Books

A Critique of the Modern Dystopia Fad

Posted on by James C. Struck

dystopia

I love a good dystopia.

I don’t know why, really. I am a very optimistic person (a little too optimistic if you ask my wife) and I truly believe that, while we as a species have made some rather dopey choices over the last 150 years or so, we can still right the ship and create a better world than the one we currently occupy. But this doesn’t change the fact that my book collection holds a plethora of well-worn dystopian novels. I have read the classics numerous times: 1984, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, and so on, and I find them fascinating. I think it is connected with my love of understanding people and what makes them tick; what is the difference, really, between a foul-tempered, controlling person and the nation of Oceania?  The latter is simply the former writ large.

In case you’ve been living under a literary rock (and if you’re reading this blog I highly doubt that) dystopias are a hot commodity right now, and I’ve loved them.  Hunger Games?  Excellent, though I actually like Ms. Collins’ Gregor the Overlander series a little better.  Insurgent?  Also good, though I’ve only read the first book.  Ready Player One?  Just knocked it out in about 36 hours, talked it up to everyone.

But they’re not really dystopian.

Now, they are dystopian settings, to be sure.  President Snow’s cruelty would make Big Brother nod in approval, and Huxley’s Soma has nothing on the OASIS, but in these modern dystopias, the characters are placed front and center, not the world.  They have moments of triumph, moments of peace, moments of love, and these drive the narrative.  More importantly, there is a ray of hope in the modern dystopias. It may be a dim ray, but it is there. In the great dystopian classics, the hope only exists to us, not to the characters. We know that Offred’s world changes, we know that books still exist in Montag’s mind even after being burnt, but these salvations are not meant for the characters we’ve come to know.

This dissonance between the hopelessness of the world and the hopefulness of the characters grates on me slightly. In my heart, I don’t want the characters to win.  I don’t want happily ever after, or any after, really.  What I want from a dystopian novel is a note of caution.  I want them to be a warning to us, that these imaginings are far more proximate to our reality than we want to realize.  Just a nudge, a bump of the hip, and we could be there, slogging in the coal mines of District 12 and praying not to become tributes, or jacked into our haptic rig for 18 hours a day, every hair shaved for maximum contact.  Dystopian novels are supposed to be cautionary tales, and these modern stories, for all their undeniable quality, lack that.

Read To Your Kids

Posted on by James C. Struck

“It’s my turn to go first!”
“No, you went first yesterday!”
“But Daddy was at work so we didn’t read mine.”
“I want to sit in the middle!”

This is our chaotic and wonderful nightly ritual: story time. My kids are 16, 9 1/2 and 8, and this has been a part of out evenings for years. We eat dinner, shower when applicable, jammie up, and squeeze together onto our couch to read; my wife, me, and the younger two E and G shoehorned together, and our galumphing teenager D on the love seat because he just doesn’t fit anymore.

Over time the ritual has changed. Originally it was a chapter for the oldest and a picture book apiece for the others, and for a bit D dropped out due to lack of interest in Dick and Jane and Dr Seuss, but about 3 years ago it turned into a whole family tradition.

My wife and I are both voracious readers and were both precocious kids, so it was no surprise that all three of our children read early and easily. By the time E and G were school age they were losing interest in the “age appropriate” literature and wanted something they could sink their teeth into. So, trusting in my kid’s maturity and wanting to challenge them a bit, I dug into our own collection and pulled out Harry Potter.

Good call, Jimbo, good call.

Needless to say, they loved it. Even D, who had decided that gaming online with school friends was more fun than story time, gravitated over to listen. Over the course of 8 months we plowed through all 7 HP novels, then moved onto others: The Hobbit, Series of Unfortunate Events, the ‘Nother Story trilogy, Where The Mountain Meets the Moon, and most recently Narnia and Percy Jackson. Always, I am amazed at how much the younger two retain, even when they get antsy and don’t seem to pay attention, and always I am amused at how much D enjoys himself, even when he feigns disinterest.

Now I’m not claiming that nightly stories are the secret to the perfect family. Our kids are not perfect and neither are we. There are fights and boredom and sass and moments of lost temper from all 5 of us. But I’m pretty sure we are raising a family with an appreciation for the written word. I’m pretty sure that we are creating good bonds with our kids. And most importantly, my wife and I are pretty sure that, despite the imperfections, we are creating good memories. When D and E and G are grown, my hope is that they will look back at their childhoods, remember this, and smile. That, I think, is the best thing a parent can give their children.

So read to your kids.