Over the course of our last few readings, we've seen a very different Vonnegut — one who's coming to terms with both the process of aging and his own shifting role in American arts and letters, and responding in kind with a strong pair of novels (Jailbird and Deadeye Dick) that are humanistic, character-driven affairs that stay largely within the realm of conventional (though still wild) reality. This pattern will continue in Bluebeard, the last of four books marking a late high-point in Vonnegut's career (sandwiched between two of his worst offerings: Slapstick and Hocus Pocus), but in Galápagos, the author is more than happy to cast off the fetters of everyday existence and explore a fantastic, science-fiction future.
Nonetheless, Galápagos is very much a novel of its time: the worldwide financial woes that set the stage for the book's narrative speak to real-life stagnation in the early and mid-80s and it's no stretch to read the bacterial disease that makes all women but those on Santa Rosalia infertile as Vonnegut's attempt to address the AIDS crisis. The Galápagos islands, likewise, serve not only as a setting for the novel but as a symbolic tie to Charles Darwin, who formulated his theory of evolution after investigating the novel ways in which the species native to the islands had developed in isolation. In Jailbird, Vonnegut ruminates on the nature of the island and its occupants while describing scene at the Hotel Royalton's Coffee Shop on Walter's fateful first full day of freedom in NYC:
Nonetheless, Galápagos is very much a novel of its time: the worldwide financial woes that set the stage for the book's narrative speak to real-life stagnation in the early and mid-80s and it's no stretch to read the bacterial disease that makes all women but those on Santa Rosalia infertile as Vonnegut's attempt to address the AIDS crisis. The Galápagos islands, likewise, serve not only as a setting for the novel but as a symbolic tie to Charles Darwin, who formulated his theory of evolution after investigating the novel ways in which the species native to the islands had developed in isolation. In Jailbird, Vonnegut ruminates on the nature of the island and its occupants while describing scene at the Hotel Royalton's Coffee Shop on Walter's fateful first full day of freedom in NYC:
I thought to myself, "My goodness — these waitresses and cooks are as unjudgmental as the birds and lizards on the Galapagos Islands, off Ecuador." I was able to make the comparison because I had read about those peaceful islands in prison, in a National Geographic loaned to me by the former lieutenant governor of Wyoming. The creatures there had had no enemies, natural or unnatural, for thousands of years. The idea of anybody's wanting to hurt them was inconceivable to them.
So a person coming ashore there could walk right up to an animal and unscrew its head, if he wanted to. The animal would have no plan for such an occasion. And all the other animals would simply stand around and watch, unable to draw any lessons for themselves from what was going on. A person could unscrew the head of every animal on an island if that was his idea of business or fun (123-124 in my first edition hardcover, 174-175 in your paperbacks).
At the same time, while forces beyond human control do their part to shape the novel, it's worth noting that Vonnegut also finds fault within human action and intention — big brains and big ideas cause big problems. While the novel's characters undergo physical transformations as they evolve, their brains change as well, getting smaller, and as far as Vonnegut is concerned (cf. this somewhat bombastic Los Angeles Times article), this is all for the best:
The big trouble, in Kurt Vonnegut's view, is our big brains.
"Our brains are much too large," Vonnegut said. "We are much too busy. Our brains have proved to be terribly destructive."
Big brains, Vonnegut said, invent nuclear weapons. Big brains terrify the planet into worrying about when those weapons will be used. Big brains are restless. Big brains demand constant amusement.
"Our brains are so terrifically oversized, we have to keep inventing things to want, to buy," Vonnegut said with a shudder. "If you think of the 8 million people of greater New York charging out of their houses every day in order to monitor the planet, it is a terrifyingly destructive force. [...]
"Among other things," he said of this giant computer lodged between humanity's collective ears, "it is capable of creating the Third Reich of Germany, which in fact so demoralized the world that I don't think we'll ever recover."
The brain: "I think stupidity may save us," Vonnegut said. "I think we are too damned smart."
Finally, take note that the events of the novel take place in 1986, just one year after its completion, and the proximity is intentional on Vonnegut's part — if we don't wise up, he reasons, such fantastic events are not at all out of the realm of possibilities for the human race.
