I’m not exactly sure when the book is going to be out–I haven’t seen page proofs yet, so I assume it’s a while yet, probably summer-ish. But I’m looking forward to seeing that thing in print!
(This is probably the quickest update to this blog in, like, ever, man. It’s not going to be a habit…)
I’ve been recently reading, whenever I needed to read something that felt less taxing than, say, Teju Cole’s boring Open City, one of the many, many urban fantasy novels that have appeared over the last two decades or so. I guess that much of it started with Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series (it’s almost always series): books in which a Chicago private investigator-slash-wizard named Harry Dresden solves the problems left in their wake by various supernatural forces, all of which are arrayed as something like a substratum of our “real” reality, an entire alternative society of various kinds of vampires and fairies, assorted monsters, wizards, obviously, and other kinds of magical and supernatural beings.
There’s numerous such series out there, and I’ve read only a few of them: Ben Aaronvitch’s PC Peter Grant series, in which a magically-abled London police constable discovers the unreality of his own city; Richard Kadrey’s Sandman Slim series, set in Los Angeles (and Hell); Charles Stross’s Lovecraft-inflected Laundry Files, about a supersecret British supernatural spy agency defending Britain from the apocalypse that lurks just around the corner; and Paul Cornell’s Shadow Police series, in which a less magically-enabled London police unit finds itself faced with the unreality of their own London (it’s very frequently London!). And we might also include David Wong’s trilogy of novels, starting with John Dies at the End, here, even though it’s less centered on an urban agglomeration.
There are echoes here of China Miéville’s Kraken, Neil Gaiman’s late-90s novel Neverwhere, of course, and no doubt also echoes of other, older fictions, such as C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series, which, after all, can be reached by stepping through a pretty mundane wardrobe. Yet, for the purposes of this post, which after all aren’t wholly scholarly, I’m going to suggest two things: first, that this has become a more commonplace motive than the mere proliferation of any kind of fantasy would suggest. That is to say, we might be inclined to say that given the increase in the volume of fantasy writing since Lewis, or indeed Gaiman, this might just be a reasonably simply expansion of the subset of fantasy that is concerned with urban magic, but that’s not what I think is happening. And second, it’s a shift in the focus of fantasy that is symptomatic: it bespeaks something about our relationship to the world, it suggests a broader desire to identify things beyond, beneath, besides mundane reality, not as a (negatively connoted) means of escape, but rather as a symbolic resolution of the contradictions of the contemporary cultural moment.
I put this here because this isn’t a very well argued point yet, but one which I stumble over every time I read one of those books. But it seems to me that there is a reasonable claim to be made here for a symptomatic reading of urban fantasy. In such a reading, we might see the central trope at work in all of these novels, namely the existence of a largely hidden, non-mundane, magical, but also frequently threatening world very frequently described as “below” or “beneath” the surface reality of our (non-fictional) everyday lives as a means of working through and counteracting a generalized sense of a restricted space of action in the “real;” or, conversely (and this is one of the hitches I keep hitting), a means of expressing the limited scope of action in the real world through recourse to restrictions originating outside it, inaccessible to most of us, left to the manipulations of a (here, magical) elite. This “elite” status is not encoded here on a class basis, of course: David Wong’s slacker, dead-beat twentysomething heroes, who are able to see and actively work against the supernatural threats they encounter thanks to having imbibed a mysterious black substance they call the Soy Sauce, are pretty much par for the course here. Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden is perpetually strapped for cash; the policemen of Aaronovitch and Cornell’s series are just that, regularly employed police officers, and Charles Stross’s secret agents likewise are simply public servants themselves.
Each of these cases would probably warrant closer exploration as to its politics, and I’ll work through two examples very briefly here. In Charles Stross’s series, the initially somewhat uncomplicated way in which the security state is expanded to include a (unsupervised, non-democratically legitimized) agency charged with supernatural defenses, in which this supernatural security state is implicitly championed in its attempts to defend humanity, is later broken by the recognition that this apparatus itself has increasingly become autonomous of regulating forces, increasingly fights for its own survival more than that of its charges. The series’ recognition that the bureaucratic apparatus, no matter its ostensible public service, will easily mutate into an almost entirely self-serving entity without any kind of public, democratic supervision, also suggests that urban fantasy is ill-read as always a (negatively) escapist form of fantasy.
