When first contemplating what to do for my open genre assignment, my mind jumped to a creative project I'd already started: writing parodies of Billy Joel songs about the books we've read in class (After all, one of his songs is titled "The Stranger"). I decided, however, that I wouldn't really have time to record all the songs, and I really wanted to do a parody to go with Song of Solomon, so those will have to wait until winter break. It's one of those "I'll finish it eventually" projects.
Instead, I opted for something more interactive: a choose-your-own-adventure story! I did one for Creative Writing last year, featuring a damaged spaceship and potentially hostile encounters with aliens. It was a lot of fun to write. So why not make another?
I chose to make a choosable-path (the proper, non-trademarked word for choose-your-own-adventure) version of The Stranger because Meursault has very little choice in his actions, and even when he does, his choices have little impact on the future. "I realized in that moment you could either shoot or not shoot." "To stay or to go, it amounted to the same thing." etc.
In order to keep the length down, I only transformed part 1 of Camus' novel. But there are plenty of choices to make even in just part 1. Do you go to the funeral or not? Do you cry? Do you tell Marie you love her? Do you write the letter for Raymond?
The best part of writing the alternative plot developments was figuring out how many ways there are for Meursault to accidentally kill other characters. Every good choosable-path adventure has tons of ways to end the story. The one I did for Creative Writing had only one "correct" (optimal) ending, but five ways to abandon your responsibilities, six ways to get your companions killed, and five ways to wind up dead yourself. Hey, it's all fun and games until nobody gets hurt.
One big change from my previous interactive story was that this time around, instead of printing out a bunch of pages and an index to flip through, I formatted the story as a set of hyperlinked slides in a Google Docs presentation. It ends up working very nicely as a way to make choosable-path stories available digitally (and has a much better user interface than a paper version...).
Anyway, the interactive version of The Stranger is available on this blog for your enjoyment! So without further ado, click on the tab at the top of this page that says "CYOA" and see if you have what it takes to fight the Absurd and win!
(Probably not)
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Song of Solomon, Literary Criticism, Essays, Blog Posts, and the Problem of Continuous Thinking (Part 2)
Literary criticism. Ugh.
For a long time I thought that teen vampire romance novels were the most vacuous genre of writing ever invented. Then I discovered academic literary criticism.
When I read a piece of "Lit Crit," my default expectation is that I'm going to disagree with what the author is trying to argue. Sometimes I come to accept the interpretation presented as somewhat valid. Most of the time I don't. In fact, my rate of disliking literary criticism is higher than my rate of disliking literature.
I blame it on being a writer myself. When I write, I know exactly what I want to say and what I want the reader to get out of it. Sure, the reader's personal experience might make them have different reactions to some things than I would, but the message of the book, character motivations, and symbolism (or lack thereof) of plot points and imagery should not radically change. Certain readers may be more attracted to certain types of characters than others (see Part 1). The reader can also certainly decide whether or not the writing succeeds in delivering its message or soliciting the reactions and sympathy the writer intended, but anyone who argues that Gregor Samsa subconsciously turns into a bug so he doesn't have to go to work or that Meursault's murder of the Arab is a "symptom of his homosexual sadomasochistic fantasies" (Ben Stolzfus' description of Julian L. Stamm's analysis) is off their rocker.
In short, I think the "Death of the Author" is a load of crap.
Anyway, my default reaction to literary criticism is to disregard it. I don't oppose the criticism part--I love to criticize books, if you haven't noticed yet--and the literary part is kind of unavoidable. The problem, frankly, is the format. The essay format. The college thesis format. It forces the writer to be like Hugh Whitbread (a pompous ass, in case you've forgotten) and write as if their interpretation is the only right interpretation and is a completely logical and loophole-less interpretation. There's no room for equivocation or taking into account other peoples' ideas, opinions, and feelings.
If you do that in kindergarten, someone will tell on you.
