What can you say about a Neal Stephenson novel?  Really.  The man is a bit like J.R.R. Tolkien, he feels the need to go out and re-invent the wheel simply because he can.  As a result, no amount of critical analysis, commentary, or old fashioned smack is really able to do his work justice.  If you want to experience a Stephenson novel, you just have to go read it.

So it is with Anathem, a book about a place which isn’t Earth and a time that isn’t now.  Though it certainly feels like both.  Anathem is s a big book which contains big ideas: the observations of classical philosophers, rules of logic, and ultimately a polycosmic theory of connected reality.  You know, light reading.  It’s also a brilliant though extremely frustrating piece which simply defies any attempt at summary.  The first third is spent drowning in detail, the middle third in quiet contemplation, and the last third in monumental disillusion.

Of Physics and Philosophy

After a few pages, it becomes clear that Stephenson is a philosopher.  I’m not sure if it is the fifteen page description of a big clock, or the ten page description of how it’s wound.  Nonetheless, there is a tremendous devotion to the mind’s perception of reality.  In fact, the entire cosmos of Anathem is meant to glorify the rational and introspective.  Imagine, if you will, what would happen if classical Greek culture had never been absorbed by the Romans and later disseminated into Roman Catholic or Byzantine thought?  Instead, it had retreated behind monastic walls and allowed to flourish? What would that look like?

The Mathic Orders represent a tremendously good guess: communities dedicated to the pursuit of philosophy, as the ancient Greeks understood the term.  A haven for those that seek to understand existence, knowledge, truth, beauty, justice, validity, mind, language, and logic.  The avout are, literally, “the lovers of wisdom.”  This is different from the pursuit of science, but rather the pursuit of knowledge in its purest form: theory.

In many ways, Stephenson’s dedication to rational philosophy drives a great deal of the ideological conflict.  So while you can rest assured that religion versus science will make an appearance, there are shadows of far nastier clash: empirical evidence versus theoretical prediction.  Remember, the sixteenth century brouhaha between Galileo Galilei and the Roman Potentate was not a fight between religion and science per-se, but a scuff between meta-physicists (philosophers) and their empirical colleagues.  After all, the geocentric view of the cosmos was not a Christian belief, but a Greek one; it can probably be tracked back to Plato or even Socrates, though Aristotle is responsible for it’s place in Western canon.  Galileo's struggle wasn't with the theists, but rather with his scientific colleagues. Similar fights have been waged on a far larger scales with greater consequences.  What is Communism, for example, if not a magnificently beautiful and utterly failed theory?

Characters, Plot and Ideas

Here’s the plot summary: aliens show up for dinner, how should the world respond?  That’s it, spread out over 900 some pages.  And while Anathem pulls off a reimagining of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” it suffers from more than stale plotting.  The characterization is generally terrible, in fact, most of the characters aren’t really all that likable or interesting.  Actually that’s not fair to the variety of boring and non-likeable people who populate the worlds of the polycosm.  Let me be more clear: nearly every character falls somewhere on the likable scale between mostly unpleasant and raging wanker.

What’s worse, I found that most were completely interchangeable; like gears in a watch or machine milled parts of a car.  Sure, there may be an assortment of adolescent pricks, older pricks, computer pricks, and token religious nuts; but the characters play stereotyped roles and never give any hint of being rounded individuals.  As long as there is a character in the right place to say the right things, that’s good enough.

For example, consider the “deolators” of Anathem.  They get about as much respect as a Scientologist on a bad day.  When he is feeling kind or generous, Stephenson dismisses the deolators and their motives as unfathomable.  More often, though, they are linked to a substantially less flattering and destructive connotations.  In Anathem’s nine-hundred pages, expect the word to be used interchangeably with misguided, superstitious, and stupid.  In the six or seven examples of apocalypse, Stephenson was kind enough to credit the deolators for all of them. Apparently religion is to blame for all of society’s ills.  Silly me, I thought that was the role of politics.

Don’t expect a consistent set of rules for anyone, however.  Based upon Stephenson’s clear distrust of religion and its notions of “truth,” it is ironic that most of the other characters simply assume that they are right.  Indeed, I found the general sense of self-satisfied superiority to be more than slightly obnoxious.  After all, why should the core characters bother to question their own place in a recently rearranged cosmos?  It’s not like the understanding of polycosmic existence isn’t about to be thoroughly challenged.  Though I’m probably being a bit harsh, Stephenoson did manage to nail one stereotype: most of Stephenson’s “avout” are carbon copies of the dry and humorless academics I’ve worked with.

The surprising bit, however, is that the pathetic characterization doesn’t derail the book.  After I realized that individuals don’t matter, I stopped keeping track of them.  Instead, I started to follow the ideas; and that’s when Anathem became really enjoyable.  The concepts, philosophical musings, and theories are the real stars.

Be prepared for information deluge, though.  There is enough detail to either fascinate or thoroughly repulse.  First off, the book is written is Socratic dialogue: this means there will be smug questioning, logical maneuvering and thorough pontification.  In fact, when reading formal dialogue, keep one important fact in mind: there is a reason why the ancient people of Athens “allowed” Socrates to consume a fatal dose of hemlock, probably just before threatening to throw him off a cliff.  At best, he was a bloody nuissance; more often, he actively undermined social order and stability.  Plato may remember him fondly, but there is little in his thirty-five surviving works to say that he remembered him accurately.