In Paul Cornell’s Shadow Police (spoilers ahead, skip the paragraph if you’d rather not know), we discover in volume three that an earlier supernatural police force of sorts, the Continuing Projects Team, failed five years earlier and was wiped out by the evil that is now encroaching upon London. The twist: the CPT consisted, and had consisted for some time, of five representatives of the upper echelons of British society: knighted architects, successful film producers, well-heeled barristers, a senior civil servant, the chaplain of King’s College. As one of the new team of cops—two of them black, one gay, one the daughter of a criminal—notes, this earlier group was amateurish: a nod, and a decidedly negative one, to the upper class genteel amateurism beloved of much British genre fiction, at least. What’s important here, I think, is the way the representatives of the upper class fail to stop the encroaching danger, fail to uphold to already tenuous balance of the world, and end up replaced by a group recruited from a different social stratum, now tasked with picking up the pieces.
It’s not, obviously, that urban fantasy has recently replaced the more traditional sword-and-sorcery, neither broadly nor in the upper levels of recognition—it’s really only necessary to mention G.R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire, or Joe Abercrombie’s First Law series—but rather that it’s an interesting bell weather of sorts, one which may permit us insights into the way, more generally, we see genre fiction work through the central issues of the contemporary moment. And this may bear more working on, or not—we’ll see. But with the zombie book done, maybe I’ve got some spare time?
My own zombie study, Books of the Dead: Reading the Zombie in Contemporary Literature, should be forthcoming from University Press of Mississippi late this year or early next, but in the meantime, I want to say a few words on Greg Garrett’s new Living with the Living Dead: The Wisdom of the Zombie Apocalypse, published this year with Oxford UP. Garrett is a Professor of English at Baylor University in Waco (“Baptist Harvard,” I think it’s sometimes referred to?). So, the book. It’s very good, and well worth your time.
The book is the second in which Garrett tries to “read culture for ultimate meanings” (217; the first being Entertaining Judgment, a book on the medial life of the idea of the afterlife; I’ve not read it), and it’s very good at what it does. Garrett’s purpose isn’t so much to elucidate the zombie (as a symbol, or a sign of our times), or any specific text (his chapters are structured by topic, not by text): what he does, and does well, is to take “stories of the Zombie Apocalypse seriously as vehicles for meaning and considering what those meanings might be” (19). What that means, for Garrett, is to read zombie stories as genuinely useful to readers, as offering some sort of guidance to living one’s everyday life, even absent an apocalypse (which, come to think of it, might kinda screw your everyday life anyhow).
Garrett’s book runs wildly and allusively over a somewhat narrow but quite unique corpus of returning texts, tying together scenes spread across the zombie canon to make its point about what zombie stories tell us about the nature of humanity, the good life, community, and other concerns. Garrett looks at some of the obvious choices—The Walking Dead, Shaun of the Dead, Zombieland, World War Z, and the Romero films—but also at texts which are less often seen in zombie criticism—Game of Thrones, Marvel Zombies, Justin Cronin’s The Passage trilogy, and Afterlife with Archie, and even the atrocious Making of Zombie Wars. I was especially intrigued by the two comic entries in this latter list, which might easily fall under the rubric of pure commodity art, just another way of tacking “zombie” onto an already-existing property to make money, but which Garrett convincingly argues are rather more than that. Kudos to Garrett for this, if not for this only. Readers who are looking for someone to make sense of whether zombies are really good for anything, and then by extension what that something might be, will find here a way to parse it in such a way that it makes sense. Hey, zombies really do something useful in fiction!