Argumentative essays are always the hardest for me to write because I always feel like I'm turning into one of the aforementioned critics and throwing the rest of the literary community from the train. I distrust literary criticism for the same reason I trust psychology less than neuroscience (Psychologists treat theories like toothbrushes--no self-respecting person would ever use anyone else's [apologies to anyone who is considering studying psychology or whose parents are psychologists--I have nothing against the people, it's just that the system is messed up]). Literary criticism just seems generally unscientific. Rather than forming a theory around the facts, a lot of times it feels like the author is cherrypicking facts to support their theory. Sometimes the authors cite previous works, but it's usually just a tidbit or two from each that they use to spin a whole new interpretation out of. Maybe they could... uh... ask the original author of the book about some things? At least if the author is still living? Or if they're dead, just go with the interpretation the original author wrote about their own book?
End rant. If anyone wants to challenge me in the comments, go ahead. I'll try to be open-minded about your responses, unlike most literary critics.
...which leads us into Part 3, which is about writing my own lit crit essay. I probably could have done this all as one big post, but I didn't want it to look intimidating.
For a long time I thought that teen vampire romance novels were the most vacuous genre of writing ever invented. Then I discovered academic literary criticism.
When I read a piece of "Lit Crit," my default expectation is that I'm going to disagree with what the author is trying to argue. Sometimes I come to accept the interpretation presented as somewhat valid. Most of the time I don't. In fact, my rate of disliking literary criticism is higher than my rate of disliking literature.
I blame it on being a writer myself. When I write, I know exactly what I want to say and what I want the reader to get out of it. Sure, the reader's personal experience might make them have different reactions to some things than I would, but the message of the book, character motivations, and symbolism (or lack thereof) of plot points and imagery should not radically change. Certain readers may be more attracted to certain types of characters than others (see Part 1). The reader can also certainly decide whether or not the writing succeeds in delivering its message or soliciting the reactions and sympathy the writer intended, but anyone who argues that Gregor Samsa subconsciously turns into a bug so he doesn't have to go to work or that Meursault's murder of the Arab is a "symptom of his homosexual sadomasochistic fantasies" (Ben Stolzfus' description of Julian L. Stamm's analysis) is off their rocker.
In short, I think the "Death of the Author" is a load of crap.
Anyway, my default reaction to literary criticism is to disregard it. I don't oppose the criticism part--I love to criticize books, if you haven't noticed yet--and the literary part is kind of unavoidable. The problem, frankly, is the format. The essay format. The college thesis format. It forces the writer to be like Hugh Whitbread (a pompous ass, in case you've forgotten) and write as if their interpretation is the only right interpretation and is a completely logical and loophole-less interpretation. There's no room for equivocation or taking into account other peoples' ideas, opinions, and feelings.
If you do that in kindergarten, someone will tell on you.
Argumentative essays are always the hardest for me to write because I always feel like I'm turning into one of the aforementioned critics and throwing the rest of the literary community from the train. I distrust literary criticism for the same reason I trust psychology less than neuroscience (Psychologists treat theories like toothbrushes--no self-respecting person would ever use anyone else's [apologies to anyone who is considering studying psychology or whose parents are psychologists--I have nothing against the people, it's just that the system is messed up]). Literary criticism just seems generally unscientific. Rather than forming a theory around the facts, a lot of times it feels like the author is cherrypicking facts to support their theory. Sometimes the authors cite previous works, but it's usually just a tidbit or two from each that they use to spin a whole new interpretation out of. Maybe they could... uh... ask the original author of the book about some things? At least if the author is still living? Or if they're dead, just go with the interpretation the original author wrote about their own book?
End rant. If anyone wants to challenge me in the comments, go ahead. I'll try to be open-minded about your responses, unlike most literary critics.
...which leads us into Part 3, which is about writing my own lit crit essay. I probably could have done this all as one big post, but I didn't want it to look intimidating.
Song of Solomon, Literary Criticism, Essays, Blog Posts, and the Problem of Continuous Thinking (Part 1)
I haven't updated my blog in a while. It's not that I don't write posts; it's that I never finish or publish them. I've got a couple sitting in my drafts folder that stop halfway through. What killed these poor posts at a young and tender age? Was it lack of time? Did my internet connection suddenly die?
