BioShock and Philosophy

A funny thing happened in 2015: people began reading this blog. More specifically, people began reading this blog and sending me free books in response to what I’d scribbled here. The result by year’s end was a pillar on my desk which in gratitude I feel some obligation to read and discuss. Here’s the first.

BioShock and PhilosophyBioShock and Philosophy
Luke Cuddy, ed.
Wiley Blackwell (180 pp, $17.95, June 2015)

My relationship status with Ayn Rand is It’s Complicated. On one hand, I’ve never been able to progress deeply into, let alone finish, any of her books; her heavy and mechanical prose is what a robotic arm on a Detroit assembly line would write upon gaining sentience. Her ideas, which she believed novel, were better articulated by others. For example, Rand criticized progressive taxation as punishing success and innovation, and believed it was motivated by envy of the rich rather than logic. I agree. But these weren’t new ideas: a century beforehand, Frederic Bastiat concluded that tax policy is less about paying for roads and bridges and more about the political class rewarding its friends and punishing its enemies, while Nietzsche observed that under Judeo-Christian slave morality, poverty and the hatred of wealth is virtuous (Mark 10:25, Matthew 19:24). You would never know these two existed if you listened to Rand or her followers — to them, these thoughts sprang like Athena from her head alone; I might have more respect for Rand if she had occasionally included some footnotes and a bibliography. There is also the sneaking suspicion that Rand was a manipulative so-and-so who used rhetoric to rationalize her bad behavior, and that the main draw for Objectivists today is simply to justify theirs.

On the other hand, I can’t deny Rand’s influence on 20th-century political thought. This one time, at Ithaca College? A classmate mentioned Rand and our professor — who was the chair of the philosophy department — rolled his eyes and dismissed her. It’s amazing that I was awarded a four-year degree in philosophy and yet that incident is the entirety of my formal exposure to Rand. Love her or hate her, for good or bad, Rand’s name is thrown around too often today to be rejected with a shruggie.

It may be a little surprising to learn that a book titled BioShock and Philosophy isn’t cover-to-cover Ayn Rand. Instead, editor Luke Cuddy presents 16 essays that use the BioShock games for a variety of philosophical entrances, from Oliver Laas’s exploration of the characters’ free will to Simon Ledder’s introduction to transhumanism through plasmids and vigors. In fact the closest we get to an Objectivist tour of Rapture occurs via Rand’s aesthetics on art, whereby author Jason Rose concludes that Objectivists — who generally don’t like the game — should feel redeemed by it because Andrew Ryan is a bad Objectivist (to be fair, Cuddy may have approached hardline Objectivists for contributions but was probably rebuked with insults, accusations of irrationalism, and demands to sleep with Cuddy’s wife).

For me the strongest appeal of the BioShock games was their theme of utopianism, and because of that I have to thank Rick Elmore for my introduction to Carl Schmitt’s theory of political foundation. Schmitt believed that nations or political communities are founded in opposition to some other assemblage, that group identity coalesces through hostility to another group — it’s us versus them. It’s sort of like Nixon’s quip, only writ large, that voters vote against the candidates they hate, not for those they like. Elmore uses Schmitt’s theory to explain the utopian experiments of Andrew Ryan and Zachary Comstock. Both create new societies that are antagonistic to others: for Ryan, it is parasites and socialism, while for Comstock it’s sinfulness and a disturbing lack of faith in white supremacy. This idea is relevant today and explains a great deal why nations inflate threats (America’s fear of Muslim terrorism) or constantly vilify other countries (the pathological obsession the Iranian and North Korean governments have with the US). The flames must be stoked long after the inciting spark has burned out, and defining group identity as being at war with another does exactly that. Schmitt also happened to be an unrepentant Nazi who used his theory to substantiate the Third Reich — which is again appropriate here, considering Hitler’s dream of utopia collapsed as surely and completely as Ryan’s and Comstock’s.

