I could write a lot more about Kindred, but, for the sake of fulfilling the purpose of this blog, I'll try to make this my last Kindred post, after which I'll move on to other things.
I want to talk about Dana and Kevin's relationship. They seem like a nice "underdog" couple, as an interracial couple living in the 1970s. Sure, the Supreme Court's decision in Loving v. Virginia, which struck down all anti-miscegenation laws across the country, was handed down in 1967, but interracial marriage was still frowned upon by many people, including some of Dana and Kevin's relatives, so I wanted their relationship to be a good one in order to disprove the critics. Unfortunately, there do seem to be some flaws in it. Kevin's behavior when they first met, as well as some of his later behavior (such as pressuring Dana to type his manuscripts) strikes me as somewhat demeaning and controlling, and I'm concerned that it may conceal abusive tendencies. While I'm sure that they do love each other, it often seems like their actions are driven by a sense that they have of what a marriage should be, in particular the concept of putting your spouse's interests above your own. The issue with this concept is that, if both people are doing it, you sort of get caught in an endless loop, as you could easily argue that doing something to further your own interests is putting your spouse's interests above your own, since your spouse puts your interests above his/her own. It's far healthier to reach a mutual understanding about who would benefit more from a given situation and whatnot. Kevin and Dana don't seem too comfortable with this dynamic, which becomes evident after Kevin is stranded in the nineteenth century.
When Dana returned to 1976 without Kevin at the end of "The Fall," I don't think that Kevin was doomed to stay in the nineteenth century for five years. It seemed clear to both of them at that point that Dana was whisked back in time whenever Rufus's life was in danger, so all that Kevin would have to do to bring Dana back would be to re-endanger Rufus's life. I think that part of the reason that he didn't do that was because it seemed to him to be unfair to Dana to bring her back for what likely would have amounted to a few more months, all in order to keep him from being stranded for several years. The thing is that Dana probably would have wanted Kevin to bring her back if he was indeed capable so that he wouldn't be stranded, especially since she would probably remain in 1976 for a similar amount of time no matter how much time passed between calls from Rufus.
I'm going to go off of my original topic a little here (which is why I'm not giving this post a "real" title), and talk about the time-travel "system" itself. As far as Dana and Kevin could tell, it worked like this: When Rufus's life is in danger, Dana goes to the nineteenth century. When Dana's life is in danger, Dana goes to 1976. Yet it took until eight months into her fifth trip back in time before she actually decided to take advantage of that by endangering her own life. She did say during her second visit that she didn't dare test the paradox, but I'm not sure why. If I were in her situation, I would gladly endanger my own life to get out of there, especially seeing as how life on the plantation seems like it would be worse than death. Attempting suicide is a win-win situation - either you go back home, or you die, both of which would be an improvement over the current situation! I could just jump off of a cliff and see if I returned to my own time before I reached the bottom. Now, it would be difficult to make myself do that, because it would require overcoming decades worth of constant beliefs that jumping off of a cliff is a bad idea, but I think that, given the circumstances, I'd manage. If I couldn't find a cliff, I'd come up with something else. There are plenty of ways to die.
Well, that seems like a nice and pleasant way to end my last Kindred post! I really enjoyed this book (although some parts were quite sickening). It could very well be my favorite book that I've had to read for school; it's right up there with Things Fall Apart.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Sunday, April 13, 2014
The Butterfly Effect
Ever since her second trip to the nineteenth century, when she found out that Rufus was her ancestor, Dana was operating under the assumption that she was only being pulled back in time in order to keep Rufus alive long enough for him to father Hagar. When Rufus calls her for the last time, though, Hagar has already been born. Why does she still get pulled back then? The answer could have to do with the butterfly effect.
For those who don't know, the butterfly effect refers to the theory that one tiny, insignificant event could set off a chain of progressively more significant effects. The name comes from the thought that one flap of a butterfly's wings could ultimately lead to a hurricane somewhere far away from the butterfly, although its naming may have been influenced by a short science fiction story by Ray Bradbury called "A Sound of Thunder." The story follows a man who travels back in time and accidentally steps on a butterfly before returning to his own time, where it is revealed that that one butterfly's premature death led to words being spelled differently, people acting differently, and a different outcome in the recent presidential election (although, strangely, the two candidates were the same).
