Jerry Hamric

4 March 2004

Literature of Space and Exploration

Mid-term

            The quest is one of the most consistent themes in all literature. Whether the object of the quest is to explore the unexplored space, find the unfound thing, or to delve into the deepest recesses of some esoteric philosophy, the result is usually the same: the explorer’s true capabilities (intellectual and physical strengths and weaknesses), prejudices, and values are exposed and challenged, and as a result, the whole of humanity profits. Why have we, as human beings, always felt the need to face such challenges? Humans have always seemed to wonder what is over the next hill, in the next valley, or beyond the seemingly uncrossable expanse. We face these challenges as if they were personal affronts to our characters. Over and over men have been willing to risk everything to meet such challenges. Vikings crossed vast oceans in open boats, migratory hunters crossed frozen land-bridges to reach new continents, and once upon a time our distant relatives ventured forth from the African plains to settle an entire world. Exploration is an integral part of the human spirit; we always seek to solve mysteries. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, it seems that man abhors the unanswered question.   

Poe’s Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym tells the story of a rather naive young man from Nantucket who, enamored by stories of “adventures in the South Pacific Ocean,” and owner of a small sailing boat, is thrust, by accident, into the adventure of a lifetime. Pym’s boat is lost in a gale, and he and his friend Augustus are picked up by a whaler. Poe uses all his usual dark devices to set the reader into a Poe-typical gloomy world. This contrasts as sharply as black and white with the polar explorers who approach their endeavors intentionally, methodically, scientifically, and usually with the positive attitudes typical of volunteers and zealots. Pym is an unwilling participant, caught in a maelstrom, unprepared for what he is about to confront. It seems that Poe, in trying to capitalize upon the public interest in the currently ongoing the polar expeditions of the time, failed to capture the true nature of the explorers in his characterization of Pym.

Poe’s Pym also fails in comparison with the actual polar explorations in a couple of other significant areas: the real explorers not only didn’t resort to cannibalism, they would have found that unthinkable; explorers of the Antarctic found a desolate land, devoid of human life, but filled with a terrible natural danger where Poe filled the land with human-derived danger.

Craig Sprowl, in his 2002 midterm paper, says, “The idea of opposites, extremes, and the harshness of those extremes are given skillful treatment by Poe.” Poe was, after all, a great teller of the Gothic tale, and as such, he incorporated all his usual devices in Pym, but the juxtaposition, indeed the reversal of black with white is a brilliant way to bring the reader mentally into the reality of the dangers faced by the polar expeditions; the “white” of the South Pole is just as black as the deepest recesses of the most evil heart. Like most writers of science fiction, and I believe Pym is really a science fiction novel, Poe is simply using the human form to constitute the protagonist (at least in the last half of the book). His use of the black people juxtaposed with the white landscape is pure Gothic, and typical Poe. If there is a failing in Poe’s writing of his novel, it is his failure to capitalize on the true alien nature of the Antarctic itself, for there is no more alien landscape on our planet outside of the oceans.

Like the polar explorers, Pym does develop strengths that were either undiscovered, or were not present in the early part of his adventures. Adversity, in the novel as in real life, is the great stimulator of maturity and self-discovery. In Poe’s case, the adversity of being broke prompted him to take a big chance and write his only novel. Unfortunately, Poe was not rewarded financially by the venture, and so, never wrote another novel and did not perfect his novel writing skills—depriving us of a possibly great novelist.

Just as the quest is a staple of literature, so too is tragedy. People have always seemed to find much with which to identify in the tragic hero. We need only to look at the longevity of the Ulysses tale to see the truth in that statement. Scott is perhaps the best example among the polar explorers of the tragic hero. \

Scott was a mere 21 days late discovering the South Pole, having been preceded there by Amundson’s expedition, and lost his life and the lives of his companions trying to return to base camp. Along the way, through the journal entries, we learn much about Scott’s true nature. We can sense Scott’s heretofore understated, but obviously growing feelings of apprehension when he says in his March 4 journal entry, “I don’t know what I should do if Wilson and Bowers weren’t so determinedly cheerful over things” (Scott 110). Fuel shortages at the depots, horribly cold temperatures, and the steadily deteriorating physical condition of his team proved disastrous. Even though all the men died, we learn valuable lessons about humanity from them: in the face of death, they were supportive of one another, never blaming, nor turning on each other; even though in March 11’s journal entry it is established that there is an option of suicide by taking opium tablets, this was not executed en masse (Oates’ “walk” was not a group decision); Scott’s last thoughts were for the well-being of his “people” (Scott 117).