BioShock and Philosophy is not without some misses. A repetitive, vapid essay on Marxism and the Vox Populi revolution — written by two Ithaca College grads, natch — rehashes the game to make no-shit-Sherlock conclusions; the ink would have been better spilled on, say, analyzing Columbia through the lens of Edward Bellamy’s utopian socialism, or a Marxist/leftish critique of the Fraternal Order of the Raven and real-world Lincoln demonization (particularly by paleolibertarians). Absence of a thing is not a valid criticism of that thing, but along those lines I was surprised that neither BioShock 2 nor the Burial at Sea DLCs are mentioned much; BioShock 2 reimagines Rand’s feud with BF Skinner, while Burial at Sea apparently negates the ending of Infinite (something that would undoubtedly intrigue Scott Squires and James McBain, who didn’t care for Infinite‘s deterministic universe). Including that content would have provided richer interpretations to some of the essays.

CC BY Omarukai
CC BY Omarukai

The fact that I have invested waaaay too much time and thought into the BioShock games is a testament to how immersive they are. I never played the games in order; I was first sucked into BioShock Infinite primarily on the basis of a trailer, and immediately became absorbed by its mashup of steampunk with Colonial Revival architecture, quantum physics and all its implications, themes of American Exceptionalism and evangelical millennialism, and its leitmotif of guilt, penance, and absolution. Also, there were the parts where I could swing around on skylines and blow up zeppelins. Later I became intrigued by the setting (and not so much the game itself) of the original BioShock, and I only wish I could have submitted an essay to Cuddy on the historical utopianism of man-made islands and undersea habitats (because from Jules Verne to the Neolithic crannogs of Britain and Ireland, the idea of a better society has very often been wedded to water). No doubt contributor Laszlo Kajtar feels me. As he points out, it is not the book that matters so much as the reading of it; it is not the painting but rather our viewing of the painting that affects us. Like all art, games are necessarily subjective — it is our experience with them that provokes and seduces. And some of them, like a syringe full of EVE, get under the skin.

Postcards From the Post-Apocalypse

Bombay Beach on the shore of the Salton Sea, CA, April 2008.
On the shore of the Salton Sea, California. CC BY Alexander Novati

J.G. Ballard is unquestionably the godfather of post-apocalyptic fiction. Early on he wrote a number of Earth-ending novels featuring titular catastrophes — The Drowned World, The Burning World — but his short fiction also dabbled in localized doomsdays, stories in which cataclysms are contained or at least only opaquely affect the rest of the planet.

Memories of the Space Age, his eight-story collection from 1988, showcases a Western civilization that is mostly intact; it’s only the motels and cocktails bars along A1A and the psyches of his characters that have collapsed. Many of the stories are set in and around Cape Canaveral after space exploration’s sunset, its denizens scavenging canned goods from grocery stores and liquor from old Starlight Lounges, living in deserted hotels with railed balconies overlooking drained swimming pools. Even when they’re not — in “A Question of Re-Entry,” a UN official travels upriver into an Amazonian Heart of Darkness to locate an errant astronaut whose module went off-course — the landscape is no less upheaved; Major Tom’s splashdown in the godforsaken jungle is cataclysmic for everybody involved.

The collection’s opener, “The Cage of Sand,” is also its strongest, a story in which an invasive species unintentionally brought to Earth has turned Cape Canaveral into a quarantine zone whose only citizens are incomplete jigsaw puzzles questing after the final pieces of their heads. Likewise “The Dead Astronaut” depicts a Kennedy Space Center bombarded by space junk and corpse-filled capsules scavenged by relic hunters. You have to wonder how much of Ballard’s childhood in war-stricken Shanghai appears on the page; his characters live on civilization’s fringes, in abandoned offices and hotels among forgotten technology. Even when no Seventh Seal has been opened, such as in “My Dream of Flying to Wake Island,” the characters dwell in ruins slowly but surely being absorbed by beach dunes and creepers.

Three of Ballard’s stories, written in 1981–82, are tedious rewrites of the same outline. Here, escape from Earth’s gravity well has broken some fundamental law of the universe, snapping time itself — or at least mankind’s perception of it; meanwhile some madman pursues our hero’s wife. I vacillated between interpreting these stories as an evolution of humanity to adapt to the long distances of space travel or as a Luddite warning against technological progress; but in the end, though poorly done, I saw Ballard returning to a theme of earlier works like The Drowned World.