No.
They just went obsolete before they were finished.
Song of Solomon is a rather difficult book to write blog posts about, since everything keeps changing. I come back from class discussion with a great idea to write about, and I start typing, and decide I need a bit more time to think things over, so I read the next chapter and BAM! I find out that all the assumptions I made when writing my blog post were wrong, or possibly wrong.
For example, my post-in-progress about Macon Dead. I started that post early in the book, before the part where Milkman hits his dad. In those first few chapters, I saw Macon Dead as a pretty sympathetic character, and was writing to defend him from the slanderous accusations of him being similar to Mr. Rochester. Sure, they've both got "crazy" wives, but Macon didn't show any signs of outright sadism like Rochester. He was just emotionally drained and too concerned with his business. The way I saw it was that Macon was driven to do the less-than-perfect things he did (ignoring/oppressing his wife, criticizing his son, evicting old ladies, being greedy) because he was convinced that was the only way to survive in society and bring up his children. In my initial interpretation of Macon, he sought to regain the things his father had lost (land, wealth, comfortable life, etc) and ensure that no one could take advantage of him and take those things away (like they did to his father). In order to survive in a white-dominated world, he felt the need to "act white" and distance himself from Pilate and the kind of life she represents (free and loving, but down in the dirt as far as the upper class is concerned). His criticism of Milkman and his forbidding him from visiting Pilate were representative of his attempts to bring up his son to be able to keep the Dead family's precarious social standing among whites. That's what made him a sympathetic character--unlike Rochester, who is acting entirely in his own self-interest, Macon just has a perhaps deranged way of taking care of his family. He's doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons. Maybe I just take the sympathetic view of him because I like bold, determined, somewhat deranged, self-emotionally-repressed characters.
The scene where Macon tells Milkman about the relationship between Ruth and Dr. Foster, however, made me less sympathetic to Macon. Sob story? Sure. But it made him start to seem like Rochester. I liked him better before he blamed everything on having a crazy wife. So much for the "Macon is a sympathetic character while Rochester isn't" argument. Thus died a blog post.
It got worse. Once Ruth's version of the events was thrown into the mix, and once Macon started obsessing over Pilate's "inheritance," I couldn't really sympathize with him. That doesn't mean I like Ruth, either--I was disgusted by the nursing part, more so by the 'in bed with the dead' part. When she finally got to tell her story, my thoughts were:
"Okay. Somebody's lying. Either Macon is imagining things or trying to make his son hate his wife, or Ruth is trying to cover up her past and turn her son against her husband. Gee, ain't this a great family?"
I would prefer if it turned out that Ruth is trying to cover up her past, because then Macon isn't a whiny wife-blaming jerk like Rochester. Unfortunately, with his blatant greediness in regards to the bag of gold, it seems like he'd be likely to slander his wife and make a lackey out of his son. Still, I think Song of Solomon is too complex a book to have a clear-cut villain like that, especially if it's supposed to be about father/son relationships.
Song of Solomon has thus dug itself into that hole where there really aren't any particularly likable characters. Macon might be lying. Ruth might be lying. Milkman has a Meursault attitude with a Samsa lifestyle and not much interesting about him. Pilate is cool, but also weird and off-putting, and since I originally sided with Macon I'm still a bit against her. Hagar is a vengeful, heartbroken nutcase (if I haven't mentioned this in a previous blog post, I'm not a big fan of romantically motivated characters). Magdalene called Lena is unfairly critical of Milkman. First Corinthians can't make up her mind (again, romantically motivated character). Guitar is probably the most likable character even though he's terrorist-ish. Technically he's a murderer and not a terrorist, since he's not trying to enact political change--and strangely, he might be more likable if he were a terrorist. Then he'd seem like a rebel who is trying to change things for the better (albeit through nasty means--once again, wrong things for right reasons) and not someone with wacko (Waco?) theories about racial population balancing.
Okay, fine. Maybe Rev. Cooper is likable. And hopefully Milkman will turn into more of a protagonist and less of a camera as we go deeper into Part II.
