Greg Garrett: Living with the Living Dead

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.


On Grant Hamilton: The World of Broken Machines

failingmachinesI’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.