Along the Mullica River, NJ.
Somewhere along the Mullica River, New Jersey.

Ballard is sometimes credited with prescience for The Drowned World but he wrote so many potential futures that one or two were bound to strike close to the target. Solar storms have dissolved the ionosphere, raising the Earth’s temperature and melting the polar ice caps. The continents are flooded, the cities either submerged or choked with silt and runaway vegetation, and humanity has retreated to the poles. Dr. Robert Kerans works as part of a military expedition to map lost cities in the eventual hope of reclamation. Yet members of the team, including Kerans, spend their nights suffering through atavistic nightmares of a primeval past while their waking hours are consumed by a drive to wander off into the jungle. When the expedition departs, Kerans goes AWOL to stay behind; but the vacuum left by the military is immediately filled by scavenging raiders, who interrupt Kerans’s plan for a lifelong camping trip. If you’ve read Ballard, then it’s no spoiler to say that many of his stories and books end with the main character stumbling off into the wilderness alone, ready to adapt to the new environment. Kerans’s dreams and impulses are a necessary mutation.

I think that’s Ballard’s main point right there, both in his Space Age stories and in novels like The Drowned World. Much of the post-apocalyptic genre ends poorly for the hero. Life after the apocalypse is harsh and cruel, with cannibalism and terror — and that is why most post-apocalyptic fiction is ultimately conservative moralizing. The status quo was good, it tells us, and then the status quo was upset. Now life sucks.

CC BY SA Michael Rivera
Suwannee County, Florida. CC BY SA Michael Rivera

Ballard says something fundamentally different. Humans, he says, both as a species and as individuals, always evolve to meet the wasteland. It’s hard not to be reminded again of his childhood in Shanghai, or of the fact that a few years after he began writing professionally, Ballard’s wife died, leaving him a single dad with three young kids. He survived, and I imagine he would argue life after both events was not always worse than before. We define apocalypses as catastrophic, as world ending, as floods and famine and mushroom clouds, and so we fail to see the post-apocalypses we inhabit everyday. A house fire, a divorce, the death of a parent or spouse are just as world ending to those who must go on living afterwards among the blasted shacks and melted mannequins of the interior atomic bomb, of the White Sands of the soul. There’s something optimistic in Ballard’s visions of dead astronauts in orbit and underwater Londons. Bad things happen but we outlive them, adapt, and stagger on.

Not So #ForeverAlone

William Irvin, a professor of philosophy at King’s College, has written a book on the overlap between existentialism and capitalism — not the crony tax-and-bailout kind that epitomizes modern-day America but rather the laissez-faire brand idealized by libertarians:

I define existentialism as a philosophy that reacts to an apparently absurd or meaningless world by urging the individual to overcome alienation, oppression, and despair through freedom and self-creation in order to become a genuine person. … The main link between existentialism and libertarianism is individualism. In both systems of thought, the individual is primary and the individual is responsible.

Irwin’s book, The Free-Market Existentialist, is subtitled Capitalism Without Consumerism. It’s a little strange to connect existentialism with anti-consumerism for over 200 pages (I would give it a chapter, tops), though admittedly the emphasis on authenticity has always been at odds with the bourgeois materialism disdained by the likes of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche (a theme best expressed by that book and film regarding a certain pugilistic fraternity). Yet ultimately what is and isn’t consumerism is in the eyes of the consumer. We all know people who spend their money unwisely but very few of us eat and sleep between Spartan white walls furnished with a single lawn chair and a mattress on the floor. I have been somewhat mystified by the recent publishing boom in coloring books aimed at adults — or at least I was until I remembered that I periodically enjoy buying and assembling Lego sets, which I find soothing and peaceful. Is it consumerist to blow my money on children’s toys? To a stranger the answer is probably yes, but to me the calm it brings is worth the expense. As Nietzsche said, there are no moral phenomena, only moral interpretations of them.

