As the Moon Climbs

I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun.

José Martí wrote these words in his poem “A Morir,” the year before he was killed while trying to free Cuba from Spanish rule. My immediate thought upon reading this was how similar it was to Antigone’s attitude toward her own somewhat revolutionary actions. Their two stories are incredibly dissimilar, and yet they share a fundamental belief in the rightness of their own causes.

When Antigone reveals her plan to bury Polynices, Ismene balks because she is afraid of the consequences should they get caught. She tells Antigone, “At any rate, disclose this deed to none: /Keep it close hidden. I will hide it too.” To which Antigone responds, “Speak out! I bid thee. Silent, thou wilt be / More hateful to me than if thou shouldst tell / My deed to all men.” But why? She knows that the penalty for disobeying Kreon’s edict is death, but as the saying goes, you’re only in trouble if you get caught. Even so, she makes no effort to hide what she is doing, although she avoids detection during the first burial, the suggestion being that it is due to divine intervention. One almost wonders if she goes back for the second burial because she didn’t get caught the first time, and could be dismissed as a liar if she tried to take credit for the act without proof.

Still, the question remains: why be caught? Why seek acknowledgment? She repeatedly claims that she is burying her brother because it is the right thing to do according to the gods’ laws, but it seems that she could just as easily do the right thing in secret as out in the open. Does she want fame? Glory? Moral support? Attention? Is she trying to make Kreon look bad by forcing a confrontation? Is she trying to foment civil unrest? Is she actually suicidal and finds this to be a convenient method of ending her life while she’s at her most pious?

I thought that one of my classmates had a good answer: none of the above. She said that maybe Antigone wanted to be open about her actions simply because she wanted to show that they were not shameful. If she had been secretive, it would have implied that she wasn’t secure in her convictions, that deep down inside she didn’t think she should be doing what she was doing. But of course, that wasn’t true; like Martí, she didn’t want to be “put… in the dark / To die like a traitor,” she wanted to “die with [her] face to the sun.”

Antigone did die in the dark, in a cave, alone. However, the chorus compares her to Danae, who was similarly confined in a dark place and was nonetheless visited by Zeus himself. Because she never hid her intentions or actions, in a way she died under the watchful eyes of the gods and her fellow Thebans, shedding light on Kreon’s “crime” even in darkness.

Because I still have scholarship money to burn, sort of, I am taking yet another literature class at my alma mater. This time, I am entering the delightful and somewhat impenetrable world of Greek tragedy. I call it “impenetrable” because there are unfortunate gaps in our knowledge about not only the time period but drama specifically. Scholars make the best guesses that they can, supported by the information available, but there is a lot that is simply not known and will never be. Unless, of course, someone invents time travel and we manage to avoid mucking things up.

We begin with Antigone by Sophocles, one of his three surviving plays about Oedipus and his appurtenant trials and tribulations. The main conflict of the play is between Antigone and Kreon; the latter decrees that the former’s brother, killed while trying to invade the city (Thebes), is to be left unburied and denied proper funeral rites. The former believes that the laws of the gods supercede the laws of man and buries her brother anyway. Since Kreon declared that the punishment for doing so would be death, he must then decide between clemency for his niece, who also happens to be betrothed to his son, and sticking to his proverbial guns.

Given this tension between the two sides, it is difficult to determine who is the main character; if the term is used interchangeably with protagonist, it becomes an even more complicated question, because it is tough to pinpoint who exactly is opposing whom. In a way, it is a case of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object; Antigone does what she thinks is morally right despite the consequences, and Kreon refuses to mitigate the consequences despite it being in his power to do so.

The very fact that the play is titled Antigone is an argument in favor of her being the main character. Additionally, her actions create the conflict that moves the plot forward; she continuously exerts her agency and everyone suffers the consequences. Kreon himself reacts rather than acts because, as he puts it, “while I live a woman shall not rule” (Blondell 525). She even controls the manner of her own death instead of passively accepting the punishment imposed on her.

