Anathem

A funny thing happened while reading Neil Stephenson’s newest (and best) book, Anathem. Over the last year or so whenever I have thought of Neil Stephenson’s work, and I probably have thought about it more than was good for me, I kept seeing him as a contemporary Jules Verne, crafting rip-roaring adventure stories employing technology and ideas that were (or are) on the cutting edge of science. And then hundreds of pages into Anathem, literally, there is a not-so-subtle reference to who else but Jules Verne? This causes me to believe that Stephenson, as well, sees himself as a kind of contemporary Verne, which gave me an even deeper respect for not Stephenson-the-writer, but Stephenson the man. It seems a rare thing for an author to catch a sensible—not grandiose—glimpse of themselves in the literary annals.

Anathem itself cements Stephenson’s place as a great writer. This is the book where he appears to fully break with early Stephenson and the Stephenson that his fans usually allude to—i.e. punk Stephenson with an obsessive love for technology, science, and aerobatic violence. Stephenson had already shown greater range in his strange yet fascinating trilogy of 17th Century Europe, the Baroque Cycle. However, even in these books his penchant for cutting-edgeness (monetary systems and the rise of empirical science) and action (think rapscallions in love, war, and on the high seas) dominate. But in Anathem, despite a number of really good action scenes and the technological descriptions of another world, the focus finally lies elsewhere. Stephenson overcomes technology built in the physical world and the punches also taken there to explore something far more exciting and human—the world of ideas.

Philosophy has taken a beating in the last century with people leaving it aside for the greater ‘certainty’ of religion or science. Those who study philosophy in college are largely looked at by our society as being little more than useless (we, English majors, can relate)—they will probably end up working at Starbucks or Barnes and Noble. Literature, as well, has largely eschewed philosophy. In fact the last great philosopher-novelists I can think of were Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, the latter who just barely saw the 20th Century. Therefore, it is quite daring, for a writer beloved for his speculative fiction and tech-savvy, to take on thousands of years of philosophical ideas. And take them on he does from Plato’s forms to Wittgenstein’s language-games.

Stephenson opens his sprawling novel in an otherworldly monastery—called a ‘concent’—only rather than being devoted to the worship and study of God, the monasteries in Stephenson’s world are devoted to what we might call a liberal arts education, focusing on science, math, music, and most importantly philosophy. It is truly an education Plato-approved. Despite the fact that this monastery system has different aims than our monastery’s (current and past), the two share certain similarities: both are set apart from larger society, members devote their days to study and ritual (here song), strict rules—which change depending on the order—apply, and time passes differently, rather than measured in lunch breaks or sitcom-length, Stephenson’s monastery measures time from years to millennium depending on the members, reflecting the slow and thoughtful life of real monks. Stephenson portrays a beautiful world inside these ‘concents’ where an outside society reliant on technology and materialism is left to focus on something far more profound: the human mind. While technology has a role in Stephenson’s monasteries, it is a largely controlled one, the primary fixation belonging to wisdom and learning.

There are few examples in our world that truly reflect Stephenson’s, although the closest would be the university. Yet Anathem’s ‘university’ is a place where students are more interested in books than beer (but fortunately they still drink); it is a place that lacks materialism, the Internet, television, and debt. Another important distinction: most of us will never have the chance to spend our whole lives in academically hallowed halls (tenure is increasingly difficult to obtain—thank you societal priorities). With the monasteries in Anathem it’s as though Stephenson wondered what would happen if Plato’s Academy had continued indefinitely while shutting itself off from the exterior world.

Currently, I am fortunate enough to be in a graduate program at St. John’s College in the Great Books. St. John’s probably reminds me more of the ‘concents’ than anywhere else I have been and Stephenson’s monks certainly embody the spirit of many of my tutors, enamored with wisdom, education, and the world of ideas. But St. John’s is not a closed society, though there are moments when it feels like it is: such as leaving class when you realize how little the ‘real’ world takes its time to really think about what you just spent any number of hours discussing.

