

Bradbury’s Martians are telepathic and technologically advanced. Stage One is killed by a jealous husband – his wife connects with the Earth Man in a way she can’t with him, so he meets the man at his landing site and prevents him from stepping foot on Mars. Stage Two is believed to be insane – when you’re telepathic you project your hallucinations onto other people’s minds, so they think the Earth Men are projections and kill them. Stage Three is just trapped – the Martians build a town modeled on Green Town, Illinois (the one from Dandelion Wine) and disguise themselves as beloved relatives, then they kill them all. Stage Four is successful because by this time almost all the Martians have been wiped out by the chicken pox. And thus we see American strategy: just keep throwing men into the meat grinder until you get lucky.

Most of the book happens before the end of 2005, so there’s really just six years of colonization, in which time the Americans manage to kill an entire planet and do their best to recreate their own in its stead. One guy wanders all over the place planting trees, and they grow up unexpectedly quickly, providing the necessary oxygen. The Americans of color (pre-civil rights, if you’ll recall) all band together to leave their center of oppression and create a new community far away from the white men, who seem anxious to perpetuate their privilege at the expense of women and ethnic minorities. I read an article recently that commented on the destructive logic of terms like Third World and developing countries, so it used ‘minority-world’ to describe the United States and other countries whose lifestyle is similar to ours, and ‘majority-world’ to describe those countries that continue to suffer from food insecurity and a less technological standard of medical care. Which makes sense because worldwide they are in the majority and we are the minority. It’s like we stamped out apartheid in South Africa while ignoring the global similarities, a minority of white Europeans running the world at the expense of the numeric majority of darker-skinned peoples. Can we all take a moment to ponder just how Eurocentric the UN is at a structural level?

In “Usher II,” all the conformity of mid-century America comes to Mars. One man combats it by building a house modeled on Poe’s House of Usher, and it’s full of scenes from Poe’s most famous stories, with a bit of Lewis Carroll thrown in for good measure. He kills the rightmindedness committee and replaces them with robots who will keep the heat off. Now that I think of it, it’s sort of astonishing how many of these stories are about murder, but I guess that’s part of The American Way as well. Why else would we need a movement that calls itself Black Lives Matter, and why else would people get angry about it?

Then, in 2005, nuclear war breaks out and all the Americans get called back to Earth to fight in the war. This is an excellent example of Bradbury’s bending the facts to fit his theme – if nuclear war had broken out, we wouldn’t have asked the Mars colonists to come back. Nuclear wars aren’t fought by numbers of men – it only takes one to press a button, and if you took all the button pushers it would require to destroy the entire planet, you could invite them over to your house for a party and still have plenty of room for them each to bring a plus-one. It’s the same meat-grinder mindset that began the colonies, the idea that in order to accomplish anything the United States needs a lot of men who are willing to die for their country. Because they will. Because we can’t imagine any other way to do things. Because human life is not something our culture values. Because we see death as poignant and beautiful as long as it is happening to someone else. Because it’s better that people should die than that we should be inconvenienced or grant the privileges we enjoy to someone who seems different from ourselves. Because the only way to make sure that your life matters is to be exactly like the people in power – conformity saves lives, because white American men need to destroy everything that is different and replace it with themselves.

But wait! I hear you say. Aren’t you a white American man? Indeed I am. You’ll also notice that I’ve spent most of my adult life in areas where the white majority is particularly strong. Now that I’m in a city with a higher concentration of people of color, I am constantly interrogating my attitude toward them because it comes up so much more often than it used to. And I do sometimes have problems with difference, like when I see people blatantly not recycling or wearing lime green T-shirts with khaki slacks or speaking loudly in public. I’m not running around murdering people, but I definitely understand the desire to force the world to conform to my own ideas. I have to concentrate on not judging people for the decisions I don’t agree with, and most people make decisions I don’t agree with, which is why it’s so much more relaxing to hide at home instead of going out. People are hard because they are different, and the difficulty is frustrating, but that doesn’t give me an excuse to wipe them out. Difference is valuable, however difficult. We have to stare that reality in the face, just not all the time. It’s exhausting.

As ever, Bradbury’s stories are worth reading and thinking about. His prose is lucid and unadorned, as people preferred it in 1950. I know that I’ve talked about colonialism without bringing up the colonization of the American continent by European settlers, but the comparison is too obvious and too painful to go into. I’d like to think of my ancestors as having been more peaceful, but we were among the first. It’s not realistic for me to imagine that. Colonists didn’t survive by being peaceful; they survived by being tough and killing people who were different than they were. That’s where I came from; that’s what America means; that’s what we have to be proud of. Murder, conformity, and the ability to endure long enough to reproduce. It’s a wonder anyone lets us near global decision-making processes. But I guess if they stood in the way of our making the world exactly as we want it, we’d kill them too. Sometimes I think that 45 may not be the president we wanted, but he may be the president we deserve.

