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Fractured NarrativesWhereas No Towers demonstrates the connections between mediation and the transmission of political narratives and provides spaces of mobility that contest the forces of the spectacle, Jess Walter’s 2006 novel, The Zero, describes the workings of political trauma, revealing the ways that trauma produces counter-spaces that resist state-endorsed narratives. Walter’s book describes the comic adventures of Brian Remy, a New York police officer who, having experienced the destruction and carnage of the attacks on the World Trade Center firsthand, is severely-traumatized and struggling to make sense of his place in the post-9/11 political environment. In the months following the attacks, Remy finds himself working for a shadowy intelligence agency, searching for clues that might help to explain the connections between the attacks and an office worker who supposedly escaped the towers before the planes hit. Walter is emphatic in his critique of the American political and institutional response to the attacks, and the trauma Remy experiences is as much a product of the attacks themselves as of the covert movements of the numerous intelligence agencies that manipulate him over the course of the novel. Remy’s increasing dislocation, disillusionment, and confusion emerge as a result of his unwilling participation in an American intelligence community, a system that, in the interest of national security, justifies intrusions on the personal lives of its own citizens.5 Walter’s interest in exploring the terrain of political trauma is evident throughout the novel. Like Spiegelman, Walter describes the difficulty of isolating the personal trauma resulting from his protagonist’s experience in the towers with the institutional project of projecting trauma through media and other avenues of political discourse. This latter process, Walter seems to argue, deprives individuals of their encounter with the Real, an encounter vital to breaking through the hyperreal layers of political discourse that preclude political engagement. Remy’s son explains that generalized grief—the kind, Walter subtly notes, involved in American memorial culture—is “a trend, just some weak shared moment in the culture, like the final episode of some TV show everybody watches” (The Zero 34). “History,” another character notes, “has become a thriller plot” (150), where the experience of trauma is commodified through survivors’ testimony. Jaguar, the purported head of a terror cell, tells Remy, “Entertainment is the singular thing you produce now. And it is just another propaganda, the most insidious, greatest propaganda ever devised, and this is your only export now” (222). Remy’s friend, Paul Guterak at one point explains, “Sometimes I wish
we’d just gone to a bar that morning and watched the whole thing on CNN...the people who watched it on TV saw more than we did. It’s like, the further away you were from this thing, the more sense it made. Hell, I still feel like I have no idea what happened. No matter how many times I tell the story, it still makes no sense to me” (Walter 85). Guterak’s articulation of trauma and his failed attempts to narrativize his experience largely emerge as a response to an environment saturated by media representations of 9/11, representations that have deprived his experience of its traumatic vitality. For Remy, the traumatic moment is continually in the process of being absorbed by media representation. Watching television in a waiting room, “Remy felt a jolt of déjà vu, anticipating each muted image before it appeared, and it occurred to him that the news had become the wallpaper in his mind now, the endless loop playing in his head—banking wings, blooms of flame, white plumes becoming black and then gray, endless gray, geysers of gray…” (Walter 8). Like Spiegelman attempting to separate the mediated narrative from his personal experience of the attacks, Remy’s recollection of 9/11—now an integral component of his character—is continually under the threat of being rewritten and re-narrativized by external, political forces. Kali Tal explains this process: “Mythologization works by reducing a traumatic event to a set of standardized narratives…turning it from a frightening and uncontrollable event into a contained and predictable narrative…Traumatic events are written and rewritten until they become codified and narrative form gradually replaces content as the focus of attention” (6). Remy’s chief goal is to preserve his personal experience of 9/11, which, existing outside of language and, therefore, narrative, provides him with the crucial opportunity to see beyond nationalist discourse. On a formal level, The Zero attempts to deconstruct its narrative as a means of simulating the experience of trauma. Suffering from severe psychological trauma, Remy cannot connect the events in his own life, frequently losing track of narrative continuity as the novel’s narration moves forward. We, like Remy, find ourselves disoriented by the frequent gaps in the narrative, gaps that prevent us from understanding History as a continuous narrative. Walter writes, “These were the most common gaps that Remy