University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

The technoscape in the modern novel: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "The First Circle" and Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man"

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The technoscape in the modern novel: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "The First Circle" and Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man"

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Content THE TECHNOSCAPE IN THE MODERN NOVEL: ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN'S THE FIRST CIRCLE AND RALPH ELLISON'S INVISIBLE MAN by Patricia Anne Thomas Griffith A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Comparative Literature) May 1975 UMI Number: DP22527 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. Published by ProQuest LLC (2014). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Dissertation Publishing UMI DP22527 Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106-1346 Copyright © by PATRICIA ANNE THOMAS GRIFFITH 1975 U N IV E R S IT Y O F S O U T H E R N C A L IF O R N IA THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY PARK LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90 0 0 7 Ph.D. 1 75 G This dissertation, written by P a tr ic ia . .A nne.. .Th.oxna.s.. .G x ifi i.th ............. under the direction of h&r-— Dissertation Com mittee, and approved by all its members, has been presented to and accepted by The Graduate School, in partial fulfillment of requirements of the degree of D O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y Dean This work is dedicated to Richard, who, by rejecting the pursuit of power in favor of philosophical creativity and ethical principle, has set a real-life example for me of the individual fortitude that Solzhenitsyn and Ellison describe. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS i I should like to thank the members of my Dissertation Committee for their guidance on this project. Professor i David Malone, chairman, I thank for encouraging me, initially four years ago, and continually thereafter, to explore the I relationship between art and technology. The many refer ences to pertinent source material that he would spontane ously proffer, along with his own discerning insights, helped me to keep my focus on the overall significance of the topic. Above all, his patient understanding of my frustrations and anxieties, especially in the beginning when no clear outline of the project had yet emerged, prevented me many times from, becoming discouraged. I am grateful to Professor Olga Matich for her guidance on the Russian portion of this dissertation and for her,perspectives on the Soviet dissi dent movement. I owe particular gratitude to Professor Allan Casson for teaching me how to think through every sentence, and for his thorough, constructive criticism, consistently logical and to the point. His keen sense of iii organization, his guiding good judgment, and his sensitive perception have been an invaluable source of inspiration i for me. I should also like to express my gratitude to the l numerous people who helped me maintain my perspective on the j dissertation while I was traveling around; especially to Professor Irene Kirk for her gift of the Russian edition of The First Circle long before I thought of the dissertation, land for introducing me to the world of Soviet dissidents; to: I Fulbright Professor Joseph K. Davis for introducing me to Invisible Man with his insightful lectures on Ellison at the, University of Bonn in the fall of 1972, and for his loan of books on the city in literature that were unobtainable in Germany; to the directors of the Falkenstein Seminar in July 1972, for inviting me to participate in its seminars on "The City in American Life"; to the Akademie Eichholz, Wesseling, for inviting me to attend the lecture series in April 1972 on "The American Urban Scene"; to the University of Frankfurt for inviting me to see the films and partici pate in the discussions during the seminars on "American Films of Social Comment" in February 1973; and to the iv various people in Europe who gave of their time to discuss my dissertation: to Professor David Galloway and Professor John W. Aldridge for perspectives on technology and American literature; to Professor Herb Arnold for historical and I philosophical ideas about technology and art; to Professor James Scott for perspectives on technology and cinema; and to my German students at the University of Bonn for per spectives on technology and German fiction. Finally, I should like to express my appreciation to George Small, who, by doing the good thing at the right time in the summer of 1973, provided for me a peaceful place in Bonn to create the first draft of this work. For bringing warmth and joy to my life while I was finishing the later stages of this work in Los Angeles, my thanks to Jay. And for providing the domestic felicity and extraordinary toler ance I required throughout the time I worked on this, I i thank my husband, Richard. v TABLE OF CONTENTS Page DEDICATION............................................. ii| ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ........................................ iii .INTRODUCTION: SCOPE AND PURPOSE ................... . l' PART I. ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN'S ! THE FIRST CIRCLE Chapter I. THE TECHNOSCAPE AS FORM AND THEME.............. 13 1- Structure................................ 15 2. Setting.................................. 18 3. Symbol and T h e m e ....................... 23 II. THE MAVRINO SHARASHKA......................... 25 1. "So That No One Could Understand His Conversations" ............................ 25 2. "'This Is a Power Set-Up, Son'"........... 28 3. "'He Did Not Let My Immortal Soul Cross! ' " .................................. 501 III. INNOKENTY VOLODIN . ............................ 7 3 Vi Chapter Page 1 PART II. RALPH ELLISON'S INVISIBLE MAN j IV. ELECTRICITY AND THE PAINT MACHINE............... 104! 1. Images of Power.............................106 2. Three Confrontations ....................127 V. URBAN TRANSPORTATION.............................159 ; i 1. Automobiles and Roads.......................1601 2. Buses....................................... 178' 3. Subways..................................... 180 'CONCLUSION: SUMMARY, PHILOSOPHY, AND SPECULATION . . . 192 i I SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY .................................. 214 vii INTRODUCTION: SCOPE AND PURPOSE Literary critics have long been concerned with the 1 relationship between man-as-artist and his environment. As i man-made things have encroached upon the natural environ ment, literary critics and philosophers have become in- i ,creasingly uneasy about man's place in the universe and the 'terms with which an artist can convey it. The Biblical com-, i mandments for men to "have dominion over . . . all the earth1 ' i(Genesis 1:26), to "fill the earth and subdue it" (Genesis j 1:28) have been literally fulfilled and man is uneasy about his accomplishments. George Nelson, in The Synthetic Gar- | den, reflects this uneasiness: I The entire synthetic landscape, save for a few neglected t trees and an occasional patch of weeds, is designed. . . . Technology began as an extension of tools and as such brought uncounted blessings with it. Now, swollen ! beyond any conceivable human scale, it rolls along, a i blind Moloch overriding all needs of the human spirit, all traditions, customs, languages, races, ideologies. There is no one in the driver's seat.1 A consequence of this synthetic landscape, where man-made things saturate nature, has been a shifting of the meaning |of what is real, because of the occasional confusion between I ; reality and nature. Since the Aristotle-Plato debates, literary critics have been concerned about the relationship I between art and reality. The Aristotelian tradition that art is a representation, or imitation, of nature has stimu lated debate about what is appropriately "natural." What is natural is sometimes confused with what is true, and, as Harry Levin says, "In a world where truth is many-sided and still changing, the eternal verities need to be reformulated 2 from time to time." The rise of nineteenth-century real ism, corresponding to the rise of modern urban man, may be seen in part as a process of redefining the subject matter appropriate for literature. Friedrich Schiller, half a I century before Belinski rejected the idealization of life in literature, thought that poets ought to be "preservers of 1Adapted from the book in an article in Saturday Re view, Oct. 2, 1971, p. 22. 2 ; The Gates of Horn: A Study of Five French Realists (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1966), p. 29. , . 3 ; nature." Schiller thought that the encroachment of the : i inanimate world upon the natural world was already so ex- i jtensive that few poets still knew intuitively what was i natural. He, like many critics ever since Longinus, pre- ' I sximed the lasting value of art, a presumption that might be i i i challenged in the modern world. If art is expressed in terms of an already artificial, that is, temporal and man- made, world, might we expect a difference in the fundamental 1 qualities of art? In other words, could art continue to ; have everlasting value? Furthermore, could artists who were1 raised in the synthetic landscape retain their ability to I ; perceive and express the truly valuable aspects of human experience? Especially since the Industrial Revolution, cultural philosophers have suspected that the machine would destroy the humanness of man, particularly his artistic sensibilities. Wordsworth, for example, thought that the I encroaching man-made environment would act "with a combined 4 force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind." 3"0n Naive and Sentimental Poetry" (1795), quoted in Friedrich Schiller: An Anthology for Our Time, ed. Freder ick Ungar (New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1959), pp. 114-15. 4 "Observations Prefixed to the Second Edition of Lyri cal Ballads" (1800), The Great Critics: An Anthology of Literary Criticism, 3rd ed., ed. James Harry Smith and Edd This study provides groundwork for broader speculation about these questions regarding the relationship between the artist and the synthetic landscape by focusing upon a par- i ticular aspect of them: the role of technology in litera- j ture. "Technology" is taken broadly to mean anything man- made: "the totality of the means employed by a people to i 5 l provide itself with the objects of material culture." Art,I I however, in the Aristotelian sense of "techne," is not in- ; ; . 1 |cluded. (That definition encompasses the interesting ques- j tion of the relative methodologies of science and art, dis- cussed by Wylie Sypher in Literature and Technology: The i 6 Alien Vision. ) The technological environment of modern i urban life is referred to as the "technoscape." It is rec- < ,ognized that, in a sense, cities— from Ur to New York— have : always been "technoscape" rather than "landscape," because i cities by definition are man-made impositions of order and \ things upon the natural world. The twentieth-century city ! merely represents a higher concentration of technology than ever before. Among several possible aspects of the broad j Winfield Parks (New York: W. W. Norton, 1951), p. 502. 5Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (Cam bridge, Mass.: H. Houghton, Riverside Press, 1961). 0 (New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1968). , ^ I question of the role of technology in literature, the focus ' of this study has been narrowed specifically to the formal istic aspect:': how technology functions as an artistic J element— that is, as setting, structure, theme, image, meta-| phor, symbol. The initial formulation of the study's objective— the literary functions of technology— was without prejudicial implication as to the relative significance or insignifi cance of those functions. The aim was simply to measure the i extent of the literary assimilation of the technoscape. It rapidly became clear that it could easily be shown that the technoscape can function as effectively in a literary sense as the landscape, depending not so much upon the in trinsic qualities of technology vs. those of nature, as upon the talents of the artist. The hypothesis demonstrated by this study, then, is that elements from the technoscape have been incorporated by the artist as effectively as elements from the natural world; patterns of electric light, for ex ample, can provide imagistic harmony in a work of literature just as can patterns of sunlight. More significantly, the modern technoscape can provide the background for universal themes that are traditional in literature. Furthermore, there are cases in which the technoscape may be especially effective in expressing certain conditions, such as those related to human adjustment in the highly technologized urban world. ' Because technology has functioned aesthetically in literature since the walls in Gilgamesh, and the scope for I ----------- t investigation is therefore unlimited, for purposes of illus-: i tration, the examples of literature were narrowed to two novels. Because technology is a vastly more integral part of life in the mid-twentieth century than ever before, the i two novels are chosen from that period. Finally, electri city and urban transportation are the focus of this study, because their development in the twentieth century has con stituted the greatest technological revolution since, per haps, the Neolithic Revolution. Electricity and rapid transportation, because they dominate and shape any con temporary technoscape, have radically altered all previous I human conceptions of space and time and have thereby con tributed to the metropolitan .chaos in which man is groping for privacy and stability. Electricity, electronic commu nication, and urban transportation contribute significantly to the form and themes of the two novels studied. A comparison-contrast of the artistry of these two novels not only illuminates aspects of each that may not otherwise have been evident, but more importantly for this i 'work, also illuminates many of the fundamental issues of the artistic transformation of technology into art. The two novels are from the world's most technologically powerful countries. Each author is internationally acclaimed; each novel particularly renowned. Both writers grew up in the same era (Solzhenitsyn was born in 1918, Ellison in 1914); both novels are set in the same time period (The First Circle, 1949; Invisible Man, the 1940s). The cultures of the two countries are very different, and thousands of miles apart. Yet both writers derive from the literary classics I of their respective cultures a feeling that writers should have deep moral commitment. Both present themes that are more optimistic; that place more stress on human dignity, than do most twentieth-century writers. Ellison feels that he derives from Emerson, Melville, and Twain a sense of "the 1 7 mood of personal moral responsibility for democracy" that 7 "Brave Words for a Startling Occasion," acceptance speech, National Book Award Presentation Ceremony, Jan. 27, 1953, in Shadow and Act (New York; Random House, 1964), p. 102. For examples of discussions of the theme of affirma tion and optimism in Ellison, see Ihab Hassan, Radical Innocence; Studies in the Contemporary American Novel (Princeton, N.J.; Princeton Univ. Press, 1961), p. 169; Robert Bone, "Ralph Ellison and the Uses of Imagination," in Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man; A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. John M. Reilly (Englewood >he thinks serious fiction should embody. Solzhenitsyn, like i iTolstoy, has the "nineteenth-century Russian conviction that a great book must be more than 'just literature1 . . . but a 8 true commentary on the shape and body of its time." Elli son emphasizes self-reliance and individuality; Solzhenitsynj emphasizes the development of conscience in the face of in- ; I justice. Furthermore, both novels probe serious questions about the human condition in ways that are linked to Dante's 9 quest for enlightenment. Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970), p. 28; and M. K. Singleton, "Leadership Mirages as Antagonists in Invisible Man," in Reilly, Collection, p. 20. Q Edward Brown, "Solzhenicyn's Cast of Characters," Slavic and East European Journal, 15, No. 2 (Summer 1971), 155. For other discussions of Solzhenitsyn's moral commit ment and optimism, see, for example, Dorothy G. Atkinson, "Solzhenitsyn's Heroes as Russian Historical Types," Russian Review, 30 (1971), 1-16; Natalia Kisseleff, "Literary Allu sions and Themes in The First Circle," Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 219-33; and Alexander P. Obo lensky, "Solzhenitsyn in the Mainstream of Russian Litera ture," Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 131- 39. 9 For discussions of comparisons of The First Circle to Dante's Inferno see, for example, Jules Chaix-Ruy, A. Sol jenitsyne; ou, La Descente aux enfers (Paris: Editions Mon- diales, 1970); Vladimir I. Grebenschikov, "Les Cercles in- fernaux chez Soljenitsyne et Dante," Canadian Slavonic Pa pers , 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 147-63; Georges Nivat, "La Symbo- lique de Soljenitsyne," in L'Herne, Serie Slave, Numero 12.245, Soljenitsyne, ed. Georges Nivat and Michel Ancou- turier (Paris, 1971). For comparisons of Invisible Man to Dante's Inferno, see, for example, Dolores Anne Ruzicka, 9“ j Although both countries are the world's most powerful |in terms of weaponry, the cultural levels of the development i i and dissemination of technology are different. Yet both j i novels incorporate the technological environment in signifi-| cant artistic ways. In both novels, the technoscape pro- | I vides setting and structure, for example. In both, the I ' i technoscape provides a fertile source for imagery and often i symbols or metaphors. In both, character is molded signi ficantly by the technoscape. Both express similar themes regarding the relationship between man and technology. Both novels express similar ideas about la condition humaine. I Both novels, for example, contrast personal with public values; both show the ability of some men to develop indi vidual values such as conscience, artistic sensibility, and ■ ' spiritual identity, despite the drive in many to gain power over others, particularly by employing technology. Esther Merle Jackson thinks that this contrast is a main theme in modern literature: "the tension arising from the collision between the ethic of power and the idea of moral law."10 Of "Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man as a Repository of Major Ele ments from Principal Western Literary Traditions," Diss. Univ. of Southern California 1973. 10"The American Negro and the Image of the Absurd," in Reilly, Collection, p. 65. course this theme is as new as Sophocles; the development I i 1 pf technology has only intensified the struggle between the 1 individual and the institutional. Both novels contrast the j i ethic of progress, as measured by technological advance- ! I ments, with human spiritual potential. Both novels, in j other words, contrast the virtues of simple people with the ; i corruptions of so-called civilized ones. In connection with their attitudes toward materialistic progress, which are linked with their attitudes toward the philosophy of dia lectical materialism, both authors have been widely criti- 'cized by Communists and Marxists.11 i The wide range of artistic expression offered by the technoscape is illustrated by the different styles of each novel. The First Circle is set in an explicitly designed technoscape (a scientific laboratory full of scientific and technological equipment) that provides the basis for sym- I bolic meanings of the novel's actions. Most of the signifi cant characters, the scientists, thoroughly understand and control these electronic and telephonic gadgets. While the : 11 For a discussion of Socialist and Communist anti- Ellison criticism, see Larry Neal, "Ellison's Zoot Suit," in Ralph Ellison: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. John R. Hershey (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.; Prentice-hall, 1974), pp. 58-79. Such anti-Solzhenitsyn criticism needs no documenta tion here.* I technoscape in Invisible Man also provides the basis for many of the novel's symbols, it is often not a literal environment as in The First Circle.■ Some of the techno logical creations have an aura of the supernatural rather , ' I than of applied science— especially the 1,36 9 lights in the | \ i I Prologue and the Paint Machine in the factory. The central i character does not understand these gadgets, which bewilder and confound him. This difference between the literal and supernatural role of the technoscape affects the organic development of theme and character in both novels. PART I ALEKSANDR SOLZHENITSYN'S THE FIRST CIRCLE Electrical information devices for universal, tyran nical womb-to-tomb surveillance are causing a very serious dilemma between our claim to privacy and the community's need to know. The older,^traditional ideas of private, isolated thoughts and actions— the patterns of mechanistic technologies— are very seri ously threatened by new methods of instantaneous electric information retrieval, by the electrically computerized dossier bank— that one big gossip column that is unforgiving, unforgetful and from which there is no redemption, no erasure of early "mistakes." We have already reached a point where remedial con trol , born out of knowledge of media and their total effects on all of us, must be exerted. How shall the new environment be programmed now that we have become so involved with each other, now that all of us have become the unwitting work force for social change? — Marshall McLuhan and Quentin Fiore, The Medium Is the Massage (New York: Bantam Books, 1967), p. 12. 12 ; CHAPTER I i i ! THE TECHNOSCAPE AS FORM AND THEME The First Circle is set in an almost entirely techno logical environment. Most of the novel takes place in a scientific laboratory that is a prison, a metaphor for a society that is itself like a prison.1 The worlds of the prison and of the society are developed in the novel in two plots, one set in the Mavrino Laboratory and the other re lated to Innokenty Volodin. At the novel's end, the plots converge in prison. Throughout the novel are conscious comparisons of the prison system, and by implication of the whole society, to a vast machine. Such comparisons are exemplified in the description of Innokenty Volodin's arrest i in Chapters 82 to 84, for example: « Oh HavxHaji uyBCTBOBaTB CHJiy 3thx MexaHHvecKHX KJiemeii » ("He was beginning to feel 1Jacob Korg, "Solzhenitsyn's Metaphors," Centennial Review, 17 (1973), 76, 78. 13 'the massive power of the system's mechanical jaws" [83:467, |616])- 2 He realizes that the system's pincers function to I crush the prisoner's will. He realizes that the prison i l I system is absolute in its synchronized effectiveness: t « Fjryxan rpoMafla 3a«aBHT ero>> (84:479, 631). The vast bulk : of non-human deafness to individual entreaties would elimi- I nate (crush) even the memory of him forever from the earth, i The intent of the isolation during the first few hours of prison is to make each prisoner feel that the system is ! weighing down upon him alone— « Becb pa3BJieTBJieHHHii, MHoro- jucs'iHHfl annapaT» ("the entire far-reaching, many-branched, many-thousands apparatus" [84:481, 633PG]). Details in the descriptions of Volodin's arrest suggest the extent of the technoscape in the novel. The arrest procedure is a master piece of precision afforded by the refinements of technol ogy: automobiles whisk people away in the night; elevators i transport them; cameras photograph their bodies so no one can impersonate them; a large "roaster" sanitizes clothes. 2 This and all subsequent references to The First Circle are from these editions: e.g., 83:467, 616 means Chapter 83, p. 467 of the Russian text, B xpyre riepBOM (New York: Har per Colophon Books, Harper & Row, 1968); and p. 616 of the English translation by Thomas P. Whitney (New York: Bantam Books, 1968). Where the translation is my own, the page numbers are followed by "PG." lAll this takes place in a huge maze-like concrete building. j iprisoners are subjected to windowless cells in which elec tric light bulbs always burn, to prevent privacy; the blue ! | light bulbs in the Mavrino cells are an ironic reminder of ' the light of knowledge. Telephones ring in the night to j signal a new arrest. i i 1. Structure The following discussion emphasizes the function of ^telephones in the novel because they play a crucial role in each plot. The telephone suggests a whole range of techno logical objects and effects that constitute the technoscape in the world of the novel. In the Innokenty plot, the tele phone as an everyday public instrument is significant; in the Mavrino plot, the secret telephone being designed for Stalin in the laboratories for acoustical research is impor tant. In the Innokenty plot, the central conflict is whether or not Innokenty's telephone call on Christmas Eve, 194 9, will be traced to him. The climax comes almost ex actly forty-eight hours after his call, when Rubin tells Oskolupov that he can tentatively identify Innokenty's voice (Chapter 80) and Innokenty is arrested on the evening of December 26. A main condition of the Mavrino plot is the deadline for the creation of the secret telephone. Will it 16 be ready by January 22, 1950? The novel does not resolve the tension among the scientists and bureaucrats that is created by the impossibility of meeting this deadline. In i ,the three days during which the novel takes place, however, I the main characters in Mavrino, especially Yakonov and Bobynin, disclose their ideas and attitudes by their reac- * tions to this deadline. The deadline itself is, of course, ; a human creation, not a technological one, and the deadline could refer to something other than a telephone. That it j refers to a telephone, however, is a unifying device in the [ novel, since the telephone is so prominent throughout. j ' i The tenuous division between the prison and the outside society shows "that the penal system, . . . penetrates the lives of all, making all Russia a prison" (Korg, p. 75). This penetration is shown in the many ways that the two plots are linked. I The telephone is an especially convenient device for tying together the two plots, which first meet in Chapter 15.| While Abakumov in his office in Moscow is asking the three j l administrators in charge of Mavrino (Oskolupov, Sevastyanov,i and Yakonov) when the special telephone can be ready, Ryumin tells Abakumov that four suspects have been detained in connection with the telephone call to Dobroumov scarcely eight hours earlier. Abakumov wants the Mavrino zeks to find out who called Dobroumov by comparing taped voices of the suspects with the voice on the telephone. That voice identification is an as yet undeveloped technology is in consequential to Abakumov, who merely wants results. When Sevastyanov asks in what laboratory could such a project succeed, Abakumov answers: « — fla Ha TeJie$OHHOM, b MaBpHHO. BeflB roBopHJiH — no Tejie<J>OHy? Hyi» ("'The telephone labora tory at Mavrino, of course. They talked on the telephone, didn't they?'" [15:70, 86]). To Abakumov, the sole purpose of science is to provide tools for the power elite. Over i the administrators' objections, the Mavrino sharashka is saddled with two projects— Stalin's secret telephone and the identification of Innokenty's voice. The two plots are linked again in Chapter 31, when, at 10:00 on Christmas morning,^ Sevastyanov inspects the sha rashka to see if voice prints can be read, Nerzhin and Rubin fake a voice print reading. In Chapter 33, two hours later, Sevastyanov puts Rubin in charge of the new "Phonoscopy" project; Rubin listens to Innokenty's phone call to Dobrou mov. By Chapter 55, at 9:00 Monday morning, December 26, Rubin has the tape of Innokenty's second telephone call that he made to his wife during the evening on Christmas Day. 18 By Chapter 80 at 5:00 P.M. Monday, Rubin tells Oskolupov he j has narrowed the suspects down to two but he is not sure j I I which one telephoned. From this moment on is the denouementi i i for the Innokenty plot, which is like a detective story, i except that the reader knows the culprit from the beginning. The two plots also cross in a manner only indirectly related to the telephone: Ruska Doronin, a zek in the Vacuum Laboratory, is the lover of Clara Makarygin, a free employee there. She happens to be the daughter of the Pros ecutor (and Nerzhin laid the parquet floors for Makarygin's apartment). Clara's sister, Dotty, happens to.be Innoken ty's wife. Hence when Rubin listens to Innokenty's second tape-recorded telephone call, he also hears, without realiz ing it, the voice of the sister of his friend's lover. The network of a telephone system binds together all aspects of a prison that is a society. 2. Setting The Mavrino laboratories devoted to research on tele phones are the setting for most of the novel. Roughly two- thirds of the novel is actually set at the Mavrino sharashka. Therefore, most of the discussion of setting here will emphasize the Mavrino plot. In the Innokenty plot, the 'telephone is a reminder to Innokenty of the deed that changed his life, his dramatic call in the telephone booth. The telephone is frequently ringing, importantly on Monday evening when the General calls, inviting Volodin to Paris, flattering him in preparation for the peripeteia (his arrest). The Mavrino laboratories are the setting for the drama of character and the profound themes that are developed in the novel. The Mavrino sharashka is devoted to scientific research primarily on electronic surveillance equipment. The prisoners are talented men: . . . MaTeMaTHKH, $H3HKH, XHMHKH, HHJKeHepH-paflHCThl, HHaceHepH no TeJie$OHHH, xyqojKHHKH, nepeBOflVHKH, nepe- nneTVHKH, apXHTeKTOpHI, KOHCTpyKTOpU, . . . . . . . . . . . mathematicians, physicists, chemists, radio engineers, telephonic engineers, artists, translators, bookbinders, architects, designers . . . (2:10, 8) The 300 zeks at Mavrino, now under Abakumov's jurisdiction, are working primarily on a project to develop a secret tele phone for Stalin. The laboratories are filled with equip ment used in telephonic research, such as radio tubes, amplifiers, and oscilloscopes. The two main laboratories are the Acoustics Lab and Lab Number Seven. They are essentially alike except that the former has a sound-insulated acoustical booth; the latter does not. Roitman heads the Acoustics Lab. The zeks there, notably Nerzhin, Pryanchikov, and Rubin, are working on a « BOKOfiep» > « annapaT HCKyccxBeHHOfi pe^H» (a "vocoder," an "artificial speech device" [16:47, 57]). The crucial lab at Mavrino is Lab Number Seven, headed by Yakonov. The zeks there, notably Bobynin, Mamurin, Markushev, Bulatov, Pota pov, and Khorobrov, are working on a « KJmnnep» , for it is the « jiabopaTopHs: KJiHnnHpoBaHHoa pevn» ("clipper," the "Clipped Speech Lab" [16:48, 58]). Other sections at Ma vrino include the Design Office where Sologdin works and the Vacuum Lab where Ruska Doronin works. Despite the probability that the prison technoscape could destroy humane qualities, the characteristics of humanity and individuality shown in most great literature develop in this almost completely technological setting. The first intimate view of the Acoustics Lab, for example, demonstrates how the men express their individuality. Each one dresses uniquely. The zeks argue passionately about differing tastes in music (jazz vs. Beethoven). They com bine their serious