Oh! And I almost forgot about the body-shaming! The last man on Mars meets the last woman, and she can finally eat as much as she wants without people shaming her for liking sweets. Through the man’s perspective, Bradbury fat-shames this woman like nobody’s business. I was really uncomfortable with this story, both because it makes food seem gross and because the guy would rather never see or speak to another human being for the rest of his life than marry a fat girl. It’s a terrible thing to see. I think some readers would have found this story humorous, but our culture is swinging away from body-shaming now, and I think that’s good. It’s just one more way we have failed to celebrate difference.

This book may have been written seventy years ago, but the themes are still pertinent. It still points out to me the ways that I’m not completely satisfied with myself or the culture I grew up in. It’s worth reading because we haven’t learned our lesson yet. I hope we do. I hope my children are more tolerant of difference than I am. I hope the world is moving toward justice and equity. I hope that I’m part of the solution and not the problem.

Book 2 in the Midnight, Texas series. I’m finding that with sequels, I have dramatically less to say than I did with the first one.

First off, Harris’s writing goes extremely quickly for me. More than 350 pages in two days. I get really strongly engaged in the story, and although it’s slower than the television series, it still keeps me riveted. It may be that the books I read before and after use more complex syntax and thus demand a slower pace, but I flew through this book, enjoying every minute.

Next, characters. Manfred Bernardo is still kind of in the middle of the book, but our primary centers of consciousness are Olivia Charity and Joe Strong. Olivia is a hired assassin hiding from her parents – she was abused as a child, and her father is now trying to find her. She keeps hiding. At one point it’s strongly implied that Olivia is not her real name, but we gloss over that. Joe is an angel, trying to hide his true nature from everyone, including himself. Unfortunately, he hurts his ankle on a jog and has to spread his wings to get home, so things are starting to destabilize for him. His partner Chuy may be one as well, but I’m not sure on that yet. The show portrays Chuy as a demon, as much in disgrace for whom he loves as Joe the angel is. Changing Chuy from an angel to a demon could be a commentary on race (Hispanic vs mainstream white) or just on sexuality (the slightly more effeminate gay), though I guess he could be a demon in the books and we just haven’t seen the evidence of it yet.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Chuy said. “To help.”

“And to fix antiques and fingernails,” Joe said, laughing. “I wish I didn’t love old furniture, and you didn’t love decorating women. I wish we were both accountants or bounty hunters. Something less predictable.”

“As long as we’re happy. And we take care of each other,” Chuy said, much more seriously.

“I try to take care of you,” Joe said, turning to take Chuy in his arms. “How’m I doing?”

“Pretty good,” Chuy said, and it was the last time he said anything sensible for a while.

As before, this is as graphic as it gets.

So, absences from last time: Bobo and Lem are almost nonexistent, and Fiji’s role is dramatically reduced. This story isn’t about them. Additions: the hotel people. The old hotel in Midnight is renovated and reopened, but it seems to have some shady ulterior purpose that hasn’t been revealed yet. I’m expecting to learn more in Book 3. The hotel has some long-term guests, retirees who don’t quite need assisted living yet. One of them keeps wandering off, so his grandson comes to help take care of him. You might remember Barry the Bellboy from True Blood Season 2 – here he is, briefly reminiscing with Manfred over their mutual acquaintance Sookie Stackhouse. The suspiciousness of the hotel seems to extend to Madonna and Teacher, the chef and the handyman. In the first book they seemed to fit right in, but over time it’s become clear that they don’t really belong with the other Midnighters. Something else to explore in the next book. The other new addition is Diederik. His father drops him with the Rev, even though the Rev hardly seems like the person to raise a child. Silent and brooding, constantly tending the pet cemetery and the church that no one seems to attend. Diederik isn’t the average kid, though – he grows fifteen years in as many days. And then, at the full moon, it’s revealed that he and the Rev are both weretigers. I do not understand why Harris wants to populate Louisiana and Texas with tigers. They are not a native species in this part of North America. But they’re here, creating the potential for trouble if people aren’t smart enough to stay indoors at night.