While embracing existentialism doesn’t require a concomitant bear hug of libertarianism (or even capitalism), a natural fit between the two exists for the reason Irwin underscores: both position the individual in the bull’s-eye. Put differently, existentialism is not defined by its compatibility with libertarianism as it is with its incompatibility with centralized or autocratic systems that throw personhood into chains. In an interview with Nick Gillespie, Irwin commented that Sartre’s apologism for Stalin and Mao (and Castro too — Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir nearly wore their tongues to stubs licking Che Guevara’s Soviet-issue calfskin) is something that “just always puzzled me.” It’s less puzzling when you consider the context of Paris in the 40s and 50s. Hitler hated Communists as much as he hated Jews (having read Mein Kampf, I’m not sure he even distinguished between them), so when the German tanks rolled through the Arc de Triomphe, many French Communists took their fight underground. After the war, when the Resistance literally climbed out of the sewers and catacombs, they became the rock stars of French society. Poor Jean-Paul, who had also fought with the Resistance, found himself sitting in the Parisian cafes espousing a philosophy of individualism to crowds of Marxists who, like Hegel watching Napoleon at Jena, believed that individuals were disposable — that only waves or movements mattered and only a person’s contributions to the revolution were worthwhile (Marx was the ultimate exploiter of labor). It is impossible to reconcile a philosophy of individualism with its goateed antipode, though Sartre sure tried (that’s what all that nonsense is regarding anguish in Existentialism and Human Emotions: “For every man, everything happens as if all mankind had its eyes fixed on him,” etc.), and eventually his desire to fit in with the cool kids outweighed his attachment to the philosophy he christened, so he abandoned it. It’s notable to reflect that at the end of his life Sartre deserted Communism too, and death found him a sad and broken figure as lacking in fidelity to his own ideas as he was to Beauvoir.

In his promotional pieces for Reason, Irwin complains that he is “all alone” at the intersection of the invisible hand and the uphill struggle against the boulder. It may usually begin with Ayn Rand for some but not for me — I can’t stand Rand. I arrived at the crossroads by my belief in the sovereignty of the individual and my skepticism of authority, aided and abetted by the literature of Camus, Chandler, Sartre, Salinger, and a whole bunch more. If it happened for me, it probably happened for others too. Irwin isn’t as alone as he thinks.

Reanimated

Reanimator Helles LagerProving that while H.P. Lovecraft might be problematic for the World Fantasy Convention the rest of the planet gives exactly zero fucks, Narragansett has released the third offering in its Lovecraft Series, the Reanimator Helles Lager.

“Herbert West — Reanimator” was Lovecraft’s first fiction sale, an episodic story in six parts for which he was paid $5 per installment. They appeared in the magazine Home Brew in 1922. The story follows the titular character and his nameless narrating assistant from their medical-student days at Miskatonic University to a small practice in Bolton, Massachusetts to the French lines of the Great War to an exclusive practice in Boston. All the while, West pursues his obsession with conquering death through science by injecting corpses with a special chemical cocktail. Intentional or not, a fine sense of gallows humor permeates as the pair by turns loot graves and smuggle corpses into West’s lab, only to either run screaming from or be beaten unconscious by the serum’s successes. A recurring joke sees West’s experiments often ending in gunfire, which is the only way he can return his cadavers to a second death.

The cans, illustrated by Rhode Island artist Aaron Bosworth, reference the story’s third chapter in which West injects a dead boxer with his serum, then prematurely buries the corpse when the juicing apparently fails. The chapter is also the most cringe worthy in the whole tale: the boxer is black, and Lovecraft pulls out the stops describing the character in subhuman terms. I believe Lovecraft’s life can be divided into two periods: the time before his 1926 separation from Sonia Greene (their divorce was never finalized); and the time afterwards, when he returned from New York to Providence, exhausted, starved, and humbled. “Reanimator” is definitely a product of the first period. Lovecraft never held anything that could be considered a regular job until 1920 — when he was 30 years old — and only began regularly traveling outside of Providence two years later. For all his autodidacticism, his views and political opinions were ignorant and provincial. Alas, we live in a season when to be ignorant and provincial in the 1920s is a social crime a hundred years later; when Princeton administrators capitulate and scrub every reference to Woodrow Wilson from the college he once presided over, it is only a matter of time before Brown students take sledgehammers to the Lovecraft plaque outside the John Hay Library or any of the other memorials scattered throughout the city.