Here's our reading schedule for Galápagos:
- Thursday, May 17: book 1, ch. 1 - 24
- Tuesday, May 22: book 1, ch. 25 - book 2, ch. 14
And here are a few supplemental links:
- "How Humans Got Flippers and Beaks," The New York Times' review of Galápagos: [link]
- "Vonnegut Explores the Big Brain Theory," Los Angeles Times' review of the novel: [link]
- a second LAT review of the book: [link]
- an interview with Hank Nuwer that's largely concerned with Galápagos: [link]
- an NPR essay by Ron Currie, Jr., who names Galápagos one of his "Three Books to Help You Enjoy the Apocalypse": [link]
- "Evolutionary Mythology in the Writings of Kurt Vonnegut Jr.," Gilbert McInnis' 2005 essay, which originally appeared in Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction: [link]
Kurt Vonnegut often includes a theme of the pointlessness of life in his novels. In Player Piano the ghost shirts manage to lay waste to the city of Ilium and bring about the change they had wished to see. They destroy the machines and take back some amount of control, yet just as soon as the revolt was over, people were back to fixing up the machines that they had just broken. They immediately began to put things back to the way they had just been. In Cat’s Cradle Jonah undergoes a transformation by converting to Bokonon and has a revelation of sorts, yet even with all he learns and changes, the world is still ended by ice-nine, making these revelations irrelevant. In Slaughter house-five the ideals of the Tralfamadorians suggest a kind of pointlessness of life as does the catch phrase K.V repeats throughout the book. “So it goes.” (Just about every page.) Most recently in Galapagos K.V talked throughout the book of the disadvantages brought on by our big brains. He even poses the question. “Can it be doubted that three kilogram brains were once nearly fatal defects in the evolution of the human race?” (8) He claims that the world is a much better place in the time from which he is narrating where humans have evolved into an animal something like a seal where we don’t worry about things like death and the meaning of life. With all of this focus on pointlessness, is Kurt Vonnegut trying to say that there is no point to life on Earth, or simply that we shouldn’t worry about it because we will never really know the answer.
ReplyDelete-Elliot Shouse-
In the novel Galapagos, as in most of his other novels, Vonnegut plays around with rather unconventional writing practices. Throughout the novel the reader will notice that certain people get an asterisk in front of their names. He explains this in the story when he says. “This convention of starring certain names will continue throughout my story, incidentally, alerting readers to the fact that some characters will shortly face the ultimate Darwinian test of strength and wiliness. In short the characters with stars by their name will soon die. Part of the reason he does this is in keeping with Vonnegut’s eighth rule of writing. “Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.” If the last few pages were to be eaten by cockroaches it’s not hard to believe the reader could in fact finish the book. By about halfway through the book you know every character that dies at some point, who does what, and what eventually happens to everyone. Is this the only reason that Vonnegut writes like this though? Is he just trying to fill the reader in on what’s going to happen later in the novel so that they have as much information as possible, or as suggested before, is he trying to get across a theme of pointlessness? That no matter what we do we will still arrive at the same end point which is death?
ReplyDelete-Elliot Shouse-
"The good thing about science is that it's true whether or not you believe in it" -Neil DeGrasse Tyson
ReplyDeleteThroughout Vonnegut's novels he talks about supernatural beings, predetermined destinies, and superstitious ways of thinking. Galapagos talks about how evolution will essentially occur whether people try to do something about it or not. Without genetic variation people and animals would not be able to survive the changing conditions. One of the main characters, James Wait, was born into an '...Incestuous relationship between a father and daughter..."(15). His sense of rhythm was 'probably inherited', but it also to talks about how Wait is a depressed, corrupt man who spends his fortunes on useless things for the attention. It is not new to Vonnegut's stories that the main or one of the main characters is upset with the world and does not know what to do about it. In Galapagos it appears his unhappiness could be derived from the lack of genetic variation. (You don't turn out correct if you are from an incest relationship) Is this running theme throughout his books because of an evolutionary standpoint, or because money truly makes people unhappy?
-Alexis Wharton
Opinions used to be enough evidence for people to believe whatever. If you had confidence and enough of an established name you could say whatever you wanted with whatever justification and people were bound to believe you. In Galapagos Mary was giving her last lecture about the Galapagos Island and said, along the lines of she just walked in and started talking to students about the different mysteries of life and the younger generation believes her, whether she is right or wrong. (43) In Vonnegut’s other novels people are seeing the main characters as a crazy person not fit for society. Like in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, he wanted to do good, believed did the world good, but they tested him to see if he was crazy and fit enough to handle the responsibility of his fortunes. At what point is there enough justification to believe the value of an idea to be legit in value?