And, the murder mystery. In an early chapter, Manfred is helping a woman contact her dead husband when the husband reaches through him and takes her off to the next life. Manfred is accused of murder and of stealing her jewels, so the trick is not to discover the murderer but to see if they can prove he didn’t do it. It’s all revealed in the end, of course, but there are so many distractions from the jewel thief plot that I nearly forgot about it. This book is less carefully plotted than the first, and like the second book in most trilogies, it opens loops that don’t get closed. There are things still to learn.

So I’ve moved into an old house, one that has room for New Guy to live in when he finds a job down here. Getting a job does need to happen first – I don’t make enough money to support him. He’s always had a higher income than I have, but I find that the greater the income, the greater the expenses incurred. There are very few Americans who are really comfortable with having any money left over at the end of the month. I grew up in an old house and I’ve lived in a few before this, but I didn’t expect the lack of upstairs water pressure. There’s only one bathing facility, and it’s upstairs. I tried taking showers for the first week, but the pressure isn’t strong enough to get my hair feeling clean. I’ve switched to tub baths, and in reading this book I realized that it takes a good four or five chapters to get the tub full. If I were in a rush, I’d find this very irritating.

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The house hasn’t been lived in for a year or so, and a while back the owner decided to paint the windows. The neighbors didn’t like the newspaper taped up to keep the glass clean, so he’s kept it up to spite them. It makes the house look abandoned, or haunted, or maybe both. I haven’t seen evidence of haunting yet, so I’ll assume if there are any ghosts that they like me. There are nut trees in the yard, and they keep dropping the nuts onto the house, and the driveway, and my car, and every other hard surface in the area. If I keep hearing random bangs after the nuts have all fallen, then I’ll think about haunting. In general, I feel good here, when I’m not having anxiety attacks about school. Transitioning back into studenthood is not as comfortable as one might imagine. I’ve lost my study skills; I have to access the self-knowledge that studying requires, which is different from the types of knowledge I’ve needed as a teacher. And I have to admit that information about me is different than it was; I don’t have the same brain I did thirteen years ago when I started grad school the first time, or twenty years ago when I started undergrad. Well, technically I do have the same brain, because neurons don’t die off and get replaced periodically the way other cells do, but it’s not operating at those levels of efficiency.

Enfin, I do enjoy Charlaine Harris’s books. They’re comfortable and familiar, as modern Southern mystery novels are to me. Hers are more engrossing than others, though, so I think her popularity is well deserved. I’m looking forward to finding the third book of the series.

As an undergraduate, I found writing feminist literary criticism to be incredibly simple. You begin with the assumption that somewhere in this text, a man is oppressing a woman, and then you look for the evidence to support that fact. There’s always evidence. I think I would have been a better thinker if I had trained myself to examine the text for what’s there before imposing my narrative on it, but I was more concerned with reading than with writing intelligently. I’m not saying that every feminist literary critic did that, but I know that I sure did. Whenever you start with a narrative and then impose it on the world, you really will find evidence to support your narrative. It’s called confirmation bias.

Martin Grotjahn was a Freudian psychoanalyst in the 1950s. Freud applied a narrative to human development, and his followers kept telling the same story over and over again, as if all human beings were the same. Boys (the significant gender) are born and derive nourishment from their mothers. Their fathers intervene at some point and the boys are weaned. This creates hostility between the child and his father and strengthens the boy’s desire for his mother, while at the same time also creating hostility for the mother as well. The mother is simultaneously loved and hated, while the father is merely hated. As the child grows, all desire is merged with the desire for the mother, so when we call someone a mother fucker we’re merely saying that he’s accomplished what we all want to do. In the mind of the growing child, all authority is merged with the father, whether religious, political, or professional. We men rebel against authority in order to kill the father (symbolically) and thus enjoy the satisfaction of our desires, permanent access to our mothers’ breasts. They call this narrative the Oedipal complex, because of that Greek myth where the guy accidentally killed his father and married his mother.

How is this related to humor? I’m glad you asked. As you can tell from their story, we all hate everyone all the time, but we can’t all live in isolated cells, so we mask our hostility in wordplay and veil our insults in wit. Jokes are a disguised form of aggression. We laugh because of the frisson between the hostility and the playful disguise. Sometimes the hostility is itself a mask for attraction (see above for why we hate and love the same person), as in the cases of Beatrice and Benedick, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, Britta Perry and Jeff Winger. The quality of the disguise determines the quality of the humor.