Narragansett’s Reanimator is a resurrection of their retired helles bock, richer and denser than their standard lager, and at 6.5-percent ABV, slightly less drunkifying than their other Lovecrafts. It’s already my favorite in the series; I only wish they had offered it over the summer when lagers go better. There are those who may smash the award statues and claim that what someone wrote or said a century ago marginalizes and silences them today, but Cthulhu is indifferent to their complaints — as are brewers, drinkers, publishers, readers, and just about everybody else.

Me on the previous entry in the series, Innsmouth Olde Ale.

The Doom That Came to the WFC

The World Fantasy Convention has decided to redesign their award statuettes in response to a petition complaining about H.P. Lovecraft’s racism. Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi is none too happy about it. Meanwhile, over at Black Gate I threw some gasoline on the fire debating whether Lovecraft’s racism was more him or his times:

No one will argue that Lovecraft was a well-adjusted individual; from sex to seafood, a psychiatrist would have worn out an IKEA’s worth of sofas itemizing a complete list of the man’s phobias. I contend those same anxieties are precisely what make Lovecraft’s writing so much fun. If his racism was more vile than that of his neighbors and contemporaries, then it originated in that same pool of existential paranoia from which only madmen sip. It was part and parcel with his oversensitivity to smells, his finicky eating habits, and all the rest. H.P. Lovecraft may have been a genius. He was also crazy.

I don’t believe changing the award is the worst thing, and Joshi is certainly overreacting (“I will do everything in my power to urge a boycott of the World Fantasy Convention among my many friends and colleagues”). As Jayn commented on my post, “the definition of ‘fantasy’ nowadays includes Lovecraft’s horror as only a subset.” Let the WFC focus on a broader range of material; with endless homages and entire conventions dedicated to celebrating his work, Lovecraft isn’t going to be swallowed by Lethean lake waters anytime soon.

Read my whole post here.

Short News, Literary Agency Edition

War of the Pamphlets. To promote the publication of a new, two-volume reprint collection of Revolutionary era pamphlets, the Library of America has posted an interview with editor Gordon S. Wood. Self-published luminaries Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke, and John Dickinson make appearances, as does Thomas Paine:

He was our first public intellectual, and unlike the other pamphleteers, he lived solely by his pen. As such, he aimed at a much broader audience than did the others, one encompassing the middling class of artisans, tradesmen, and tavern-goers. Unlike the elite writers who bolstered their arguments with legal citations and references to the whole of Western culture going back to the ancients, Paine did not expect his readers to know more than the Bible and the English Book of Common Prayer.

Run Your Own Race. I love running as a metaphor for writing. There are sprints and long slogs, uphills that burn your quads and downhills that kill your knees, and most of all, the work that no one sees, the runs you put in just to show up. Kristine Kathryn Rusch makes the same analogy, arguing that every writer runs at his or her own pace:

I mentioned New York, which had 50,564 finishers in 2014, which made it the biggest marathon ever. Average “important” marathons usually have 35-40,000 finishers.

That’s a lot of runners, most of whom have no hope of crossing the finish line first.

Note I didn’t mention “winning,” because runners are very clear about the varied definitions of winning. Winning for a non-elite athlete might be a personal best.

Affordable Smith. Remember back in 2010 when I complained that inexpensive editions of Clark Ashton Smith’s work were largely unavailable to casual readers interested in learning more about him? Well, after years of financial troubles and improprieties — which finally ended with the company being bought by another publisher — Night Shade Books has begun releasing its five-volume collection of Smith’s work in paperback and for Kindle. Volume One is already out, with the next to appear in January.