Bill Clouse

Spring 2019

The Appeal to Nightmares

     I am fascinated with dystopian settings. They are so much more interesting than reading or watching something that documents an ideal world. If I am to engage in a utopian narrative, I do it only to analyze and understand its failure. Perhaps this is why I am more inclined to read dystopian novels because they project a failing society, and it interests me to learn how, when, and where that society went wrong. Apparently very few people share that interest. Out of all the past web posts, perhaps only a dozen or so directed their discussion to the dystopian genre, all during a period when more than twice the number of dystopian novels were published than during the 1980s and 1990s combined. Clearly the dystopian sub-genre experienced a significant spike during the 2000s, and the number of published dystopian novels in our current decade may very well exceed last decade’s number. Another interesting note is that out of the 57 dystopian titles published during the 2000s, 30 are classified as Young Adult literature. Today, the number of YA dystopian novels has already matched that number, and we still have a year and a half left to go. So, why such an interest in dystopian novels among adolescents?

     As mentioned above, only a few of past web posts addressed the dystopian narrative, but those few did make some good points. Felicia Byrd’s 2009 midterm discusses the dystopian narrative as a vehicle that drives us towards meaningful discussions “of how we live and the choices we make in this life.” Dystopian texts, according to Byrd, uses its language to teach “the art of argument and the art of persuasion” and by understanding “the construction of utopian/dystopian literature,” readers gain “insight into our world.” Byrd’s apt assertion especially interested me because she not only chose texts within the course syllabus—texts that fall under the utopian blanket—but also texts outside the required reading list, dystopian texts such as Lord of the Flies, Brave New World, and 1984. Her comparison of Anthem, a title studied during the “utopian half” of the course, to Hitler’s attempt at eliminating the Jewish race, affirms the novella’s dystopian characteristics.

     Although Byrd makes some interesting observations about the purpose of dystopian texts, Chrissie Johnston’s first research post takes a deeper look at the genre’s appeal to young adults. It makes sense that a high school English teacher would ponder this, for she correctly explains the importance of showing students the ways in which texts “pertain to their life [sic] or interests.” No other genre, according to Johnston, appeals to adolescents more than the dystopian novel. Myself a high school teacher, I agree with Johnston’s claim. Throughout my career I have taught numerous titles, and of all the texts read—texts ranging from comedies to horrors—the texts that carry dark tones draw students in the most. Students who read about the grim reality of Steinbeck’s struggling migrant workers, the discombobulation felt by Shakespeare’s tragic Moor, or the ugliness of a racist judicial system prematurely seen through the eyes of Harper Lee’s adolescent girl, find themselves connecting with similar struggles. Even though the above examples do not technically fall under the dystopian genre, they do share the same characteristics found in a conventional dystopian setting—unfair predicaments, deception, and corruption.

     Amy Sidle’s 2009 midterm, however, takes the role of the dystopian novel to a level beyond the personal connection to a more global understanding. Not only does she evaluate the role of the utopian genre, she reiterates the everlasting, holistic objective all educators share: “to evoke thought in [our] students.” Approaching her topic through the lens of a teacher, Sidle’s essay focuses on the role of education—its depictions and means of implementations—in utopian narratives and concludes that education consistently serves as the foundation for building any type of society (2009). Sidle’s essay intrigues me in the areas that focus on the effects of education when provided for individuals in both utopian and dystopian settings. In these areas, Sidle either explicitly or implicitly underscores the aforementioned objective with examples from two different utopian texts. When referring to Anthem, Sidle points out Equality 7-2521’s frustrations while residing in the Home of the Students, where education lacks the challenging rigor Equality 7-2521 desires. The absence of rigor suppresses any potential for evoking thought. Sidle shows the inadequacies of More’s educational vision when she questions how a utopia can exist “equally, commonly if only a few intellectuals thrive” while the remaining population “fixate on farming.” Like Anthem, More’s Utopia allows for only a small percentage of the utopian population the chance at enriching their minds.