The butterfly effect may be more important in genealogy than in any other field. The birth of a person depends not only on each pair of that person's ancestors mating, but mating at the right time and probably under the right circumstances, in order for the right sperm to meet the right egg (this concept is explored in "Boy or Girl," by Cathleen Ward). As such, Dana's birth does not depend only on Hagar being born, but on her being raised under the exact right circumstances. Any minor change in her upbringing would probably lead to her having different children, even if she produced them with the same man.
As such, perhaps Dana did not return to the nineteenth century that last time in order to save Rufus, but rather to kill him. Being an orphan would certainly change Hagar's life enough for her to have different children - one of which, in this case, would end up being Dana's ancestor. Nonetheless, unless Dana's actions in the nineteenth century were exactly what needed to happen anyway, she would have been bound to make some mistake that would end up preventing her own birth. This tells me that Octavia Butler might not have been aware of the butterfly effect. This is definitely plausible - according to the Wikipedia page on the butterfly effect in popular culture, there were very few works exploring this concept before the 1980s.
For those who don't know, the butterfly effect refers to the theory that one tiny, insignificant event could set off a chain of progressively more significant effects. The name comes from the thought that one flap of a butterfly's wings could ultimately lead to a hurricane somewhere far away from the butterfly, although its naming may have been influenced by a short science fiction story by Ray Bradbury called "A Sound of Thunder." The story follows a man who travels back in time and accidentally steps on a butterfly before returning to his own time, where it is revealed that that one butterfly's premature death led to words being spelled differently, people acting differently, and a different outcome in the recent presidential election (although, strangely, the two candidates were the same).
The butterfly effect may be more important in genealogy than in any other field. The birth of a person depends not only on each pair of that person's ancestors mating, but mating at the right time and probably under the right circumstances, in order for the right sperm to meet the right egg (this concept is explored in "Boy or Girl," by Cathleen Ward). As such, Dana's birth does not depend only on Hagar being born, but on her being raised under the exact right circumstances. Any minor change in her upbringing would probably lead to her having different children, even if she produced them with the same man.
As such, perhaps Dana did not return to the nineteenth century that last time in order to save Rufus, but rather to kill him. Being an orphan would certainly change Hagar's life enough for her to have different children - one of which, in this case, would end up being Dana's ancestor. Nonetheless, unless Dana's actions in the nineteenth century were exactly what needed to happen anyway, she would have been bound to make some mistake that would end up preventing her own birth. This tells me that Octavia Butler might not have been aware of the butterfly effect. This is definitely plausible - according to the Wikipedia page on the butterfly effect in popular culture, there were very few works exploring this concept before the 1980s.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Spoilers?
When it comes to popular fiction, it's a general rule that spoilers are bad. At any given point, anything within the logical constraints of the universe should be able to happen. A twenty-first-century novelist would be considered in poor taste to write a book in such a way that the readers know exactly what's going to happen.
These were the ideas that had long since been implanted in my subconscious when I opened Slaughterhouse-Five and read Chapter 1, which closed by revealing the last line of the book. Now, granted, said last line was "Poo-tee-weet?" which doesn't really reveal anything about the storyline, but that line told me right away that Kurt Vonnegut would not be following conventions with this book.
And Slaughterhouse-Five did in fact break that no-spoiler rule quite a lot, thanks to its Tralfamadorian influences. We jump around time with Billy, finding out the fates of characters and then returning to before they had met said fate. Almost every time that Edgar Derby is mentioned, Vonnegut reminds us that he's "doomed." Whatever he does, readers think "Oh, yeah, he's the guy that's going to get executed for stealing a teapot." On an opposite note, after Billy's death scene, there can be no doubt that Paul Lazarro will survive the war. No matter what happens, he has to live in order to murder Billy in 1976.
Similar issues arise in Kindred. Our knowledge of the state of Kindred's world in 1976 gives us insight into certain events that must transpire in the nineteenth century. Obviously, the existence of Dana, as well as the information written in her family Bible, tells us that Rufus and Alice must produce a child named Hagar, who must herself live long enough to have children of her own. On a subtler note, the Bible also reveals the future of the relationship between Rufus and Alice: "Grandmother Hagar. Hagar Weylin, born in 1831. Hers was the first name listed. And she had given her parents' names as Rufus Weylin and Alice Green-something Weylin" (28). At some point, Alice evidently feels comfortable enough with Rufus to adopt his surname, relegating "Greenwood" to her middle name.