Alas, this wouldn’t be a review, of course, if I didn’t have a modest amount of complaints. And my largest complaints, I think, are that while Garrett very convincingly outlines the broad strokes of the zombie’s usefulness, I miss two things in his book. The first is less vital: this is not a long book, and even though Garrett engages in close reading single scenes in the works he is interested in, such close reading remains too allusive sometimes. Columbus, in Zombieland, is alone (for a while at least), and so is Robert Neville in I am Legend; and maybe “alienation is […] a central theme” (88) in both; but it seems to me that it would have been useful to be more careful in outlining how these themes work differently, and are contextually different, in both of these texts (indeed, while I’m perfectly happy to be catholic about these things, I’m not quite sure the antagonists in I am Legend are, actually, “the living dead”). This isn’t a major deal, of course: Garrett’s strength really is these broad connections that let us see the trend lines of living dead fiction. But precisely because of this it sometimes reads slightly unfortunately, and some readers may be inclined to take it less seriously than it deserves because its readings sometimes seem to bend somewhat disparate things happening over different media into a recognizably similar shape. One thing that struck me in this regard, for example, is the way Garrett talks about community. He has a chapter on the way zombies remind us of the need for community, but to my mind, Garrett is somewhat blithe about the meaning of the term. Full disclosure: I have a chapter on community in my own book, and I struggled with the term’s philosophical provenance and especially its delimitation from other forms of being together; Garrett to my mind far too easily assumes something like collectivity, indeed simply “being with someone” equals community. Having done the research, it’s clear to me that the answer to the question of what is entailed in the search for community hinges heavily on the definition of community, and on realizing what it does and does not mean. So just because you’re looking for friends doesn’t really seem to me equate the rather complex question of what the meaning of community is. But your mileage may vary.
The second thing I’m actually slightly more concerned about: the question of the zombie’s (or even “any” undead’s) role in this. That’s to say: over the entire length of the book, the specificities of why it should be the zombie apocalypse, or indeed the zombie apocalypse, isn’t really addressed (and that’s granting that The Passage, with its incredibly powerful vampire-monsters, shares more with, say, Night of the Living Dead than it does not). Certainly, Garrett at times nods towards answers, such as suggesting that they are confrontations with Death as such, which you can’t really say isn’t true. But it’s also wildly unspecific, and ignores both the question of why Death itself should be rendered through zombies, as well as what the concrete consequences of imagining Death itself through the zombie bring to the foreground. In his conclusion, Garrett notes that the question he asked himself in beginning the book was “Why are zombies so popular” (213). The stress, I think, is “why are zombies so popular,” rather than “why are zombies so popular,” and the problem is that much of the book, while it answers the first question very well, and while it certainly focuses (though not exclusively) on zombie narratives, it essentially also, and unavoidably, simply asks “why are apocalyptic narratives so popular.” I’ve got my own answer in my book about what it is that makes the zombie so relevant to all this, and which for obvious reasons I’ll not give away here, but it looks to me that Garrett missed a chance here to deal with the specifics of the zombie as an apocalyptic form, which is different from the vampire, or the ecocatastrophe, or the dystopian science-fiction film, and so on.
But if this is my major complaint, it’s also one which is at last only minor. Garrett sets out to convince readers that the “living dead have something to tell you, and it may just save your life” (215). He does that, and he does it very well, in an endearingly written, knowledgeable, and utterly readable book.
I’ve been interested for a while now, in relation to a book project, in the contemporary philosophical “school” of speculative realism. One of the things I wanted to do in the project was to link literary reading and writing to this philosophy, something that had not been done extensively at the time I began the project. Since then, Graham Harman, one of the foremost representatives of the new school, published an essay on the topic in New Literary History, entitled “The Well-Wrought Broken Hammer” (more about this text below), and now Grant Hamilton, a professor of English at Hong Kong Chinese University, has published The World of Failed Machines: Speculative Realism and Literature with Zero Books. It’s this book that’s finally dragging this blog kicking and screaming to its true (literary theoretical) purpose: it’s what I want to talk about in the next few paragraphs. This is a off-the-cuff critique, and re-reading the book may soften it. But for now, I’m more baffled than enlightened.
