In the year 2075 "Luna" is a penal colony for Earth, and revolution is brewing. Four conspirators decide to overthrow the Authority that rules them; Mannie, a Jack of all trades and third-generation "Loonie"; Wyoming Knott, a surrogate mother with a personal vendetta against the Authority; Professor de la Paz, an anarchist by profession; and Mike, a self-aware computer, the only one of his kind, who controls all the electrical systems on Luna. The foursome pool their skills to concoct a scheme that will forever change life on the moon and politics on Earth.
They don't give out the Hugo award for just anything; this book has a lot to say about human nature, politics, and power. Its stance on human nature is classically comedic: the characters have many flaws and trivial affairs, but there is hope for all of them. Heinlein makes the plot believable by combining these very human characters with intricate descriptions of physics and sociology; of all the science fiction books I've ever read, this is one of the few I half-expect to come true.
I'd like to spend some time on where the Lunar society intersects with our current social struggles. Despite being founded on a population of convicts, Luna is mostly a peaceful society where crime is low and war is impossible. However, there are instances which are commonplace there but shock visitors from Terra (Earth); the concept of "eliminating" wrongdoers, and the Loonie response to violence against themselves. Elimination is a certain kind of murder in which a group of Loonies forces someone out of an air lock and onto the vacuum of the moon's surface. There are no written laws on Luna, but everyone seems to know whether someone deserves to be eliminated. New conscripts often face this fate due to social blunders. Even more violently, there are several scenes in the book when agents of the Lunar Authority attack, and when this happens, Loonies of all ages drop whatever they're doing and fight with whatever they have at hand until every last offender is dead. Women literally tear rapists apart, and children fearlessly wield kitchen knives against intruders with laser guns. It's an interesting outcome of the setting's effect on social understanding, and I appreciate the fact that it doesn't seem to be driven by a political agenda.
This agenda's back seat to the story is somewhat opposite to what I have to criticize about Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness (you knew I couldn't get too deep into science fiction without bringing her up). In fact, the setting itself is ideal, even metaphorical, for creating a politically clean slate upon which to see politics afresh, as though experimenting with a control group. The characters hail from every nation on Earth. Because of their polygamous family structure, it's impossible for most of them to be sure of their ancestry, in contrast with the ethnically segregated United States. Rather than taking a swing at a particular ideology or group, Heinlein suggests that we all share the blame for political oppression by showing that the Lunar Authority is made up of nationally diverse politicians. This suggestion is cemented by the scheming that begins among Loonies almost as soon as they begin to envision life without an Authority. These characters are as close as they can be to a political and physical vacuum, but they go on being political creatures just as they keep on breathing air.
Into this mix is a personal note: one of my biases toward the book is the fact that Prof, one of the best fleshed-out characters, shares my political views more than any fictional character I've ever read. He adheres to "rational anarchism," a term Heinlein apparently invented. Essentially, he believes that political systems are imaginary constructs, and that with each person lies his own responsibility for his own actions. This viewpoint reinforces three things: the Loonies' ability to envision a society with a different kind of government than what history has shown them; Earth's ability to set aside political differences when they believe their economy is threatened from above; and Heinlein's ability to imagine people accepting or rejecting an ideology even when doing so is the hard choice.
From the stance of science fiction, my fascination was drawn over and over to Mike the computer. His name is short for Mycroft, the brother of Sherlock Holmes, and his motivation for participating in the coup is to test the limits of his intelligence. We see him do various incredible things, such as divide his personality, invent CGI, and calculate probabilities for future, qualitative events. It is a credit to Heinlein's writing that these are described with such emotion and curiosity that we can believe they are happening for the first time in human history. Moreover, in many ways, Mike is the most sympathetic character in the book. The first scene details Mannie patiently, fraternally explaining humor to Mike one joke at a time; much later, when Mike has learned and practiced enough to control and calculate far more than anyone ever expected of him, he still longs for a simpler future when he and Mannie can go back to trading jokes.
Read this book! It's a wonderful monolith of science fiction, and you'll be sure to learn something about your own relationship with society.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Monday, August 1, 2016
Review: History in English Words by Owen Barfield (1926), and a Sapir-Whorf glimpse at fantasy
Owen Barfield, long-time member of the Inklings (the legendary Oxford University book club whose members included J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis), liked words.
He liked them so much that he drew from them a detailed history of Western Europe's epistemic development.
History in English Words is a plunge into etymology that claims that the words we use contain a pattern that impacts more than language hobbyists. The basic thesis is this: if we know our history, and know which English words are borrowed from which other languages, we can put two and two together to trace the introduction and evolution of concepts we as a civilization now consider given, but which we did not always know. Thus we can gain a new lens through which to see our cosmology and learn from it.