efforts to find a method of reading voice prints with playful talk about love. Nerzhin writes notes for a historical novel— notes questioning the fundamental basis of Marxist philosophy. He writes amidst the noisy laboratory setting, the drone of the lathe motor, the 21 shouting for lab equipment, the radio music. Meanwhile, Nerzhin exemplifies the exercise of man's freedom to think, a freedom that can never be taken away even by the mechani zation of tyranny— one of the novel's main themes. Furthermore, there is inevitably room for love in the laboratories. Ruska and Clara, and Sologdin and LarisaJhave formed love pairs. And in the sound-insulated acoustical booth in the Acoustics Laboratory, the free employee , Simochka receives the first kiss of her life from Nerzhin. I Here also Simochka experiences the greatest grief of her life when Nerzhin rejects her. The description of her sor row uses the imagery of telephone technology to express universal passions by contrasting human qualities with the inhuman technoscape: CHMOvxa o c e n a , cT an a eme MeHfciue. KpHumua ee B opo- THHKOBoro 6aHTa 6eccHJiE>HO onajiH Ha amoMHHHeByio n a H e jit ycHJiHTenH. OHa bch odMHKJia h TKHyjiacB rojiOBoil b rycTOft CTpofi paflHOJiaMn h KOHfleHcaTopoB TpexxacKaflHoro ycHJiHTeJiH. Simochka sank down in her chair. She became even smaller. The butterfly wings on her dress fell limply on the aluminum amplifier chassis. She collapsed, collapsed utterly; her head fell forward against the tubes and condensers of the amplifier. (81:452, 597-98) The intensity of her grief, despite the considerable difference in the degree of the severity of her plight and Nerzhin's, is well conveyed with this imagery. Even the scientist is moved to tears as he watches her flutter like a crushed butterfly against the tubes. The "aluminum ampli-' fier chassis," the product of mental sophistication, is dumb: to her passion. Simochka, in turn, is so absorbed in her own woe that she is oblivious of the symbolic meaning of her environment, where brilliant men are forced as prisoners to .do research for corrupt ends: CHMOvKa, cropbJieHHan, CH^ejxa Ha# ycHJiHTeJteM, ajih ^ero-TO BHHHMan nouiaTHBaHHeM JiaMnni H3 naHeJiBHHX m e 3fl H BCTaB JIHH HX OnflTB. OHa h npe^cne HH^ero b s t o m ycHJiHTejie He noHHMajia. H coBceM HHvero He noHHMajia Tenepn. • Simochka sat, bending forward over her amplifier and senselessly removing tube after tube from its socket, jiggling it in her hands, then putting it back in place. She had understood nothing about this amplifier be fore, and right now she understood even less. (81:455, 601) The texture of Solzhenitsyn's prose throughout the novel shows the contrast between technological and human qualities. This contrast stresses the value of human ideas ; and feelings— one of the novel's main themes. The passages above contrast the unfeeling laboratory equipment with the vividness of the emotions displayed by the people. These passages exemplify the way in which the technoscape of the 23 I i i laboratory provides the metaphorical setting and therefore the symbolic basis for the development of the principal i themes in the novel. ! j 3. Symbol and Theme ' In the. novel, telephones and related things function symbolically and thematically on several levels:' I 1. In general/ telephones ironically frustrate commu nication rather than facilitate it. Stalin's special tele phone, for example, will prevent communication for all but one person. And when Innokenty tries to talk on the tele phone, he finds his "communication" abruptly cut off. 2. Telephones in both plots relate importantly to the theme of power. The perverse use of telephones aids the State Police in the persecution and repression of the Soviet' people; hence the telephone is an instrument used for manip-( ulating people and exercising power. Stalin, for example, not only uses all sorts of technology to implement his con trol over others, but by establishing an impossible deadline for the construction of a secret telephone, he controls his underlings. Furthermore, the Mavrino laboratories are the setting for a power struggle between two leaders (Yakonov and Roitman). Innokenty, meanwhile, learns that the state has refined the telephone as a tool to oppress individual . 2 4 citizens. In other words, telephones and perverted uses of them demonstrate one of the novel's main themes, the paradox of man's ability to develop highly sophisticated technolo gies while being no more morally or spiritually advanced r i i than his Neanderthal counterparts. The instinct to exert j control over others often precludes the development of man's nobler potential. 3. By contrast, telephones and the telephone research laboratories function paradoxically to provide the back- ' I ground for a more positive view of man. For one of the novel's themes, developed in relation to the telephone as well as to other technologies, is that man does in fact have i potential for what is called "spiritual superiority." The deadline for the secret telephone is to certain zeks an opportunity to display incredible examples of individual courage, moral superiority, and invulnerability to material and social corruptions. In both plots, men capable of hav ing a "conscience"— of performing the deontological good— are shown in contrast to men motivated solely by the Machia vellian drive for power and by technological parameters for \ judging progress. CHAPTER II THE MAVRINO SHARASHKA ; 1. "So That No One Could Understand His Telephone Conversations" | Throughout the novel the telephone functions as a sym bol of frustrated communication. The Mavrino sharashka, t I where most of the novel is set, was established three years earlier primarily to develop secret telephonic communica tions. When the novel opens, the zeks are developing means of identifying voices on the telephone. This suggests an aid to communication, but in fact, as the entire Innokenty 1 ; I plot indicates, voice identification is one more means of ! ! thwarting communication. , 1 Most of the zeks at Mavrino are somehow involved in developing the secret telephone for Stalin. In January 1948 Stalin had ordered that by May 1949 a special telephone be ready for him: B 3tom HHBape OTn;y 3anaflHMX h Boctovhhx HaponoB kto-to no«CKa3aJi Hfleio co3flaTB ocobyio, tojibko ajih H ero npeflH a- 25 r 26 3HaveHHyio, ceKpeTHyio Tejie<j?OHHio — Tanyio, h:to6h hhkto HHKorfla He Mor 6h iiohhtb , .qaxce nepexBaTHB, ero xejie- OohhhK pa3roBop. That January- someone suggested to the Father of Western and Eastern Peoples the idea of creating a special secret telephone intended for his use only— an instru ment so constructed that no one could understand his telephone conversations even if they were monitored. (10:43, 51) Here, of course, is the ultimate irony; history's most effective technological device for communication will now be used as the ultimate secret code because of Stalin's paranoid need for secrecy. : From the engineering standpoint, Stalin's wishes are difficult to fulfill. The project engages the talents of some of the country's most intelligent scientists, engi neers, and mathematicians. Most of the novel's main charac ters, e.g., Nerzhin, Pryanchikov, Rubin (a philologist), Mamurin, Bobynin, and Sologdin, are involved in the scien tific processes necessary for the creation of the telephone. They all have difficult projects that must be finally coordinated with each other: KjiHnriHpoBaHHe, fleMm JupoBaHne, aMnjiHTy,n;Hoe cxcaTHe, ajieKTpoHHoe BH$$epeHiHHpoBaHHe h HHTerpHpoBaHHe npuBo- jimoH vejiOBevecKOfi pevH 6buio TaKHM xce HHxceHepHKiM H3fleBaTejiBCTBOM Has heft, KaK ecxiH 6 KTO-HnbyflB b3hjich pacvjieHHTB Hobh8 A$oh . hjih ryp3y4> Ha KybHKH BemecTa, BTHCHyTB hx b MMjruiHapjai cnHve^cHHX Kopoboveic, nepenyTaTB, nepeBe3TH caMOJieTOM b Hep^iHHCK, Ha hobom MecTe pacny- TaTB, HeOTJIHVHMO CObpaTB H B0CC03flaTB. cySTponHKH, UiyM 27 1 npHOOH, lOJKHblft B03flyx H JiyHHtia CBeT . To ace, b naneTHKax-HMnyjiBcax, Haflo 6ia.no cnenaTB a c pevBio, fla eme Bocco3flaTB ee Tax, uto6u He tojibko 6hjio Bee noHHTHO, ho Xo3hhh Mor 6hi no ronocy y3HaTB, c xeM rOBOpHT. j Clipping, damping, amplitude compression, electronic i differentiation and integration of normal human speech were engineering desecrations comparable to the dismember- ; ment of a southern resort area like Novy Afon or Gurzuf , into little fragments of matter, stuffing them into a , billion matchboxes, mixing them all up, flying them to ! Nerchinsk, sorting them out and reassembling them in their new location so that the result could not be dis tinguished from the original— a recreation of the sub tropics, the sound of waves on the shore, the southern air and moonlight. The same thing, using little packets of electrical impulses, was to be done with speech, and in such a way that not only would everything be comprehensible but so that the Boss would be able to recognize by voice the person he was speaking to. (11:48, 58) The tone of this description suggests, of course, how much simpler it would be to hear the sound of waves on the shore I directly. This passage also contains in miniature a rich example of how the technoscape is incorporated into the theme and style of the novel. The age-old instinct to use language as a shibboleth receives the ultimate technological boost. The Boss's phone would be better than any code language, because technology could provide that he alone could interpret the code. All this scientific effort is expended in deference to the absurd extremes of paranoia in a leader highly motivated by the ancient human drive for power. ! 2. "'This Is a Power Set-Up, Son1" ! On another level the secret telephone, and sometimes I i research on telephony in general, are integrally tied to thei i novel's theme of man's exercise of power. The deadline for the creation of the special telephone represents Stalin's direct chain of command; his subordinates risk losing their jobs and maybe their lives if the deadline is not met. Hence these men (especially Abakumov, Sevastyanov, Oskolu- pov, Yakonov) will do anything to create at least the illu- ision of the telephone's success; their motivation is strictly self-preservation. They need the telephone to remain on good terms with The Man and will allow themselves to be pushed to any extreme of sycophancy, stupidity, irra tionality in order to maintain their positions. To the .administrators, the ultimate function of the telephone it self is almost irrelevant. Its completion is simply neces sary for their survival; therefore judgment, decency, humanity, scientific objectivity are of no consequence to them. That the task is impossible also suggests the near impossibility of winning any power struggle with a man like Stalin. In addition to the example of the broad exercise of power that the deadline represents, the Mavrino plot in- I eludes a concrete example of a power struggle. Within the laboratory itself, Roitman and Yakonov are engaged in a deadly conflict for survival. Finally, some of the zeks ! themselves feel the power of the telephone because success ful solutions of Stalin1s assignments result in diminutions or cancellations of prison sentences. Markushev is an exam-! pie of degraded sycophancy. By contrast, Sologdin maintains some honor while working for possible freedom. The "free" administrators The deadline.— The administrators in charge of super vising Mavrino"s secret telephone project rely on its suc cess for their livelihood and freedom. Directly reportable to Stalin is his Minister of State Security, Abakumov. The telephone, which was to have been ready by May 1949, is i still not ready after two years of prison research, so on Christmas Eve, 1949, Abakumov calls in to his Moscow office the directors of the project: Deputy Minister Sevastyanov (a civilian in charge of communications), Major General Oskolupov (head of the Special Technical Section), and Colo nel of Engineers Yakonov (Chief Engineer of Oskolupov"s section). Abakumov demands to know how soon the secret ■telephone can be ready. Their answers have nothing to do i t with scientific reality, but everything to do with keeping their jobs. Sevastyanov and Oskolupov blindly agree to January 21 as a deadline for producing the telephone. Yakonov holds out for February 1. Although these administrators are "free" in the sense that they can go to their own homes and wives after work and possess their own property, they are clearly not "free" to make personal decisions: Ho CTO JIB BeJIHK CTpaX, BUpa6aTHBaeMbI0 HOJirOJieTHHM noflVHHeHneM, vto hh y Koro H3 hhx hh Torna, hh ceftvac He xBaTajio MyacecTBa octohtbch [sic] iiepe# HavajifeCTBOM. But so great was the fear instilled in them by their long years of subordination that not one of them, then or now, would have had the courage to hold out against his superiors. (15:71, 88) In section 3 of this chapter, the discussion of how differ ently the two zeks respond to the demand for a deadline demonstrates one of the central themes of the novel: the possible moral and spiritual "freedom" of those without power or property or rank. Abakumov himself has absolutely no idea of the techni cal aspects of the telephone; he merely wants the finished product, like a technological toy. To Yakonov's attempts to explain the technical difficulties, Abakumov answers: — Xepu, xepu! Hojib neJiHX, xepn; flecaTHX — bot 9to y Bac tojibko h nojiy^aeTCH! Ha xpena MHe tboh hojib ueji&ix! Tej MHe annapaTa na.ii — flBa! uejibix 1 Koma? "Cycles, cycles! Zero point cycle zero— that's exactly what you're producing! Zero point my ass! I ' want the telephone— two complete units. When will I have it?" (15:67, 83) The administrators are not blessed with enlightened intelli gence. Abakumov, who has only a fourth-grade education, is not even interested in the telephone itself. It could have been any project ordered by Stalin; he, like the others, is simply concerned about keeping in good graces with the cen tral source of power. Abakumov later responds similarly to I Pryanchikov. When the latter tries to explain the technical problems to Abakumov, he interrupts and demands again: « Bki MHe tojibko CKaJKHTe OflHO : Koraa 6y.neT totobo? roTQBO — Korna?» ("'Just tell me one thing: when will it be ready? When?'" [16:75, 93]). ' When Abakumov learns from a source he knows he can trust, disinterested Pryanchikov and Bobynin, that the "speech clipper" definitely will not be ready for at least a year, he feels only fear of Stalin; he has a sinking feel ing when he reflects on how his Boss will be angry: « h eMy >KyTKO CTano Tex oSemaHHH, KOTOpne, noBTopnH CeBacTMHOBa, oh nan » ("He felt sick when he remembered the promises he had made, based on what Sevastyanov had said" [17:78, 96]). He thinks dejectedly of how in one hour he would have to see Stalin. Immediately after talking with Bobynin, Abakumov summons the three administrators in charge of the secret telephone and vents his wrath upon them. Translating his fear of Stalin into aggression, he actually beats his sub ordinates while threatening to demote them, all for lying about when the telephone can be ready. Abakumov thus as serts his own leverage in the hierarchical power structure. Then, as if to prove he understood nothing of what Bobynin and Pryanchikov had said, he insists that the telephone be ready by January 22. The telephone is at this point his job and his livelihood. Accordingly, Sevastyanov and Osko lupov vent their fear and rage upon Yakonov, the lowest- ranking member of the troika. Stalinism creates little Stalins on lower levels down through the hierarchy. After beating the troika of administrators, Abakumov consults with Stalin {Sunday, December 25, 3:10 A.M. to 4:00 A.M.). Abakumov is, however, too terrorized by the implications of the confusion about the telephone even to mention it. He manages to distract the Leader's mind onto other issues, knowing that in thus failing to discuss the secret telephone he risks his Boss's wrath. The telephone, 33 i j » however, is the powerful sword over Abakumov's head. When Stalin realizes the trick Abakumov has played, he is indeed angry. The telephone represents for Stalin in- subordination, a break in his chain of command. A ot nocjieflHero uiKa<3>HKa obepHyBiuHCB, — oh yBH,n;eji Ha cTOJie Tejie$OH. Hto-tq Haflo bsuio cnpocHTE. y ASaKyMOBa........ #a! Bot oho! . . . « CeKpeTHas Tejie<|>OHHH». PanopTOBanH, ^ ito cobpaHH Jiy^uiHe chjih, * ito nortHas MaTepnajiBHaH ba3a, hto BCTpevHBie obH3aTejiBCTBa — novewy He KOHHaioT?! AbanyMOB, Mopfla Harjian, npocHflen, cobaxa, *iac bHTHK — hh cnoBa He CKa3aji! Bot Tan h Bee ohh, bo Bcex bejioMCTbax — xa^cjoaft cma- paeTCH obMaHyTB cBOero Boacfln! Kax ace moscho hm ,n;oBe- PHTBCH? And as he turned from the last shelf, he saw the telephone on his desk. He had wanted to ask Abakumov something . . . He had it! . . . "Secret telephony." They had told him they had assembled the best people, that they had all the necessary equipment, that everyone was enthusiastic, that there were deadlines— so why wasn't it finished!? Abakumov, the brazen fellow, had sat there a good hour, the dog, without saying one word about it! That was the way they all were, in all the organiza tions;— every one of them tried to deceive the Leader! How can you trust them? (21:105-06, 134) Stalin, frustrated that he cannot have his gadget, concludes that he has failed in exerting his authority. To Oskolupov's job of supervising the secret telephone project, Abakumov has added the job of inspecting the work 34 on the identification of Innokenty's voice. Oskolupov i visits Mavrino on Monday, December 26 at about 5:00 in the evening to check on Rubin's progress in the identification I of the "criminal's" voice, work which has been going on only, since the day before. Oskolupov's interest in the scien tific aspects of phonoscopy as explained by Rubin is similar• i ! I to Abakumov's reaction to Pryanchikov's discussion of secret' telephony: « —Ha vto MHe Barna « Hayica» ? MHe — npecTynHHKa Haflo nofiMaTB » ("'What do I need with your "science"? I have to catch the criminal'" [80:447, 591]). He is think ing only of Abakumov's wrath if a definite answer is not I immediately forthcoming. The subtleties of scientific en deavor are beyond his grasp and his interest. These adminis-, trators, despite their high rank, are like puppets; Stalin pulls the strings, which are in this case tied to the tele phone . i Yakonov's personal reliance upon the completion of the secret telephone is more intricately traced than that of the others, for two reasons. For one thing, Yakonov himself was once a zek; hence he is a living example of how "successful" completions of projects for Stalin can lead to freedom. Second, he is in charge of Stalin's special telephone; hence he will suffer the most if it is not completed. Even before Abakumov calls him in, Yakonov is shown to be less than i objective in evaluating the telephonic research in Number Seven. Saturday night he listened to the earphones: j B HayiuHHKax tbophjtocb :vto-to yacacHoe: 3ByKH pa3pHBa.nHCB TpeCK3MH, rpOXOTaMH, BH3)KaHHeM. Ho KaK MBTfc C JOObOBBIO BTJiHflbiBaeTCH b ypoflCTBa CBoero fleTeHsnna, Tax Hkohob He tojtbko He cfleprHBaji Tejie<|>OHOB co CTpacaiomHX yiueH, ho - i nnoTHee bcJiymnbajich h HaxonHJi, vto sto yxcacHoe 6huio ksk ; 6yHTO Jiyvrne Toro yacacHoro, KOTopoe oh cJMiiaji nepetn; o6e;q;OM. Something dreadful was happening in the earphones: the sound of Mamurin's voice was interrupted by bursts of crackling, roaring, and screeching. But, as a mother ! gazes lovingly at her ugly offspring, Yakonov not only did not tear the phones from his assaulted ears but listened all the more closely and concluded that the dreadful noise seemed less dreadful than the previous dreadful noise, which he had heard before dinner. 1 (11:50, 60) The drive for power corrupts his judgment; the pressure to * succeed with the telephone renders his judgment sentimental, even motherly, where it should be coolly scientific. Yakonov, who alone of the "troika" in Abakumov's office Saturday night understands from a technical standpoint how impossible the project of the special telephone is, tries to extend the deadline a month longer than Sevastyanov and Oskolupov suggest: Ho Hkohob 3Haji, vto MepTBse BemH He cjiymaioTcn vejio- BeveCKHX CpOKOB , VTO H K fleCHTOMy HHBapfl 6y;qeT BEIXOjPiHTB H3 annapaTOB He pe^B vejioBevecxaH, a MecnBO. But Yakonov knew that inanimate objects do not obey human deadlines, that even by January 10 the apparatus would not be emitting human speech but only mush. (15:71, 88) i For Yakonov, the contrast is ironically between the natural-J I ness of the scientific process and the artificiality of human deadlines; interestingly, the Russian here for "inani mate" is the same as for "dead." The telephone, because it is "dead," i.el, unfeeling, will not react to any threats of. loss of prestige or power. Yakonov knows that in reality it would take at least ten years to produce such a telephone as Stalin wanted. But visions of being a zek again prance nightmarishly through his head as he grasps at any straw to maintain his survival within the power elite of the "free" people in his society. Yakonov, forced by Abakumov to agree to an impossible one-month time limit, is driven to despair. His inability to meet the deadline will represent the loss of his freedom, his wife and children, his status, his salary. This "deadly game" has led Yakonov to contemplate suicide. The telephone is his direct chain to prison, or to death: fla, 3aTenHa bHUia yrapHan nrpa, h noflxofliui ee KOHeu. Hkohob 3HaBaji, oh yace HcnHTUBaji Ha ce6e 3Ty 6e3yMHyio HenocHJiBHyio roHKy, b KOTopoft jhohh 3axjrecTHBajiHCB npH- flyMaHHblMH, HeB03M05KHHMH, BCe HCKaJie^HBaiOmHMH CpOK3MH. 3to 6hjt oxBaT, 3ameM, BBBKHMawiUHfit bojiBiue, dbicTpee, eme, etue, HopMy, CBepx hopmh, tph hopmh, no’ ieTHyio BaxTy, BCTpe^Hoe o6H3aTenBcTBO, flocpo^HO, eme rtocpoy:Heei 37 TaM, r,ae flejiajiocB Tan — He ctohjih flOMa, He flepacajin mocth, . . . Ho noKa bhhchhjiocb, vto HejiB3H ot vejioBexa TpeSoBaTB cBepxvejiOBevecKoro — nonaBiiiHe b 3Ty KpyroBepTt JBOflH He HMeJIH, KOTeTCH, HHOrO BHXOfla, KaK 3a 60JieTB, nopaHHTBCH MejK#y uiecTepeHKaMH , . . . ; JIhuib Ha 3tot pa 3 , oh *iyBCTBOBaji, eMy yace He BHipBa- tbch. YcTaHOBKy KJiHrmepa HejiB3H 6buxo cnacTH Tax 6hctpo. HHKyfla Hejn>3H 6buio h nepeftTH. Yes, a deadly game had been going on, and its end was near. Yakonov knew, he already felt, that insensate, unbearable pressure of hurry when people are tied hand and foot by arbitrary, impossible, crippling time limits. It was a squeeze, a wringing out... faster...more, still more...an honorary extra shift, a competitive duty... i fulfillment of goal ahead of schedule... even further ahead of schedule... When things were done this way, houses did not stand, bridges broke down, . . . But until : the great truth dawned that one cannot demand the super human from a human being, those trapped in this vortex had no other way out except to get sick, to get caught in the gears and injured, . . . But this once, this one time, he felt he could not get out of it. He could not save the speech-clipper project that quickly. He could not go anywhere else. (22:109, 138) Stalin's vast political system is portrayed throughout the I novel as a huge machine. The telephone deadline suggests the machine's injurious, ineluctable gears that help Stalin to squeeze and wring the life out of people. The Russian word here for "vortex,” « KpyroBepTB>> , again contains that Russian root « Kpyr-» ("circle") that reappears throughout the novel. Is death the only way out of the circle? With specific application to Yakonov, the telephone I ~~~ ‘ ' 38j deadline is, as it is for Abakumov, the sword over his head: j « Hkohoby jiajiH eflHHCTBeHHuil MecHu;. Hepe3 Mecnu; Morjia Jievt ] i Ha nnaxy ero roJioBa » ("Yakonov had been given one month. : In one month his head might be lying on the executioner's j | * i block" [73:402, 527]). This is one of the novel's clearest articulations of the way Stalin has used the telephone dead-' line as a means of exerting his power over others. Heads will roll if the deadline is not met. The telephone project is so important to Yakonov's professional survival that when a zek refuses to help with 'the project, Yakonov feels literally « 6e3BJiacTHHfi» ("power less"). Yakonov had looked forward to zek Sologdin's design for an absolute encoder as the only way out of his dilemma with Abakumov: A Meacfly TeM, ecjm pesxo flBHHyTb Bnepefl abcojiKTHUft iun$paTop — sto cnaceT ero nepen A6axyMOBtiM vepe3 Mecnu;. If he could make definite progress on the absolute en coder, it would save him with Abakumov when their month was up. (73:404, 530) This design had not been expected for another year and would! considerably speed the work on the special telephone. At about 10:00 Monday morning, Sologdin tells Yakonov he has burned his diagram for an absolute encoder. After Solog din's announcement, he awaits the inevitable shouting and 39 new jail sentence. Instead Yakonov, who is thus shown des perately to need Sologdin's help, speaks in an "urgent, plaintive voice" as he pleads with Sologdin for the diagram. Instead of the authoritarian tyrant of a few days ago, « — 3TO He HHHCeHep-nOJlKOBHHK CnpOCHJl, a OT^aHBUIHSCH H3My^eH- Htah 6e3BJiacTHHiii venoBeK » ("This was not the colonel of engineers speaking, but a desperate, worn-out, powerless being" [73:407, 534]). Yakonov's sense of power is thus f shown to be directly connected with the secret telephone, as "power" in this sense is constituted by rank and salary, which he will lose if he does not produce the telephone. The deadline for Stalin's secret telephone is inte grally related to the theme of power in the novel. The deadline, a human creation, could have been, Of course, for something other than a telephone. However, the fact that it is for a telephone and not, for example, for a television, i is one of the devices for obtaining structural and imagistic unity in the novel. Throughout the Mavrino plot, references to the as-yet uncreated secret telephone— notably to the acoustical equipment and voice print technology— suggest the technoscape of the whole novel and connect the Mavrino plot with the Innokenty plot, which has its own richly interwoven telephone symbols. Roitman and Yakonov.--In addition to the fact that the telephone deadline is a means by which power is exerted, the research laboratories themselves function as power symbols in a slightly different way. And Yakonov bears further pressures in the laboratories. Mavrino"s two main laboratories are the locus of a classic power struggle. The two labs are engaged in two separate experimental approaches to the problem of secret telephony; Acoustics works on a "vocoder," while Number Seven concentrates on a "voice clipper." Both are valid approaches, but crucial decisions regarding the direction of I i work in each laboratory are based, as are administrative decisions higher up, on political rather than scientific grounds. In this case the "power set-up" involves traditional Russian racism. The heads of each laboratory are locked in I a deadly fight for survival. Engineer Major Roitman of the Acoustics Lab is Jewish and a Communist; Colonel of Engi neers Yakonov of Lab Number Seven is non-Jewish and not a Party member because of his prison record as a zek. Roit man, who has lost his scientific creativity, has for years been involved with a group which had tried to destroy Yako nov : 41 HeM me oh 6uji 3hhht Bee sth roflti? HHTpnraMH. BopB6oft 3a nepBeHCTBO b HHCTHTyTe. C rpynnoft flpyseK, ohh flejiajin Bee, ^to6h onoporaTt a cTOJiKHyTB SKOHOBa, CVHTaH, 'ITO OH 3aCJIOHHeT HX CBOeft MaCTHTOCTBFO, anJIOMbOM h nojiy^H T cTajtHHCKyK) npeMHio eflHHOJiH^CHO. j ] What had kept him so busy all these years? Intrigue. ; The power struggle within the institute. He and his i friends had done everything they could to discredit and topple Yakonov, because he overshadowed them with his ^seniority and his aplomb. They were afraid he person ally would get the Stalin prize all to himself. (68: 375, 491) Roitman had, however, overlooked the fact that most of his friends were Jewish and now Roitman was caught by a Russian anti-Semitic backlash. On Christmas Day, after Sevastyanov, in reaction to Abakumov's wrath, inspected Mavrino to determine the prog ress of the work on secret telephony, a few people try to salvage their image by suggesting that Acoustics and Number ; Seven be combined: . . . 3aKJXK)H:eHHbifi MapKymeB bpocHJi mmcjib o cjihhhhh cucTeM KJiHnnepa h BOKOttepa. CKopeft Bcero sto 6bina vyuiB, ho ee mojkho ejfcuio n3oe5pa3HTE> nepefl Ha^ajiBCTBOM KaK KopeHHyio pe^opMy — h Hkohob pacnopH^HJicH heMeflJiehho nepeTaCKHBaib CTOftxy BOKOflepa b CeMepicy h Ty^a ace nepeBecra IIpHHHVKOBa. . . . the prisoner Markushev had proposed combining the clipper and the vocoder. Such an idea was probably total nonsense, but it could be presented to the ministry as a fundamental improvement. So Yakonov ordered the con struction of the vocoder transferred to Number Seven immediately and ordered Pryanchikov transferred with it. (68:375, 491) Markushev's motives were, of course, strictly self-interest, 42 as were the motives of the others who had joined the proj ect, « xoth y Ka»woro Shui Ha to cboH oco6hS pacneT » ("each for his own calculated purpose"' [33:172, 224]). In other i words, scientific considerations were not the motivation. i Markushev’s motives were typical of the others who supported the project: i i MajieHBKHil nptimeBaTbift fleHTexiBHHfi MapnymeB ropHvevHO fleHHO H HOIUHO H30dpeTaJI — KaK eMy npOCJiaBHTBCH H OCBOeOflHTBCH no nocpovKe. Oh npenno^cHJi cnHHHHe KJinnnepa a BOKonepa He noTOMy, vto 6eoji HHxceHepHO yBepeH b ycnexe, a noTOMy i hto npH TaKOM cjihhhhh HaBepHHKa naflano OTnenBHoe 3Ha^e- Hue Bo6EiHHHa h IlpHHHVHKOBa [sic] , 3HaveHne see MapKyineBa B03pacTano. The small, pimply, bustling Markushev tried feverishly day and night to discover a path to glory and be freed ahead of time. He had proposed combining the clipper and the vocoder not because he was convinced it would succeed from an engineering point of view, but because the combination would diminish the individual importance of Bobynin and Pryanchikov and increase his own. (79: 437, 577) Roitman is legitimately against the idea, but Yakonov uses his opposition as an opportunity to make Roitman in the presence of Sevastyanov appear to put his personal interests « Btanie HHTepecoB OTflena cneuTexHHKH » (" 1 above those of the , Special Technical Section'" [68:375, 492]). This is of course a low blow for a true Communist who would as a matter of ideological principle subordinate personal interests for the good of the general. There is in Yakonov1s well- calculated remark the suggestion, furthermore, of personal ethnic interests taking precedence over general Russian. Hence Roitman is caught in what he later, in the early- morning, realizes is KoJibu;o o6hh! kojxbuo o6h«! H HeT H3 Hero Buxofla, Kan HeT BHixOfta H3 tjok6ki c Hk o h o b h m. C Koro HavHHaTt HcnpaBJiHTB mhp? — c flpyrnx? Hjih c cedn?... A circle of wrongs, a circle of wrongs I And no way to break the vicious ring. No exit. Just as there was ! no way out of the contest with Yakonov. i Where should one begin to set the world aright? With others? Or with oneself? (68:377, 494) I He realizes he is not blameless in this power struggle but I 'cannot quite blame himself. This passage could be taken to encapsulate the whole novel, which does indeed describe many .circles of many wrongs with no exit except the possibility of personal re-evaluation. The discussion below (Chapter III) of the development of Innokenty's character, for exam ple, shows how at least one person could answer this funda mental question regarding the moral imperative: how great is one's obligation to social good? Does it involve self- sacrifice? Yakonov answers much the same question that Roitman raised. He decides that people are all bastards, and there fore . . . to HHKorna He nano flejiaTb « jujih