had been suffering, holes not so much in his memory but in the string of events, the causes of certain effects” (43). By resisting the forces of narrativization that attempt to write History in political terms that bolster the state, Walter comments on the need for memory and narrative that go beyond the “official version.” He explains, “What do you trust? Memory? History? No, these are just stories, and whichever ones we choose to tell ourselves—the one about our marriage, the one about the Berlin Wall—there are always gaps” (160). Remy’s dislocation from “reality”—itself a term that Walter repeatedly calls into question, noting the ways that the state manufactures a self-endorsing political reality—in many ways allows him to exist apart from the dominant discourses surrounding 9/11. Furthermore, Walter seems to insist that Remy’s condition is not unique, but rather a symptom of existence in the post-9/11 spectacle. He writes, “Perhaps nothing made sense anymore (the gaps are affecting everyone) and this was some kind of cultural illness they all shared” (264). Unlike Spiegelman in No Towers, who actively resists subscribing to core, linear narratives, Remy seems quite simply incapable of sustaining narratives; his fractured consciousness cannot process the events that transpire around him. This inability to narrativize reflects the basic substance of trauma, which Freud outlines in “Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through.” He tells us, “Particularly in the case of the many forms of obsessional neurosis, forgetting is limited in the main to losing track of connections, misremembering the sequence of events, recalling memories in isolation” (Beyond 35). While it is no great revelation that Remy is, in fact, a victim of trauma, it is important to note the fact that his processing of trauma denies him the ability to sustain continuous narratives, a symptom which gives him crucial access to alternate versions of reality. Remy’s fractured psychological state, though problematic in terms of his ability to understand his political environment, in fact offers an alternative to the state endorsed versions of History that we see both in this novel and in No Towers. Since Walter utilizes a third-person limited perspective with his narration, we are able to understand the world as Remy understands it: as a confusing jumble of political vectors embodied most immediately through his hazy interactions with government agencies: the FBI, the CIA, and his own department, the Documentation Division of the Office of Liberty and Recovery.6
Lost amid these institutions and suffering from trauma largely as a result of this confusion, Remy exists in a liminal zone that prohibits his investment in the state’s project of narrativization. He explains, “You can’t wake up and you can’t go back to sleep. Physically, you’re in that…middle place, moving in the real world while your mind is in a dream” (Walter 102). He is “living in two worlds” (54). As Birgit Däwes notes, “he embodies both Self and Other at the same time” (363). At once a government agent and a trauma victim, Remy’s identity is perpetually in flux, which, in denying him access to the linear narrative under construction by the state, affords him the critical insight necessary to see beyond these constructed versions of reality. The novel’s repeated commentary on vision and Remy’s inability to perceive his environment accurately speaks to this phenomenon. Suffering from macular degeneration, he repeatedly claims to see “flashers and floaters,” bits of tissue floating behind his retina, that limit his vision throughout the novel. By the end of the novel, he has completely lost his vision in one eye; Walter is attentive here and throughout the narrative to drawing connections between his failing vision and his increasingly traumatized psyche. Here, blindness as a motif operates in interesting ways, as, in preventing Remy from “accurately” perceiving the world around him, a world saturated by political rhetoric, it in fact gives him a more accurate perspective on his environment; the political landscape is significantly more fragmented than state-endorsed narratives, which are packaged for easy consumption, would indicate. Conventional ways of seeing the world,
political innocence. Walter implies, only provide access to a limited discursive set, one that supports and justifies the state’s political position. Remy’s blindness therefore paradoxically affords him deeper insight to the machinery of the spectacle than that provided by conventional modes of perception, which often only reinforce a state of political blindness. Remy’s ability to move beyond this “official version” by “seeing through” state narratives and resisting a static subject position resonates with both Tal’s and Edkins’ commentaries on trauma as a potentially subversive psychological phenomenon. In Worlds of Hurt, Tal emphasizes that “Trauma is enacted in a liminal state, outside the bounds of ‘normal’ human experience, and the subject is radically ungrounded” (15). In Walter’s novel, we can clearly see that Remy’s inability to sustain a stable subject position—that is, remove himself from the liminal state in which he exists—and