Hamilton sets out to briefly recapitulate the major tenets of speculative realism (and one of the striking effects of his commendable brevity is to make the philosophy seem curiously limited, reduced to a number of fairly simple propositions of which “we cannot know the (real, noumenal) world” is the most crucial). From these insights, Hamilton sets out to argue the literature therefore cannot have a “meaning,” which for him appears to signify a single, transcendent truth about a text. This having been placed out of reach, Hamilton argues, we should conceive of literary criticism as a speculative venture: one that acknowledges its previous object—meaning—is in fact out of reach, and therefore should return to the text-as-object, something, Hamilton alleges, “literary theorists have actively been engaged in doing away with thinking about” (52). He borrows from Levi Bryant the idea that we should conceive of being as a world of machines (developed in Bryant’s Onto-Cartography), and would like us to see that the text-as-machine and the (literary critic) reader-as-machine come together in a reading machine. This reading machine, Hamilton suggests, produces an “output” (an act of reading) which is heavily influenced by the individual state of the reader and the text: it is never the same between different reading machines, that is, different states of text and reader. In other words, because a text will only ever produce an output as part of a reading machine, and the reading machine is dependent on an ever-changing reader, it is impossible to arrive at any sense of the text beyond its immediate impressions: “any residual sense one may carry of a universal or transcendental meaning embedded in the text finally evaporates” (112). The conclusion of an object-oriented literary criticism then is, as Hamilton avers, is to reorient one’s approach: “One simply asks of a text, ‘Does it work for me?’” (111). He advocates the “death of judgment as a universal or transcendental schema” and the “proliferation of passion and private engagement” (120). He offers a more thorough list of possible things the literary critic can do (Clear Space! Begin (Anew)! Begin Again! Persist! Create and Innovate!), but this appears to be the thrust of his argument: because object-oriented ontology insists of the impossibility of obtaining access to the world as it really is, we must deny the existence of transcendental meaning, and instead understand our reading processes as necessarily bound to a highly singular act of reading in which nothing more than the individual, private reactions to literature can be investigated; and these should be investigated by a recourse to your personal interactions with the text. This, Hamilton says, is the art lost to the critic (though presumably open to the lay reader), and it is what he should recover.
Maybe. Because Hamilton does appear to lack the courage of his own convictions. His afterword proposes his reading method merely as “another class of approach”, one which can stand with all the kinds of interpretive and universalizing readings he has spent the book dismissing. Yet this is curious: if the philosophical grounding of his argument is (for given values) “true”, then these other modes of reading have lost their validity: if a book must be conceived as merely part of a necessary reading-machine, then the “relationships within which a literary work takes place” and the “constitutive features of the text in hand” (124-5) appear to be impossible to grasp outside it, and so much become subsumed to the reading machine. But perhaps the more problematical, if logical, result of his deductions is that the “object-oriented literary criticism” he suggests could be practiced is so…unthinking. “Do I like this novel? Am I affected by this poem? What do I connect with or identify with in this short story?” (125) sounds far more like a high-school exercise than an engagement with a literary (!) text—and it does not so much concern the text-as-object so much as it concerns readerly, and avowedly individual and even solipsistic, reactions to the text-as-text. What exceeds the object in this reading, what we cannot know about the noumenal book, remains unclear.
What’s even more unclear, though, is what this form of reading gets us. Now, I’m not fully qualified to speak to the philosophical grounding on which Hamilton builds. But it does look like object-oriented literary criticism, done the way Hamilton proposes, is not literary criticism at all. How do you trace the “private products of a particular reading machine” (111)? Or, more particularly, if all you trace is the private product of your reading—writing up what moved you, and why, if such a thing is even possible (if you can identify the hows and whys of such an emotional or affective reaction)—then how is literary criticism distinct from everyday reading, or the kind of reading practiced by reading groups, or on Goodreads? And if it is not distinct, why should it be done? And if it is distinct (Hamilton’s five suggestions on reading seem to vaguely suggest ways in which it might be distinct from just plopping down with a good book on a park bench somewhere, but don’t spell that out), what is its purpose?