Even so, the formal dialogues are easily the best parts of the book.  Clearly, they are also the parts which Stephenson was most interested in writing.  The care with which they have been laid out and composed is simply stunning.  Much better than any of the actual “character development” or plotting.  The ideas are presented logically, carefully and understandably.  A few examples, like Stephenson’s description of systemic evolution (the Bat, Fly, Worm dialogue) are worth the price of the novel by themselves.

Unfortunately, even with the beautiful ideas, Anathem is stilted.  There are so many times that a gorgeous ideas is given a grotesque application.  To use Stephenson’s language, the theorics and praxis simply don’t line up.  After hundreds of pages and thousands of words of logical dialogue, the conclusion is illogical.  Theory and empiricism are fighting it out again and the result is polycosmic miasma. Not a good way to conclude a book that has been marvelously rational.

Conclusion

Okay, so I’ve been harsh.  The simple truth is that I enjoyed many parts of Anathem thoroughly.  I started off by listening to the audio book version, but later bought a hardcopy for closer inspection.  That says something.  I don’t often pay for a book twice.

But even so, this book only reinforces a previous conclusion: Neal Stephenson is a clever fellow.  Unfortunately, he feels the need to beat us about the head with it.  He brilliantly plays with the whole of human history and explores some fascinating theoretical possibilities, but then comes off as an utter ass.

Most very intelligent people, unfortunately, are little more than provocative gasbags.  Far too often, “clever” is allowed to pose as brilliant and cliché to stand in for innovation.  As a result, Anathem isn’t so much a story which raises a number of interesting ideas; rather, it’s a philosophical treatise masquerading as a piece of speculative fiction.   If read as the first, it’s hopelessly and frustratingly flawed.  When read as the second, however, Anathem is one of the most interesting books to appear in quite some time.

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

Anathem: Big Book, Big Ideas

One of the best parts of having a blog is the ability to speak directly to and interact with readers. This is true even on such a small and under-read blog as Apolitically Incorrect. In the past few weeks, I have received a number of fascinating e-mails from readers who took some issues with an essay that I published, entitled "Eragon Shadeslayer: Sociopath." In this essay, I looked at how the principal hero of the Inheritance Cycle, by Christopher Paolini, had progressed from a hero archetype toward something else: a dangerous sociopath.

As might be expected, this particular topic proved to be somewhat controversial and generated a surprising amount of e-mail. My opinion on one of Eragon's actions in particular, the murder of a young soldier who was begging for his life, evoked some particularly strong responses. While some of the correspondence was hostile, more often the letters were extremely thoughtful and asked all kinds of excellently difficult questions. While there were various writers, nearly every letter raised at least two common questions which I would like to try and give an answer to. First, why am I so hard on Christopher Paolini's notions of good and evil? Second, why should we attempt to cling to moral absolutes and high minded ideals in an amoral and relative world?

Both of these questions are highly inter-related, and I will attempt to offer a combined answer. This starts with a an assautl on one of the central themes in Paolini's work, namely: a man is good because of his formal identity and background. This argument posits that a priest is holy because he is a priest or a dragonrider is good because he rides a dragon. In this same logic, Murtagh is evil because he is the son of Morzan and Galbatorix is malicious because he is an evil king. Things are exactly as they would appear.

Unfortunately, this paradigm begins to break down during Eragon and by Brisingr has fallen apart completely. In an attempt to inject some sophistication and complexity into his characters, Paolini has instead broken them beyond repair. They have stopped being  identifiably good or evil.  Instead, we as readers are simply told who is good and who is evil; even when their actions would seem to indicate otherwise.

This rubs against some of my most deeply held beliefs. Experience, exposure and education have led me to conclude that a man is not good because of his station, identity or background. (Often enough, he is good in spite of them.) Rather, people are good for who they are: a complex combination of word, action, and what they choose to make with their labors. If station made men holy, as posited by Inheritance, there would have been no sexual crisis in the Catholic Church. Indeed, recent events have made it remarkably clear that many priests are neither holy nor good. How many altar boys were sodomized? How many bishops covered it up? If you wish to hear the haunted voices of those affected by true evil, read the accounts of these groups. Both can offer haunting views about the destruction that evil leaves in its aftermath, or what happens to those who ignore it.

Moral absolutes help hedge conduct and provide clarity for word, action, and consequence. The practical constructs of morality – guidelines, tradition and law – serve like the railing at the edge of precipice. In some circumstances, they keep us off of the ledge of catastrophe; in others, they help keep us away from slippery slopes.

At this point, some sophisticated readers might roll their eyes and scream, "Straw man!" But, I beg to differ; slippery slopes are very real. In many instances, following a course of action to its "logical conclusion" has lead to some of history's greatest tragedies. Consider how the valid scientific theories of Darwin, provocative ideas of Nietzsche, and wrongheaded stereotypes of Europe mingled and interbred in the late 1930s. The bastard offspring of that unholy union justified the extermination of nearly twelve million human beings, six million of which were Jews.

Thus, as the Holocaust and its lesser known brethren – the Gulags, Cultural Revolution, and Khmer Rouge – show, it's out on the limits that morality really matters, when human behavior is at its most extreme. It's easy to be good when the consequences are small. The rich and well-off can give great amounts of money to the poor and suffering without ever noticing the loss. But it is truly impressive when a destitute neighborhood bands together to assure that no-one will starve. Such an action is noble and impressive not because someone required it, but because it is voluntary. Indeed, nearly all great actions of human compassion or accomplishment require that the actors opt in.