his consequent inability to make sense of the state’s political machinations appear as symptoms of an ongoing traumatic relationship to his environment, and both of these symptoms paradoxically afford him with a perspective beyond the spectacle. Edkins’ analysis gives us ways to understand this. Noting that trauma victims experience a radical disruption of their temporal coordinates, Edkins explains that this process in fact removes victims from linear time, providing them with new, productive ways of understanding their political environment. She writes, “The time of the political then, which I have called ‘trauma time’, is the aporetic time of the present, the moment at which no decision is assured, nothing is certain, the time in which responsibility is called for, and the time of the precipitate gesture. This is the time of resistance, the time in which the drawing of lines must be resisted and yet political engagement grasped fully” (“Remembering Relationality” 113-114). Walter’s novel finds Remy precisely in this position, a position of confusion and uncertainty that prevents him from assimilating and engaging narrative, even on its most basic level. It is important to note that Remy’s most severe moments of disorientation are also the moments in which he acts on his conscience, separating himself from his prescribed role as an extension of the government; for instance, he makes a daring attempt to free a political prisoner from torture and, in the final scenes of the novel, attempts to thwart a complicated government plot to entrap innocent Arab-Americans. Confused and bewildered—and operating in trauma time—Remy acts on his human moral impulses, which in the novel are directly opposed to those of the morally-unscrupulous and politically-corrupt state. Remy’s dislocation from his surroundings furthermore situates him (and us) in a subversive space in relation to the state, and Walter teases this out through the novel’s political satire. Remy’s inability to make sense of his environment produces a series of comic encounters that move the narrative forward. In fact, the novel’s narrative impetus relies on the misunderstandings that occur as a result of Remy’s inability to comprehend the events around him. For instance, Remy’s interactions with Markham, his partner in the Documentation Division, follow a uniform trajectory: Markham enlists Remy’s assistance; Remy—in a state of confusion—appears reticent and noncommittal; finally Markham—impressed by Remy’s apparent aloof professionalism—relinquishes his authority and confirms his opinion of Remy as an elite government agent. This cycle of confusion occurs throughout the novel with many of the characters Remy encounters. While these scenes are comical and certainly lighten the mood of an otherwise serious meditation on political violence, they more importantly establish the spirit of ironic detachment critical to the novel’s commentary on political trauma. Aware of Remy’s lack of investment in the state’s covert operations, the reader identifies the state as comically-incompetent in its campaign against terrorism; while amusing, this critique achieves political gravitas by the novel’s conclusion, when several innocent civilians are killed by government agents. The irony embedded in Remy’s relationship to his environment provides a model for our ironic relationship to the text, and, as a satire, the novel forces the reader into a position of ironic detachment from the events that transpire in the novel. Through satire, both Walter and, to a lesser extent, Spiegelman situate the reader within an absurd environment in which the most fantastic and far-fetched political maneuvers are presented as commonplace and politically-justified. For instance, the basic premise of The Zero involves Remy negotiating his involvement in numerous covert government agencies, none of which are aware of the others’ activities. Seeing as Remy serves as the informational conduit between these groups, and furthermore recognizing Remy’s constant state of confusion, Walter, adopting satire as his formal mode, provides a space in which readers may critique the hopelessly incompetent government bureaucracy charged with protecting Americans from terrorism. When this flawed system results in a botched raid on a terror cell, the reader can only conclude that the bureaucracy, itself, represents a greater threat to Americans than any hostile foreign enemy. Our ironic detachment from these events suggests that “The New Normal,” in Walter’s view, can only be adequately addressed through the lens of satire, as the political environment is too complex and pervasive for direct confrontation. This, perhaps, is why The Zero has drawn so many comparisons to Catch-22 and the novels of Kurt Vonnegut. Like his predecessors—who also were very much interested in deconstructing America’s political environment through satire— Walter seeks to challenge this environment by creating an alternate space for the reader to occupy, one that provides a perspective removed from and critical of the discourses of the state. If we look at Walter’s use of satire as a spatial practice, we can begin to understand how satire provides ways of dismantling the spectacle’s discursive power. In The Practice of Everyday Life, de Certeau establishes the critical connections between our experience of urban space and our experience of texts. The two, he suggests, are closely-related; we intrinsically understand space in terms of narrative and through the language of narrative.7 Texts, he goes on to show, serve as spatial environments that operate in the same way as urban