     All three of these essays appeal to me because they discuss the relevance of dystopian texts within education. Though Sidle’s essay discusses the actual role of education in imaginary utopian societies, her connection of those imaginary roles to the value of teaching dystopian texts in the real classroom affirms my wholehearted belief about teaching dystopian literature. To stimulate thought from our students is rewarding, but I am also interested in why students gravitate towards this genre more so than any other. All three essays, in a way, address this interest; however, I believe there is more to why adolescents are drawn to this particular variance. Both Byrd and Johnston directly focus on answering this question but come up with completely different results. Sidle on the other hand comes as close to my argument, but only brushes over it in one of her introductory paragraphs:

Students are naturally curious about these societal substitutes, and this genre of literature introduces to students, or reiterates, the cruel facts of reality: the separations of class, race, and sex. (2009)

To Sidle’s credit, her intention was to focus on the role of education presented in utopian novels, and she achieved that intent. But that compels me to dig deeper with this question. Why are dystopian “narratives” so appealing to adolescents? Both Byrd and Johnston make sound arguments in each of their respective essays; however, the attractiveness of dystopian narrative may stem from larger, outside factors that extend beyond the adolescent’s world. This I intend to explore.

Part II

Utopia? Well…at Least the Genre Works

Perfection is subjective, which explains the majority’s dismissive attitude toward utopias. And why not have that attitude? Who determines the ideal society, and how does one find a large population of like-minded, selfless individuals willing to sacrifice for the good of that society? It is not possible. “It won’t work.”

This was the extent of my knowledge upon entering this class. And to some degree, I still maintain the popular attitude regarding utopian societies; however, I have quickly come to learn that the requirements for creating a utopian society mention nothing about numbers. Prior to this class, my vision of a utopian society always involved a large population, so large that the society alone stands as its own country. Frankly I am not surprised by my initial vision either, since the typical utopian novel involves a “world” of its own, be it a region, island, or even country. Moreover, since the word “utopia” derives from two contradicting Greek translations, “good place” and “no place,” to associate the term utopia with “perfection” or “ideal” only exacerbates the cynical attitude towards the term. Then I realized my mistake.

Technically, a group can be its own society, so if a small number of like-minded individuals created their own little utopia, I see no reason why it should not work. I can fathom a dozen devoted men keeping alive principles they unquestionably believe in, principles lasting for more than 2000 years. Some intentional communities today are founded on those same principles. Intentional communities such as Sunrise Ranch, Twin Oaks, and Camphill Village U.S.A, still thrive in their own right after over 50 years in operation. Their mission statements are not dissimilar to the purposes purported by earlier experimental societies, such as Brook Farm and The Harmony Society. Both societies attempted to establish a community based, respectively, on secular and Christian ideals; likewise, Sunrise Ranch and Camphill Village U.S.A model their communities through religious and spiritual philosophies, while Twin Oaks operates under egalitarian principles. Unlike the wave of experimental societies that sprouted throughout the United States during the 19^th century, intentional communities of the 20^th and 21^st centuries, like the above examples, somehow make their utopias work.

Intentional communities justify the need for the utopian genre because both the utopian and dystopian narrative serve the same purpose. Skeptics who quickly point out the futility of utopian societies arguably question the validity of utopian fiction[1], dismissing the form as mere fantasy rather than as a genre of literary merit. I contend that those skeptics interpret utopian fiction as nothing more than didactic commentary seeking to chastise society for being what it is—imperfect. That, as I am beginning to understand, unfairly reduces the genre’s depth. The utopian fiction does not provide a vision of what we should be; it truthfully suggests what we should not be. Ironically, utopian fiction, either explicitly or implicitly, acknowledges imperfection. It does so in order for audiences to extrapolate from imaginary worlds realistic solutions to real problems.