But back on the subject of things going obsolete before they're done, look for the next post...
No.
They just went obsolete before they were finished.
Song of Solomon is a rather difficult book to write blog posts about, since everything keeps changing. I come back from class discussion with a great idea to write about, and I start typing, and decide I need a bit more time to think things over, so I read the next chapter and BAM! I find out that all the assumptions I made when writing my blog post were wrong, or possibly wrong.
For example, my post-in-progress about Macon Dead. I started that post early in the book, before the part where Milkman hits his dad. In those first few chapters, I saw Macon Dead as a pretty sympathetic character, and was writing to defend him from the slanderous accusations of him being similar to Mr. Rochester. Sure, they've both got "crazy" wives, but Macon didn't show any signs of outright sadism like Rochester. He was just emotionally drained and too concerned with his business. The way I saw it was that Macon was driven to do the less-than-perfect things he did (ignoring/oppressing his wife, criticizing his son, evicting old ladies, being greedy) because he was convinced that was the only way to survive in society and bring up his children. In my initial interpretation of Macon, he sought to regain the things his father had lost (land, wealth, comfortable life, etc) and ensure that no one could take advantage of him and take those things away (like they did to his father). In order to survive in a white-dominated world, he felt the need to "act white" and distance himself from Pilate and the kind of life she represents (free and loving, but down in the dirt as far as the upper class is concerned). His criticism of Milkman and his forbidding him from visiting Pilate were representative of his attempts to bring up his son to be able to keep the Dead family's precarious social standing among whites. That's what made him a sympathetic character--unlike Rochester, who is acting entirely in his own self-interest, Macon just has a perhaps deranged way of taking care of his family. He's doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons. Maybe I just take the sympathetic view of him because I like bold, determined, somewhat deranged, self-emotionally-repressed characters.
The scene where Macon tells Milkman about the relationship between Ruth and Dr. Foster, however, made me less sympathetic to Macon. Sob story? Sure. But it made him start to seem like Rochester. I liked him better before he blamed everything on having a crazy wife. So much for the "Macon is a sympathetic character while Rochester isn't" argument. Thus died a blog post.
It got worse. Once Ruth's version of the events was thrown into the mix, and once Macon started obsessing over Pilate's "inheritance," I couldn't really sympathize with him. That doesn't mean I like Ruth, either--I was disgusted by the nursing part, more so by the 'in bed with the dead' part. When she finally got to tell her story, my thoughts were:
"Okay. Somebody's lying. Either Macon is imagining things or trying to make his son hate his wife, or Ruth is trying to cover up her past and turn her son against her husband. Gee, ain't this a great family?"
I would prefer if it turned out that Ruth is trying to cover up her past, because then Macon isn't a whiny wife-blaming jerk like Rochester. Unfortunately, with his blatant greediness in regards to the bag of gold, it seems like he'd be likely to slander his wife and make a lackey out of his son. Still, I think Song of Solomon is too complex a book to have a clear-cut villain like that, especially if it's supposed to be about father/son relationships.
Song of Solomon has thus dug itself into that hole where there really aren't any particularly likable characters. Macon might be lying. Ruth might be lying. Milkman has a Meursault attitude with a Samsa lifestyle and not much interesting about him. Pilate is cool, but also weird and off-putting, and since I originally sided with Macon I'm still a bit against her. Hagar is a vengeful, heartbroken nutcase (if I haven't mentioned this in a previous blog post, I'm not a big fan of romantically motivated characters). Magdalene called Lena is unfairly critical of Milkman. First Corinthians can't make up her mind (again, romantically motivated character). Guitar is probably the most likable character even though he's terrorist-ish. Technically he's a murderer and not a terrorist, since he's not trying to enact political change--and strangely, he might be more likable if he were a terrorist. Then he'd seem like a rebel who is trying to change things for the better (albeit through nasty means--once again, wrong things for right reasons) and not someone with wacko (Waco?) theories about racial population balancing.