environments; embedded in texts are the politics that dictate urban space, politics which both deprive individuals of agency and simultaneously provide opportunities for the production of politically-productive counter-spaces.8 De Certeau specifically describes the two avenues for political positioning in space: strategies and tactics. Strategies, he explains, involve the institution’s inscription of power on place (36). Urban environments, for instance, employ strategies— roadways, office buildings, panopticism, etc.—that facilitate the smooth flow of labor, consumption, and production. Tactics, on the other hand, are the tools available to individuals as they contest this space and create counter-spaces of individual agency. He writes, “The space of the tactic is the space of the other. Thus it must play on and within a terrain imposed on it and organized by the law of a foreign power. It does not have the means to keep to itself, at a distance, in a position of withdrawal, foresight, and self-collection: it is a maneuver…within enemy territory…it operates in isolated actions, blow by blow” (37). Remy’s moments of moral clarity, which occur when he is most deeply implicated in the government’s covert operations and simultaneously dissociated from his official position, could be read as tactical maneuvers in the text. On a formal level, satire provides a space for tactical resistance. Head-on narrativization and political commentary, Walter implies, merely reinforces the political discourse of the spectacle and perpetuates now-benign modes of political resistance. Tactically
inhabiting the space of ironic detachment provided by satire, however, allows us to undermine and contest the politics of the spectacle through roundabout ways. Satire is a tactic insofar as it provides a counter-space within a broader network of political discourse. It uses the political terrain of the state—and specifically the textual domain of conventional narrative—as its vehicle for political commentary and resistance. It engages political discourse through the generation of textual space, creating counter-spaces that readers may inhabit to achieve critical distance from linear state narratives. If we view satire as a spatial phenomenon, one that adheres to the spatial politics and practices that de Certeau describes, then we can see how forms that simulate and create spaces can provide tactical resistance to the state’s apparatus of narrative production. Satire engages textual space on multiple levels: first, under the guise of realism, it faithfully represents an environment of homogeneous political discourse. Second, it establishes a counter-space to that environment by generating a position of ironic detachment for the reader to occupy. In this way, the spatial distance we achieve from “reality”—that is, the primary space of political discourse—aligns it with de Certeau’s commentary on tactics as tools that generate critical distance from the immaterial “reality” sustained by institutional capitalism. For effective political resistance to occur, de Certeau argues, political critique must arise from within dominant structures of power, here, the state and its modes of conventional narrative. This occurs in The Zero when readers find themselves gripped by the suspenseful, fast-paced, neatly packaged central narrative and simultaneously hyperaware of its artifice, thereby occupying critical positions generated by Walter’s satire. For instance, we cannot reasonably be expected to believe that Remy’s son could perpetuate the belief that his father died in the World Trade Center, especially considering their repeated interactions with one another and their explicit conversations on the topic. Walter here satirizes the processes by which proximity to the attacks, both physical and emotional, were used for cultural capital. In instances like this one, the reader willfully suspends her disbelief, aware of the political satire at work within the central narrative, or “within enemy territory,” in de Certeau’s words. At once engaged by the novel’s “bestseller” qualities and simultaneously attuned to its satirical dimensions, readers may critique institutional politics from a position of ironic detachment that exists under the radar, so to speak, of institutional power. De Certeau’s work in fact borrows from Foucault’s writings on the heterotopia, which here provide a more specific tactical model for satire as a spatial practice. A heterotopia is a “counter-site, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within a culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (“Of Other Spaces” 24). According to Foucault, heterotopias are intrinsic in all societies, both ancient and modern, and they function as responses to the threat of cultural or social homogeneity. The