The book, in all its cheerful shortness, would have been better if it had paid this more attention, if it had spend as much time working out a method as it does working out the philosophical rationale, or if had spent more time arguing its criticism of contemporary literary criticism—a field where Hamilton sometimes has quite baffling commentary. I’m going to restrict myself to one observation here, which is about Hamilton’s conception of meaning. In a long early section on Mallarme (whose purpose it appears to be to say how similar his poetry is to the tenets of speculative realism), Hamilton suggests “knowing the world”, “gaining access to it,” and “creating meaning” (39) are (to Mallarme, but by extension to the speculative realist critic) the same thing, and that language is not fit for these purposes. But while I agree that language will not permit us to “know” the world in the sense that speculative realists use the idea of “world” (by definition, almost), meaning, certainly in the literary critical realm, is much more fluid than that, and (again, almost by definition) that language is here to do: language gives meaning to a world otherwise inaccessible. Literary meaning, therefore, is not like the web of relations an object enters into, many of which remain outside our capacity to fathom: literary meaning exists only when we put it into words.
Why does literature need to be considered an object or a machine in this? It’s not clear. In simple words: Hamilton’s spirited attempt to develop a first object-oriented literary criticism is reminiscent of the tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes, only in lieu of sheer nakedness, Hamilton has dressed the emperor up in assemblage of older literary theories (with at least one shocking, perhaps willful, misreading of Pascale Casanova, who most certainly does not claim that literature “exists other to this world in which we live”! (115) even in the very quote Hamilton uses to justify this point). More so than giving us a handle on how speculative realism may serve as the foundation of literary criticism, it appears to give us a handle on the limits of the reach of speculative realism.
There are also other curiosities. Without trying to (broken?) hammer Hamilton too much, it seems passing strange that he does not cite Graham Harman’s fascinating Weird Realism, in which Harman outlines the affinities between H.P. Lovecraft’s writing and his philosophy. Neither does he cite Alain Badiou. This is strange not because Badiou is a sympathizer of speculative realism, but because he is an avid reader of the same Stephane Mallarmé whom Hamilton believes to be a prime example of a poet whose works reflect the concerns of speculative realism. Which, in turn, leads to a methodological problem. Like Harman with Lovecraft, Hamilton’s selection of the Symbolists seems to rest not on an act of literary criticism (in this case, an employment of the methods which Hamilton believes we should draw from speculative realism), but on a prior affinity of these writers’ work with speculative realism: a speculative realism avant la lettre, as it were. If, as Hamilton seems to imply, a speculative realist method would require us to speculate ourselves, his parsing of the Symbolists has none of that necessity, since they already are speculative (realists) themselves. In fact, Hamilton’s reading of the Symbolists is the exact opposite of what his initial theoretical excursus seems to desire: in it, “Baudelaire creates” (36) something that we might call cheekily the Ideal of speculative realist literary method, and gives us direct access to it. For a critic as insistent as Hamilton on the insufficiency of language, the claim that Baudelaire makes his points “perfectly clear” (37) seems vaguely troubling. I might quibble with minor points of Hamilton’s readings, too: his apparent surprise at a line in Baudelaire (“Sweet as oboes, green as meadows,” on which he comments “sweet as oboes?!”) which is thoroughly conventional (in that the oboe has been traditionally described as “sweet-sounding, while the meadows bit is almost painfully trite), for example, but is presented by him as something specific to Baudelaire.
What’s perhaps most interesting to me personally (aside from suggesting that an intersubjectively valid speculative realist literary criticism appears to be getting further and further away from us) is the way Hamilton’s insistence on the personal and private, the aesthetic and involved reading coincides with other recent attempts to decenter critical reading in literary studies in favor of affective and affirmative reading, such as in Rita Felski’s The Limits of Critique. I hope to be able to say something about that in a while.
Matt Ruff’s newest novel, Lovecraft Country, is a return to the form which I think he lost sometime after Sewer, Gas, Electric. Now, it’s bad form to begin a review by complaining about an author’s previous novels, but I found especially The Mirage a disappointing book. It’s a fantastic alternate history novel that ultimately declines its alterity in favor of assuming something fundamental, Platonic, about the nature of individual human beings—if you are a bad person in this reality, you will be a bad person in that alternative. I’ve written a bit about this in an essay, but I’m coming to Ruff’s newest novel as an unalloyed fan nevertheless, someone who thought Fool on the Hill was outstanding, and who adored the brilliance of Sewer, Gas, Electric…and could at least nod happily along with Bad Monkeys and Set this House in Order. So there.