For close to 2500 years, Western civilization has acknowledged that to forcibly sacrifice the life of another to an idol (whether that be ancient pagan deity or some modern principle) denigrates both the life taken and the entity receiving the so called "sacrifice." Consider accounts of the Aztecs who routinely slaughtered tens of thousands of individuals a year. In comparison to other cultures (such as the Inca, or the Celts of Northern Europe), these sacrifices were not voluntary. If anything, they existed to maintain Aztec dominance through fear and intimidation. Imagine the scene: an Aztec priest forcibly hauls a prisoner up the steep stairs of a stone temple and cuts out the still beating heart. He turns and offers the heart to a twisted and deformed stone idol while drums and horns wail in the background. There is a reason that this practice, more than anything else, served as the rallying point that successfully unified the Spanish and the Aztecs' tributary vassals. It destroys both political and religious legitimacy and substitutes oppression and fear.  While the Spaniards may have destroyed an empire, the Aztec's own actions helped speed it along.  A point eventually arives actual misery and pain overcome the fear.

And when Eragon chose to extinguish the life of the young soldier during his return to the Varden, he decided that his safety and convenience was more important than a child's life. Life is a precious thing. It makes all other virtues possible: bravery, nobility, charity and freedom. While the Varden fight to restore "freedom" to Alagaesia, it cannot come by negligently sacrificing life. The most poignant statement of the great and powerful comes not in their words, but in their treatment of the innocents who are caught in the crossfire. And as you might have surmised, I cannot excuse Eragon's actions as a "simple fact of war." The child that he killed isn't one of the powerful who move nations and decide destinies; rather, he's one of the innocents in the trenches. Put another way, he's one of the "Peoples of Alagaesia" whom Eragon has sworn to protect; one of those nameless masses that Eragon should be serving. And what does Eragon do? He coldly decides to destroy the soldier's life as a "sacrifice" to freedom.

By deciding that he knows best, Eragon moves into the ground of the zealot and deranged. He has decided that only he is capable of deciding what is good, noble, or just. And it just doesn't help that his notions contradict thousands of years of thought, law and custom. Since at least Medieval times, martial traditions and military law has given some pretty solid guidance about how prisoners should be treated. It can largely be summarized in a single thought: they should be treated well. Conventions such as the white flag of truce pre-date even Medieval times and are respected out of necessity. Other quaint customs ensure that women, children and prisoners will be safe. These guidelines are followed so that those on the battlefield might have some hope that there will be something of life left when when the war, inevitably, ends. The "realist" that claims there are no limits on depravity because "war is hell" will soon meet the officer that may endeavor to teach him otherwise. In ancient times, this was often done by crucifixion: to ensure that the both the criminal and any observers understood got the point: there are limits for a reason. Say what you will, the Romans understood how to make an object lesson.

So yes, while some innocents will die; this is an inevitable tragedy, not a deliberate choice. If a village is slaughtered or prisoners are executed, there had better be an excellent reason. Not simply because morality demands it, but also because there will be a reckoning. Ask the American soldiers who were deployed to the village of My Lai, or the staff sergeants who were just "following orders" at Abu Ghraib. Ideals, laws and traditions exist to separate men from monsters. And while terrible crimes may be committed in war, men recognize that what they do is wrong and understand that it must eventually be turned off. Monsters neither recognize nor care.

This is how we know that Eragon has become a monster. His words, actions, and demeanor have become so erratic, inconsistent and arbitrary that there is not much else to call him. At the time when Ergaon snaps the boy soldier's neck, the battle is over. Might the boy be compelled to talk and disclose that Eragon killed the patrol? Sure, thus, he is a threat. But additional analysis reveals that any threat he might pose is minor and largely irrelevant. Keep in mind: Galbatorix already knows that Eragon is in the empire, and approximately where he is. Eragon has already been dodging patrols and avoiding Murtagh since leaving Helgrind. Thus, the only intelligence of value the boy might have is Eragon's precise location. This is a paltry piece of information. Eragon's position is set to rapidly change, just as soon as Eragon and Arya deal with the child and leave. Any action that Eragon takes is simply going to buy time, not hide his presence completely. As a result, magically incapacitating the soldier or simply knocking him out are both perfectly acceptable alternatives to killing him.

Knowing what is black and what is white helps to navigate the inevitable shades of grey. As any adult knows: no person, situation or circumstance is perfect; but if you do not know the boundaries of lawful and moral conduct it is far too easy to walk off the side of the cliff. This is why thousands of years of martial tradition (in nearly every culture of the world) have stressed discipline, honor, and proper conduct. Unfortunately, like many other problems in Inheritance, Paolini does not understand the themes that he attempts to develop and the result is a macabre imitation. Instead of a difficult scenario where Eragon struggles with difficult but necessary choices, we are treated to a coldly executed murder.

Eragon has become like the priest who just can't help himself and Paolini the bishop who decides to cover for him. And while some might say, "It is an imperfect situation and Eragon is doing the best he can!" Let me add the following: to harness an evil action for noble purposes requires a vision and moral understanding of what is right. When George Washington committed treason against George III of England and Martin Luther King Jr. broke the laws of Georgia, those actions were means to an end. They had vision and a singular purpose. Eragon's slaughter of the young boy in Brisingr had neither. At best, it was a killing performed for convenience. Attempting to explain the action away as an "inevitable part of war" merely adds insult to injury. In many ways, Eragon's action twists noble ideas such as sacrifice, respect for life, and freedom into barely recognizable alternatives; an action that needs to be denounced in the strongest language available, for it is evil.