The largest theme in Stephenson’s book is both relevant and largely ignored: what is the role of the educated elite in society? In a great passage, Stephenson explores the multiple ways of how the uneducated world views the educated, using examples from his created universe that directly correlate with Socrates execution, Captain Kirk’s gut-instinct versus Spock’s logic, and the fear of the ‘mad-scientist’, i.e one driven crazy by too much knowledge (perhaps a contemporary recreation of Faust). The book is really about these kinds of stereotypes and conflicts: what happens when the professors leave their academic stations and are forced by events to enter the world as built by those largely unconcerned with philosophy and higher wisdom.

Should philosophers rule, as advised by Plato’s Republic? Or should they hide away and be left to their own devises? How far should science and technology go? What is the role of the religious in society, especially those who may be called ‘fundamentalist’? Can the educated and the uneducated ever live peacefully—can they ever understand one another?

While Stephenson does come down on one side or the other of a couple large philosophical debates, he mostly leaves the discipline where it appears most comfortable—unanswered. The study of philosophy has always been more about experiencing the varied ways in which the world can be interpreted rather than discovering any truth with a capital ‘T’. There may be some suggestion at the end of what the author thinks, but it is a story not a lecture, and Stephenson makes certain to keep the tension between educated-uneducated present even as the novel closes.

The only place where Stephenson perhaps becomes too preachy is his view of the religious in the novel. He appears to forget that most high education throughout Western and Eastern history has been done largely by ‘Deolaters’, i.e. those who believe in a God of some kind. Even today, as society has become more skeptical, many incredibly intelligent, curious, and reasonable people still believe in a deity. While I think Stephenson is attempting to show not the folly of faith itself, but the folly of fundamentalism—or those who are ‘certain’ of their God—the book at times comes across as shaming the religious for irrationality. Still usually this is softened and the critique more reasonably focused.

Stephenson is not a writer of characters or poetic phrases; instead he is a plotter and a lover-of-ideas. His books are page-turners in the same way as 19th Century adventure novels—Dumas, London, and Verne. Unlike most contemporary writers, I would say his greatest influences—despite his largely ‘sci-fi’ aspects—actually come from these writers and others like them (I’d add Charles Dickens to the list) who weren’t afraid of writing terrifically long novels (Anathem comes in at just under 900 pages) and weren’t afraid of creating large sprawling worlds or extraneous details and side-stories, in fact, these great authors felt such details actually enrich the narrative, instead of sinking it.

Rather than write with eloquent and powerful language, Stephenson plays with language, shapes it, pummels it, and makes it into something new, yet still recognizable. For Stephenson usually this works, but sometimes I feel his prose just doesn’t hold up to his ideas. At times, instead of his writing feeling original and punchy, it comes across as juvenile and sloppy. Still, this is a small criticism in a work of literature that isn’t really about the writing. Instead, Anathem is a wonder of ideas and concepts. Like philosophy it makes one feel as though their world has expanded rather than contracted.

There are few writers today whom I feel are really moving literature forward and creating something unique and perhaps even classic (time will only tell). But Stephenson is one of them. Anathem is the kind of book one often despairs of reading in our world where writers appear increasingly obsessed with sounding clever rather than being wise. They forget: cleverness is soon forgotten, but wisdom always stays in print.


Borrowed from a friend.

Anathem

By: Neal Stephenson

HarperCollins, 2008

Hardcover, 935 pages

9780061474095

The Iliad

Allow me to give credit where credit is due. I am currently enrolled in St. John's graduate program in Santa Fe. The graduate program is unique in this country in that it does not increasingly focus one's mind on a specific topic, but rather it forces the mind to expand, to reach, to go further than it ever has. It is a 'great books' program, meaning that we read the 'great books' of our cultural inheritance and then discuss them in small groups at length. It allows for conversations with intelligent and passionate fellows about a portion of the greatest thoughts and ideas ever put forth. It's kindof perfect.