Okay, fine. Maybe Rev. Cooper is likable. And hopefully Milkman will turn into more of a protagonist and less of a camera as we go deeper into Part II.
But back on the subject of things going obsolete before they're done, look for the next post...
Sunday, November 17, 2013
The mountain bird
Early on in part 2 of Wide Sargasso Sea (p. 64 in the edition I have), Rochester hears a "mountain bird" whistling and asks Antoinette what kind it is. Antoinette gives no answer, and "whistling bird that lives in the mountains in the Caribbean" is not enough information to make a sure identification. On page 152, we finally learn that this bird is a solitaire (a type of thrush). This is enough for us to presume that Rochester is talking about a Rufous-throated Solitaire (Myadestes genibarbis), which is native to the Caribbean and is referred to as the Siffleur Montagne (Mountain Whistler) by the locals. For those of you who want to get a better sense of what noise Rochester is describing in these passages, I found a video on IBC with one of these birds singing:
http://ibc.lynxeds.com/video/rufous-throated-solitaire-myadestes-genibarbis/individual-singing-dawn-0
Brought to you by your local ornithological fanatic.
http://ibc.lynxeds.com/video/rufous-throated-solitaire-myadestes-genibarbis/individual-singing-dawn-0
Brought to you by your local ornithological fanatic.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Passing the antagonist buck
In class we discussed how Rochester told his story to make himself more sympathetic… but no matter what he does I can't feel sympathetic to him (see previous post). Instead, his only way of potentially making me think for a moment that he is the protagonist of the story is by making the rest of the characters even less sympathetic, a method that might be called "assholier than thou."
To start off with, Rochester is paranoid. He thinks everyone else is in on some joke or big secret or he's the victim of a massive conspiracy. He gives us plenty of details to support this: Daniel Cosway's letter and conversation, everyone laughing weirdly, and his wife trying to poison him. Plus, there's the obeah woman on the side and he's been reading too many books about zombies.
This shouldn't make us sympathetic to him, though. Lots of antagonists are victims to torment and torture before they die. Just take a look at Disney villains. Scar could easily make it seem like that little brat Simba was conniving with two natives and a bunch of his closest advisors to overthrow him. Frollo could tell his story in such a way that Esmerelda is actually some sort of demon temptress trying to lead him to hell with the help of her gruesome sidekick and traitorous love interest. Even Maleficent is wronged: everyone else ostracized her and didn't invite her to the party!
What Rochester does to try and elicit our sympathy is to portray the Caribbean as a wild, uncivilized place full of wild, uncivilized people. But most of all, he extends this prescribed barbarianism to his wife. From Rochester's perspective, Antoinette is always acting weird. She throws rocks, kisses subhumans, speaks patois, and goes by the diminutive of her mother's name. When there is dialogue, her sentences seem choppy, almost pidgin, because pieces of the conversation are omitted or narrated. The only positive description of Antoinette we get from Rochester is that she is beautiful and he lusts after her… which seems to be the one type of involvement he's willing to have with the Caribbean and its people (Amelie).
So he's a jerk. But he's managing to prevent me from developing sympathy towards the other characters, a real feat for a narrator who I automatically distrust.
To start off with, Rochester is paranoid. He thinks everyone else is in on some joke or big secret or he's the victim of a massive conspiracy. He gives us plenty of details to support this: Daniel Cosway's letter and conversation, everyone laughing weirdly, and his wife trying to poison him. Plus, there's the obeah woman on the side and he's been reading too many books about zombies.
This shouldn't make us sympathetic to him, though. Lots of antagonists are victims to torment and torture before they die. Just take a look at Disney villains. Scar could easily make it seem like that little brat Simba was conniving with two natives and a bunch of his closest advisors to overthrow him. Frollo could tell his story in such a way that Esmerelda is actually some sort of demon temptress trying to lead him to hell with the help of her gruesome sidekick and traitorous love interest. Even Maleficent is wronged: everyone else ostracized her and didn't invite her to the party!
