Tag: literature

Interesting Wikipedia Articles I’ve Read Recently

Ziz: I was vaguely aware that the term “leviathan” referred to a creature with biblical-ish origins. And while I knew the word “behemoth,” I didn’t know it referred to a specific (fictional) creature, also from Jewish mythology. What I definitely didn’t know is that the leviathan and behemoth have an airborne cousin, the ziz. It is a bird said to be so huge that it can stand on the floor of the ocean with the water only reaching its ankles, and it lays eggs so massive that if they crack open they’ll flood sixty cities.

Three Hares: This is such a neat factoid I’m surprised I’ve never heard about it before. There’s a very specific art motif that features three rabbits arranged in a circle such that their ears are overlapping, and this symbol has popped up through through vast spans of time and space. The earliest examples we know of came from Chinese caves between the years 500 and 700. Later, the symbol appears in Islamic art in the late 1200s to early 1300s. Later still, it appears in western Europe, and even becomes particularly prevalent in the churches of southwestern England. There’s a theory that the symbol gradually diffused out of China along the “silk road” trading route. (For reasons I can’t really explain, this is my favorite hypothesis.) Others guess that the motif rose at least partially independently, and point out a long history of similar symbols in Celtic culture. One of the fun things about the Wikipedia article is reading all the different meanings the symbol had across times and places: everything from water to luck to the holy trinity to the Jewish diaspora.

Peter Lamborn Wilson: I came across Wilson as the person who coined the term “temporary autonomous zone” (TAZ). It’s a kinda useful, kinda fun idea about how we can make spaces that are mostly free of social control and use them to experiment with different ways of being. TAZs still get talked about a fair amount in anarchist circles, from what I can tell, though sometimes with some some caveats about Wilson’s personal life. In reading out his life on Wikipedia, two things jump out at me.

First the big one: apparently he also wrote for NAMBLA? I haven’t tracked down those writings and don’t care to, but they have been characterized by others (including Wilson’s former friends) as promoting sex between adults and children. So that fucking sucks. It’s weird how often this sort of thing crops up. Science fiction grand master Samuel Delany is a queer champion but also a supporter of NAMBLA1. (Both Wilson and Delany have had criticisms and mentions of pedophilia downplayed in their Wikipedia articles in the last year, which is disturbing). As this great thread on /r/AskHistorians points out, philosophers like Michel Foucault and Jean-Paul Sartre signed a petition against age of consent laws. I think you find predators in every walk of life, and they often manipulate whatever ideas they have at their disposal to persuade others2.

Second, Wilson was seemingly obsessed with other cultures, particularly Islam. That’s always a phenomenon that interests me. On one end of the respectability spectrum, you have have college professors and anthropologists who specialize in this or that. At the other end, you have folks like Iron Eyes Cody or Rachel Dolezal who engage in 24-7 cosplay as a member of a different group. Wilson didn’t quite go that far, but he did convert his religion and produce a lot of his writing under an ethnic pen name. I want to better understand why people get involved with that sort of cultural adoption. That means I’ll probably mentally bookmark Wilson as a case study but never look much further because focused research isn’t actually fun for me.

Anyway, TAZs are a cool concept. I think it’s important to recognize value in social experiments even if they don’t last for a long time.

Digesting Duck: When I was in middle or high school, I read about an art instillation where some weirdo built a complex machine that mimicked human digestion. Food would be pushed in one end, get processed, and exit the other end as artificially-made shit3. The shits would then be vacuum sealed and sold to art collectors4. Anyway, the artist was (knowingly or not) working in conversation with Jacques de Vaucanson, a 1700s French inventor who created various machines and automata, including a mechanical duck that “ate” food out of the operator’s hand. Then, through some jiggery-pokery, the brass duck would appear to poop out the remains of the food. In reality, the food went into an internal pouch, while the “poop” (small, balled-up pieces of bread that were dyed green) were pre-loaded in a separate pouch. People at the time went gaga for the fake metal poop machine. The duck was lost in a fire, but has a robust afterlife making cameos in literature by everyone from Nathaniel Hawthorne to Frank Herbert.

