I don't even need all the fingers of one hand to count the science fiction I have read. The last true sci-fi book I read, Ursula Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness, I had to read in a summer class between years of high school. Before that, it had been at least 5-6 years, and even then it was mostly fantasy I had had to read for school. So, going into Vinge's book, I had no idea what to expect, either about the genre or the development of ideas. I guess this was a good thing, since I was not swayed either way.
I admit I'm not a big fan of the novel, but it does do some interesting things, particularly in the beginning when Vinge calls into question ideas of what we lose by having everything digital. That is, as you may have guessed from my earlier post about what I'll remember, I'm fascinated by the way that the materiality of books and texts presuppose, and prescribe, a particular relationship. I'm also interested in how our experience changes when we're holding a book in our hands, pen poised to write in the margins, versus when we're staring at a screen. You can't smell facebook, I've said before.
While we might read Vinge's book as a coming of age novel as Deedee says (and I think she's right), I'd argue that he's actually critiquing the notion of strictly technological and digital texts, and not just through the (ironic) discussions of Vaz, the Pseudomimivirus(es), and the ability to see almost anything anyone thinks. Not even the battle that's going on, or Robert's lamentations about no "real" books in the house. For me, the key lies very early on, when Vinge writes, "The bidding on physical tour slots to the Sagrada Familia was closed for the day, but there was still a queue of people near the cathedral entrance, people hoping for no-shows. It proved once again that the most important things were those you could touch"(10).
I read this as Vinge's instructions about how to read his novel; he places it early on so that we're constantly reminded of how superficial his characters are, why their lives seem empty to us, and why we simultaneously sympathize with, and detest, Robert. In some sense, I liked him, because his struggle to understand mirrors our own, and though he embraces the full digital lifestyle in the end, at the same time I, too, lament the (increasing) ability for "just" words to move us. (Recall Juan Orozco's poignant experience listening to Robert's poem).
I have more to say, which I'll put in a second post.
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3 comments:
All: Okay, so Sarah & I are the same person in two different bodies because I swear, we didn’t plan our close responses. Really, we didn’t.
Sarah and others: When you discuss the “materiality” of books and texts perhaps presupposing and prescribing relationships...that relationship, I think, is often (maybe very, very often) one of ownership. (Which is part of what I was talking about in my post.) I think that people often think that their relationship to a book is that they own it, the literal (of purchasing a book) becoming the figurative (of owning the piece that the author created.). My kids have a hard time using a library to borrow books. I wonder if our society’s movement toward this notion of ownership of ideas (and books and texts) as preferred and sometimes the only acceptable option is pulling them harder than my notions of the opposite values....getting them to look at ideas, putting them down for a while, gathering more experiences, and then coming back to them and looking again. I never had this problem when I was a kid. The public library was my salvation from a life of crime, poverty, and other misdeeds and I took everything I could get from that place, regardless of ownership. I had no choice. My kids have choices and those choices seem to have led them to equating reading and books with need to own the reading and the book. And, it is materially based, at least I think it is. But I reserve the right to change my mind after I think on it a bit more.
The lose of physical texts is definitely disturbing for me. As much as I'm enjoying the blogging for this class, I don't feel like I own anything, because anyone can come in and comment. My blog doesn't feel like my own like the books on my shelves do. A world where physical texts disappear seems to take away from this sort of ownership, and depersonalizes the way I'm communicating. Like Deedee mentioned about her kids having trouble borrowing books from the library, I'm wondering if there will be libraries for my kids. Okay, libraries probably won't disappear in the next 10-20 years, but those physical places of texts are definitely starting to unravel a bit.
Okay, Sarah, this post convinced me that Vinge actually does intend for his book to be something of a warning -- a glimpse at society when digitality and intrusion becomes absolutely commonplace. I wondered on my blog (and in the comments of others' blogs) whether Vinge had simply not realized what unlikable characters he created. Now I think it was, indeed, intentional. He's warning us that humans need physical interaction to be truly happy.
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