What Rochester does to try and elicit our sympathy is to portray the Caribbean as a wild, uncivilized place full of wild, uncivilized people. But most of all, he extends this prescribed barbarianism to his wife. From Rochester's perspective, Antoinette is always acting weird. She throws rocks, kisses subhumans, speaks patois, and goes by the diminutive of her mother's name. When there is dialogue, her sentences seem choppy, almost pidgin, because pieces of the conversation are omitted or narrated. The only positive description of Antoinette we get from Rochester is that she is beautiful and he lusts after her… which seems to be the one type of involvement he's willing to have with the Caribbean and its people (Amelie).
So he's a jerk. But he's managing to prevent me from developing sympathy towards the other characters, a real feat for a narrator who I automatically distrust.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Hating Hating the Narrator
In an earlier post, I wrote about whether or not a character had to be likable, and came to the conclusion that a jerk could still be a good narrator if they were understandable.
Well, maybe I was wrong, because I can't stand Rochester.
Having not read Jane Eyre, my only previous exposure to the character is from Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series, in which he's portrayed (perhaps satirically) the way a Bronte fangirl would see him: hunky, heroic, brooding, etc, battling evil alongside the protagonist even as his house burns to the ground. I was expecting him to be a pretty cool guy, though perhaps not completely understanding of the culture of the Caribbean.
Instead of being a funny action-rom-com leading man, Rochester comes across as (to quote Peter Walsh) an intolerable ass. He's in the Caribbean for no apparent reason other than to complain about the food, the people, the language, the names of towns, the colors of the landscape, and his wife's eyes. His disdain for (or at least discomfort with) the natural landscape might be what puts me off the most. If he was paying more attention to the hummingbirds and quail-doves than to his wife, I'd find it perfectly understandable, but he just constantly mentions how everything is wild and uncivilized without showing genuine interest in the wildness.
It's true that I can understand why Rochester acts this way: he's been raised in poo-poo-proper English society and has convinced himself that England has the most beautiful weather in the world, English people are the most civilized in the world, and English cooking is the most refined and properly flavored in the world. Unfortunately, this delusion doesn't do anything interesting to the story. It's not unusual enough to add an interesting twist to the story like Jake's attempts at full internalization of emotion did. He's just one of those guys who goes on YouTube and dislikes every video that doesn't show cats.
I wasn't such a big fan of Antoinette's choppy narration with all of the quotes 'like this' instead of using normal quotation marks, but Rochester makes me wish she had continued to tell the story.
End rant.
Well, maybe I was wrong, because I can't stand Rochester.
Having not read Jane Eyre, my only previous exposure to the character is from Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series, in which he's portrayed (perhaps satirically) the way a Bronte fangirl would see him: hunky, heroic, brooding, etc, battling evil alongside the protagonist even as his house burns to the ground. I was expecting him to be a pretty cool guy, though perhaps not completely understanding of the culture of the Caribbean.
Instead of being a funny action-rom-com leading man, Rochester comes across as (to quote Peter Walsh) an intolerable ass. He's in the Caribbean for no apparent reason other than to complain about the food, the people, the language, the names of towns, the colors of the landscape, and his wife's eyes. His disdain for (or at least discomfort with) the natural landscape might be what puts me off the most. If he was paying more attention to the hummingbirds and quail-doves than to his wife, I'd find it perfectly understandable, but he just constantly mentions how everything is wild and uncivilized without showing genuine interest in the wildness.
It's true that I can understand why Rochester acts this way: he's been raised in poo-poo-proper English society and has convinced himself that England has the most beautiful weather in the world, English people are the most civilized in the world, and English cooking is the most refined and properly flavored in the world. Unfortunately, this delusion doesn't do anything interesting to the story. It's not unusual enough to add an interesting twist to the story like Jake's attempts at full internalization of emotion did. He's just one of those guys who goes on YouTube and dislikes every video that doesn't show cats.
I wasn't such a big fan of Antoinette's choppy narration with all of the quotes 'like this' instead of using normal quotation marks, but Rochester makes me wish she had continued to tell the story.