Lovecraft Country is set in 1954, and follows a Black family—a son and his father, his uncle, aunt, and niece—through their encounters with a cult called the Sons of Adam. The central figure in all this is the son, whose name is something of a giveaway of the concerns that this novel has and the tradition into which it inscribes itself. Let’s say that there’re some character names that don’t immediately ring the bells of recognition and intertextual reference—“Joe,” say, or “John,” or “Paula” (which is not to say that you can’t make meaningful connections, only that you’d be more likely to let the name be just that name). Ruff’s protagonist is named “Atticus,” and—this just in, Harper Lee’s dead—that’s a name that clearly doesn’t just slip by, especially when the novel is also set in the fraught Jim Crow past. As the novel starts, Atticus, a mid-twenties veteran of the Korean War, is setting out to return to Chicago from Florida, following the receipt of a letter from his father, a somewhat unexpected event given the two men’s distant relationship. Arriving in Chicago after some hassles, Atticus discovers that his father, Montrose, has already left with a white man for New England, more specifically the town of Ardham, Massachusetts. Together with his uncle, George, and childhood friend Letitia, Atticus sets out to find his father.
As it turns out, Atticus is the target of a cult called the Sons of Adam. The last descendant of the cult’s original founder, Titus Braithwaite, Atticus is necessary for the ritual which the cult plans: a return to the Garden of Eden. The ritual is sabotaged by Braithwaite’s son Caleb, and the family return to Chicago: not, however, to safety and normality, but rather to further machinations of Caleb’s, who aims to obtain control over all the chapters of the cult, everywhere in the United States.
I won’t give away the ending, nor many of the pulp-fictiony, very 1940s and 1950s magazine-taleish things that happen to Atticus and his family and friends in what is the larger part of Ruff’s narrative. Lovecraft Country’s indebtedness of Lovecraft lies partly in this, the joyful way it plays with the horror pulps. Lovecraft’s a household name to Atticus—an avid reader of science-fiction and fantasy novels—but Lovecraft Country is rather adamant that Lovecraft’s imagination isn’t “real”. It’s ArDham, not ArKham, MA, that Atticus needs to go to to find his father; it’s a “book of names” that Caleb Braithwaite needs retrieved, not a Necronomicon; and instead of Lovecraft’s sinister black cultists, it’s the police lieutenants and rich white men who gather to do the unspeakable deeds. What Lovecraft Country is interested in is not so much the “countries” of Lovecraft’s imagination, but the country Lovecraft inhabited. Lovecraft is invoked in the racism which Atticus et al. continually encounter. As Ryan Vlastelica of AV Club has noted, the novel has a very episodic feel to it, and it is within the vignettes, and the vignettes within vignettes of second-hand tales and memories, that we perceive the everyday horrors of living in Jim Crow America. George, for example, runs a travel agency that also publishes the Safe Negro Travel Guide, which lists the few-and-far-between hostels, diners, gas stations, and so on which service black men; Laetitia struggles to move into a house she has bought in a white neighborhood, and is saved from arson only by the ghost which still haunts the house; and perhaps most devastatingly, there are many encounters with law enforcements officers which range from impolite disinterest to county sheriffs’ willingness simply to shoot black men and women in cold blood. Lovecraft Country’s horror, proper, isn’t really scary—a mid-book sequence with an animated puppet gave me a puppety creep, but that might just be me, and rather cleverly calls back to the kinds of horror which EC Comics, for example, put out in the 1950s—but that’s because it’s realist passages are plenty powerful. In Lovecraft Country, the supernatural horrors and the horrors of everyday racism vie with one another, but the latter always wins: the supernatural can be managed by invocations and knowledge, but racism remains unalterably powerful in the lives of the black characters in the novel.
