Monday, February 3, 2025

In which water is a literary device

Water. It connects us and it keeps us apart.

I've recently read several books in which water is a recurring theme. I didn't set out to read books about water, but after the first two, I realised how water, as a literary device, can come to symbolise so much about humans and how we live.

Elif Shafak's 2024 book, There Are Rivers in the Sky, is transcendent, but then, all of Shafak's work is transcendent. In this book, she uses water as the device to span time as well as space, moving from ancient Mesopotamia at the time the Epic of Gilgamesh was written, to 21st Century London, focusing on the rivers Tigris and Thames. The link is water. Shafak said in an interview that the connection between the two rivers and the span of time is a single raindrop.

Shafak also looks at the importance of people having access to their history, touching on the subject of the "ownership" of other cultures by the British Museum. All the threads of the story are finally united, almost impossibly, but then, that's what novelists do. They weave stories that suspend belief but also make it believable.

Water as barrier is explored by John Boyne in his short but powerful novel, Water. A woman arrives on an island off the coast of Ireland, having changed her name and her identity, to find herself in a small community suspicious of outsiders. As the story unfolds we learn what she's running from and how she can reconcile herself with her past. Boyne uses the physical element of water to cleanse the woman of her past and to use the isolation of the island its small community to make a fresh start.

In Tim Winton's Breath and Louise Erdrich's The Mighty Red, water is almost a silent character flowing through the lives of the characters and linking them. In the case of Breath, it's the enigmatic and unpredictable surf that constantly draws the characters to itself and ultimately forces them apart. In The Mighty Red it's the Red River of North Dakota lying like a sleeping dragon that must be confronted before it will release the hold it has on the characters of the story.  

What makes water such a powerful metaphor? The flood myths in the Epic of Gilgamesh and the Old Testament both have a god sending a destructive flood to punish a transgressive human population. Catastrophic flood - either literal or metaphorical - sweeps everything away and allows for new beginnings.

Water is a feminine element and we see this in Shakespeare, where he uses water to denote vulnerability, change and transformation. In Hamlet, Ophelia drowns, overwhelmed by the events surrounding her. In The Tempest, a drowned corpse is described as being transformed into treasure. In Othello, the titular character compares his heart to water, suggesting that his emotions are no longer under control and that God is punishing him for his jealousy and vulnerability:

There where I have garnered up my heart, 
Where either I must live or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs
Or else dries up—to be discarded thence,
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in.


Lack of water, too, can be a powerful literary image, with drought signifying barrenness, deprivation, disaster or, ultimately, the need to flee or die. One of the most famous examples is Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, which depicts the fate of farmers forced off their land by the 1930s drought that turned much of the south-west of the USA into a dust bowl. While the drought itself was real enough, Steinbeck also used drought and the resultant fate of the Joad family to symbolise the wider social 'desert' of scarcity, poverty and hardship brought about by the Great Depression.

 Australian writers have been particularly fond of evoking drought as a metaphor for the resilience of both the Australian landscape and people. From Dorothea Mackellar's oft-quoted (to the point of tedium) "drought and flooding rain" line, through to Jane Harper's epic The Dry, series, the lack of water is a common but powerful element in Australian literature.

Water is fundamental to survival - ours and every other living thing on the planet. The fluid and constantly changing nature of water makes its use as a metaphor unsurprising, given its centrality to life itself.

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Novels where water is a central theme (a very brief selection):

  • There are Rivers in the Sky, Elif Shafak (Turkish-British)
  • Water, John Boyne (Irish)
  • Breath, Tim Winton (Australian)
  • Playground, Richard Powers (American)
  • A River Called Titash, Adwaita Mallabarman (Indian)
  • The Mighty Red, Louise Erdrich (American)
  •  The Covenant of Water, Abraham Verghese (Ethiopian-American)
  • The Life of Pi, Yann Martel (Canadian) 
  • Death by Water, Kenzaburo Oe (Japanese)

 

Friday, January 31, 2025

In which we observe life imitating art: sci-fi as reality

 I've just finished reading Octavia E Butler's Parable of the Sower. Published in 1993, the book spans the years 2024 to 2027 and should probably be mandatory reading for all of us. 

The book opens on a bleak, dystopian USA, where an extreme right-wing president has just been elected at the 2024 election, Los Angeles is on fire and climate change has ravaged agricultural land. People are living in walled communities, violence is rife and all semblance of law has completely broken down in the face of the most basic human need: survival. The story follows the journey of a small group of people who are forced to flee Los Angeles and walk north in search of somewhere safe to live and build a new community.

How is it that so much science-fiction, written decades earlier, does end up seeming to come to pass?


After Trump was elected in 2016, protestors' placards read: "Make Margaret Atwood fiction again!" (I'm sure we'll be seeing more of that one in the coming years.) Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale was published in 1985 and is set in a post-democratic USA, renamed the Republic of Gilead, wherein women have been stripped of all rights and power and have no purpose as individuals, only as how they can be of use to the patriarchal system. 

Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, published in 1932, depicts a dystopian world where technology would be used to manipulate and control the population, people would become addicted to mass media, babies would be conceived in test tubes and humanity's moral compass would cease to exist.

George Orwell's 1984, published in 1949, predicted an erosion of civil liberties and the rise of mass surveillance overseen by a dictator leading a cult of personality. "Thought police" are deployed to punish anyone guilty of thoughts or ideas against the government.