In conclusion, while Inheritance is clearly a work of fiction, it nonetheless attempts to impart complex life lessons; and in the process breaks down. For this reason, it is sometimes necessary to supplement fiction and the fantastic with what is real. There are few questions more important than, "Why do we cling to moral absolutes and high minded ideals in an amoral and relative work?" Rather than use Inheritance or Brisingr  as a guide (which are horrifically flawed), might I instead recommend Martin Luther King's, "A letter form a Birmingham Jail Cell?" I can think of no better primer.

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

Inheritance Questions and Answers

While the timeless struggle between good and evil has been at the center of Western literature for nearly three thousand years, modern psychology has given us an insight into why some people devolve into heroes and others into villains. One important framework is provided by the mythology of the sociopath. Sociopaths are marked by several important characteristics: impulsivity, irritability and aggression, deceit or manipulation, lack of concern for the safety of others, irresponsibility, or being unconcerned about hurting or stealing. Sociopaths have lost their conscience and soul. They are evil because they can be. Sociopaths don't come with baggage, don't need a back-story or some greedy motive. They just are.

In Christopher Paolini's, Brisingr, we get something rather unexpected: a sociopath in the role of hero. Brisingr's author never explicitly states that Eragon, the novel's main protagonist, is an unfeeling void; quite the contrary, actually. The omniscient narrator, the cast of supporting characters, and even his dragon laud Eragon's actions as careful, considered, and just. A careful reading, though, doesn't reveal this. Rather, nearly every action shows either rash judgments or cold calculation. This represents somewhat of a departure of Paolini's earlier work (Eragon and Eldest). Despite the weaknesses of the earlier books, the character of Eragon was at least likable. Of course he was brash and headstrong, but he at least tried to do and say the right things.

In Brisingr, however, we are presented with another person. Eragon has little mercy or understanding for anyone around him (either friend or foe). This trend only gets worse as the novel progresses. Steadily, we proceed from actions which are merely foolish to those which are profoundly disturbing. Consider how Eragon acts in the first few hundred pages of Brisingr. In the opening chapters, Eragon commits genocide. He later circumvents justice in order to condemn and abandon a man in the desert. Last, he kills a child in cold blood while the boy is begging for mercy. In this essay, we will look at these three scenarios in detail and show that Eragon has lost his way, his conscience and his soul.

Genocide

Brisingr opens where Eldest leaves off. Eragon and Roran are headed to the secret lair of the Ra'zak to rescue Roran's fiancé, Katrina. She was abducted, when her father (Sloan) betrayed the village of Carvahull to the evil empire. In the manner of all damsel in distress clichés, the villain is vanquished and hero triumphs. In Brsingr, however, there is an added layer of unintended complexity.

You see, the Ra'zac where the creatures responsible for the death of Eragon's uncle and Roran's father. And yes, while the Ra'zac are indeed alien and frightening, it is important to remember that they are not human. In contrast to another fantasy author, J.R.R. Tolkien, who primarily used the orcs and trolls of his universe as muscle for the greater villains, Paolini instead chooses to weave the Urgals and Ra'zac into the larger tapestry of his world. They are a part of nature and add to its natural balance.

The Ra'zac. Image Source: Inheriwiki.

When seen in this light, Paolini's treatment of them is very difficult to understand. At multiple time points, he describes the Ra'zac as being "inherently evil." Yet, no justification is given for this label. The Ra'zac share the aggression of the Urghals and the cunning of men; yet, neither Urghals or men are "inherently evil," why are the Ra'zac considered to be? We do not blame a tiger or bear for mauling a man in the woods, nor do we blame a shark for attacking swimmers or surfers who are playing in the surf. Like so many other things in Paolini's world, unfortunately, the answer to this question appears to be: they just are.

While similar to Urghals or men, the Ra'zac share most in common with a race that is treated in a substantially different manner: the dragons. Both are large carnivores that feed on a variety or prey. Both have been known to eat and terrorize men, elves and dwarves. Both races compete for the same hunting grounds and food source. Both are intelligent and cunning. And while the dragons are treated as the most beautiful and noble creatures of the land, the Ra'zac (and their closely related kin, the Lethrblaka) are treated as horrors which are have both earned and deserve their destruction.

But Eragon and Paolini go further. In their last confrontation, knowing that it is about to die, the Ra'zac makes a request:

"I am the last of my race, Shadeslayer. We are ancient, and I would not have us forgotten. Would you, in your songs and in your histories, remind your fellow humans of the terror we inspired in your kind? … Remember us as fear!"

For a being of ancient and "intrinsic" evil, this request is profoundly … reasonable. No virgins are going to die or horrors be freed from long imprisonment. Eragon's refusal to grant it is somewhat baffling. By rashly condemning the Ra'zac to nightmares and legends, Eragon's action lacks prudence, justice or wisdom. There are far worse things than (accurately) remembering your enemies and their horrors.

In fact, there are very important reasons why the names of Nero, Attila, Stalin and Hitler are remember and reviled. It is far more costly to forget monsters and their horrific crimes than it is to remember and instruct. Forgetting evil and how it happened enables others to pursue the same roads to power. Tolkien understood these principles. He took great pains in his own work to demonstrate the consequences of forgetting. From his notes (later published as the Unfinished Tales), we learn something important. While Sauron, the great satanic villain of the Lord of the Rings, rose to power through treachery and deceit; he was enabled because those he conquered had forgotten who and what he was.