Unalterably powerful—but if so, something to work against, work around, and ultimately defeat, by their own power. This is perhaps the significance of Atticus’s name. Atticus is an unease namesake of Atticus Finch: violence comes far more naturally to him (not just as a veteran), for one thing; but the replacement works. Harper Lee’s Alabama wasn’t exactly a haven, either, but while a few good men existed, it could be made to seem savable. Lovecraft Country throws its Atticus back on himself, and his family—there is no good lawyer to brave the racist storms in this novel. But without giving away in of the particulars of the novel, its epilogue, set in 1955, begins on a hopeful summation of what good things happened in 1954: Brown v. Board of Education, and the final desegregation of the armed services. The events of Lovecraft Country may be read behind the line “other victories, less heralded but no less vital” (367). The novel symbolically enacts a victory over structural racism and ideologies—and is a rattling good read.
I’ve missed posting this, since so many other things happened in late November and December (and hey, now it’s March, and I’ve still not fully recovered from them). But I wanted to say that Lexington Books put out my edited collection, The Poetics of Genre in the Contemporary Novel, on November 25 or so. As the editor, I want to take the opportunity again to thank my contributors, who were a joy to work with, and encourage you to buy a copy of the book for the low, low price of $ 95! Well, I’ll be okay if you don’t.
What I’d just like to say is that my introduction, which can be found on Academia.edu, makes a point that I’m rather insistent upon, namely that the work of genre in the contemporary novel should be understood to be deeply meaningful to the project of the novel: it’s where we can most easily trace the major shifts which are currently happening in novel-writing. Step aside, Jonathan Franzen: realism’s (probably and hopefully) not the novel’s future.
As I’ve said somewhere here, I’m working on a book on zombie fictions, so I read whatever is new in the field. Roger Luckhurst’s brand-new “cultural history” of the zombie is among the most interesting recent entries in a growing field. Not terribly long at 220 pages, it nonetheless offers a century’s worth of zombie culture, inclusive of film stills and other graphic material. Luckhurst’s prose is engaging and witty, lucid and magisterial, so the book was a joy to read, and exceptionally informative—in parts. So here we get into the criticism bits of this post.
Luckhurst’s Zombies splits somewhat uneasily into two by no means unconnected, but very much unevenly handled sections. The first half, which really only carries the zombie’s cultural history from about the early 1900s to 1945, is outstanding, a must read for anybody interested in the zombie. Luckhurst expands the history of the figure tremendously from the usual story of William Seabrook and Zora Neal Hurston, White Zombie and I Walked with a Zombie. He teases out the American fascination with Haiti, built in large part on American economic imperialism, and draws powerful role the “the black republic of Haiti has played in the colonial imagination of Europe and American since independence in 1804” (40). It’s these long lines that make Luckhurst stand out: it’s an actual argument for reading the zombie against the colonial and imperialist backdrops of its country of origin, rather than the usual, more or less encyclopedic enumerations of zombie appearances that most previous studies have undertaken. At the end of the first one hundred pages, then, I marveled at Luckhurst’s facility in making strong connections between Haiti and American popular culture. Relativizing the impact of Seabrook and Hurston, bringing in less often discussed influences such as Lafcadio Hearn, and situating the entire issues of the zombie in the 1920s and 1930s in a larger survey of the “colonial margin of the American empire” and its influences on American popular culture, Zombie: A Cultural History here traces its grounds expertly, offering a wealth of information. Luckhurst’s conclusion: “By 1939, the zombie is recognized by its embedded references in American culture, rather than through obscure colonial folklore” (65); that is, by 1939 “zombie” already refers to an American version of a voodoo figure, rather than that figure itself.