jnoTteft», a tojxbko fljtH ce6a. H HHKaKoro HeT « oSmecTBeHHoro ajiTapn» , h hhkto He cMeeT cnpauiHBaTB c Hac acepTB. . . . one need never do anything "for people" but only for oneself. There is no "social altar," and no one need waste time demanding sacrifices of you. (73:403, 529) This passage sets Yakonov and his ilk squarely against men like Nerzhin, Gerasimovich, and Innokenty. Yakonov even further decides that anyone who is imprisoned lacks intelli gence, that the definition of intelligence is the ability to I stay free and to earn a good income and to have a nice home. His pragmatic philosophy is so complete that he willingly accepts the cruelty with which he is treated because « . . . ho b acecTOKOCTH h Stma Beflb cHJia, ee BepHeHmee npoHBJieHHe 1» ("in cruelty, after all, was strength, its truest manifesta tion" [73:404, 529]). In this novel, strength and power are usually linked to the telephone; failure in working on 'it results in cruelty of some type, such as imprisonment. Use of the telephone in a non-sanctioned way also results in cruelty (e.g., for Innokenty). Yakonov and his type bow to the power; the idealists hold out for non-opportunistic principles. Roitman had opposed the combining of the clipper and vocoder because he knew it was not scientifically viable and 45 i that he would thereby lose his bailiwick. Yakonov, however, is so desperate that he can benefit by destroying Roitman's power base, the Acoustics Lab, even if he is also destroying his own Number Seven. When Monday evening Oskolupov himself arrives at Mavrino to see personally how things are going, B CeMepne ctohji pa3Ba'Ji. He Harto 6bmo 6hxb cneijHa- J1HCTOM (OCKOJiynOB HM H He StlJl) , VTOSh IIOHHTb , VTO Ha xojiy Hex HHvero, Bee cncxeMH, flonrHMH MecaqaMH HanaacH- BaBuiEtecH, xenepB pacnaKHH, pa3opBaHH h pa3JiOMaHfcj. BeHva- HHe KJiHnnepa c BOKOjjepoM Havajioct c xoro, vxo o6ohx HOBObpavHBix pa3HHManH no naHenHM, no SjioxaM, vyxB He no KOHfleHCaXOpOM, TaM H CHM B03H0CHJICH OX KaHH^OJlH, ox nannpoc, cjibmuaJiocB ryneHHe pyvHOfi jtpejiH, nejroBoe nepepyrHBaHHe h HaflptiBHtjH kphk MaMypHHa no xene^OHy. There was disorganization in Number Seven. One did not have to be a specialist--and Oskolupov was not a specialist— to understand that nothing was in working order, that all the systems which had been set up over the course of long months were now disconnected, ripped apart, broken up. The marriage of the clipper with the vocoder had begun by both newlyweds being taken apart by units, by components, almost condenser by condenser. Here and there smoke rose from soldering irons, from cigarettes; one heard the whine of a hand drill, the cursing of men at work, and Mamurin shouting hysteri- ' cally into the telephone. (79:436, 575-76) This passage provides another example of how the texture of Solzhenitsyn's prose contrasts human qualities with the inhuman technoscape. The men and the hand drill whine; smoke' is exhaled by the men and the soldering irons; ma chines and people divorce; the consequences for the people, however, are much more serious. The technical disarray 46 I i reflects the confusion of the society that spawned the ' ■ \ prison laboratories— people, systems, things untimely ripped1 apart and disconnected for the wrong reasons, for someone's | pursuit of power rather than for a consistent, productive i reason. The decay and the corruption in the lab are a testi monial to the methods of the whole society as portrayed in i the novel. Again the Russian diction is more graphic than j the English, with the relentless anaphora possible by the prefix « pa3» repeated throughout the passage: « ctohji pa3Baji . . . pacnaHHHi, pa3opBaHH h pa3JiOMaHKi. . . . pa3hh— Majin . . .» « Pa3-» conveys much more chaos than the English equivalent "dis-." Mamurin is just one who is re duced to chaotic hysteria as he holds ah ordinary telephone. Roitman is indeed distressed, now that he has lost his hegemony over the Acoustics Lab. The only project he now solely directs is Rubin's work on phonoscopy. (Yakonov had assigned Roitman the job since he himself did not want re sponsibility for it.) When Roitman sees Oskolupov's in difference to phonoscopy, j PohTMan bhhtho nouyBCTBOBaji, Kax niaTKa HOBan rpynna, BcnoMHHJi, vto AKycTHvecxaH HanonoBHHy pa3orHaHa, — h ceroftHHinHee HOVHoe oinymenne HeyiOTHOCTH MHpa h oahhokocth b ReM onHTt noceTHJio ero. Roitman felt acutely the precariousness of the new group's future, and, recollecting that half the Acoustics Laboratory had been dispersed, the sense he had had last night of the world's cold hostility and his own loneliness returned to him. (80:447, 592) Hence, despite the importance of the secret telephone project, the power struggle takes precedence over scientific objectivity. The decision to combine the vocoder and the clipper would probably spell disaster for the telephone, especially with regard to the one-month deadline. Fear of losing jobs, irrationality, racism— all forms of pettiness and materialism dictate what should be rational decisions in the two Mavrino laboratories. The chaos left in the wake of this power-seeking, represented by the smoldering ruins of the telephone research labs, reflects the moral chaos of the governing system as represented in the novel. One of the novel's main themes, the contrast between those who act for moral or ethical reasons and those motivated strictly by opportunism, is suggested by this depiction of the power struggle between Roitman and Yakonov. The zeks Not only the administrators, but the zeks themselves can be corrupted by the power of the telephone. As a gen eral rule, the reward for successful scientific research in Soviet sharashkas could be freedom for the prisoner: . . . b cjiy^tae ycnexa pa3pa6oTKH bJiHHcafiiiiHe k Hefi sskh J nojiy^cajiH Bee: — CBObocy, qHcmft nacnopT, KBaprapy b , MocKBe, ocTajifcHHe ace He nonyvajiH HH^ero — . . . J I . . . those zeks most involved in the successful solu tion of a problem received everything— liberty, a clean passport, an apartment in Moscow; while the rest re- ; ceived nothing . . . (11:48, 58) 1 Since Lab Number Seven is the crucial laboratory at Mavrino, prisoners try to get into it in hopes of reducing or elimi nating their terms— « * jto6 H3 Hee BucKO^EKh Ha bojiio » ("in order to leap from there to freedom" [11:48, 58]). Mamurin had special hopes for Lab Number Seven; he himself was for merly the head of Special Communications. A devout believer> in Stalin, he had been a despotic administrator; Roitman had, in fact, been his subordinate. Mamurin did not have scientific training, which « KOHvajiocB Ha «ep®aHHH b pyicax TejiepoHHOfi: TpydKH » ("began and ended with holding a tele phone" [10:47, 56]). Mamurin was very distressed when the clipper was dismantled: EoJiBiue rofla MaMypHH jkhji KJiHnnepoM n BepHJi, vto KJinnnep, Kax KoHex-ropdyHOK, BBHe;ceT ero H3 6eflH. HaxaKoe no30- JioneHHe — . . . He Morjio ckphtb ot Hero KaTacTpopHi. For more than a year Mamurin had lived for the clipper, in the belief that the clipper, like the Little Hunch back Horse in the Russian fairy tale, would carry him out of misfortune. No compensation, . . . could make up for the impending catastrophe. (79:437, 577) This possibility of gaining freedom as a result of . _ , telephonic research often leads to crude forms of greed and , i ambition exemplified by Markushev, a vulgar sycophant ready . to agree with anything Yakonov says (see pp. 41-42 above). i Summary The telephone, then, is related in several ways to the | i novel’s theme of human abuse of power. Furthermore, one of ■ the novel's many ironies is that the telephone, which should be an aid to communication, can be used as a weapon to con- I trol communication. The secret telephone itself does not yet exist; however, the deadline for its completion is as effective a means of Stalin's control over others as any more directly applied weapon. The administrators immedi ately reporting to Stalin are reduced to terror and cruelty as they try to enforce the impossible deadline in the effort to maintain their own bailiwicks of power and their superior rank over others. Within the telephonic research labora tories, a specific example of a power struggle is shown to be another manifestation of the ambitious grasping for power generated by the telephone. Finally, some of the zeks them selves are subject to the corruption inherent in the rewards contingent upon successful completion of the telephone. 3. "'He Did Not Let My Immortal Soul Cross 1 One of the novel's main themes is the contrast between men who are motivated by strictly pragmatic concerns and I I those who act upon morally derived principle. The tele- j phone and the telephonic research laboratories provide an opportunity to see an alternative to the behavior of men ! grasping for power and personal advantage. In their work ; on strictly technological projects, some men are portrayed as having exceptional moral strength, as being capable of noble actions for their own sake, as having spiritual or intellectual values instead of the material values in stilled by the pursuit of power. Some of these men demon strate unusual selflessness and an idealistic sense of principle. In so doing, they are shown to have a certain spiritual freedom (and "power") that those who are not in < prison but are shackled with possessions and status cannot afford. Men like Innokenty, Nerzhin, Pryanchikov, and Bobynin are spiritually polar to the opportunists described in Section 2 of this chapter. Professor Chelnov illustrates: this contrast by paraphrasing Pierre Bezukhov in War and Peace: . . . tojibko 33k HaBepHHxa HMeeT beccMepTHyK) Hyrny, a BOJiBHHiuKe nopofi b Heft bHBaeT 3 a cyeToio OTK33aHo. . . . *JejiHOB He CKpHBaji, h: to Hfleio 3Ty oh 3aHMCTBOBaji y rib ep a 5.1 ; 1 E e sy x o B a . K o rn a $paHu;y3CKHfi: cojm aT He nycTHJi ni>epa v e p e a n o p o r y , H3BecTHO, ^ it o Ilfcep p a c x o x o T a jic n : — « X axa! He nycTHJi MeHH c o n fla T . K oro — Mena? Moio deccMepTHyio flymy He nycT H Ji!» . . . only a zek is certain to have an immortal soul; free people are often denied one because of the vain lives they lead. . . . Chelnov did not deny that he had borrowed this notion from Pierre Bezukhov in War and Peace. It is well known that when a French soldier forbade Pierre to cross the road, Pierre roared out j laughing, "Ha, ha* The soldier did not let me cross. i Who— me? He did not let my immortal soul cross!" (29: ! 152, 197) Because of their exceptional individual qualities, some of i i the zeks in the Mavrino sharashka warrant the awe that Dante felt for the immortals he met in the first circle of the Inferno. The novel suggests a connection between religion and such nobility of soul; indeed, . . . ee mo5 kho GtiJio 6ta Ha3BaT& TeMOft odpameHHocTH k Hedy Kax ^eMy-TO, npoTHBOCTOfimeMy BOHHCTByioiueft 6e3flyxoBHOCTH MaTepnajiHCTHvecKoro MHponoHHMaHHH. . . . one could say that the theme is the appeal to Heaven as to something that stands in opposition to the militant soullessness of a materialistic Weltanschauung. L. Rzhevskii, TBopeu h noflBar (Frankfurt/Main: Pos- sev Verlag, 1972), p. 98. The theme of moral superiority and individual conscience in The First Circle has received wide critical commentary. See, for example, further dis cussion in Rzhevskii; and Christopher Moody, Solzhenitsyn, rev. ed. (New York: Harper & Row, Perennial Library, 1973), pp. 103-04; and Korg, ~p. 73. 52 : The deadline ] Although the deadline for the completion of Stalin's ' secret telephone suggests power and its attendant moral desecrations for many characters, to some of the zeks, the | deadline is no threat whatever. Its existence allows for the demonstration of the possibility of freedom of choice i i in even the most adverse conditions. Some of the zeks in Lab Number Seven, for example, did not try to get there; they were assigned by Yakonov to the lab just to prevent I subversion by sycophancy. Among these men is the genius Bobynin. Bobynin is a man who does not respect any socio political ranking system, but only the strength of individ ual character. Although Yakonov is the boss of Lab Seven, he cannot bring himself even to interrupt Bobynin at his work. His moral superiority is evident even though he is a mere prisoner: M05KH0 IlOCTpOHTb 3Mna&p-CTe&T-6HJWHHr . B bJLU K O JIH T fc npyccK yio apMHio. B sH ecTu xepapxroo ro c y a a p c T B a Buuie npecTO Jia B ceB H um ero. Heni>3H npeoflOJieTB K axoro-T O CTpaHHoro flyxoB H oro n p eB o cx o acT B a hhhx jnoneii. One can build the Empire State Building, discipline the Prussian Army, elevate the state hierarchy above the throne of the Almighty, but one cannot get past the un accountable spiritual superiority of certain people. (11:50, 61) Men like Stalin and Abakumov, who increase their power by using technology, might exert institutional control over the majority, but they could never « npeoflOJieTB» ("sur- | I i mount," "overcome") this truly surpassing form of strength, j the individual will. : . i The same Saturday night that Abakumov calls in the | "troika" of administrators to learn their estimate of a deadline for the secret telephone, he shrewdly calls in the leading engineers of each laboratory: Bobynin (of the speech clipper) and Pryanchikov (of the vocoder group). Pryanchikov represents a different kind of personal strength, a form of mental freedom. He is boyishly idealis- i tic in his pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. The con trast between Pryanchikov's spiritual freedom and the worldly burdens of men such as the administrators described in Section 2 is emphasized by Roitman's reflections about Pryanchikov. Roitman, deeply worried about the troubles he i has gotten himself into by his power struggle with Yakonov, realizes that his pursuit of power and money has replaced the scientific creativity that he has lost: Ax, bpOCHTb 6f c J BCK) 3Ty BOJIOKHTy H BCK) 3Ty 60pB.6y 3a nepBeHCTBo! — nocEtneTB 6h caMOMy Has cxeMaMH, noflepxcaTb b pyxax nanjiBHHK, #a b 3ejieHOBaTOM OKOiiiKe sjieKTpoHHoro ocu;HJiJiorpa$a nofiMaTB cboio 3aBeTHyio xpHByio — SyfleuiB Torna 6e3 3a6oTHo pacneBaTB « ByrH-ByrH» , xax IIphhvhkob. B Tpnjo;u;aTB OflHH rofl Kaxoe 6u sto cvacTBe! — He vyBCTBO- BaTB Ha ce6e rHeTymax snojieT, 3a6biTB o BHemefi COJIHflHOCTH, 6HTB Ce6e KaK MaJTbVHUIKa — ^t o-to c t p o h t b, , tiTo-TO $aHTa3HpOBaTB . Oh, if only he could get free of all the red tape and the cutthroat struggle to come out on tbpl If only he himself could pore over diagrams, take the soldering iron in his own hand, sit in front of the green window I of the oscilloscope and try to catch a particular curve, then he, like Pryanchikov, could hum a carefree boogie- woogie. What bliss it had been to be thirty-one, with out the weight of those oppressive shoulder boards, un concerned with external appearances, and like a boy, to dream of building something. (68:376, 492-93) To have an imagination is shown to be a truly worthy attri bute. Again, the texture of Solzhenitsyn's prose demon strates the interplay of human qualities and the inhuman technoscape. Since Pryanchikov and Bobynin are not personally re sponsible for meeting the deadline on the secret telephone, Abakumov knows they have nothing to gain by lying about it. To Pryanchikov, the telephone project is a mental challenge, interesting and stimulating to work on despite the forced prison conditions. Of course, if he refused to work on the project, he might be sent to a camp. In the chaotic moral sphere of Gulag, however, there is no logical reason for imprisonment anyway; therefore, those whose minds are free for pure scientific research represent the heights that the human mind can achieve in the First Circle— of hell, of prison, of scientific and technological acumen. Pryanchi- kov, whose mental flights are justification enough for his existence, is so ingenuous that he not only lacks awe in Abakumov's presence, but he also hardly notices him. He gets carried away trying to explain the technical aspects to Abakumov, which are even more interesting to him than what he has seen of Moscow on the ride here: B IIpHHVHKOBe yace cMehhjiacb HHepuHH BevepHeii ctojihubj Ha HHepumo ero JiiobHMoro Tpy#a, . . . Now Pryanchikov was no longer being carried forward by ! his impressions of the nighttime capital but by his enthusiasm for his beloved work . . . (16:75, 93) Here surely is the conquest of' mind over matter; a man sen tenced to years in prison can ignore sensory inducements in favor of intellectual enthusiasm. Like the naive, totally sincere scientist, Pryanchikov fails to be interested in self-seeking or status or vanity— he even criticizes Abaku mov's "lousy pen" as he excitedly tries to explain his work, i saying only briefly that there should not be a deadline. If anything, the minimum work can be finished by the end of May, four months later than Sevastyanov promised: . . . novTH 3axjie6HBajicH Hphhvhkob ot Hannpaioinero acena- hhs Bee cKopeil BHcnasaTB . — H bot hnea BOKOflepa coctoht b HCKyccTBeHHOM BOcnpoH3BefleHHH vejioBevecKoro rojioca... — H BaM ceftvac Bee o6bhchkj. Bh cbmh noMeTe h corna- CHTech, vto b HHTepecax nena He Haflo topoiihtbch I. . . 