Space Irony

This week I read The Stars my Destination, and I really enjoyed it. The main character Gully Foyle is a type you don’t find very often in literature, an anti-hero of sorts, but really more than that just an unlikeable guy. He’s violent, crass, and indifferent, basically the opposite of any traditional hero character. That’s fine though, because Gully isn’t a hero, he’s really just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time who has selfish motivations.

            This is what, in my opinion, made The Stars my Destination so enjoyable. The whole novel is delicately constructed upon layers and layers of irony. The first big irony, of course, being that the protagonist/hero is such an unlikeable guy. However, most of the irony in the novel comes from dramatic irony, where the reader knows things that other characters don’t. This novel has some of the best dramatic irony I’ve ever read; the best example would have to be how Gully was suspected of everything from terrorism to spying when in reality he really just wanted to blow up a ship that didn’t rescue him in an act of petty revenge. There is just such an absolute inability for these two sides to reconcile into one coherent, mutually understood truth. The PyrE foundation is so concerned with the solar-sytem-wide war that they can’t comprehend that someone would blow up a ship for such a reason; at the same time, Gully is so narrowminded on his goal that he doesn’t stop to think of outside consequences. The drama this ends up creating is just incredible. Once even more layers of complexity are added on (such as the valuable contents of Gully’s ship’s cargo) the drama just develops tenfold.

            I was afraid as I was reading that the climax would never be able to follow up to the immense amount of drama/irony built up. Luckily, I was wrong! The ending was very much satisfying, as it wrapped up all the loose ends while adding one last layer of irony. It is revealed that Gully’s revenge—his whole reason for living—was ultimately pointless. This was just such a great twist, especially because if readers didn’t like Gully up until this point, they definitely had to feel a little bad for him now.

            To me, this novel has aspects of the survival/adventure genre aimed at young boys, in which a lone wolf protagonist is stranded in a harsh uncaring environment and has to survive and thrive alone. The way that Gully develops a sort of tunnel vision towards his ultimate goal is reflective of how in survival stories, the protagonist must rid himself of all unnecessary feelings if he is to survive in the wilderness. Plus, the disconnect between Gully and the government has the same sort of feeling as wilderness survivors in this genre have a disconnect after returning to the real world. There is just no way to reconcile two such different experiences, and no way to explain it to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

Spiritual Education Gets a Lot Easier When Your Spirit has a Physical Form

When I was in elementary school, I started to read The Golden Compass, but put it down halfway through and never finished it. This week, I thought it would be a good opportunity to finally read the book the entire way through.

            The most interesting and immediately apparent aspect of this novel is the concept that a person’s soul takes on a physical form outside of his body. In the case of The Golden Compass, the soul takes the shape of an animal (referred to as a daemon), and is a reflection of the person’s soul and of their innermost desires. This fascinated me when I was younger, and I remember trying to come up with what my own daemon would look and act like.

            This concept of an outside soul provides a canvas for some interesting commentary on real-world issues. For example, in the world of The Golden Compass, it becomes impossible to hide one’s “true self.” Such as in the case with Ms. Coulter, she has the appearance and mannerisms of the “ideal” woman, but her daemon is cruel and ruthless. Thus, even before Ms. Coulter’s true nature is revealed, it is apparent that she too has a cruel and ruthless side that she can’t hide. This application of the daemons idea conveys how someone’s true nature may be very different from the nature they project to the world. Although in reality there is no easy way to expose someone’s true nature, the moral of this example is not to be so blinded by someone’s surface (as Lyra was) that you neglect to consider what might lie underneath.

            This book also followed (more or less) the Hero’s Journey, although since it is the first part in a three part series the Journey does not reach true conclusion in this novel. There is a call to action, a prophecy,  a road of trials, acquirement of boons (the compass), “magic” flight, recognition of sorts by both Lyra’s mother and father, mastery of two worlds (human and polar bear), and so on and so forth, not necessarily in this order. The “symbolic death” aspect plays an especially important role in the story, as a main point of the plot involves separating children from their souls and essentially killing them. Although this doesn’t happen to Lyra, it 1) almost does and 2) happens to several of her friends and serves as the main evil action that the antagonists perform, and is essentially why the antagonists are the antagonists. This symbolic/literal death plays such a big part in the story, especially the reveal that it is occurring, that I count it as part of the Hero’s Journey. The only part missing in the Hero’s Journey cycle is the “freedom to live,” which assumedly comes in the later books. This use of the Hero’s Journey allows the characters in the novel to fall into familiar archetypes, which further highlights the goodness of Lyra and her allies, and the evilness of her enemies, her mother, father, and the Oblation Board. This allows the novel to use this good vs. evil dichotomy to make commentary on religion, morals, and so forth.

The Hero's Journey

This week, I read J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit for the first time. While I had seen both the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings movies, as well as read the original trilogy, I had never read the prequel before. Luckily, I had the opportunity to do so this week.

It quickly became apparent to me that the tone of The Hobbit is much different than that of The Lord of the Rings, despite the similar tones between the movies. The Hobbit book is much lighter in tone. Although aspects of The Hobbit continue on into the main trilogy, such as the ring and Gollum, The Hobbit lacks the sense of urgent and all-encompassing darkness that the main trilogy had. Reading The Hobbit after already being acquainted with the main trilogy, The Hobbit seems to have a sense of blissful naiveté, kind of like the calm before the storm. Bilbo and his company cannot possibly have any idea of what their journey will eventually lead to.

This aspect of The Hobbit— that it is a prequel to a much larger and darker series— makes it an interesting and different example of the Hero’s Journey. Just as in the traditional Hero’s Journey storyline, there is a call to action (from Gandalf), a road of trials one after another, acquirement of “boons”, a gradual change in the main character, and ultimately a victory and the “freedom to live” for Bilbo back in the Shire. However, this “freedom” turns out to be very short lived, since Bilbo’s original Hero’s Journey sets in motion a series of events which threaten to plunge the world back into darkness. This, of course, necessitates the beginning of a second Hero’s journey, which can be read in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Since a large part of the Hero’s Journey trope is the total resolution—of plot, of character development, of loose ends—the fact that The Hobbit leaves much unresolved (until the main trilogy) sets it apart from a typical, by-the-book Hero’s Journey tale. While Bilbo’s journey is certainly resolved at the end of The Hobbit, the overall Hero’s Journey cycle of Tolkien’s Middle Earth stories is still just in the beginning, in the “innocent world of childhood.”