But let's go back to the idea of "spoilers" itself. Is it always applicable? Well, you can't spoil history. Nobody is going to to respond to a mention of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln with "Oh, come on; I hadn't made it to 1865 yet!" Mythology is in the same situation. The next step would probably be really old literature. Most people agree that it's OK to blurt out "Romeo and Juliet die in the end!" because it "spoils" something that's over 400 years old and that's ingrained very firmly in popular culture (in actuality, it's not a spoiler because the first page of the play reveals that they're going to die). Some people argue that it's OK to spoil the huge plot twist at the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince because, even though the book was published less than a decade ago, it's become so popular that few people don't already know what happens. I myself have gotten into multiple arguments about whether or not the big reveal near the end of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time is "exempt from spoilers." Sure, it's the most critically-acclaimed video game of all time, and millions of people have played it, but I maintain that its events should still be treated as potential spoilers. Although the game came out in 1998, I didn't play it until 2011. I hadn't known about the big reveal, and I'm glad that I didn't (even though I totally saw it coming), so I believe that it should not be revealed for the sake of those who waited even longer than I to play it.
In general, the concept of a spoiler is difficult to pin down, which makes it difficult for writers to avoid it. Was Butler's reveal of the eventual change of Alice's surname intentional or not? Maybe it was, but the fact remains that stories that play withe remain particularly vulnerable to spoilers. Of course, there are always authors like Vonnegut who just decide to toy with that fact by revealing the book's last line in the very first chapter.
These were the ideas that had long since been implanted in my subconscious when I opened Slaughterhouse-Five and read Chapter 1, which closed by revealing the last line of the book. Now, granted, said last line was "Poo-tee-weet?" which doesn't really reveal anything about the storyline, but that line told me right away that Kurt Vonnegut would not be following conventions with this book.
And Slaughterhouse-Five did in fact break that no-spoiler rule quite a lot, thanks to its Tralfamadorian influences. We jump around time with Billy, finding out the fates of characters and then returning to before they had met said fate. Almost every time that Edgar Derby is mentioned, Vonnegut reminds us that he's "doomed." Whatever he does, readers think "Oh, yeah, he's the guy that's going to get executed for stealing a teapot." On an opposite note, after Billy's death scene, there can be no doubt that Paul Lazarro will survive the war. No matter what happens, he has to live in order to murder Billy in 1976.
Similar issues arise in Kindred. Our knowledge of the state of Kindred's world in 1976 gives us insight into certain events that must transpire in the nineteenth century. Obviously, the existence of Dana, as well as the information written in her family Bible, tells us that Rufus and Alice must produce a child named Hagar, who must herself live long enough to have children of her own. On a subtler note, the Bible also reveals the future of the relationship between Rufus and Alice: "Grandmother Hagar. Hagar Weylin, born in 1831. Hers was the first name listed. And she had given her parents' names as Rufus Weylin and Alice Green-something Weylin" (28). At some point, Alice evidently feels comfortable enough with Rufus to adopt his surname, relegating "Greenwood" to her middle name.
But let's go back to the idea of "spoilers" itself. Is it always applicable? Well, you can't spoil history. Nobody is going to to respond to a mention of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln with "Oh, come on; I hadn't made it to 1865 yet!" Mythology is in the same situation. The next step would probably be really old literature. Most people agree that it's OK to blurt out "Romeo and Juliet die in the end!" because it "spoils" something that's over 400 years old and that's ingrained very firmly in popular culture (in actuality, it's not a spoiler because the first page of the play reveals that they're going to die). Some people argue that it's OK to spoil the huge plot twist at the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince because, even though the book was published less than a decade ago, it's become so popular that few people don't already know what happens. I myself have gotten into multiple arguments about whether or not the big reveal near the end of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time is "exempt from spoilers." Sure, it's the most critically-acclaimed video game of all time, and millions of people have played it, but I maintain that its events should still be treated as potential spoilers. Although the game came out in 1998, I didn't play it until 2011. I hadn't known about the big reveal, and I'm glad that I didn't (even though I totally saw it coming), so I believe that it should not be revealed for the sake of those who waited even longer than I to play it.
In general, the concept of a spoiler is difficult to pin down, which makes it difficult for writers to avoid it. Was Butler's reveal of the eventual change of Alice's surname intentional or not? Maybe it was, but the fact remains that stories that play withe remain particularly vulnerable to spoilers. Of course, there are always authors like Vonnegut who just decide to toy with that fact by revealing the book's last line in the very first chapter.
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