56 Pryanchikov was almost choking in his urgent desire to say everything as quickly as possible. "And ,the idea of the vocoder is to reproduce artificially the human voice— "... "I'll explain the whole thing to you now. You'll under- | stand then and agree that in the interests of the work itself it shouldn't be rushed." (16:75, 93) Of course Abakumov has no concern whatever for the "inter ests of the work itself." He, a victim of the "power" of the telephone, lacks the mental apparatus even to fathom such a concept as that the telephone research may be in trinsically interesting. Pryanchikov's creative agitation is so great that he cannot even remember the numerous mun dane complaints he had wanted to bring up; his mind is « flasHO y)Ke 3axBa^eHHO0 o a h h m h paflHOTexHH^ecKHMH cxeMaMH» ("now occupied by nothing but radio diagrams," [16:75, 94]). Bobynin's reaction to Abakumov's query about the dead line is also quite different from the administrators'. It I is also different from Pryanchikov's; Bobynin is older and has the presence of mind not to lose this opportunity to criticize the System. For him the telephone project is interesting, but it is an abomination that scientists must work in prison. He is the model of the courageous individ ual, the unbreakable man, the man before whom all rank is powerless because of the strength of his inner self. Like I 57 f Pryanchikov, he is heedless of Abakumov's rank; Bobynin sits down without waiting for permission and then proceeds to I pick his nose. Bobynin uses this rare opportunity of being j Iwith an administrative higher-up to demonstrate the "power" * I I of an individual's intelligence over those who can merely j use for their own ends the technology produced by intelli- I I gent people. Bobynin sneers at Abakumov's threats to use force to speed up the work, and in a rage tries to show Abakumov the difference between the intangibility of mental effort and the pliability of things subject to brute force: — H t o 3HavHT — flaH cpoK ? Kan bki npencTaBJiHeTe ce6e HayKy: CuBKa-EypKa, Beinaa xaypxa? Bo3#BHrHH MHe k yTpy flBopeii — h k yrpy flBopen;? A ecjiH npoSneMa HeBepHO nocTaBJiena? A ecjiH obHapyjKHBaioTCH HOBue HBJieHHH? "What do you mean, given a time limit? How do you picture science to yourself? 'Oh wonder-working steed, build me a palace by morning?' and by morning there is a palace? And what if the problem has been incorrectly stated in the first place? And what if new phenomena turn up?" (17:79, 97) To Abakumov the creation of the secret telephone is like I something in a fairy tale. By quoting an epithet from folk poetry, Bobynin further exposes Abakumov's and Stalin's childishly unrealistic attitude toward the secret telephone, and toward science and technology in general. Bobynin fur ther shows Abakumov the invulnerability of men who live by 58 I their minds to the only forceful methods the tyrannical j I bureaucrat understands. j Bobynin then uses this opportunity of talking to Aba- j i kumov to complain about prison conditions. The worst abomi-' i nation is that the engineers and scientists are prisoners: — HaH cpoK i A bhi He flyMaeTe, v t o KpoMe npHKa3a eme flO JDKH fcJ 6UTB CnOKOfiEHbie CBOfiOflHHe JHOflH? fla 6e3 STOii aTMOC<f>epbI n0J3[03peHHH . "A time limit! Don't you suppose that in addition to giving orders you need calm, well-nourished, free people to do the work? And without all this atmosphere of sus picion." (17:79, 97) For the first time probably, Abakumov is presented with the I idea that there is a human element to the creation of the secret telephone. Bobynin tries to make Abakumov see the researchers as living beings, who need food and fresh air and freedom of movement, not as extensions of technological gadgets that he manipulates in the pursuance of his career. Bobynin further criticizes the bureaucracy itself for not being able to supply essential materials: nothing, it seems, is being done right by the Soviet government, yet the, miracle is that the zeks themselves are somehow turning out genuine scientific work: — Bo t Bee roBopH T — ceicpeTHyio Tejiet&OHHio a jih CTanHHa r;ejiaeM , jih v h o CTajiHH H aceflaeT — h fla>ice Ha t u k o m y^acT K e b u He MOJiceTe obecne^iHTfc TexH H vecK oro CHa6»teHHH . . . 1 59 "After all, everyone says we are working on a secret telephone for Stalin, that Stalin personally is press ing for it. Yet even in an operation like that you can't assure us a supply of material." (17:79, 97) Bobynin even speaks of principle to Abakumov. He I tries to demonstrate his moral worth; the difference between Abakumov and himself, he says, has nothing to do with the former's status: « — Mexcny humh otjihvho Biracy: h . bum HyjiceH, a bbi MHe — neT!» ("'Between us I see it very clearly: you need me and I don't need you'" [17:77, 95]). The tele- I phone, in other words, can never be produced by the likes of Abakumov who, however, depend upon it for their livelihood. At this moment, then, the research on the telephone symbol- izes the strength of the intelligentsia. Bobynin continues to waste philosophical pearls on Abakumov when he tries to explain his spiritual "freedom": — CBOdony bu y MeHH flaBHO othhjih, a BepHyTB ee He b BaniHX CHJnax, h6o ee Her y Bac caMoro. . . . — Boodme* noilMHTe h nepe,qaftTe TaM, KOMy Hano Buuie, uto bbi chjib hbi jihiiib nocTOJiBKy, nocKOJiBKy, OTbHpaeTe y morteft He Bee. Ho veJiOBex, y KOToporo bu OTOdpajiH Bee — y»ce He noflBJiacTeH bsm, oh cHOBa CBo6ofleH. "You took my freedom away long ago, and you don't have the power to return it because you don't have it your self .... Just understand one thing and pass it along to anyone at the top who still doesn't know that you are strong only as long as you don't deprive people of everything. ' s I For a person you’ve taken everything from is no longer ■ in your power. He’s free all over again.” (17:78, 96) The secret telephone project is indeed a "power set-up" with one main weakness; men like Bobynin are as invulnerable to i control as the Invisible Man because they have lost too much. Bobynin is essentially describing Sartre's definition i i of existential freedom: the absence of choice confers upon ; the individual "power" over himself. The zeks are existen- ■ tially free not only to think about scientific research, but to think up their own moral judgments because they have lost everything that might make life comfortable but yet might 1 2 cloud freedom of choice. The secret telephone represents the obstruction of communication but has here paradoxically been the occasion for the highest form of "communication"— i except that nothing has been communicated to Abakumov but that he will be in trouble with his boss. 1 In summary, the question by Abakumov about when a dead line can be set for the secret telephone results in some of the most thematically important passages in the novel. The behavior of Bobynin and Pryanchikov demonstrates one of the 2 Natalie A. Rea, in "Nerzhin: A Sartrean Existential Man," Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 32, discusses the existential theme in relation to Nerzhin. novel's central themes: the preeminence of the human being, his moral and spiritual superiority over things and the corruptions of power. Pryanchikov has the poet's freedom of being able to dream. Despite an unbelievably uninspiring environment of rationed air, oscilloscopes, and radio tubes, here is a man who lives for his mind, who is capable of i showing "enthusiasm for his beloved work" instead of inter est in material things or status. The moral superiority of Bobynin, the paragon of individual strength, awes the high- i est ranking men of his culture. Not only does he have the power to think creatively, but he has the courage to criti- t cize his government (here represented by the deadline for the telephone) instead of cowering in submissive fear before it. Bobynin has the "freedom" to judge that is denied those; who seek status and power, exemplified by those who toady to the leader's demands for a telephone. The technoscape of Mavrino paradoxically represents not only the sterility and inhumanity of technology used for political power, but also the capacity for creation and freedom of the individual human mind. Sologdin There are many other zeks in the Mavrino Laboratories who demonstrate the high moral integrity reserved for those 62 i with immortal souls in contrast to the abasement of men burdened by the pursuit of power.. Gerasimovich, for exam ple, refuses to buy his freedom when offered it in return for designing cameras that would aid in imprisoning Soviet citizens. Nerzhin, who works on articulation in the Acous tics Lab, similarly refuses to work on a project that would , / strengthen the Soviet state's technological surveillance capabilities. He thereby gives up not only freedom, but also his place in comfortable Mavrino; by the end of the novel he is sent to a camp. He makes his self-sacrificial decision on the basis of pure, disinterested motives and states his Bobynin-like sense of moral "power" to Professor Verenov: — nycTB npn3HaioT cnepBa, v t o 3a o6pa3 MbicjieH HeJifc3H caacaTB — a TaM m h xiocmotpum — nponjaeM jih! "Let them admit first that it's not right to put people in prison for their way of thinking, and then we will decide whether we will forgive them." (9:42, 50) Two days1later in the Acoustics Lab, Nerzhin refuses the opportunity to have sex with one of the "free" employees who has fallen in love with him. His reason for this act of unusual renunciation is fidelity to his wife's loyalty: — Ho veM HHjice h onycxaJicH b HevenoBe^ecKH-McecTOKHH mhp, — TeM, CTpaHHHM o6pa30M, s i ^yTve npucjiyuiHBajicH k He- MHOrHM, KTO H TaM npH 3 HBaeT K COBeCTH. . . . 63 "But the lower I sink into this inhumanly cruel world, the more I respond to those who, even in such a world, speak to my conscience." (81:454, 600) i He uses the same word « coBecTt» ("conscience") that j Innokenty uses to justify his renunciations of worldly pleasures: « Ho h coBecTfc flaeTCH ojqHH tojibko pa3» (title i for Chapter 55). | These self-sacrificial decisions are not, however, easy: to make and the borderline between the immortal ones and the Machiavellians is not always clearly delineated. Sologdin is a zek who demonstrates this duality and is more directly linked to the telephone than Gerasimovich (who works on television) or Nerzhin. C. Moody discusses how conscience affects the novel's four characters (Nerzhin, Gerasimovich, Rubin, and Sologdin) who must choose between the pragmatic and the moral: All four are offered the opportunity to earn themselves an early release by devising new instruments of evil. Paradoxically, it is the two who have most to lose who will not give in. Nerzhin and Gerasimovich are both married and have been made painfully aware of the posi tion of their persecuted wives by their unexpected visits. Both recognize and heed the voice of conscience and, . . . are unable to make a moral compromise. . . . Neither Sologdin nor Rubin has a wife waiting desper ately for his release. Yet both agree to compromise and be compromised. (p. 116) The manner in which Sologdin indirectly affects the deadline for the secret telephone presents, however, a clear contrasti to Yakonov's behavior. I Sologdin's relationship to the telephone is unique: hej I .single-handedly creates a design for the absolute encoder i that could provide him with freedom and the annulment of his conviction. Yet he does not pursue those rewards directly. . He acts in a way that will benefit the other zeks, not just himself; he restrainedly refuses to give away his ideas without those benefits for others. The design he has worked out will not add to the imprisonment or oppression of any one else— as Rubin's work on voice prints or as the work I Gerasimovich and Nerzhin refused to accept would have. Therefore his bargaining for freedom is not mere self- seeking opportunism at the expense of others. The most his design will do is to make it more possible for Stalin to have his secret telephone sooner. It also will help Yakonov meet the one-month deadline. The absolute encoder diagram represents the genius of Sologdin's individual mind, but, as with many symbols in | Solzhenitsyn, its symbolism is paradoxical: it is also the heart of what will allow the secret telephone to prevent communication: Ha mapauiKy MaspHHO HejiHOB btaxt npncjiaH ajih pa3pabOTKH MaTeMaTHvecKHx ocHOBaHHH abcoJBQTHoro mHd) paTopa, to ecTB.___ 651 npHbopa, KOTopbifi cbohm MexamnecKHM BpamenHeM Mor 6ta o6ecne^iHTB BKjnoveHHe h nepeKjrno^eHne MHoxcecTBa pejie, tax aanyTHBawuiHX nopaflOK iiockuikh npnMoyrojiBHBix HMnyjiBcoB H3ypoflOBaHHOil pe^iH, vto6hi .aaxce cothh .raoAeft, nocTaBHB cothh aHajiorH’ tjHtox npneopoB, He MorjiH 6h pacmH$poBaTB pa3roBopa, Hflyiqero no npoBOflaM. Chelnov had been sent to the Mavrino Sharashka to work out the mathematical basis of the absolute encoder, the device that could assure by mechanical rotation the operation of banks of relays which would take the sepa rate impulses into which speech had been chopped up and so scramble them that not even hundreds of technicians with hundreds of decoders could decipher a conversation on the wire. (29:152, 198) i Sologdin worked out the ideas for his design entirely by himself: « Oh cniHTan, h: to ©OJiMiHe hflex MoryT poahtbch tojibko o3apeHHeM OflHHOKoro yMa » ("He considered that great ideas are born only in a single mind" [29:153, 199]). He is one of the incredible examples of individualism in the novel, representing the infinite human variety still pos sible not only in a telephone research laboratory, but in a prison. Later, when he bargains with Yakonov, this unique ness is described: Sbuia Bee Tax ace HeB3My^aeMa, HenoAKynHa, Henopo^tHa rojry6H 3H a r n a 3 JJm htphh ConorAH Ha. . . . ro jiy b o ft KpyjKoveK, ^iepH as AHpovxa nocepejtH H e — a 3a hhmh Aejibifl: HeoxcHflaeMHiii mhp OflHoro eAHHCTBeHHoro veJiO B exa. Dmitri Sologdin’s sky-blue eyes remained imperturbable, incorruptible, immaculate . . . Sky-blue circles with black holes in the center, and behind them the whole astounding world of an individual human being. (73:406-07, 533) , _ 66 I The tone of awe in this passage illustrates again the novel’s i I theme of the preeminence of the human being, especially by j I contrast with the predictability and manipulability of I I I machines. | i When Professor Chelnov, who himself has nothing what- ; ever to gain from generosity or kindness to Sologdin, re- i minds the latter that he could receive freedom from the ; design, Sologdin responds on an ethical level. He does not automatically want personal advantage. He is troubled by . I the thought that Stalin might in any way be helped by his work: — Bh He HaxoflHTe, v t o 3,n;ecB ecTB HeKOTopan MopajiBHas neHCHOCTB?... BeflB o t o — He m o c t , He xpan, He CTaHOK. B st o m 3aica3e Mano npoMKmmeHHOro, m h o f o npHflBOpHoro. Koraa h npeflCTaBJiHio Toro 3jucaevHKa, kotophiA B03BMeT Tpybny Hauiero ycTpoftcTBa... Hy, b obmeM, h sto flenaji nOKa TOJIBKO . . . flJIH npOBepKH CBOHX CEDI. flJIH cebH. Oh B3rjiHHyji npHMO. flnH ce6H. 3Ty $opMy pabOTH HeJiHOB xopomo 3Haji. Boobme 3to ' btuia BHcmas $opMa HccjrejiOBaHHH. — Ho... B flaHHblX ObCTOHTeJIBCTBaX. . . 