Eragon's interaction with the Ra'zac makes explicit something that is previously only hinted at. He willfully (even gleefully) exterminates the last members of a sentient race and in a rage attempts to extinguish their memory. These are not the actions of a hero, or even of an anti-hero; but of a villain and unfeeling monster. And like a true sociopath, Eragon treats the members of his own race with even less consideration or feeling.

Judgment

One of Tolkien's most interesting and complex characters is that of Gollum: murderer, thief, liar, and addict. Gollum is shown to be merciless, dangerous and cruel. Further, he is manipulative, destructive and evil. In summary of his creation, Tolkien said, "After ages alone in the dark, Gollum's heart was black and treachery was in it." Even so, there is a lot going on with Gollum: bouts of confusion and alteration, addiction and maliciousness. Yet, despite his treachery and evil, no one is quite sure what should be done with him. When Bilbo has an opportunity to kill Gollum and provide "justice and resolution," he pauses and instead chooses to leave the vile creature alone.  At one point during their conversation on the origin of the Ring, Gandalf and Frodo discuss Bilbo's actions:

Deep down by the dark water lived old Gollum, a small slimy creature. I don't know where he came from, nor who or what he was. He was Gollum – dark as darkness, except for two big pale eyes in his thin face. He had a little boat, and he rowed about quietly on the lake; for lake it was, wide and deep and deadly cold. - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

"What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature when he had a chance!" cried Frodo.

"Pity? It was Pity that stayed his hand," said Gandalf. "Pity and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity."

"I am sorry," said Frodo … "I do not feel any pity for Gollum."

"You have not seen him," Gandalf broke in.

"No, and I don't want to," said Frodo. "I can't understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death."

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment."

Tolkien uses Gollum to explore notions of justice, mercy and ultimately redemption. In many ways, Tolkien's implicitly says that it is beyond the right of any to pass "final" judgment for, as Gandalf explains to Frodo, "[E]ven the very wise cannot see all ends." Each of the main characters in the Lord of the Rings face two interlinked tests. The first occurs when the character encounters the evil Master Ring. The second occurs when they encounter Gollum, the creature most possessed and twisted by it. Tolkien uses his character's responses to these two challenges as a way to highlight their weaknesses and virtues. Indeed, in Tolkien's world, good isn't defined by ends, but rather by means.

Consider one of the very best and underestimated of Tolkien's characters, Frodo. When he and Gollum are thrown together, Frodo attempts to heal and redeem Gollum. Unpredictably and surprisingly, Gollum responds to this. Prior to finally betraying Frodo and Sam, Gollum is as conflicted about his love for his new master as he is about his relationship with the Ring (his Precious). This is admittedly deep water, and it is both ironic and somewhat fitting that Gollum dies as the savior of all free peoples. Tolkien highlights that even if his actions were despicable, unintended good might still come of them.

Either deliberately or by accident, Paolini's work also contains a Gollum: the old butcher of Carvahull, Sloan. In addition to being the butcher of Eragon's home village, Sloan was also the father of Roran's fiancé. And just as Gollum has two identities which can be difficult to reconcile, we see the same in Sloan.

Like Gollum, Sloan is a pathetic creature who has both betrayed others, as well as having been doubly betrayed himself. He has been broken, starved and tortured. His eyes have been pecked out by his captors. He is blind and lost in nearly every sense of the word. Despite his murderous actions, Sloan acted for what might be described as noble reasons: love of his daughter, Katrina. Sloan has also suffered greatly for his choices and at the time of his rescue, he is no longer a threat.

Yet, even in this pathetic and pitiable shape, Eragon feels the need to take "action" against him. He starts by humiliating Sloan and magically forcing him to live. Next, he strips him of those things that he might wish to live for, namely: the opportunity to see his daughter, embrace her and explain his actions. Eragon compels Sloan to travel north toward the elves, a race of alien beings who can neither understand him nor his motives. He will spend the rest of his life among them in silent exile.

Sloan will be tormented by conscience and deprived of any ability to amend to those who were affected. This is not justice, but a cruel mockery and perversion. From his actions, it becomes clear that Eragon understands neither the purposes nor processes of justice. It is important to review what those are since justice has had a particular meaning. It is not driven by personal feeling, animosity or hatred; but rather by laws and statutes. It is dispassionate and attempts to treat all equally, regardless of station, standing or influence. The accused are given a chance to confront their accusers and challenge the evidence against them. Last, justice is executed by those who were harmed or by their proper representatives.

Instead of delivering Sloan to be judged by those he has betrayed, Eragon instead subverts the process. Without seeking input from anyone, Eragon chooses to deceive those most intimately concerned with Sloan's outcome and crimes: his daughter (Katrina) and her future husband (Roran). It is ironic just as Sloan lied and betrayed those closest to him, Eragon chooses to follow the same path. Eragon does not consider evidence, accusation, or motive. He merely pronounces Sloan as guilty. He then creates a punishment which is deliberately brutal and cruel.