  1. There’s a complex history between queer folks and organizations like NAMBLA that is beyond the scope of my knowledge but which surely provides important context. ↩︎
  2. According to the scant information on Wikipedia, there’s no evidence that Wilson abused children himself. Whether he was persuaded to his views by an abuser or came to them himself I don’t know. ↩︎
  3. Arguably an early example of machines taking over creative jobs. If you’re anti-AI, you shouldn’t settle for anything less than the real thing (SFW link, except for language). ↩︎
  4. The jokes write themselves. ↩︎

“Reading Weird Fiction in an Age of Fascism”

Over at Ancillary Review of Books (which I was previously unfamiliar with, but which I will be checking out more now), Zachary Gillan (ditto previous parenthetical) published a very good essay entitled “Reading Weird Fiction in an Age of Fascism.”

Essays that argue about the political content of various genres (e.g. fairy tales are inherently feminist / antifeminist) can be a little interesting, but they usually read like fan theories for self-important academics. Gillan elides this by instead asking how an antifascist might mine weird fiction for lessons / tools, were she so inclined. I find this approach way more palatable.

It boils down, I think, to two axioms:

  1. To become radical, politically, is to become aware that the dominant ideology shaping the way we view the world is Wrong, and needs revolutionary change from the root. 
  2. To be a character in a work of weird fiction is to see that the world is Wrong; whatever direction the author takes this sense of Wrongness, weird fiction hinges on a radical shift in awareness (Some weird fiction channels that sense of unsettlement into the awe-inspiring sublime or fascinating numinous; this is not the kind of weird fiction that I’m considering here.)

He goes on to elaborate on these ideas in clear and persuasive prose. Right near the end things get a little tedious as he quotes people who quote Marx. But overall I really liked this.

Anti-Human Horror

Cosmic horror, I think, is predicated on imagining a sort of “anti-human” universe. All horror is probably anti-human to some degree. Monsters and slashers want to kill or hurt humans, or violate their desires in some way. But cosmic horror goes several steps further. It imagines that the fundamental makeup of reality is intractable to human analysis. This is why Lovecraft’s protagonists often go insane. The universe is under no obligation to make sense; in fact, trying to make sense of it might be poisonous.

I was talking to my partner recently and realized that folk horror actually posits something similar. Folk horror is a big, nebulous term (much like cosmic horror, I suppose). Right now I mean the aspects of folk horror that emphasize the scariness of nature and ancient “pagan” rituals that were somehow more in tune with nature than modern civilization. These stories agree that reality isn’t human-centric, but brings the idea closer to home. Instead of encouraging us to imagine abstract physical laws or the vacuum of deep space, it invites us to imagine a forest. We don’t need to travel billions of years before we leave the familiar behind- one or two thousand will do the trick nicely.

And in thinking about this, it also brings to mind the stories of Franz Kafka, especially his hand-wringing about dehumanizing bureaucracies. Cosmic horror suggests that the universe, writ large, is incomprehensible and noxious to humans. Folk horror (at least some folk horror) says even the nature close at hand is antithetical to humans, though this effect is probably exacerbated by modern life1. And Kafka confirms the folk horror thesis by showing how modern society breeds neuroses and alienation.

All this sort of makes me think of a telescoping taxonomy, sort of like how physics contains chemistry, which in turn contains biology. But it also makes me think about how humans are pretty good at imagining themselves as separate from things. The universe isn’t for us, and nature isn’t for us, and society isn’t for us. Oh no, where to turn! But I think these impressions only hold if your starting point is to imagine the world as highly anthropomorphic and deliberate and good, with humans holding dominion over it all. In other words, these ideas are scary in the context of a a particular kind of Christian worldview. There’s a reason cosmic horror has a strong anti-Christian subtext, and it’s the same reason folk horror often pits Christianity against paganism. (I don’t remember Christianity being a strong theme in Kafka’s works, but it’s been a while since I’ve read him.)

Actually, in all of the above cases, the “thing” that isn’t for us is just stuff that we’re already part of. How could the universe not be for us when we’re clearly part of the universe? It’s like imagining the ocean isn’t “for” fish because fish can still die in the ocean. The same goes for our place in nature2 and society. Anti-human horror is great at blowing up a sort of western, Christian, Victorian worldview, but it’s not so good at replacing that worldview. For that, we need to understand continuousness between ourselves and the systems with exist inside.

  1. For example, think about the commune in Midsommar (2019). They still have to deal with tragedy and death like everyone else, but the have found an older way of living that mitigates some of the suffering that comes with the territory. ↩︎
  2. One of my pet peeves is the way people talk about nature as some concept with a tortuous boundary that excludes everything humans do, but includes all activities of all other animals. Defining nature as “stuff that doesn’t have to do with humans” is useful in some contexts, but it reinforces this concept that humans are somehow separate from the world around them. ↩︎