3 TO He CJ1HIUKOM bojiBixian pocKomB ajih Bac? "Don't you think there may be a certain moral question here? After all, this is not a bridge, a crane, a lathe. ! There is very little industrial significance in it, but a great deal that relates to the palace. When I think of the customer who will pick up our transmitter... You see, so far I have done this only to try out my own strength. For myself." He looked up again. For himself. Chelnov knew that kind of work very well. As a rule it was the highest form of research._________________________ 67 "But under the circumstances— isn't it perhaps too j great a luxury for you?" (29:157, 204) I ! Two ideas important to the novel are raised in this speech, j Sologdin's first objection to helping produce the telephone J i I is that it is not something with practical uses. "'This is , not a bridge,'" he says; it is not something that many people will use, but only one. Second, Sologdin does consider the ethics of working on a project to benefit a tyrant, when he concretely envisions Stalin lifting up the telephone recei ver that could result from Sologdin's share in the design. Sologdin is no Machiavellian; to a certain extent he has done this work for his own mental satisfaction. However, the realities of the situation are that he will in fact be able to reap tangible rewards for his work. The design for the absolute encoder already a fait accompli, he cannot afford the luxury, as Professor Chelnov puts it, of the sainthood of Nerzhin and Gerasimovich. Having the opportunity for personal gain does, he realizes, represent a besmirchment of the pure, free choice allowed the immor- j i tals: : B 3Ty KOMHaTy oh tojibko v t o Bomeji eme cBodoflHHM npeTeHfleHTOM. H bot BHxoflHJi H3 Hee — y>Ke oSpeMeHeHHHM nobeflHTeneM. Yace bojifciue He 6hji oh x o3hh h CBoeMy BpeMeHH, HaMepeHHSM H Tpysy. 68 He had come into this room a free contender. And now he left it as a burdened victor. He was no longer the master of his own time, intentions, or labor. (29:157, 204) ■ i l | Again the theme of personal responsibility, a major theme inj I modern literature— in Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Sartre, Camus, Ellison, and Solzhenitsyn— is raised. Sologdin cannot be . J j existentially free, as Bobynin had said, if he has any j advantages. Later on Sunday, during the evening birthday party for Nerzhin, Sologdin privately assesses the potential rewards from his design: B rpynH ero nena paflOCTb no6e,nH Han abcojnoTHbiM niH<|>pa- topom. OcBo6o)K,ueHHe ero 6u.no TenepB BonpocoM OflHoro r.ofla (... to ecTB, Shjio 6bi, ecnH 6h oh peuiHJicn flaTb uiH$paTop Ahtohy. . .) . Kpy)KHTent.Han Kapbepa MOrna ojKH.D'aTB ero BCJiefl 3a ocsoOoMCfleHHeM. His heart sang of victory over the absolute encoder. His liberation was now one year away— that is, it would be if he decided to give the encoder to Yakonov. A breath-taking career awaited him. (52:283, 367) The English "breath-taking" again cannot convey the rich texture of the novel that results from the repeated use of words with the Russian root for "circle." Here, « Kpy>KH- TejibHaH» suggests a giddiness from spinning. Is there a hint of irony again here? Since "circle" in the book sug gests that people are either in hell or are on a meaningless 69 I ; I j ferris wheel, will Sologdin's « Kpyr-» after freedom ulti mately land him back where he started, namely in prison? ! I It looks as if Yakonov will go back, as Maraurin has. . By 9:00 Monday morning (December 26), Sologdin begins a risky strategy. He is troubled that in an argument the night before, Rubin had leveled accusations to the effect that despite all Sologdin's High Idealism, he would crawl on1 his belly if necessary to get out of prison. Sologdin is troubled because in fact he does want to get out, and maneuvers to do so, but in a way that he does not define as cringing--in a way, in fact, that is honorable and generous \ to the other zeks. Sologdin begins the « sajjavy Been M 3 hh» ("problem of his whole life" [70:386, 505]) by burning the fruit of his months of mental labor, his diagram for the encoder. A couple of hours later, Yakonov calls him in and very po litely asks to see the diagram. After Yakonov nearly faints at the revelation, Sologdin methodically bargains to repro duce the drawing in three days. He also promises « nojiHtafi 3CKH3HHia npoeKT c pacveTaMH b o6teMe TexHHvecKoro» ("a complete draft of the whole project, with detailed calcula tions of its technical aspects" [73:407, 534]) in one month. In exchange for this contribution to the secret telephone, i "" ™j Sologdin bargains for, among other things, the right of the [ I zeks not to work nights or Sundays, and their right to more individual liberties, such as relaxing and sawing firewood. Hence he is not doing just anything for the sake of his own i freedom. He gambled, in a way even Yakonov calls "a risky game," a gamble that could have sent him from Mavrino to a I camp; yet he did not once become obsequious or lower his ; dignity. Sologdin1s design for the encoder shows how the tele phone again relates to some of the novel1s important themes, relating to individuality and integrity of character. Pro- , i fessor Chelnov thinks that Sologdin"s motives for having done the research on the absolute encoder represent the "highest form" of mental endeavor. Sologdin has no doubt earned Chelnov^ admittance into the company of those zeks with "immortal souls." Sologdin is a unique individual, another example of the potential for human variety. Like Bobynin and Nerzhin, he is morally committed to the welfare of his people; he is against the tyrannical abuse of scien tific talent. He has developed a design for the secret telephone not so much because he wanted the tangible reward that the research might bring, but for the intellectual joy of creating, such as Pryanchikov shares. When he thinks he 71 i might get "rewards," he assures that others will benefit too; he is not the Machiavellian who will trample others on his road to freedom. The telephone is an ironic symbol for Sologdin. His design for the absolute encoder is the fruit j of his individual genius, but since it will help in the j production of the secret telephone and therefore personally help Sologdin, it represents his loss of pure moral freedom.: The "power set-up" of the telephone deadline taints even himj by presenting the possibility of personal advantage, by j rendering the scope of his choices wider. 1 I Summary ! In the Mavrino plot, then, the deadline for research on the secret telephone provides the opportunity for displays 1 i of the remarkable preeminence of man— a few glimmering rays I of redemption in an otherwise dismal portrayal of man's | moral corruption and the triumph of the Machiavellians. Thej telephone laboratories, far from being stultifying or de sensitizing, have spawned examples of the finest human | traits, qualities that so awed Dante as he visited the great' minds of the past in the Inferno's First Circle. The tele phone is a key element in the technoscape that provides both the backdrop and the raw materials for the thematic develop ment of the novel. Men who belong in the company of those with what Professor Chelnov calls "immortal souls" demon- | strate certain characteristics. Each is capable of en- j lightened mental creativity and its attendant joys, in con- I trast to the stupidity of men like Abakumov. Above all, 1 each is a unique individual, unmanipulable, unpredictable. These men are contrasted with those who, because they bow to, i the ancient instinct to use technology to gain power, are themselves subject to manipulation. Here one of litera ture's classic themes finds profound expression in a thor- ! oughly technological setting: these men have freedom from 'the vanity fair of possessions and rank that cripples the lives of people who are "free" (not in prison). In the telephone laboratories the contrast is made between men who manipulate power and are therefore not free and men who ' prefer to seek individual, introspective modes of power and thereby find freedom even while imprisoned. Unfettered by the baseness of ambition, these men are capable of the existential freedom possible only when one's choices are drastically narrowed, voluntarily or not. They can act from, a sense of disinterested principle; they do not feel that the ends justify the means. They can appeal to an indefin able "conscience" not countenanced by materialist philoso phies . CHAPTER III INNOKENTY VOLODIN The image of a telephone itself is more important in the Innokenty plot than in the Mavrino plot because Inno- kenty's main act is to make a telephone call. From that one act and all its repercussions, the telephone image evolves to function on the three levels described in Chapter II. First, obviously Innokenty does not succeed in "communicat ing" with Dobroumov. His telephone call is cut off even before he reaches the man of "good mind." Second, the tele phone is a weapon to control others because Innokenty's call is bugged, interfered with, and his telephone voice is later identified. The powerful arm of the State has snatched Innokenty over the telephone, not merely once but during two telephone calls. Finally, and most importantly, Innokenty earns member ship in the company of the "immortals" on several grounds. While the zeks are not corrupted by ownership and power 73 r41 I I partly because they have none, Innokenty is remarkable j i because he gives up power, ownership, and social benefits toJ perform a moral good, like Antigone who rejects Ismene's \ defense of the benefits of marriage, status, expensive , possessions, a comfortable home. Innokenty's act is to use the telephone for a highly virtuous reason, the selfless desire to help another person. This idealistic act results . in his loss of freedom. Innokenty is not forced by an ab sence of choices to do what he does; he voluntarily asserts i the dictates of his conscience. This rationally indefens ible choice to make a telephone call therefore leads to his initiation into the company of the immortals. The initia tion is followed by the process of his identity crisis, as he probes the meaning of "conscience," of existential free- | dom, of will, of self. Since in the Innokenty plot, these three levels of meaning are often interwoven, the discussion will proceed in the narrative order of the novel. I shall begin with a textual explication of the novel's first few pages, because in the process of foreshadowing the main themes of the whole novel, these first pages also establish the imagistic and symbolic relationship between the telephone and those main themes. The novel opens with a low-key buildup of tension gen- i erated by a State Counselor’s debate about whether he should make a telephone call. The opening pages include the ker nels of many of the important aspects of theme and plot. The title of the chapter, to start with, « A KTO BfcJ TaKOfi?^ ("And Who Are You?") refers immediately to the question asked by the gauche wife of Dobroumov, but ultimately be comes a key question for a central theme of the novel: the search for self-identity, especially Innokenty's. Although on a philosophical level he finds answers to the Socratic dictum, "Know Thyself," by the end of the novel he would have to answer that, on a physical level, he is a nobody. For he will vanish into the anonymity of the prisoner world where he will be kept "forever," obliterated as a person by the State's machine of power. One of the novel's main ironies, of course, is that while Innokenty searches for his identity as a human being, the police search for his iden tity as a political cipher. The first word of the novel contains the root of the word "circle": « KpyaceBHHe» ("lacy," i.e., "fretwork"); referring to the clock here, the word foreshadows the book's minute concern with the passage of (and circularity of) time. The image of the "circle" recurs repeatedly ; 76 I t ' throughout the novel, also suggesting the Dantesque symbol- j l ' ism of the telephone research labs, as well as the ineluc- j tability of fate (no matter what people do, every point on the circle is like every other point; the virtuous may or I may not end up in jail, the evil in power or prison). Furthermore, the fact that Innokenty is different from ; i most State Counselors is suggested in the first description ; of him; he was ' . . . He b MyHflHpe, . . . HHHOKeHTHh BonoflHH CKOpee Ka3aJICH COCTOHTeJIBHfcJM MOJIOflHM 6e3fleJIBHHKOM, VeM OTBeX- ■ CTBeHHfcJM CJiy»caiqHM MHHHCTepCTBa HHOCTpaHHHX fleJi. . . . not in uniform, . . . Innokenty Volodin seemed more like a well-to-do young playboy than a responsible civil servant [executive] in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. (1:5, 1 PG) Not only is he evidently a non-conformist, but his name means "innocent." In addition, electric lights, which are important here and elsewhere as symbols, are mentioned. Innokenty debates « hjih 3ajKevi> b KabHHeTe cBeT — ho oh He saacHraji, hjih exaTt ^oMOfl — ho oh He rtBHrajics » ("whether to turn on the lights in the office— but he did not turn them on— or to go home, but he did not move" [1:5, 1 PG]). Innokenty then contemplates how much of Moscow stays up nights. Later an ominous meaning is attached to lights that burn all night in the prisons. The blue light bulbs — 7 - 7 that always burn in Mavrino cells are examples, like the telephone, of how technology is used to oppress. In a few I days, Innokenty will, like other prisoners, have lost the basic freedom to turn lights on and off. (By contrast, the "power" of the Invisible Man to burn his electric lights at f will is enormous.) After Innokenty is arrested, he per- ! . i ceives an ominous meaning for all these night lights in the . ministry: ; H KM eTCH, TITO BCe OrpOMHOe MHHHCTepCTBO He CIIHT B 3Ty hotib H 3 -3 a oflH oro TebH , OflHHM t o 6 ok) h tbohm n p e c T y ru ie - HH6M 3 aHHTa. It seemed that the whole enormous ministry was awake that night because of him, was occupied with him and his crime alone. (84:480-81, 633) The "power set-up" theme is thus suggested in the descrip tion of the useless chain of command that constitutes Sta lin' s government: all those people awake, doing busywork related to spying or just killing time— from ministers to secretaries— involved in a society's perversion of manpower and of technology. The spiritual theme, the idea that there is an alterna tive to a materialist philosophy of life, is suggested in the reference to how tonight, Saturday, is Christmas Eve. (In fact, a few hours later Rubin and six other zeks sit around the Christmas tree, Chapter 3.) The contrast in the novel between the limitations of a rationalistic philosophy and man's spiritual potential not allowed for in dialectical materialism is further implicit in the simple reference to how Innokenty" s Mama « Ona eMy BepHJia» ("had believed in him," i.e., the doctor 11:5, 2 PG]). A word of faith is consciously used in reference to a science; what the doctor meant to the mother could not be captured in a formula. The phrase also foreshadows the importance of Innokenty1s mother as an influence on him, again, an "irrational" influence unamenable to the environmental conditioning by the State. The telephone is subtly introduced in the context of the Christmas season: the telephones of Western embassies are not ringing (« He 3bohht» ) because the Westerners are celebrating Christmas. Even so, there is "work" in Moscow ministries, where telephones are ringing all night long (importantly, for example, the telephone rings in the Acoustics Lab at 10:00 P.M.; Yakonov summons Nerzhin to make one of the most crucial