I currently toil amidst the literature segment (every semester provides a different topic: Philosophy/Theology, History, Mathematics/Natural Science, Poltics and Society, and Lit), and am now reading The Odyssey and The Canturbury Tales. But last week we finished another book, one of the world's greatest pieces of literature: The Iliad, or literally 'the story of Ilium (Troy)'.

The Iliad's essential theme is what war makes of men. It should not be read as a simplistic reflection of the 13th Century B.C. Greek culture (since that is when the actual war took place and conceivably shortly thereafter the poems about it were first sung), but rather what war makes of every man in every culture. It's like Tolstoy's famous line: Every happy family is happy in the the same way, but every unhappy is unhappy in their own way. Every war causes the same changes in every culture and individual, but in peace cultures vary widely.

How is it that war's grasp is similar throughout cultures? In war, the primary objective is to win, whether for personal survival and/or personal and societal glory. War involves the wholesale destruction of the enemy by any means available, it requires a psychological divide between foe and friend. Comrades in war become incredibly close through the constant sharing of intense situations and the intimacy wiht death. War is a condition of life that stands outside the normal rules. One can kill others without punishment, in fact one's job is to kill others. The constant appearance of death simultaneously raises and lowers the importance of life. Life is easily taken, but perhaps more than ever treasured. The Iliad captures all of these universal facets of warfare, which is one reason for its brillance--there are many others.

It is the ninth year in what will be a ten year war. A war so brutal that it becomes the comparitive war for all of western culture. Whenever a city falls there is somewhere an echo of Troy. The story begins with wrath. Achilles, the greatest of the Greek's warriors, is angry. He has refused to fight because Agammenon, leader of the Greeks, has stolen Achilles' woman (he took her as booty from a raid). Achilles stands against what is obviously an unjust action by the Greek's leader. By choosing passivity, he condemns the army to suffer great losses against the Trojans. He is a kindof twisted Gandhi, choosing passive resistance to fight injustice, yet at the same time praying for his comrades' destruction to prove his righteousness.

Achilles, born of a goddess and a mortal, is stuck with a dilemna: he knows his destiny (it's definitely better not to know). He has been told by his mother that if he stays at Troy, eventually he will achieve great glory but will perish there never to return home. However, if he returns to his island-home he could live out a long life, but die without glory and infamy. He is already half-way to his destiny by being at Troy, but it is here--as he sits in his tent while other battle--when he seems for the first time tempted by the other option: a prosaic long life at home full of unremarkable deeds. He is the only character in the work who openly questions the point of this war, and the point of glory and honor all together. This is not common (either in 13th century BC or 21st century AD). Rarely do soldiers question the war while in it. Number one: they have survival on their mind. And number two: fighting a war one does not believe in is far more difficult than fighting a war one accepts. It's much easier to survive the horrors of war when one is not questioning its validity.

Many have commented on how ridiculous it is for the Greeks and Trojans to spend ten years and countless lives on a woman, Helen. However, there is more to it than that. The Greeks are fighting, because the abduction of Helen goes against the deepest part of their society. Quite simply, one cannot steal one's wife and get away with it. This is a flagrant violation of social rights. What if it was your wife? The Trojans--who never give Helen, although that seems the best way to avoid ruin--are fighting for something much clearer: home and country. The Greeks are threatening to destroy them and their city, wipe them off the face of the earth (which they eventually do). For the Trojans the posture is defensive, of course as the war goes on--as any war progresses--men start fighting for other reasons, personal, deep reasons. Namely that, how can one not fight when they have seen their comrades killed, when they have seen the bloodshed, grief, and terror caused by the other. This is depicted in Achilles when he finally re-enters the war due to Patrolocus' death. His grief becomes as insatiable as his wrath.

There is of course another way of looking at the Trojan war in general: men will use pretty much any excuse to have an enemy and to fight that enemy. A wife is stolen gives an excuse for war. We love war too much, for it paints the world in uncomplicated terms, black and white, making the majority of wars unneccessary. They happen simply because without war a man becomes restless. Witness the current war in Iraq: entered in under false pretenses, no objective but to destroy the regime, and accepted by the American people because, well, we wanted to fight some more and kill some more. Our bloodlust was not satiated with Afghanistan. To begin war all men need is an excuse, not a reason.