Grotjahn does acknowledge that this style of wit is masculine in our culture, and that women can joke without hating each other – cross reference that to Deborah Tannen’s comments on gendered forms of workplace communication – but women are different to men. According to the Freudians, men are afraid not only that their fathers are going to make them starve to death, but that their fathers are going to cut their penises and/or testicles off. A girl looks down at herself, sees that she has no penis or testicles, and assumes that the worst thing that could happen to her has already happened, so there’s no use fussing about it. The Freudian woman can thus accept the world as a terrible place where incredible violence is being done to women without complaining. I think that Freud followed this interpretation by shouting, “Bitch, make me a pie!” Seriously? Grotjahn doesn’t see women as rebelling?

I find it unfortunate that our ancestors didn’t think to define ‘man’ as ‘a human being lacking a vagina.’ I don’t have one, but society doesn’t see that lack as anything to be lamented. Why is penis the default? According to Grotjahn, men are seriously envious of women’s ability to bear children. Creativity comes from the uterus, which means that as men we can only embody destructive impulses. As I said, we hate everyone and everything. Men who create art are really only expressing their jealousy that we can’t get pregnant. Grotjahn takes some time here to make sure we understand the difference between art and entertainment: art helps us to deal with our hostilities in a disguised fashion, while entertainment only distracts us from our hostilities. With this simple formula, it should be easy to confront your video collection and divide them into movies that are art and movies that are entertainment. Try it; you’ll see how easy it is.

A complication of the Oedipal narrative is ‘the primal scene,’ meaning that at some point every boy watches his parents having sex. I never did, but that’s probably because I’m not European (we all know that Freud was Austrian, and with a name like Grotjahn, he has to be Dutch). The mother’s cries are interpreted as pain rather than pleasure, so the child believes the mother is being attacked or killed. This is yet another reason not to use the missionary position. The child believes that the father is murdering the mother at night, but then she’s awake and happy in the morning, which is incomprehensible (see Hitchcock’s Vertigo). Every crime, every mystery, every murder is a return to the primal scene. Murder mysteries and westerns are apparently our attempts to understand the fact that fathers fuck mothers, which sort of explains rape culture as well. If little boys see consensual sex and confuse it with rape, then of course they’ll stay confused about the importance of consent unless someone talks to them about it. In the United States, parents seem to have decided that talking about sex with their children is too uncomfortable, so every group of teenagers has to reinvent the wheel, making the same mistakes and committing the same crimes over and over again.

What’s that you say? You know a man whose life and psyche don’t fit this narrative? Well, he’s probably gay. Homosexuality gives the Freudians an out, a reason for data points that don’t conform to their line. Grotjahn says that gay men are helpless in the face of their own perversion, so they shouldn’t be discriminated against. It sounds sort of advanced for the 1950s, but in today’s terms it’s not. This is why I don’t get excited about Pope Francis arguing that discrimination is bad – he still thinks we’re freaks, his church still teaches that we need to stay celibate or burn in hell, he just thinks it’s important to love the hellbound aberrations. For the Freudian, gay men are as incomprehensible as women.

Okay, so how much of this shit do I actually believe? Not a whole lot. I think of children as pre-sexual, so I don’t think infants are having Oedipal fantasies of mother fucking. I can agree that a lot of wit is inspired by hostility, whether directed at the self or others, but I don’t think that’s the only source of humor or enjoyment. If there’s a song that I like, not because it helps me deal with my deep-seated issues but because I like the melody, does that mean it isn’t art? Of course not. Psychology and psychiatry, as professions, have moved beyond Freud. His ideas started the modern form of these professions, but now we also think of Freud as someone with a screwy childhood who became famous by trying to convince women they weren’t being raped by their fathers, husbands, brothers, uncles, or cousins. Freudianism explains male objectification of women, but doesn’t fight against the objectification. It treats objectification as the normal state of things, as if it’s natural to see the penis as the source of all power in the universe.

Obviously I have many problems with Freud’s theories, and Grotjahn’s book reminds me of most of them. For students of Freud, this is a great introduction to his ideas. Grotjahn was writing for a general audience, so the style is very approachable and he seldom uses phrases like ‘penis envy.’ And, he’s analyzing jokes, and humor makes everything better. He does spend a lot of time talking about Jewish jokes, which can seem a little racist – frankly, every minority I know of tells self-deprecatory jokes that highlight society’s injustices toward them, so singling out Jews is a little weird to me. I guess this is the minority community he had the most access to. So, this book is interesting, dated in offensive ways, and not to be read uncritically. For instance, have you considered the fact that the God of the Bible does not laugh, and have you wondered why that is? Might explain why so many conservative Christians have a hard time with humor. After all, people in the Bible who laugh are generally punished for it. Now, measure that statement against your own experience and beliefs. You’re saying that there are people who believe that someone created a duck-billed platypus without laughing during the process?