presence of heterotopias, therefore, suggests that space is inherently heterogeneous, and that within any dominant discourse exist competing discourses that challenge the homogeneity of the system. In this way, heterotopias insist upon the egalitarian potential of space to challenge cultural and social hegemony and give voice to marginalized positions. The very existence of these spaces within and in relation to an established spatio-political structure suggests that no system can free itself from subversive activity that leads to cultural change. Foucault writes, “[heterotopias] have the curious property of being in relation with all the other sites, but in such way as to suspect, neutralize, or invert the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (24). Therefore, these spaces carry the potential for social and political movement insofar as they tactically respond to and challenge the spatial environment in which they exist. Satire specifically responds to, contests, and subverts institutional modes of narrative production. The fact that satire exists within and in relation to conventional forms of narrativization is important here, considering the crucial relationship between narrative and political power that I have explored in the pages above. Like trauma time, which disrupts the temporal order of narrative and thus calls into question projects of narrativization, satire, by creating a space that “designates, mirrors, and reflects” the values of our political environment, creates a spatial dynamic that encourages us to question both the substance of this environment and the ways it projects itself onto narrative. In The Zero, Walter asks the reader to occupy this heterotopic space in order to challenge spectacular politics. By placing us in a position of ironic detachment and by asking us to engage the text outside the interpretive realm of conventional narrative, he creates a discursive space that encourages subversive political interaction with the text. Like Remy, we are “living in two worlds” as we engage the text, existing simultaneously within the superficial narrative of Remy’s adventures and, more importantly, within the heterotopic space of satire, where we, unhindered, are free to critique the machinery of the spectacle. Within this process Walter often sacrifices realism for the political exigencies of satire, opting to characterize the primary narrative as an absurd caricature of contemporary life. This is evident in Remy’s relationship with his son, as well as in the novel’s central premise that Remy’s psychological instability could be consistently misinterpreted by Markham and others. By presenting the chief narrative in these terms, however, Walter shifts our focus from the realist narrative to the space of irony, where his political commentary takes place. In these instances, he critiques the production and consumption of 9/11 survivor narratives and presents the state as both incompetent and politically irresponsible. His political commentary therefore emerges not in the chief narrative but rather from the space of irony generated by satire. It is important to look at this process in spatial terms because these terms provide the only available means for contesting the discourses of the state, which have embedded themselves in the fabric of contemporary existence. Foucault tells us, “the anxiety of our era has to do fundamentally with space” (23). By this he means that the increasing sense of powerlessness in the modern environment derives from the manipulations and disciplining of space perpetrated by capitalism and the political systems that support it. Politics inscribe themselves on space through the stratified networks of communication and control that hold society together: “paths, roads, railways, telephone links, and so on” (Lefebvre 403). Lefebvre explains the fundamental necessity of challenging these spatial relations—through “the production of space”—in order to regain political agency in a rapidly transforming modern state. He writes, “The production of things was fostered by capitalism and controlled by the bourgeoisie and its political creation, the state. The production of space brings other things in its train, among them the withering-away of the private ownership of space, and, simultaneously, of the political state that dominates spaces” (Production 410). Here, de Certeau, Foucault, and Lefebvre find common ground; in each spatial practice—the tactic, the heterotopia, the production of space—resides the potential for political resistance, and only through these processes can we begin to challenge the spectacle. If we see satire as a spatial practice that removes us from a set of discourses attached to realist narrative conventions, here, associated with the “official version” of 9/11, then we can see how the secondary spaces that Walter produces in The Zero allow us to engage a discursive set largely silenced by the state. By introducing multiple spaces for the reader to inhabit, Walter similarly asks us to reconsider temporality and its critical role in the formation of national narratives. Understanding the world in terms of spaces and geographies requires us to understand the ways that