Thomas More’s Utopia does exactly that. After listening to Hythloday’s description of the island Utopia, the narrator More admits that much of what Hythloday spoke of “seemed very absurd” but then wishes—not hopes—to see his own government adopt some of Utopia’s principles (2.78). The paradox in More’s admission justifies the utopian narrative’s legitimacy within the field of literary study. Much of the ideas articulated in Utopia directly defy conventional attitudes and expectations held by the mass population prior to the Protestant Reformation, and to add ambiguity, Thomas More himself staunchly supported those same attitudes and expectations; yet, the first-person point of view format allows More to vicariously speak through his self-titled protagonist, enabling him as a humanist to question European mores relating to the accepted social hierarchy and role of government:

Is not that government both unjust and ungrateful, that is so prodigal of its favours to those that are called gentlemen, or goldsmiths, or such others who are idle, or live either by flattery or by contriving the arts of vain pleasure, and, on the other hand, takes no care of those of a meaner sort, such as ploughman, colliers, and smiths, without whom it could not subsist? (2.75)

while simultaneously adhere to his Christian principles comprising of happiness through suffering, humility, and modesty:

For as a wise man desires rather to avoid diseases than to take physic, and to be freed from pain rather than to find ease by remedies, so it is more desirable not to need this sort of pleasure than to be obliged to indulge it. If any man imagines that there is a real happiness in these enjoyments, he must then confess that he would be the happiest of all men if he were to lead his life in perpetual hunger, thirst, and itching, and, by consequence, in perpetual eating, drinking, and scratching himself; which any one may easily see would be not only a base, but a miserable, state of a life. (2.29)

Like Utopia, Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia never intended to portray “an imaginary country where everything is entirely perfect forever” (170). In his imaginary nation, bicycles, battery-powered “omnibuses,” and magnetically propelled trains replaced individual automobiles; waste-disposal became government policy; correctional institutes traded their large prison walls with “small institutions housing only a few dozen inmates each,” granting them daily furloughs, employment, and routine conjugal visits (171). The idea seeks not to promote such radical, even dangerous, policies; in fact, Callenbach’s ideal world seeks only to “inspire people groping for better ways to live,” to find an “ideal balance” between his vision and our reality (171):

America was becoming terminally car-dependent, but we could still walk and bicycle and learn bus routes, and maybe live nearer to work and shopping. Most Americans might spend an ominous percentage of their time in front of TV sets and later computer screens, but we could still hike and camp in wild areas, sample wild foods, kayak wild rivers, and help restore creeks and grasslands. (171)

The lifestyle, policies, and programs outlined in Ecotopia do not serve as the sole remedies for solving the issues amassing in our world, but instead they act as hyperbolized suggestions that look to evoke alternative and pragmatic ideas. In the nation of Ecotopia, the abolition of personal vehicles, the creation of a mandated waste-disposal policy, and an eye-opening lax in security within the prison system, could sub-textually suggest an advocation for more public transportation, the recycling and reusing of discarded materials and waste, and the value of reforming, rather than punishing, the incarcerated population.

     No different from Callenbach or More, Charlotte Perkins Gillman’s Herland presents a utopian world looking to change the common view society had towards women during the early 20^th century. Using the conventions of utopian fiction, Gillman relies on dialogue to articulate her concerns involving equality and gender roles. Her narrative takes readers on a journey with three male travelers who learn of a land inhabited by women. Gillman’s presentation the male protagonists symbolize society’s stereotypical view of women. Jeff, “full of chivalry and sentiment” (1.105) viewed men as protectors of women, whom he describes as “clinging vines,” while Terry lumped women into two categories, the desirable and undesirable (2.79). This flat characterization of Jeff and Terry at first seems to unfairly generalize men in America as caricatures of extreme ideas, but this only reinforces Gillman’s attempt at exposing society’s patriarchal mindset. In addition, Gillman’s ambiguous description of Vandyck underscores the purpose of utopian fiction. Just as readers must determine Vandyck’s opinion of women, Herland calls for society to rethink its perception of women too. That Vandyck’s perception of women hovers somewhere between Jeff’s and Terry’s, it opens the possibility for his, and society’s, new attitude towards women:

We had been living there more than a year. We had learned their limited history, with its straight, smooth, upreaching lines, reaching higher and going faster up to the smooth comfort of their present life. We had learned a little of their psychology, a much wider field than the history, but here we could not follow so readily. We were now well used to seeing women not as females but as people; people of all sorts, doing every kind of work. (12.30)

     Much like the utopian fiction, the dystopian narrative offers insight into our world, but where the dystopian novel differs from utopian fiction is through its methodology. Where utopian fiction provides us with ideas of what our world could be if the collective made different decisions, the dystopian narrative offers insight into what our world would be if the collective made the same decisions. Dystopian literature is a cautionary tale, warning us of what our future holds if society continues with its current course. Similar to utopian fiction in its narrative structure, the dystopian narrative involves a protagonist’s journey towards finding the truth about the society around him, a society fettered by the chains of an oppressive system. Such is the case in Anthem when Equality 7-2521, a name of such specificity yet ironically devoid of individuality, stumbles upon a hole leading “into a darkness without bottom” (1.39). Though forbidden, Equality 7-2521 ventures down and for the next two years discovers “how great is the unexplored…to be alone and to learn” (1.67). That Rand makes no attempt in hiding her opposition towards collectivism should in no way deny Anthem’s value as a dystopian narrative. Regardless of whether or not one chooses to follow the tenets of socialism bears no relevance to what the text offers when taught in public schools: the importance of thought and enthusiasm for learning.

To say an interdependency exists between a utopian and a dystopian literature is accurate, which then calls for a reexamination of how we tend to define the dystopian narrative. If one were to examine the contents involved in determining the conventions of a dystopian text, one would find many commonalities between the traditionally defined dystopian story and a more traditional type of fiction. 1984 is a perfect example to illustrate my point. Anyone who has every read or taught Orwell’s vision of a nightmarish future is well aware of the novel’s adherence to the conventions of dystopian literature. The protagonist, Winston, chooses defiance over conformity. He has an ally who shares in his disgust towards Big Brother. He undergoes an existential journey, eventually uncovering a truth. The setting is drab and cold; his world is absent of “color.” The goods we normally take for granted in America are either in short supply or illegal in Oceania.

     When reviewing for this midterm, it struck me how similar 1984 is to The Grapes of Wrath. In The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck exposes readers to a world of desolate wastelands and dusty crops. We read about Tom Joad and his insubordinate actions towards a system designed against him. The arduous journey towards California promises a “new garden” for the Joads. With the help of his preacher friend Casey, Joad gathers insight and understanding. I provide this brief overview to also introduce two ideas worth exploring: Can the utopian narrative function beyond its own genre? Are the features and conventions exclusive to the utopian genre, or are they applicable to texts of different genres, rendering those texts “utopian?” Texts like 1984 and Grapes of Wrath have, in my experience, appealed to high school students more so than other forms of literature. Likewise, the dystopian genre, depicted in both literature and in film, has seen a significant rise in publication and production, a rise that correlates with a rise in interest of the genre among adolescents. What is it about the dystopian narrative that captivates the adolescent population? Why such an appeal to nightmares?

Works Cited

Byrd, Felicia. “The Value of Utopian and Dystopian Literature.” 2009. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.

Callenbach, Ernest. Ecotopia. Berkley, Heyday, 1975.

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. Herland. 1915. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.

Johnston, Chrissie. “The Appeal of Dystopian Literature to Young Adult Readers.” 2011. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.

More, Thomas. Utopia. Trans. Rayphe Robinson, 1516. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.

Rand, Ayn. Anthem. 1938. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.

Sidle, Amy. “Utopia and Dystopia: Education’s Role.” 2009. LITR 5431 American Literature. Craig White. Web. 8 March 2019.