ReplyDelete-Alexis Wharton
1. Animals of the Galapagos have everything they need to survive, and no enemies. Humans also have everything we need to survive, yet our huge brains cause us to thirst for more, thus we step on others’ toes and create enemies. The idea throughout the beginning of this novel is that our big brains only function as an ailment to our survival, rather than an aid. Vonnegut even brings references to his own life into discussion through his narrator Leon Trout; “I often received advice from my own big brain which, in terms of my own survival, or the survival of the human race, for that matter, can be charitably described as questionable. Example: It had me join the United States Marines and go fight in Vietnam.” (29) Ideas of greed, whether they are material or psychological, are common in Vonnegut’s writing, and can be found to be the driving force behind many of his main characters. Take James Wait for example; he is a swindler of women, taking advantage of those weaker and more vulnerable than himself in order to relish in personal gain. He has married and divorced 17 women, and subsequently became a millionaire – it is not a necessity of survival for him to misuse women in such a way, yet he allows his big brain to convince him to do so in the name of personal satisfaction. This brings me to reference Deadeye Dick and its main character Rudy Waltz, who also meets negativity due to his greedy big brain. Having already earned praise and acknowledgement for his terrific marksmanship earlier in the day, Rudy, possessed by this arrogance feels the need to fire one last shot, for no reason at all other than for personal satisfaction. This turns out to be a deadly decision. Is Vonnegut trying to say that the cost or curse of evolution to the human degree is the surrender of our own sensible sustainability? Or must we rely on our fellow man to lower his mental state to the level of concerning solely necessities in order to rectify the planet?
ReplyDelete2. This previous question leads me to wonder whether this novel is yet another venue for Vonnegut to denounce religion. Being that the characters basically live out the cycle of natural selection in order to survive, how does this reflect his atheist beliefs? Is this story meant to snap us from a mental daze to realize that nothing will save us from each other besides ourselves? That God Himself couldn’t save the human race from extinction, but the evolution process of natural selection can?
-Anzel
An interesting little character in Gálapagos is Zenji Hiroguchi’s first grandson, Mandarax. If someone were to speak the word “Mandarax” into Mandarax, it might have this to say: “Mandarax could translate among a thousand [languages]…could identify every one of the thousand languages after hearing only a few words, and begin to translate those words into the operator’s language without being told,” or maybe just a rift in the time-space continuum would open up and collapse inward all things animate or otherwise (60). By any account, Mandarax is a wonderful toy, and arguably the paragon of human technological achievement. In light of this consideration, what happens to the culmination of all that human knowledge and triumph by the end of the book? What, then, is the purpose of this character? What statement is Kurt Vonnegut making about technology, knowledge, literature, writing, his own career, propriety vs. excess, and humanity in general all contained within this 12x8 cm plastic rectangle?
ReplyDeleteAustin Baurichter
Gálapagos, in a lot of ways, is pessimistic. If my previous question leads to some fruitful discussion, we may come to such a conclusion by examining the fate of Mandarax, just for one example. Vonnegut is tired by 1985. We’ve seen this. Yet people keep demanding and demanding of him; maybe he keeps demanding and demanding of himself. Despite what his body may be telling him, his big brain is saying otherwise. This idea of humans’ villainous brains is extant throughout the whole book. “Can it be doubted that three-kilogram brains were once nearly fatal defects in the evolution of the human race?” (8). The world of people directed by big brains is in the midst of a global financial crisis, an infertility pandemic, and evil, greedy, careless people like James Wait, Andrew MacIntosh, and Bobby King. It’s like Vonnegut the pessimist is piquing Vonnegut the humanist with this book, saying, “What good are people, really? All they do is think of themselves, destroy things, and malfunction. And on top of it all, no one in 1985 or the foreseeable future is ever going to write Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony” (244). It is a stinging dose of inadequacy. So is there any human or facet of humanity positively shown in the book, any notion that Vonnegut the humanist hasn’t been strangled by the dismal world in which he lives? If so, where?
ReplyDeleteAustin Baurichter