It is not hard to see why Scott was admirable. His journal must have been both shocking and inspirational to all who read it. I do wonder though, if our attachment to him and his story, to the exclusion of the popularization of Amundson’s success, is not due at least in part to an Anglo-centric bias in the reporting, and not just our fascination with the tragic hero. On the other hand, popularization of anything is driven by the public demand for that thing, and if the audience demanded (by the power of purchase) Scott’s story more so than Amundson’s, then the question answered. Perhaps a more significant question to be answered is: which team would you rather be a part of, the tragic, but romantic failed mission where everyone dies, or the successfully completed, but unromantic mission team where everyone returns home? I think for most of us the choice would be obvious, for few choose to die in failure willingly when living with success is an option. Still, we learn some our best lessons from the cautionary tale. Human beings are indeed a complex and confusing lot.

Another aspect that should be explored is whether or not the journey to self-discovery is more revelatory in the failed endeavor. I think we can look to Byrd for at least a partial answer to that query. Byrd spent time alone in the Antarctic, did not did, and says this about the experience, “Freed from materialistic distractions, my senses sharpened in new directions, and the random or commonplace affairs of the sky and earth and the spirit, which ordinarily I would have ignored if I had noticed them at all, became exciting and portentous” (Byrd 139). He became more in touch with his own humanity by realizing his connection to the world. In fact, all of the explorers, even those who die in the effort, come to their realizations of self, and make observations about the natural world’s wonders, and their admiration for the bravery of their comrades while they are alive to do so. We can then make the leap in our thinking about this issue that as long as we live, our hope—our very human spirit carries the heroes among us ever forward. We as the readers of heroic exploits benefit in that we learn by extension to ourselves what we are potentially capable of—we are given a height to which to aspire, and the accomplishments of fellow human beings to be inspired by.

We can easily understand that eliciting public support for expensive projects of exploration, in all but totalitarian regimes, is important. When the public is inspired by stories such as the bravery and creativity of the Apollo 13 astronauts and the polar explorers it should make them more willing to fund future expeditions, and some will be inspired to participate in such endeavors. If for no other reasons, these justify writing about exploration. The whole of human history is filled with tales of expedition and discovery. We are seekers by nature, looking for answers, and upon finding answers to our questions, postulating new questions. It is therefore relatively easy to get people involved, or at least interested in explorative ventures. We have shown ourselves to be willing to invest great amounts of energy and money—if we can see a potential future benefit. The lack of support shown for Bush’s recent proposed Moon colony is an example of a poorly promoted venture. People simply could not see how it was affordable, and most importantly, were given no hint at what the future pay-off of such a venture would be.

But this brings us to another type of exploration. Some of those among us seek to challenge themselves for purposes purely personal, but still societally beneficial. As a culture, we derive little financial gain from an expedition to the top of Mount Everest, but we are still inspired to aspire to our own goals by them. This pushes all of humanity a little further along the path toward—whatever is the ultimate level of human accomplishment, and so, makes us all a little greater in the process. Robyn Davidson’s trip across the Outback fits well into this category.

    Davidson set out with what she termed a “lunatic idea” to learn enough about camels to be able to capture wild camels and take them on a trip across the desert (Davidson 19). Her interactions with the people and animals of the region stripped her of much of her naiveté, and imbued her with “bulldog tenacity” (Davidson 48). “It was essential for me to develop beyond the archetypal female creature who from birth had been trained to be sweet, pliable, forgiving, compassionate and door-mattish” (Davidson 48). Still through all, and perhaps most inspirational, she retains at least some of her vulnerability. When the need arose to dispatch one of her beloved camels, she did so, but suffered the pain of loss. Her new-found strengths had not displaced her humanity. Her journey of self-discovery was, in fact, filled with revelations of her humanity as is evidenced by this passage, “my inability to be terrified with any dignity, came to the forefront often during the trip” (Davidson 132). Davidson was confronting her own demons, and though somewhat disappointed in herself, did not quit, but resolved to carry on despite any barrier, whether internal or external.

The value of tenacious adherence to the completion of a stated goal is perhaps the most significant thing the reader can take from the stories of these explorers. We also learn that by investing efforts wisely, facing challenges with bravery and resolve, we too can potentially engage in activities that move humanity forward. These people are us. They are not free from doubt, nor are they possessors of super-human characteristics that make them able to face hardships with dignity and grace. Our support for them is support for us all. That we find them inspirational is significant because we must recognize something of them in ourselves for their stories to be so compelling.

Works Cited

Byrd, Robert. “Alone.” .”  Ice. Ed. Clint Willis.  New York:  Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1999.

Davidson, Robyn. “Tracks.” New York: Vintage Books, 1995. 

Poe, Edgar Allan.  "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym."  The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym and Related Tales.  Ed. J. Gerald Kennedy.  Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

Scott, Robert Falcon.  “Scott’s Last Expedition:  The Journals.”  Ice. Ed. Clint Willis.  New York:  Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1999.