There is still a further dimension in Eragon's treatment of Sloan which is even more disturbing, though. He chooses to abuse both his magic and power, for, Eragon knows Sloan's "true name". Within the framework of Alagaesia, this means that he has complete and full power over him. Eragon also seems to feel that his status as a "dragon rider" grants him a special right to trample roughshod over his captive. Consider the scene where Eragon first reveals his identity to the man he has just "rescued":

The Butcher sat slumped against the left hand wall with his head upon his knees. Both arms were chained to an iron ring. His ragged clothes barely covered his pale, emaciated body. The corners of his bones stood out in sharp relief and underneath his translucent skin. His blue veins were also prominent. Sores had formed on his wrists where the manacles chafed. The ulcers oozed a mixture of clear fluid and blood. What remained of his hair had turned gray … Eragon then realized that the Ra'zac had pecked out Sloan's eyes. - Christopher Paolini, Brisingr

A sense of destiny and doom descended upon Eragon. He felt as if he were the instrument of two merciless overlords and he replied in accordance … so each work struck like a hammer blow and carried all the weight of his dignity, station and anger. "I am Eragon and far more. I am Argetlam and Shadeslayer and Firesword. My dragon is Spahira, she who is also known as Djartskular and Flametongue … We have fought Urgals and a Shade and Murtagh, who is Morzan's son. We serve the Varden and the peoples of Alagaesia and I have brought you here to pass judgment upon you for murdering Byrd and for betraying Carvahall to the Empire."

Thrusting out his mind, he engulfed Sloan's consciousness in his own and forced the butcher to accept memories that confirmed the truth of his statements. He also wanted Sloan to feel the power that was now his and to realize that he was no longer entirely human. And while Eragon was reluctant to admit it, he enjoyed having control over a man who had often made trouble for him.

This is a performance which is fit for Sauron, or Galbatorix, not the principal hero of the saga. It is disconcerting that Ergaon takes joy in subverting an already broken and helpless man before choosing to rape his mind and steal his will. It gets even worse when his motivations are explained. Whereas the villagers of Carvahull are direct victims of Sloan and his betrayal, Eragon was conspicuously absent when the empire and its soldiers came. Instead, Eragon revels in his actions because Sloan was a bully and "made trouble for him."

The last sentence in that passage is particularly damning when considered in the context of how Eragon chooses to leave Sloan: abandoned in a pathless desert with neither food nor water. Whereas Eragon has the ability and power to survive, by draining the energy from the land with his magic and drawing water from the soil, Sloan does not. It is unknown if this crippled, blinded, half starved old man can successfully cross the expanse – even with the enchantments that Eragon has placed on him.

Unlike Frodo, who accepts responsibility for Gollum without passing judgment; Eragon first chooses to condemn and then abandon. Rather than deliver Sloan to be properly judged by those he has wronged, he chooses to be a cruel vigilante and subvert justice; while lying to those closest to him. In the process, Eragon discovers that he enjoys dominating and controlling a man who made his life "difficult." These actions reveal a completely misguided character that is devoid of a moral compass or center.

Mercy

If Eragon's actions with Sloan might be called misguided, there is only a single word to describe a confrontation between Eragon, Arya and a company of Empire soldiers: evil. It is important to consider these events in their proper context. After dealing with Sloan, Eragon has begun his trek back to the Varden. While doing so, he meets Arya as she searches for him. As the two travel together, they are stopped by a band of Empire soldiers and a confrontation ensues. After killing the majority of the group, this is what happened next:

Only three soldiers remained alive. Arya was grappling with two of them some distance away while the third and final soldier fled south along the road. Gathering his strength, Eragon pursued him. As he narrowed the gap between them, the man began to plead for mercy, promising he would tell no one about the massacre and holding out his hands to show they were empty. When Eragon was within a arm's reach, the man veered to the side and then a few steps later changed direction again, darting back and forth across the countryside like a frightened jack-rabbit. All the while, the man continued to beg, tears streaming down his cheeks; saying that he was too young to die, that he had yet to marry and father a child, that his parents would miss him, and that he had been pressed into the army and this was only his fifth mission and why couldn't Eragon leave him alone? "What have you against me?" he sobbed. "I only did what I had to do. I'm a good person!"

"Why are you doing this? You're a monster!" screamed the man. With an expression of pure terror, he made an attempt to dash around Eragon and return to the road. Eragon overtook him in less than ten feet, and as the man was still crying and asking for clemency, Eragon wrapped his left hand around his neck and squeezed. When he relaxed his grip, the soldier fell across his feet, dead.

Paolini seems to directly repudiate the wisdom and morality of Tolkien's work. Gollum (a vile, vicious and dangerous creature) is left alive because Bilbo could not bring himself to "strike without need." Yet, Eragon chooses to coldly terminate the life of a defenseless soldier for no other reason than convenience. It might even be worse than that, however. From the passage, we learn some important things: the soldier is young; he was pressed into service; he is the child of apparently loving parents; and this is only his fifth mission. This list gives rather strong evidence that the soldier is little more than an innocent boy and may even be younger than Eragon's stated sixteen years.

Murder is the only word which can accurately describe this action and its gut wrenching justification. In a deliberately cold and calculated manner, Eragon exterminates an utter innocent. The entire scene is given haunted poignancy as the child cries, pleads and begs for his life. (The audiobook recording is particularly haunting.) And as a moral justification for Eragon's action, Paolini offers the following: "Devoid of emotion, [Eragon] shrugged. 'He was a threat.'" It is with this line that one of Brisingr's most dangerous and evil lies is finally given description: great need justifies extraordinary methods.

Consider the scene for a moment. Both Eragon and Arya are powerful magicians. They have just killed ten armed men without difficulty. Yet, a single child is as a sufficient threat that he must be coldly dispatched? Hardly. We already know that in Paolini's world, magic users can put people to sleep (as Eragon did to Sloan), alter memories (Eragon checked Katrina to ensure that hers had not been tampered with) and bend reality. Eragon murders the soldier because it is the most convenient of the alternatives available.