Platypus mothers have little channels built into their bodies. They lie back and excrete their milk into the channels and the babies lap it up, because you can’t nurse with a duck bill. Tell me, Freud, what do you make of that?

Clive Barker’s horror stories generally touch me in a way that few stories of any type do, but this collection didn’t do as much for me as he usually does. At least part of that is my fault; I’ve been stuck in this malaise, that vague dissatisfaction with life that makes enjoyment of anything more difficult. Books are seeming sort of exciting at the store, but by the time I get them home, I’ve lost interest. It seems that way with most things, actually. Not a lot of joy these days.

SON OF CELLULOID

A dying criminal breaks into a movie theatre and somehow merges with film. Now, he can alter his own appearance and the world around him in order to kill people. Someone goes into the bathroom after a show, and they end up on the main street of a Wild West town, where they get shot for taking a shit in the middle of town. Or maybe Marilyn Monroe appears to a man in a dark hallway and kills him as he reaches for her. Death must be awfully lonely; otherwise, ghosts wouldn’t spend so much time forcing people to join them. The less attractive woman wins in this one.

RAWHEAD REX

This story was made into a film, which I found odd because Rex was the hardest creature for me to visualize. It’s kind of like in Signs, which a lot of people enjoyed right up until they reveal the alien. It was a little too much like the Jolly Green Giant. Rex is sort of humanoid, but he has a furry body (I think) and a head that looks like the skin has been pulled off, or maybe like it’s been boiled or something. He’s also nine feet tall and has a giant mouth that he uses to eat people. The story is a little Godzilla-ish.

CONFESSIONS OF A (PORNOGRAPHER’S) SHROUD

An accountant leads a normal, boring life, until it’s revealed that his client is a distributor of pornographic films. When things get bad and gangster-film-ish, the accountant gets the blame for the entire operation, even though he didn’t even know what was going on. He gets killed, and finds a way to press his consciousness into the white sheet they put over him in the morgue. He then sets off to kill the guys who framed him.

SCAPE-GOATS

This one seems much more filmable. Four college kids go on a sailing trip through those little island groups in northern Scotland. Two of the kids are a couple, the others are the boy’s best friend and the girl who secretly has a crush on the boy. She’s the narrator. So, when the couple start having sex on deck, the other guy goes looking for the other girl, and there’s some questionable consent activity. He drops his trunks and rubs his erection on her, and she seems to have the attitude, it’s a fine enough penis when you’re not thinking about the dick it’s growing out of, so I might as well let him fuck me. It’s sad to me, how entitled he feels to her body, and how little resistance she makes to unwelcome advances.

So they get to this island to have more sex on the beach, and they find a pen with a few sheep. No people, no civilization, just some random sheep inside a little fence. Naturally, the vaguely rape-y boy kills one, just because he feels like murdering something after being too drunk to get his second erection of the morning. Just as naturally, now they all have to die. The place is full of the ghosts of sailors who have died on this tiny island, and the sheep are there because they like sheep. You fuck with their sheep, you die. No survivors in this one, but you don’t really expect there to be.

HUMAN REMAINS

The rent-boy has, of necessity, a short career. Men who are willing to pay for sex are only willing to pay for a specific type of experience, and they don’t want to have to pay for someone like me, a guy in his late thirties who has to fight to stay thin because he can’t afford a new wardrobe or the self-hatred that would come with needing a wardrobe of larger clothes. No, they want someone like I was twenty years ago, scrawny and energetic and naïve, or someone like I never was, young and muscular and well-endowed. By the time the rent-boy reaches an age where he questions the direction his life is taking, he’s forced to ask those questions because his sell-by date is right around 24. My metabolism took its first hit at 23, which is probably what happens to these guys. It gets harder to look like a child, so johns pass them up for someone who still looks like they’re underage.

Gavin has reached this transitional stage in his life, when he has no education and only one marketable skill, but the market for that skill is drying up. One night his trick has a strange wooden statue in the bathtub. It’s a doppelganger, and it gradually takes over Gavin’s appearance and life. Like most mature sex workers, he fades away while being replaced with the newer model.

Sometimes, horror stories are about finding unlikely hope and overcoming insurmountable obstacles. Sometimes, horror stories are about hope being crushed and the pointlessness of attacking insurmountable obstacles. The good horror writers can usually find some beauty in the world, no matter which strategy they’re using. I haven’t been in a good headspace to see the beauty – I hope that changes. Soon.