Yet what seems to me to be a desirable revisioning of the zombie figure is perhaps taken a little too far in the end, and this is where the second section of the book suffers. If I found the first half to be genuinely surprising, establishing a new narrative of the zombie that helpfully elucidates the at least awkward history behind the popular cultural appropriation of the figure. But Luckhurst’s narrative is more ambitious than this: he seeks to keep this Caribbean connection alive even as he draws away from the pre-war era and into the 1950s and 1960s. Again, some of the things he does seem eminently useful, such as including films like Invasion of the Body Snatchers in a greater narrative of what anxieties film in the postwar period engaged; whether or not one buys he relating the Red Scare with the (yet to come) zombie masses or not, at least Luckhurst ably weaves the major strands of popular cultural production into a usefully coherent whole here. But when Luckhurst seeks to draw together his narrative of the zombie as a product of colonial fantasies and the seminal films of George Romero, things become slightly awkward. First, the connections between Romero’s films and the Caribbean remain, at best, tenuous. Sure, “Night takes the vengeful dead from EC Comics and re-injects them with all the cannibalistic terror that underwrote colonial fantasy” (143)—if by that we mean there are two things that appeared in different contexts that both appear in Night of the Living Dead. But there is an sense here that Luckhurst believes the coherence of his argument requires this connection to be more meaningful, even if ultimately, his own sense of how this greater meaning would work is left unclear. This issue becomes evident in Luckhurst’s reading of Dawn of the Dead, for example. As he rightly points out, the read the film as a critique of consumerism is “hardly the unearthing of a brilliant ideological subtext”; but at the same time, his argument that this reading is guilty of “nudging out of the picture the complex colonial history of the zombie” (150) seems vastly unwarranted; and indeed, Luckhurst himself doesn’t offer a positive reading of this “complex colonial history” that would impinge upon a reading of Dawn.
And this is perhaps the books great problem, at least on its final 100 pages or so: the sense that while Luckhurst’s readings aim to set themselves off from much previous criticism, they do not provide much substance by themselves. I felt myself nodding along with much of it. Little of it is spectacularly new, and indeed, perhaps it provides too neat a narrative in its effort to establish that “wherever it comes to stop” it “remains connected to the meaning of Haiti and the islands of the Antilles to the modern world” (15). Luckhurst’s sense of the zombie’s necessary connectedness to Haiti is too strong in the way he offers it. It echoes other recent conceptualizations which, however, leave more room for readerly interpretation and variation. Maxime Coulomb, in the Petite philosophie du zombie, for example, speaks of “sedimentation” (2012, 14) when he describes the way previous meanings of the zombie remain active in more contemporary ones; Haiti and colonialism linger, yes, but need not have the kind of direct expression that Luckhurst often at least implicitly finds in the contemporary zombie. Given that Luckhurst’s drawing on the Haitian origins of the zombie in popular American culture barely ever leads anywhere, a less ambitious thesis might have done the book some good.
Every so often, too, there are bits and pieces that are a critical jump too far. Speaking about Romero’s influence in general, Luckhurst first claims that “the American state was of course founded by millenarians hoping to establish the New Jerusalem as the last redoubt against a sinful, fallen Europe” (156)—a summary that seems at least deserving of a little more caution than Luckhurst’s “of course” leaves—and then notes that “Romero’s zombie films have been appropriated by Christian thinkers” (156) as grounds for reading the films’ success in terms of a post-war millenarian revival culture. While this is an appropriately trenchant and culture-surveying reading, it also seems at second glance more suggestive than substantial. Similar moments, in fact, occur frequently in the latter half of the novel, especially when Luckhurst discusses the most recent boom in zombie fictions. Speaking of Max Brooks’s World War Z, for example, Luckhurst summarizes its conclusion by claiming that “[a]s is common to the American apocalyptic imagination, the disaster proves a hygienic reboot for a nation that has forgotten its Puritan foundations” (185). Where Luckhurst draws the Puritans from here, why he feels compelled to reduce the novel to its American aspects, and how the sense of “hygiene” comes in, is never explained. The problem here then is not that this is not an interesting reading, but that it’s a reading backed up by very little engagement with the text proper, perhaps even to the exclusion of some of the text’s more overt meanings.
Luckhurst’s study, despite all this, is a must buy for its first half and a can buy for its second; it is pithy and abrasive, opinionated and sometimes condescending, frequently surprising. Its own narrative of zombie culture may be foreshortened, but at least its foreshortening brings to the fore the often disregarded, or at least never fully spelled-out, implications of the zombie’s origin in colonialist oppression and appropriation. Its daringly radical thesis, I think, is not successful: but no matter, since the book as a whole is worth the time spent reading and digesting it.