However, it can be argued that while Antigone may be an important character, possibly the protagonist, Kreon is actually the main character. It is his initial pronouncement that sets the stage for Antigone’s disobedience, and his inability to change that ensures the plot will move inexorably toward its final tragic conclusion. He has more lines than any other character, mostly because every other major character, including the chorus, attempts to convince him of his wrongheadedness. By contrast, no one tries to convince Antigone of anything except Ismene, and even she converts to Antigone’s way of thinking and tries to take credit for the act of defiance. While Antigone is confident in her decision, Kreon defends himself in a paranoid fashion by accusing his opponents of threatening him and taking bribes. In the end, Kreon alone is left alive to suffer the consequences of his actions, namely the deaths of everyone he cares about.

In tallying up the arguments for both sides, it seems that the scales are tipped slightly in Kreon’s favor. This would have been performed at the City Dionysia festival, and so would have been eligible for a prize along with three other plays written by Sophocles. One wonders whether he won first prize for the group that included this play and, if so, who would have been awarded the laurel for best actor. Whoever it was may even have played both roles at different times, since all the actors were masked and there were only three of them plus the chorus. As mentioned previously, unless that time machine makes an appearance, the world may never know.

I’d heard good things about Old Man’s War by John Scalzi. Things that made me want to read it. Now, having read it, I am hard pressed to remember what those good things were and who said them, because I’d like to ask those people some questions.

The ideas are interesting, without a doubt. In the future, humans are at war with just about everyone else in the galaxy and they recruit old people to fight. The book explores the technology involved, in detail that is specific enough to be believable but vague enough to sidestep questions of realism and feasibility. Some worthwhile philosophical questions are asked and answered in a generally satisfactory way.

There are, however, two main problems with this book, and they are pretty significant: the characters and the plot.

We’ll start with the latter, which is possibly the less egregious. To put it briefly, not much happens in this book. Over three hundred pages and perhaps a third of them or less actually move the action forward in some substantive way. And honestly, the action doesn’t seem to go much of anywhere anyway. I could say more, but I don’t want to wander too close to spoiler territory. Suffice it to say that the first third of the book is spent easing the reader into the pool, and the rest feels like treading water with the occasional cannonball.

But sometimes a book can get away with slow or flimsy plot if the characters are sympathetic and engaging. Unfortunately, these aren’t really either, mostly because they have little to no distinct personality to differentiate them. They are all nice, intelligent, well-spoken people who sound alike and are only distinguished by their previous careers. The main character in particular is disappointingly bland and, even worse, has no detectable character flaw. He is awesome and everyone likes him and he does awesome things and boy he sure is great! He never does anything wrong, and when bad things happen they are never his fault and, really, they don’t tend to happen to him anyway so who cares? It’s not like the other characters were distinct enough to worry about, so when any of them die the impact is minimal.

Most of the book felt like the notes for a book, like the author wrote all these fabulous background bits about the universe and technology and so forth and thought it would be a great idea to have various characters relate this information in lengthy, pointless conversations. It was not a great idea. It was quite possibly the opposite of a great idea. Even the action bits weren’t as exciting as one might hope; it felt like more time was spent planning the actions than actually engaging in them, and they tended to go just as planned with one notable and enjoyable exception.

Would I recommend this book? Perhaps to the kind of person who liked to read D&D manuals for fun. Otherwise, the gimmick of having old people fight wars is not sufficient to carry this novel. If I want to read about space marines, I’ll go grab Starship Troopers. If I want morality, I’ll read some Clarke or Asimov or Vonnegut.

Before I proceed, I must first admit that I am a gibbering fangirl and so my opinions on the topic at hand should probably be taken with at least five grains of salt. Possibly seven. One strives for objectivity in all things, but sometimes objectivity “accidentally” gets locked in the basement for a few hours while subjectivity turns up the television to cover the shouting and banging noises.

I recently finished reading Nation by Terry Pratchett, which is his first non-Discworld book in many years. While it could be called fantasy, it fits more snugly into the alternate history subgenre, but thankfully does not focus on showing off the full extent of what makes its world different from our own. The plot is relatively simple: a young boy who lives on a small island loses his entire village to a tsunami and has to cope with the aftermath. At the same time, a young girl is shipwrecked on the aforementioned island and must adjust to the vast differences between her present situation and her previous sheltered British lifestyle.

