
#414
Title:
Oryx and CrakeAuthor: Margaret Atwood
Publisher: Anchor
Year: 2004
416 pages
Audiobook
here,
though for $74 you could pay a friend to read it aloud to you. My
download was through the vast, evil, yet comparatively inexpensive
iTunes empire.
Long ago in my Philosophy of the Arts class,
we read and argued a great deal about the Intentionalist Fallacy. This
is the claim that the artist's intentions don't matter, that what
matters is the meaning conveyed by the art product. I find authors'
intentions interesting, but try first to understand the meanings that
are present in the text. I usually enjoy this more, because the
creators' intentions are often feverishly asserted but not realized in
the art. Atwood claims that science fiction is about "talking squids in
outer space," and that that's not what she writes. Margaret, you write
about GMO humanoids in a post-apocalyptic dystopia. I see how that's not
science fiction at all. :rolleyes: I suppose I could also say ":snap:
What-EVAH!" For pretty much the rest of us,
Oryx and Crake
is science fiction, a thematic category in which Atwood does some
lovely work. So don't bother finding the insulting authorial exegesis,
but instead proceed directly to the book.
Oryx and Crake
is poignant, poetic, and emotional, which is no small task with a
not-very-sympathetic and schlubby protagonist, grandly catastrophic
actions, and a wide-ranging narrative that includes an errant mother,
rakunks (raccoon plus skunk), the sexual trafficking of children,
biochemical attacks, gated compounds, and the aforementioned genetically
modified humanoids. The story follows Snowman, who grew up as a
comparatively average guy surrounded by geniuses. While not
passive-aggressive, Snowman is passive, or hesitant, or uncertain, or
unable to take a stand for his convictions, at many times from his
childhood to adulthood. His reminiscence, often painful and
self-loathing, supplies the story of how he comes to find himself
wrapped in a sheet, in the tropical fringe of a beach with a
not-so-human tribe, making up answers to their many irritating
questions. Atwood is a wordsmith, and like Ursula Le Guin, writes a
deeply satisfying, smart narrative.
Atwood is a master of world-building. Sure, some of what she proposes is far out, but this is, like
The Handmaid's Tale, a cautionary fantasy. I remember hostile critiques when
The Handmaid's Tale
was first published, arguments that Atwood's near-future dystopia was
unrealistic and wacked out. The intervening shifts in politics and
culture make the idea of a fundamentalist religious government in the
U.S. seem not so much an absurd speculation as a matter of degree.
(Robert Heinlein, of course, gave us his own version of a military
theocracy in his 1940 story "If This Goes On--.") As I check my food
labels for GMO notices, read about
fluorescent cats,
and find that the Internet knows where I live even when I use someone
else's computer, I find myself wondering if the Atwood is all that far
off.