Conclusion

Good ends do not justify evil means. Tolkien, from his experiences on the trenches of World War I and later during the Nazi bombardment of Britain, understood this instinctively. Brian M. Carney provides a nice summary of Tolkien's position in an opinion published in the Wall Street Journal:

In Tolkien's world, the temptation of evil is one that all, or nearly all, of his characters must confront. The argument of Tolkien's tale—controversial to be sure—is that while intentions matter, the way we act is far more important than why we act. His story, for all its narrative brio, presents a serious rebuttal to the idea that good ends justify using evil means.

… That Tolkien, who wrote "The Lord of the Rings" during World War II and published it shortly after, saw this as a message for his times was made plain in the foreword to the second edition … Tolkien [later said] that by compromising with Stalin in Europe and using the atomic bomb against the Japanese, the Allies had failed to live up to the standards set by his best fictitious characters. In our world, Tolkien concluded, referring to the diminutive, earthy creatures at the center of his tale, "Hobbits … would not have survived even as slaves."

Tolkien may have written in perilous times when the flame of light and wisdom appeared to sputter and there were armies at the gate. But as the events of September 11 and the 2003 Iraq War show, there are still threats to our culture and democracy. This time, though, they are internal. We are not threatened by exterior conquest, but by the risk of losing our souls as we attempt to provide for our security. In that struggle, Eragon, Eldest and Brisingr will not help. Paolini reduces questions of good and evil to points of convenience. He attempts to show that sometimes genocide is justified; it's okay to co-opt justice in the name of vigilantism; and that murder can be acceptable if it is convenient enough. In the struggle to keep civilization's collective soul, why would we emulate a hero who has already lost his?

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

Eragon Shadeslayer: Sociopath

In their heart, storytellers are liars. They take the boring details of a mundane existence and make them interesting. Storytellers fold and rip apart reality, giving it an interpretation, angle, or even direction. While most might don the storyteller hat (at least for a little while) when they spin yearns of office conquest, the encounter with the co-worker they don't like, or the latest fight with their boss they typically embellish or embolden. Yet, there is an enormous difference between someone who occasionally bends the truth and the masters who revel in their own deviousness. Masters storytellers are more than liars, they wear deceit the way most people wear underclothes. They don't just wrap up existence or give an interpretation, angle or direction; a master storyteller can use their lies to tell the Truth. This places them within the realm of the gods. They can create, destroy, and instruct.

William Shakespeare, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Neil Gaiman, and Robin Hobb are masters of their craft. Inside their stories we find the reality of our own world reflected back at us. Lady MacBeth, Frodo Baggins, Prince Caspian, Shadow and Fitz feel like real people who walk in a world that might fall off the page. Rather than a lie which has been sloppily papered over with the truth (the realm of reality), we get truth that has been masterfully and regally clothed in lies (the realm of imagination).

The Truth has been given many names (of which archetype and allegory are only two) and while the names may shift, they still convey the same idea; underneath the style and glamour, there is something inherently correct and right about what is being portrayed. Truth is beautiul, but only as long as it remains pure and ... the Truth. There is nothing quite as dangerous to Truth as an "almost truth." We often, euphamestically call the untruths, "White Lies" or "Half Truths" and they are deadly.

Big lies hold about as much danger as a bear that has been painted neon green and mounted with enormous strobe lights and warning sirens. Sure, they can still eviscerate and do awful things to the various bits that you should probably keep on the inside; but you can see and hear them coming from a long way off. The smaller lies much are more subtle in their nefariousness.  They can have a presence similar to that of your best friend … right before he pushes you in front of a bus. They can can be beautifully seductive. Sometimes they are things that we wish were true and merely shatter our faith when we learn they are not; but more often they are as dangerous as a deeply flawed keystone at the moment that it accepts weight and shatters under the load. For these reason, half-truths are much more dangerous than their bigger brethren.  Unfortunately, they don't come equipped with the helpful entourage.

Cataloging Brisingr

Brisingr's pages are filled with many half-truths that touch upon the nature of good versus evil, the nature of justice, and the importance of free will. Through his characters, Paolini advocates some ideas about science and politics that might have been taken directly from the playbook of America's recent politics and wars. He then offers ideas of science and magic which systematically reduce one to the other and remove the beauty both.  When I started to try and review Eragon's misadventure, I thought I would be able to offer a concise and quick rebuttal of some of the nastier lies. So, I sat down and started writing. Off and on for the better part of three weeks, I outlined and read.  Then something happend.  My short and quick rebuttal morphed into a treatise more than 5000 words in length and while Brisingr was the impetus that got me thinking, I found the ideas themselves to be much more seductive, alluring and interesting.

In trying to critique Paolini's lie and distortions, I rediscovered J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Neil Gaiman, Robin Hobb, Robert Jordan, George R.R. Martin, Orson Scott Card and a host of other brilliantly talented writers. And  instead of a rebuttal I find myself writing an introduction. In the next few posts, I would like to the spend the "long" of my previous Brisingr review touching on where Brisingr and the rest of the Inheritance trilogy commit cardinal sins of consequence. In the process, you can rest assured that I will go after Paolini's cloistered life and misunderstanding of nearly everything. So … let's get started. First up is a detailed look at how Eragon became a sociopath. Next, we'll look at how Nesuada managed to enact policies directly from the playbook of Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, and Karl Rove. We'll finish up by looking at why Star Wars meets Middle Earth is a tremendously bad idea.