The story is set in a late 19th century Pacific Ocean stand-in called the Great Southern Pelagic Ocean, which is populated by numerous tiny islands. The main character, Mau, lives on one of these islands, called the Nation by its inhabitants and those of the surrounding islands. It is considered to be favored by the gods and is generally more prosperous and well-regarded than its neighbors, but ironically it is later revealed to be so small that the British do not even depict it on their naval maps.

This play between Mau’s perception of his home and that of the British girl, Daphne, is one of the many ways in which Pratchett explores the notion of personal and societal subjectivity, even of cultural relativism. This is probably his most philosophical book, but the ideas found within will likely be familiar to those who have read his body of work: the simultaneous absurdity and value of religion, the sanctity of life, the tragedy of death, the tenacity of the human spirit (I use the term “spirit” loosely), and underneath it all, a sense that while living is Serious Business, if one takes it too seriously then one is not really living fully. And if there is nothing else that he seems to advocate, it is the pursuit of a personally fulfilling life.

While I would love to discuss the interplay of science and spirituality in the book, I don’t want to give away too much about central plot elements, so suffice it to say that it is an interesting aspect. Likewise the exploration of gender roles, which can get a bit superficial but is nonetheless enjoyable; at times one remembers that this is supposed to be a book for young adults, and this is one of those times. His tone is alternately light without being flippant, and serious without being grave, showing a kind of fondness for his characters that one might hope for in a benevolent supreme creator.

The main problem with the book is probably that so much time is spent on coping with the aftermath of the tsunami that when other things finally start happening, they feel almost tacked on rather than naturally occurring. It’s difficult to feel the full force of a villain’s evil, for example, when he doesn’t appear until one of the final chapters, and so he is more caricature than character. But given the breadth of what Pratchett accomplishes thematically, perhaps he can be forgiven for a few technical difficulties.

It is easy to recommend this book to fellow Pratchett-prose lovers, and would also be a good introduction to his work for the uninitiated; it certainly lacks the literary baggage that comes with a foray into Discworld. As much as I want to read more about Vimes and the City Watch, the occasional cruise into other waters is a delightful vacation, and a reminder that Pratchett has a lot more to say than any one world can contain.

Now that I’ve finished running the yearly gauntlet that is the holiday season, I can return my mind to more personally fulfilling pursuits, such as playing Fallout 3 on my PS3 until my fingers permanently curl into arthritic talons. But of course that’s not all I plan to do this year; I also have Chrono Trigger for the Nintendo DS.

I kid, I kid. Sort of. As delightful as it may be to explore virtual worlds, a wannabe writer like myself is never content to be a mere Odysseus, sailing the salty literary seas that, while uncharted, are bounded by coastlines formed by forces beyond my control. No, better to dip my hands into the primordial soup and mold my own lands and seas as I see fit, then invite other hardy voyagers to discover the wonders I have crafted. If that sounds lofty, it is because I am a megalomaniac.

I already have several soups in several pots, simmering away, waiting for me to stir them and add more ingredients. Unfortunately, there is always the temptation to pour them down the drain and start over, determined to do a better job with the newest recipe. At what point does one give up on fixing something that is too salty or overcooked or heavy on the butter? What qualifies a piece of writing as unsalvageable?

That question doesn’t have an easy answer. It may not even have an answer at all. I suspect that one could come up with some sort of costs/benefits analysis with consideration given to how much time and effort is required to fix something versus the expected returns, but with writing it’s an incredibly nebulous process. I can’t make a spreadsheet to track these things. I have no idea whether any individual written work will amount to anything, no matter how much I tinker with it.

But then again, the idea of quitting is unpalatable to say the least. To quit is to admit failure. To accept defeat. To raise the white flag and lay down arms and be forever branded a loser, or worse, to silently fade into obscurity. History is written by the victor, after all, and his books are certain to be published.

A compromise would be best, but that’s tough to accomplish on a limited time budget. It’s easy to say that I’ll toil diligently on both old and new works, but can I really do both? Will dividing my attention lead me to do two things adequately rather than one thing well?

This will be the year to find out, I suppose. Once more into the breach and all that. I’ll let you know when the soup’s on.