Amid all this bloodshed and warfare, The Iliad displays great empathy. There is probably no other war story that displays both sides with such great understanding. You see the war from both perspecitves, equally. Your allegiance shifts with the page. Though composed by the victors, it is a uniquely balanced account. As well, every man who dies on the field is named and described, we discover who their father is, where they grew up, what stories attend their childhood, and why they are here. No one is allowed to be an annoyomus enemy. Despite, the truthfulness of this, most war stories (from then on through today) depict warfare entirely from one side or other, but such perspectives are more propaganda than great literature. Great literature raises questions, propaganda exults in certainity. Here is a great lesson implicit in this epic poem: there is no enemy, there is only men killing men. War is tragic. Inherently, indisputably tragic. Yet, we still have not learned that to protray war from a single side (the 'so-called' good side) is inherently and simply wrong.

Homer's empathy extends even beyond the war. In his wonderful similes, he shows empathy for the sheep slain by the lion, and even for the enemy of man--the lion--surrounded by spears. Nothing escapes his empathy, no character is fully despicable. Even Agamemnon, who is probably the closest thing to a complete jack-ass in the book, displays numerous moments of self-reflection, of realizing how terribly he has acted, not to mention his heroics on the battlefield.

There is a moment in the final chapter of this amazing epic when Homer's narrational empathy displays itself in two of the work's greatest characters: Achilles and Priam. Achilles has killed Priam's favorite son, Hector, and then dragged his body around behind his chariot for days. So, Priam secretly goes to Achilles to ask for the body of his beloved son back, so his son may have a proper burial. In their meeting, which can only be described as heart-breakingly beautiful, two enemies see each other anew. A father sees his son's killer as a man of power and intensity. A soldier sees his enemy's king as a man of leadership and gracefulness. They admire each other. As someone in my class said, they see each other's humanity. If their is hopefulness in The Iliad, it is here: in these great men's improbable encounter.

Just because The Iliad is nearly 3,000 years old does not mean it is aged and stuffy. The violence, the brutality, is just as shocking and stark as I imagine it was when first recited. It remains one of the most violent books I have ever read and makes most Hollywood war movies look tame in comparison (did I say most? I meant all). On one level, The Iliad is the world's greatest 'action' book. Heroes slaying heroes, gods fighting gods, spear fights, sword fights, and chariot races. Heroes even fight gods. It's action is so non-stop and relentless that one almost becomes tired of battle after battle, death after death (and I think that is apart of the point), yet this is not some Arnold Swarzenegger souless action piece. The Iliad is a 'great book' because it tackles innumberable themes and questions without providing easy (or any) answers. What is the role of war in society? Is war inevitable? Is this the first anti-war book? What is fate? How much power does one man have over his fate? What is worth dying for and what is worth killing for? What is glory? What is honor? What is our relationship to the Gods (or God) and how does this propel us into, or keep us from, war? Is all fair in love and war, or only in war? Or only in love? Do men love war too much? Could their ever be a war-less society and what would that look like? What is death? Where does it lead? Can anything good come from war? Are war and peace apart of life's cyclical nature?

In some ways The Odyssey, which I am currently reading, is a direct answer to The Iliad. Or at least takes many of the themes from The Iliad and works with them, stretches them, plies them out for more truths and observations. Do not mistake The Iliad as an accurate and full representation of society, just as future historians will hopefully have more material to contemplate our era than Apocalypse Now and Saving Private Ryan. The way men act in war should never be confused with how they act in peace.

A final note: don't confuse the movie Troy as a substitute for The Iliad. Troy is the bad action movie version of a work of genius.

By: Homer

Trans: Robert Fagles

Penguin, 1991

Paperback, 683 pages

ISBN: 0140445927