Fascinating, right? If you're not a fan of etymology, linguistics, or history, don't worry; I'll have another science fiction review up soon. My recommendation of this book is simple: if you like etymology, absolutely read it; if not, give it a try, but don't feel bad if you don't get all the way through it.
For my fellow word nerds, this is an important book. First of all, most of the book is a detailed walkthrough of the various periods and categories of English's lexical history, beginning with its oldest known (to Barfield) ancestor, Indo-European. Different chapters give us windows into subjects like Greek philosophy, Roman law, and Christian doctrine, to name but a few. His sequence is mostly chronological. Most of the subject matter consists of specific examples of words we use every day, many of whose present meanings have escaped completely from their original metaphor or intention.
Speaking of metaphor, there's a sub-theme to the book concerning the creation of words that is relevant to anyone who seeks to write creatively. I've said before that it's our responsibility to take an active role in the maturation of the language we speak, but only here did I learn that this action is actually metaphor at its root. Barfield's example is the word "prevaricate," which a modern dictionary defines as "to speak or act in an evasive way," but whose Latin roots mean "to plow in a furrow." Barfield argues that we can't actually conceive of new ideas in any way other than building on concepts we already possess. So if you can't just point to an object and place a new word on it, the only way you can create it in an understandable way is to compare it to something which it actually is not: a metaphor!
While I'm here, I might as well point out the implications of this conclusion on fantasy. G. K. Chesterton, from whom the name of my blog is ripped off, has written that "the test of fairyland [is that] you cannot IMAGINE two and one not making three. But you can easily imagine trees not growing fruit; you can imagine them growing golden candlesticks or tigers hanging on by the tail." This reminds me of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis of linguistic relativity, which basically says that the language we learn to use influences the concepts we are able to envision. I propose that how we write, read and accept fantasy, a genre naturally experimental with metaphor, indicates what we are able to conceive as a culture, and by omission what is unimaginable to us.
I may revisit this hypothesis, and I hope those of you who decide to read Barfield are as delighted as I am with both his adventure into our language and with how far our imagination can take us.
He liked them so much that he drew from them a detailed history of Western Europe's epistemic development.
History in English Words is a plunge into etymology that claims that the words we use contain a pattern that impacts more than language hobbyists. The basic thesis is this: if we know our history, and know which English words are borrowed from which other languages, we can put two and two together to trace the introduction and evolution of concepts we as a civilization now consider given, but which we did not always know. Thus we can gain a new lens through which to see our cosmology and learn from it.
Fascinating, right? If you're not a fan of etymology, linguistics, or history, don't worry; I'll have another science fiction review up soon. My recommendation of this book is simple: if you like etymology, absolutely read it; if not, give it a try, but don't feel bad if you don't get all the way through it.
For my fellow word nerds, this is an important book. First of all, most of the book is a detailed walkthrough of the various periods and categories of English's lexical history, beginning with its oldest known (to Barfield) ancestor, Indo-European. Different chapters give us windows into subjects like Greek philosophy, Roman law, and Christian doctrine, to name but a few. His sequence is mostly chronological. Most of the subject matter consists of specific examples of words we use every day, many of whose present meanings have escaped completely from their original metaphor or intention.
Speaking of metaphor, there's a sub-theme to the book concerning the creation of words that is relevant to anyone who seeks to write creatively. I've said before that it's our responsibility to take an active role in the maturation of the language we speak, but only here did I learn that this action is actually metaphor at its root. Barfield's example is the word "prevaricate," which a modern dictionary defines as "to speak or act in an evasive way," but whose Latin roots mean "to plow in a furrow." Barfield argues that we can't actually conceive of new ideas in any way other than building on concepts we already possess. So if you can't just point to an object and place a new word on it, the only way you can create it in an understandable way is to compare it to something which it actually is not: a metaphor!
While I'm here, I might as well point out the implications of this conclusion on fantasy. G. K. Chesterton, from whom the name of my blog is ripped off, has written that "the test of fairyland [is that] you cannot IMAGINE two and one not making three. But you can easily imagine trees not growing fruit; you can imagine them growing golden candlesticks or tigers hanging on by the tail." This reminds me of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis of linguistic relativity, which basically says that the language we learn to use influences the concepts we are able to envision. I propose that how we write, read and accept fantasy, a genre naturally experimental with metaphor, indicates what we are able to conceive as a culture, and by omission what is unimaginable to us.
I may revisit this hypothesis, and I hope those of you who decide to read Barfield are as delighted as I am with both his adventure into our language and with how far our imagination can take us.
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