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

Truth and Fiction

There are some books whose influence and impact stay with the reader long after the last page. The ideas, stories and possibilities continue to haunt the imagination like so many restless specters. JRR Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" is one such work. It fills the head with ageless elves, far-away places, and terrible villains. Christopher Paolini's Brisingr is also such a work. Unfortunately, the ghouls it conjures are of a different type than those that haunt Tolkein's.

Brisingr is the third book in Paolini's "Inheritance Cycle." Once believed to be a trilogy, with Brisingr at its conclusion; the Ineritance Saga will likely be a quartet with Brisingr as its penultimate volume. In trying to review the work, it is probably best to start with the "short" and then proceed to the "long." E.A. Salinas' provides a nice summary on Amazon.com:

"Brisingr" may be the "ancient language's" word for fire, but Christopher Paolini's third novel doesn't really have any. Awkward, plodding and lacking a real plot, this flame was out before it even started.

If you haven't surmised, the short is this: the book is terrible. For those that have already read Brisingr, my sympathies. For those who are wondering if they should, there is far better work, even in the realm of trash fantasy.

Paolini commits all the stylistic sins of consequence: he's boring, long winded and trite. The main plot is particularly egregious, as the novel doesn't really have one. The subtitle of the book tells you nearly everything you need to know: "The Seven Promises of Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjatskoler." Brisingr moves from one promise to the next without a central storyline to connect them. The novel might have been more effectively organized as a volume of "loosely connected" short stories, since it essentially reads like one.

Paolini's commits a far more serious sin than being scattered or dull, however. Brisingr struggles to be "Literature" and in the process sags under the weight of politicking and pretentious moral preaching. While many of the questions Eragon ponders barely rise to the level of interesting cocktail banter, there are some issues to which Paolini's characters come to surprisingly disturbing conclusions. One of Tolkien's greatest accomplishments was using his writing as a medium for moral thought experiments. It is somewhat ironic, then, that someone who compares himself to Tolkien spends much of his time contradicting the values and ideas which make The Lord of the Rings great literature. Some of these "ideas" so greatly bothered me, I felt the need to more directly wrestle with them.

To understand the great weaknesses in Paolini's work, it's first necessary to understand the small ones. Let's start with the minor sins before looking at their heavier brethren. As I alluded to above, there isn't much to enjoy in this novel; not at a technical, literary, or philosophical level. While some of the linguistic errors might be resolved with a good editor, many of the other errors are stylistic or structural and are much more intractable. Paolini devotes pages to unimportant minutiae, drowning the narrative in lengthy and ponderous description. At one point he spends twenty-two pages to describe the forging of his sword from space metal. Twenty-two pages!

Following Paolini's prose is an effort which isn't made any easier by the moded style that he has chosen to adopt. Rather than sounding timeless or like "the lyrical beauty of Tolkien at his best and Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf," the language is pretentious and stupid. Good writers use complex language to provide illumination. Paolini sounds like he is attempting to get off using his thesaurus. If the prose is pretentious, the dialogue is even worse. It fails to approach realistic much less elegant. Consider one example where Eragon and Roran share a particularly gag inducing conversation prior to assaulting the Ra'zak, "Even we, who were boys but a short while ago, cannot escape the inexorable progress of time. So the generations pass …" Paolini continues on like this for another ten pages.

While listening to the audio book version of the work, I often wondered if the narrator (Gerard Doyle) needed to pause and ask, "Did Paolini really write that?" There are telling transitions in the narrative where the sentence begins in one tone and ends in another. While such moments were obviously due to the combination of different edits, each awkward combination practically begs the question, "Did Doyle just lose it?" As a listener, I could barely stomach the prose. I can only marvel at the discipline required to record it.

As goes the language, so goes everything else. In typical Paolini style, Eragon skirts from one misadventure to another and from one useless subplot to the next. Fans of Paolini's might be better served reading the first 100 pages and the last 100 pages. There isn't much of interest in the middle. Better yet, read the Wikipedia entry and save yourself the pain completely. This might just save you from wondering if Paolini gets paid by the pound for his books.

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

Literary Sins - A Review of Christopher Paolini’s Brisingr

I saw this last night and thought that it should be passed on.  But I need to give some sort of explanation as to why it is so cool.  In my heart of hearts, I always wanted to be a published writer, and while I am (after a fashion); I am not aware of many who daydream of writing scientific treatises.  Such daydreams usually focuses on a carreer as a novelist, playwright, or journalist.  Even though my writing as a more, non-fiction bent, I have a great deal of respect for those whose stories are not so firmly nailed down.

It probably wouldn't surprise you to know that I enjoy reading, audiobooks and just about everything related to the written (and spoken) word.  I have a particular wakeness for fiction and have filled my various cellphones (and now iPods) with thousands of hours of programming (thank you to Audible subscription program!).  I am also an absolute whore for podcasts and recordings which tell stories well.  Some of the very best of these come through this thing called The Moth.  If you don't already subscribe to their podcast, you really should.  As in ... You. Really. Should.  It is that cool.

Once a year, the Moth has a get-together called "The Moth Ball."  They also have an auction.  So, I am going to give a shameless plug.  One of my absolute favorite authors is a Brit by the name of Neil Gaiman.  He wrote Neverwhere (which is absolutely brilliant), Stardust (which is really cool), and American Gods (which is simply amazing).

Apparently, he is up for auction.  Or ... an afternoon tea with him at The Players is.  This is one of those things that you should bid for.  It's a great cause and an even better prize.  If you don't want to go, you could always bid and give it to me!

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Copywrite 2009: Rob Oakes. Apolitically Incorrect

A Cool Cause ... and a Very Cool Prize