time operates and, specifically, how temporality and narrative are related. As many critics have noted, postmodernity sees simultaneity as the defining temporal mode. As technology and communication cause our perception of the world to shrink, and as spaces overlap and networks of power superimpose themselves on one another, time appears to condense, and individuals increasingly are forced to recognize time outside of conventional linear models. Events occur simultaneously. Incorporating John Berger’s views on time and space9 into his own critique, Edward W. Soja explains that we must embrace: a fundamental recomposition of the ‘mode of narration’, arising from a new awareness that we must take into account ‘the simultaneity and extension of events and possibilities’ to make sense of what we see. We can no longer depend on a story-line unfolding sequentially, an ever-accumulating history marching straight forward in plot and dénouement, for too much is happening against the grain of time, too much is continually traversing the story-line laterally. (Postmodern Geographies 22- 23)
Adopting a spatial perspective allows us to more accurately understand the kind of environment that Soja describes and the kind of political space that Walter depicts. The national narratives of 9/11, and of any moment of national trauma, for that matter, adhere to linear narratives as a means of restructuring, ordering, and writing events in history: the more direct the rendering, the more easily it is processed by the American public. As we encounter Walter’s satire, we inhabit multiple spaces simultaneously, which complicates our understanding of time in the novel and, to a degree, simulates Remy’s movement through the narrative. This process serves to impugn the national narrative under construction and produce alternative spaces for readers to inhabit. Existing between two subject positions—the morally unscrupulous government agent and the conscientious trauma victim—Remy, too, inhabits multiple spaces and multiple identities simultaneously. From this liminal space, where he experiences the “second-sight” of trauma time, Remy begins to understand time in ways that illuminate the projects of narrativization under way in the post-9/11 environment. At one point, Markham tells him, “You can’t race time. It’s like trying to swim faster than water. No matter how fast you go, time is the thing you’re moving in; it’s the thing against which your speed is measured” (Walter 231). Here, time is understood as merely a medium and not an instrument of power. In the novel’s conclusion, after shredding the documents associated with their work and effectively erasing their history as government agents, Markham tells Remy, “You know, the more I think about it…maybe you can race time. But I don’t think you can win” (319). Here, Walter subtly designates time as an instrument of power, a tool for creating narratives of innocence. However, despite efforts to exert total control over History, time remains flexible and beyond the reach of institutional power. This, perhaps, is because projects of narrativization adhere to linear conceptions of time, which are inconsistent with the temporally-fragmented experience that we see in Remy’s narrative. At one point, The Boss—the shadowy mastermind behind the covert operations in the novel—says, “The first rule of effective leadership is to manage your time better than your money. Anyone can make money. Only leaders can make time” (295). Although he is correct in noting the political potential of time and memory, The Boss, unlike Markham, fails to recognize that time operates in more complex ways than projects of linear narrativization would suggest. The novel’s attention to space and time—in both its formal dimensions and its commentary on time as a political tool—brings together the chief concerns of 9/11 literature: trauma, narrative, and space. Trauma victims like Remy, in their ability to engage the productive potential of trauma time, are able to see beyond and outside of the narratives of political innocence perpetrated by the state. The fact that Remy repeatedly acts on his conscience and often prevents acts of political injustice, and that these moments occur when he is most disoriented, suggests that his liminal psychological state, generated by his experience with trauma, has afforded him critical distance from state narratives. In its ability to compress time and thrust individuals into multiple spaces simultaneously, trauma provides important avenues for contesting dominant discourses. As we see in the formal strategies the novel employs—its fragmented narrative and its use of satire as a spatial practice—the book creates vital opportunities for penetrating the pervasive dynamic of space and power that defines existence in the post-9/11 era. National narratives, as both Walter and Spiegelman are keen to point out, are continually inscribing themselves on the official record of History, and these two books make overt attempts to destabilize this process and create alternate spaces for productive political exchange. Yüklə 327,68 Kb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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