End rant.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
The Hitchhiker's Guide to Being Transformed into a Monstrous Vermin
Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis is on track to be my favorite book we have read this year by far. Though I hesitate to call it "science fiction," the book fits well into the category of speculative fiction and has more in common with "social science fiction" than fantasy. Social science fiction tends to disregard technical and physical practicality of the situations involved and place emphasis on the reaction of modern society to impressive (or simply ubiquitous) new technologies. Examples you may have heard of include Feed, Minority Report, We'll Remember it for you Wholesale (the basis for the movie Total Recall), and Gattaca. Many dystopias could also be classified as social science fiction.
As a work of social science fiction, The Metamorphosis certainly makes no attempt to explain how its situation came to be (Gregor must have... uh... metamophosed during the night) and jumps right into exploring how people would treat a monstrous vermin even if they suspected it was one of their family members. However, it goes about it in a style that reminds me of an author of a less serious form of speculative fiction.
Helpless protagonist, ridiculous situations, deadpan narration. Remind you of anything? Anything involving petunias, towels, mice, horrendous poetry, and pan-galactic gargleblasters?
The fact that Kafka's writing reminds me of Douglas Adams only makes me like it even more. Granted, Kafka is slightly more serious in how he goes about the story, but a number of thematic elements are common between the two authors' writing.
Like Gregor Samsa, Arthur Dent is a guy with an unimpressive job (works at local radio station) who wakes up one day facing a horrible calamity (destruction of the earth) but focuses on a more local issue (his house being bulldozed to make way for a bypass). Dent realizes a bit more than Samsa that the things around him make little sense, but his goals are still largely unreasonable considering his situation (trying to continue a normal human lifestyle when human life is nearly extinct).
Dent's humanity isn't necessarily degraded in HHGTTG, but he is certainly a fish out of water (insect out of proportion?) in the weird galactic setting dominated by dolphins and mice. Instead of not being human making him somehow lesser than those around him, it's the fact that he is a human, a species that merits no more description than "mostly harmless."
The other modern work of speculative fiction The Metamorphosis brings to mind is the movie District 9 directed by Neill Blomkamp, at least in the sense that it includes the premise of "guy gets turned into a giant insect/insectoid alien and is promptly ostracized by society." My guess, though, is that at no point in the book will Gregor Samsa don a mech suit and battle the minions of a xenophobic security firm.
As a work of social science fiction, The Metamorphosis certainly makes no attempt to explain how its situation came to be (Gregor must have... uh... metamophosed during the night) and jumps right into exploring how people would treat a monstrous vermin even if they suspected it was one of their family members. However, it goes about it in a style that reminds me of an author of a less serious form of speculative fiction.
Helpless protagonist, ridiculous situations, deadpan narration. Remind you of anything? Anything involving petunias, towels, mice, horrendous poetry, and pan-galactic gargleblasters?
The fact that Kafka's writing reminds me of Douglas Adams only makes me like it even more. Granted, Kafka is slightly more serious in how he goes about the story, but a number of thematic elements are common between the two authors' writing.
Like Gregor Samsa, Arthur Dent is a guy with an unimpressive job (works at local radio station) who wakes up one day facing a horrible calamity (destruction of the earth) but focuses on a more local issue (his house being bulldozed to make way for a bypass). Dent realizes a bit more than Samsa that the things around him make little sense, but his goals are still largely unreasonable considering his situation (trying to continue a normal human lifestyle when human life is nearly extinct).
Dent's humanity isn't necessarily degraded in HHGTTG, but he is certainly a fish out of water (insect out of proportion?) in the weird galactic setting dominated by dolphins and mice. Instead of not being human making him somehow lesser than those around him, it's the fact that he is a human, a species that merits no more description than "mostly harmless."
The other modern work of speculative fiction The Metamorphosis brings to mind is the movie District 9 directed by Neill Blomkamp, at least in the sense that it includes the premise of "guy gets turned into a giant insect/insectoid alien and is promptly ostracized by society." My guess, though, is that at no point in the book will Gregor Samsa don a mech suit and battle the minions of a xenophobic security firm.
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