Are these writers our modern-day Nostradamuses? 

The late Ursula K Le Guin, one of the 20th Century's most admired and popular science fiction writers, thought not:

Science fiction is not predictive; it is descriptive. Predictions are uttered by prophets (free of charge), by clairvoyants (who usually charge a fee, and are therefore more honored in their day than prophets), and by futurologists (salaried). Predicition is the business of prophets, clairvoyants, and futurologists. It is not the business of novelists. A novelist's business is lying. 
 
Writers of speculative fiction, of which sci-fi, and its more recent incarnation, cli-fi (more about that in another post), have an uncanny ability to look at how things are and imagine where they might be going, or where they might end up. They can pick up the thread of social directions and follow that thread through to a logical conclusion.
 
There's a saying, attributed to Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, that translates as:
 
If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.

While there are certainly elements of speculative and science fiction that ring true, fortunately humanity has been able to change direction in other areas. Butler's grim description of Los Angeles in 2024, written just over thirty years ago, however, is chilling in the light of the recent fires and the election of an extremist president with apparent totalitarian aspirations, who has essentially washed his hands (and those of his government) of any assistance to a state whose governor opposes his new regime. 

Thought police? The incarceration of dissidents? Subjugation of women? Banning books? A cowed and compliant media? The science-fiction authors of the last century were holding up a distant mirror to where we're heading and it's not a pretty.

Le Guin's suggestion that a novelist's business is lying points only to the fact that writers of fiction, by definition, invent their stories. They are lying insofar as the story itself is not true. They are speculating on a future that may or may not happen. The authors looked at the the world as it was when they wrote their books, and asked "what if?" What if we don't change direction? Where's this likely to end?

Thankfully novelists also have a tendency to exaggerate - that's one of the things that makes fiction worth reading. But look closely at the core of the story and you'll see the seed from which it grew.



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 Speculative and science-fiction dystopian novels (a brief selection):

Octavia E Butler: Parable of the Sower, 1993

George Orwell: 1984, 1949

Aldous Huxley: Brave New World, 1932

Margaret Atwood: The Handmaid's Tale, 1985

Cormac McCarthy: The Road, 2006

Ray Bradbury: Farenheit 451, 1953

Emily St. John Mandel: Station 11, 2014

 



 



Saturday, January 25, 2025

In which we consider the meaning of books

Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators.   Stephen Fry 

Twice a year, on the January and June long weekends, the small town of Braidwood in south-east New South Wales holds a Monster Bookfair and has done so for the past 30 years. It used to be called the Anglican Bookfair, but in its more recent secular form, monsters seem to have way more street cred than Anglicans when it comes to selling books to raise money for a small community.

All set up and ready to go
The Bookfair runs from the Thursday preceding each of the two long weekends on which it is held, to the Monday afternoon, and sells about 25,000-35,000 books in five days. That's a lot of books for a town with a population of around 1,800. People travel from Canberra, the South Coast, the Southern Highlands and even Sydney for this Bookfair, such is its reputation.The local hall on the main street is transformed into a massive book barn, with volunteers constantly restocking the tables as books are sold.

When e-readers started to become popular, around 15 years ago, there were grim predictions that it would sound the death knell for hard copy books and bookshops. In reality, the opposite has happened. E-readers became another means of putting books in more hands. The same applies for audiobooks. While paper books remain as popular as ever.

Ever since the invention of the printing press made books available to the general public, there has been a thirst for stories and knowledge in publicly accessible written form. Is this what sets our species apart from non-human species? This magical ability to create narrative and turn it into printed words. The gift of literacy is surely one of the most valuable possessions we have and this is why it is so important that it is made available universally. 

Ask any of the thousands of people who will be making their way around the Braidwood Bookfair this

Everyone and their dog at the Braidwood Bookfair
weekend what it is that draws them there to search for an elusive title, pick up a book by a favourite author, browse their pet non-fiction subject or look for some light holiday reading, and they'll usually just say something along the lines of they "just love books". And that's the thing. We love books. E-books and audiobooks are convenient, but for the vast majority of readers (and I used to own a bookshop, so I can claim this statement with some authority) they love turning pages. 

The written word has given us texts and treatises, it has opened up portals into other worlds and shed light on people and places we may never have otherwise considered. All of which serve to broaden our lives. 

Books have power. One only needs to looks at how governments, when seeking total control over how a population thinks, ban books that might lead to thought contrary to that government's own agenda. Want to control people? Control their access to books.

So in considering the meaning of books, we need to consider them in the wider context of life. What do we seek and how can books enrich this experience? Books can entertain and educate. Book clubs provide fellowship, study groups provide deeper understanding. Libraries, from the vast national, state or university libraries, through to those in small towns and schools, are vital centres of our accumulated culture and knowledge.

In this blog I will discuss books, literature and language in general. Comments and input will be welcome.

My own treasure from the weekend Bookfair

Update: The longtime coordinator of the Braidwood Bookfair has just been honoured with the Braidwood Citizen of the Year Award at the Australia Day ceremony for her tireless and dedicated management of this event over many years. A well-deserved award.


 





In which water is a literary device

Water. It connects us and it keeps us apart. I've recently read several books in which water is a recurring theme. I didn't set out ...