decisions of his life. An hour later, Yakonov himself is telephoned by Sevastyanov to go to the Ministry and report on the Special Telephone for Sta lin) . The ringing of the telephones in Moscow on Christmas Eve signifies a culture's non-observance of spiritual occa sions . After Innokenty reminisces about the emotional, spiri tual relationship between himself, Dobroumov, and his mother, he gets to the heart of his immediate dilemma. He suddenly asks the central question on which hangs his fate, phrased Hamlet-like with forceful precision: « no3BOHHTb hjih He no3BOHHTB.?» ("to telephone, or not to telephone?" [1:6, 2 PG]). When he explains why the question is criti cal , > he articulates what is a central structural theme of the novel: HeyjicejiH ecTb cpeflCTBa #03HaTbCH, k t o to b o p h ji h s aBTO— MaTa? E cjih He aanepjKHBaTbCH, 6 u c tp o yiiTH. HeyacejiH y3HawT no Tejie$OHHOMy cnaBJieHHOMy rojiocy? He MOJiceT 6BJTB TaKOli TeXHHKH. Could there possibly be a means of identifying a person who spoke from a public telephone— if one didn't waste time, but went away quickly? Could they possibly recognize a [distorted?] telephone voice? Surely there could not be such a technique. (1:6, 2-3 PG) For the rest of the book the plot, as concerns Innokenty, will center on whether such a technology can be designed. - - At -the- -beginning “there ~i s not a sure method; by Chapter 33 "Phonoscopy" is named; and by Chapter 80 a "technique" exists to identify at least two possibilities out of five voice prints, and thus to assure Innokenty's arrest. His decision to make the telephone call is signaled by the fact that he takes a cab instead of his own car, « He I 80 , I » no3BOHHB 3a MauiHHoa» ("without phoning for his car"). Inno- : kenty's frenzy increases as he searches for a phone booth j which might not be bugged. The act of calling, which should; I be utterly trivial, is the most difficult act of his life ! and will cost him not only status, salary, married life, and friends, but freedom "forever." His act is epic, but, filled as he is with emotional agitation, his conversation is bathetic. He tries to be logical at first: he locates a booth just used by someone else; he does not remove his glove while he calls (to avoid leaving fingerprints?). He tries to alter his voice at first and tries to be calm as he asks, « nonpocHTe, noxcanyilcTa, npo$eccopa» ("please ask the professor to come to the phone" [1:7, 5 PG]). The allitera tive anapestic rhythms succinctly underscore his urgency. As the obnoxious wife dallies with him, he notices that someone outside his booth is already waiting. The wife in sists on asking « k t o b h TaKOft?» ("Who are you?"). Inno kenty does not yet probe the psychological implications of this question. He will soon do so, the more he realizes that his telephone call has radically narrowed his range of existential choice, like the Invisible Man who sees new meaning in the very same question as he is strapped in the ECT machine. i 81 i Although Innokenty now clings to the conceit that one1s I identity is revealed in one's name, he is still maddened by the wife's taunts, losing control of his voice and emotions: non HoraMH HHHOKeHTHH ropen noji 6yflKH, h TpybKa j vepHan c Tnacenofi CTajifcHOft itenfcio nnaBHJiacB b pyne. Beneath Innokenty's feet the floor of the booth was burning, and the black receiver with its heavy steel chain was swimming in his hand. (1:8, 6 PG) The telephone booth burns, foreshadowing the Inferno to which his call will plunge him. Already losing the equi- i librium of his place in society, Innokenty feels that the receiver swims in his hand. But the heavy steel chain binds him permanently to the State apparatus. The steel cord is i hooked up to the State Police; someone is listening at this moment and the phone is disconnected as he tells the secret . to the doltish wife. This telephone has exerted its role in the "power set-up." The steel chain symbolizes the shackles of prison. In the tradition of Sophoclean tragedy, the only two choices faced by Innokenty (to telephone or not to telephone) would both result in disaster (to be himself imprisoned or to allow Dobroumov to be imprisoned). The telephone call, which was to be an aid in the communication of good will and high ideals, will result in the imprison ment of both the helper and the helped. 82 I i Within less than eight hours, the Minister of State Security Abakumov and senior MGB interrogator Ryumin are explaining the situation to Sevastyanov, Oskolupov, and j Yakonov, and delegating the job of ascertaining whose voice I is on the tape (Chapter 15). Although it is only 1949 and the majority of Russian citizens do not have adequate elec tricity or plumbing or transportation, the police network is■ so efficient that, by midday of the day after Innokenty's phone call at a random booth in Moscow, the tape recording of that conversation is played to Rubin in the sharashka (Chapter 33). Although Rubin is dismayed that the content of the conversation cannot legitimately be said to endanger state security, he requests new tapes of the telephone I voices of all five suspects. He also notes in passing the j etymologies of the names, without mentioning the similarity of the « boji-» (vol-) in Volodin's name to the Russian root for "freedom," "will" (the Latin "velle-"). Innokenty Volo din is of course the embodiment of the individual aspiration to assert the- freedom of one's will. Just before dinner on that same Sunday, Innokenty makes his second telephone call (Chapter 55). By 9:00 Monday morning, with the technological efficiency of a state gov ernment dedicated to spying on its own citizens, Rubin has r “ ' ' 83 the tape of this call. This second call is banal; Innokenty calls from his apartment to his wife Dotty at her father's house to say he does not care to attend the Prosecutor's i party this evening. She cajoles him, with the result that | he speaks slowly and precisely while explaining himself, thus facilitating Rubin's job of identifying « OT^ieTJiHBHe <$opMaHTKi> ero <HH,uHBHr(yajii>Horo peveBoro jiajta>» ("the precise 'formants' of his 'individual speech pattern'" [55: 302, 393]; the inner quotation marks indicate anglicized i expressions). Innokenty has an irrational feeling, a I « BHyipeHHee npefl^iyBCTBHe» (55:302, 393 PG) that he should , not have called, that disaster awaits him. The telephone is consciously described as a symbol of a mysterious, ineluc table, cruel fate: H HHKOMy H3 HHX , TOJHTHBUIHXCH Ha KOBpe B yiOTHOM KOpHHOpTIHKe, He MOTJIO H B TOJIOBy npnfiTH, VTO B 3TO0 6e3o6nflHO0 vepHOii nojmpoBaHHOh Tpybice, b stom hhvtokhqm pa3roBope o npHe3,ue Ha BevepHHicy, TaHJiacB Ta TaHHCTBeH— Han norHbeJifc, KOTOpan noflOCTeperaeT Hac fiance b kocthx MepTBoro kohh. And none of the people who were gathered [crowding] on the rug in the cozy little entrance hall could have imagined that in this harmless black polished [tele phone] receiver, in that trivial conversation about coming to a party, the secret ruin lay hidden that [watches over us] [lies in wait for us] even in the bones of a dead steed. (55:302, 392 PG) The description carefully contrasts superficiality with profundity: the empty vanity of the lives of free, uncon- ; templative people contrasts with the prospect of loss of freedom. The references to Pushkin ("dead steed") and to Russian Symbolism (« TaHHCTBeHHan norn6eji:b>> , "secret ruin") ■ establish the wider significance of the telephone here. In the "harmless" telephone receiver lies Innokenty's dreadful fate, "watching over" him like Greek Moirae, a fate pre determined but unfathomable (cf. "ill-fated telephone con versation" below, p. 93). The Russian Symbolists used the word « TanHCTBeHHan» deliberately to connote cosmic mys tery, the all-embracing secret force that dominates our lives. Innokenty has learned the hard way that he is not the master of his fate or his will, and that the secret force is bathetically the State Police monitoring the tele- ; phone. The reference here to Russian Symbolism foreshadows Innokenty's discovery of Russian Symbolist magazines in his mother's attic. Those magazines no doubt had significantly affected the development of Innokenty's "immortal soul." In one of the > magazines in the attic, for example, « Becsi» ("The Scales" [55:306, 398]), V. Bryusov had written an article in the first number, second issue (1904) called « Kjiiovh taSh» ("The Keys of Mystery"). Bryusov wrote that artists should forge their creations like mystical keys that open the doors for humanity to freedom from the prison of their soulless ness. Of course, concepts such as "mystic," "mystery," "freedom," "soul," and "art for art's sake" are concepts wholly alien to dialectical materialism. Innokenty's second telephone call prompts a discussion of his evolution from a typical materialistic diplomat to a thinking man with a conscience. Innokenty, like the "immor tal" zeks at Mavrino, has not only learned the limitations I of the technological rationality endorsed by Soviet dogma, but he learns to delve into the individual Self. Inno kenty 's dead mother's library had initiated him into the buried world of art, symbolist poetry, love, humane feelings pity, Kantian moral imperatives. According to the precepts of his societal conditioning, pity and conscience were negative attributes, and art should only serve the State. I Just why Innokenty transcends the boundaries of the dia lectical upbringing is probably not explicable--beyond the fact of his deep affection for his mother and her post mortem influence on him, plus his childhood memories of the good doctor. Innokenty is an unusual person who learned to think for himself. Gradually for the last several years, he has replaced his carpe diem attitude toward life with an , _ g-g^ t I idealistic sense of ethical responsibility: j r • , I PaHbme HCTHHa Hhhok6htkh 6bm a, ^;to >kh3hb [sic] naeTCH ; HaM TOJIBKO pa3 . TenepB co3peBniHM hobhm vybctbom oh omyTHJi b cede h b i MHpe HOBH0 33KOH: ^LTO H CQBeCTB TO*e flaeTCH HaM OflHH j TOJIBKO pa3 . Up to then the truth for Innokenty had been: you have only one life. Now he came to sense a new law, in himself and in the j world: you also have only one conscience. (55:307, 399) 1 This development of conscience and the performance of self- sacrificial acts for the sake of deontological principle, antithetical to everything Innokenty's society has taught him, culminates of course in his telephone call to Dobrou- I mov. This is not the sixteenth-century "conscience" (re flection) that makes cowards of us all; but rather that personal value system an individual sets for himself. A full day after having performed his noble act, Innokenty's conscience does not really help him. He now feels mostly fear, mingled with a renewed affection for his estranged wife Dotty. He sleeps with her for the first time in four months: "This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long" , (Shakespeare, "Sonnet 73"). By Monday morning when Innokenty is at his office, he has proceeded to even deeper philosophical contemplations 87 :(than in Chapter 55). Knowing that the telephone call will i result in his loss of freedom, he is forced to look into his; soul to find some feeling other than fear, to reexamine his | i inner self. He does, and in the process he begins to see ! the limitations of the Epicurean philosophy he had jocularly espoused. His self-analysis hinges on how strong is his "will," the "volition" in "Volodin"; in Chapter 78 the word "vol-" appears often. ( The first line of the chapter attempts to explain the difficult question of how Innokenty failed to respond to his societal conditioning by allowing his « bojih» to direct him: Hama c i i o c o6h o c t b k noflBHry, t o ecTB k nocTynxy, ^pe3BbnaflHOMy hjih chji eflHHHVHOro veJiOBexa, o t h s c t h co3flaeTCH Hameio BOJieft, OTvacTH JKe, b h h h m o , yjice npH po*fleHHH 3ajKmeHa hjih He 3ajio)iceHa b Hac. Our capacity for a heroic exploit, that is, an act that is extraordinary for the strength of an individ ual human being, partly is created by our will ["is partly a matter of will"— TW], and partly, it seems, is already at birth either given to us or not given to us. (78:432, 569 PG) Since this comment, which refers to Ruska Doronin as well as to Volodin, emphasizes the importance of genetic and spiri tual factors in human behavior, it constitutes a criticism of official Soviet dogma, which stresses the preeminence of environmental conditioning. Men like Bobynin, Nerzhin, and 88 Gerasimovich, as well as Innokenty, are solid examples of the power of the individual "will" not countenanced by Soviet philosophy. Innokenty, however, vacillates; he is wracked by con tradictory emotions so violent that he would not have called had he predicted them: 1 Kor.ua oh 3bohhji, oh «aace h npeflCTaBHTb cede He Mor, vto Tax BbipacTeT b HeM,.VTO Tax eyflex pa3opHTt> h BsmcHraTB ero CTpax. (fla hh 3a vto 6m oh h He 3bohhji, ecjiH 6h npeflBHfleJi!) . When he made that call, he could not have imagined how fear could so grow in him, how it could so tear him apart and burn him out. (Not for anything would he have called if he had imagined!) (78:432, 570 PG) He is surprised that he feels defeated inside. He feels, however, considerably worse when his secretary, refusing to let him see his boss, tells him his trip to Paris has been cancelled. Now Volodin contemplates suicide and is unable to decide whether he is sorry or not that he telephoned Dobroumov, his will has been so weakened: He t o, vto He jicajieji, — a y Hero He ocTaBajrocb bojth scajieTb hjih He JxajieTt. It wasn't that he regretted it— [but that] he did not have the will left either to regret or not to re gret. (78:433, 571 PG) He is so exhausted by his psychological confusion that he sleeps until tea-break; his telephone pointedly « He 33.3bohhji hh pa3y» (78:433, 571). After lunch when the telephone does ring, it is merely his wife asking him to go to the theatre tonight; he gladly accepts to escape from his fears. His spirits are lifted, « IIocTerieHHO tokh bojih B03Bpaiqa-nHCB b Hhhok6hthh » ("Gradu ally his will was returning to him." [Omits the implicit metaphor— will is like electric current, « tokh bojih» (78: 434, 573 PG)]). He begins to think critically about the teachings of Epicurus, which he had not fully understood before the spectre of losing his freedom had loomed over him. He sees that he can reject Epicurus' attack on faith in immortality because subjects of the Soviet state are not allowed to live through their natural life span, thus to develop "wisdom." He realizes that to have given up his life at thirty because he did a good and just deed makes a mockery of Epicurean platitudes about the satisfaction of living a full life, that to justify martyring himself he must look beyond strictly opportunistic motivations. He realizes that great, noble acts must draw for their inspira tion from some irrational faith in "higher" principles. Solzhenitsyn thus treats one of the classic literary themes, the individual in conflict with the state; the theme is a classic philosophical one if the individual commits an idealistic but self-sacrificial act. The individual must ask, to what ultimate standard of values does one appeal if one acts in an idealistic but self-sacrificial way? Reli gion? Belief in immortality? Faith in a Categorical Imper ative? "Conscience"? Or merely genetic predisposition? There are many possible answers suggested in the novel; which is "right" is not as important as the observation of the limitations of materialistic Soviet dogma. Innokenty next suddenly realizes the selfish implica- r tions of Epicurus' teachings to avoid participation in pub lic life: « . . . . . . . Kax Jierxo ! OHJioco^cTBOBaTfc. B Carty.. . . » i (". . . how easy! To philosophize. In gardens..." [7 8:435, 574 PG]). Of course, he sees as in an epiphany, one avoids all harm to oneself if one wanders easily in pretty, tame gardens and never sacrifices oneself for a principle such as Love or justice. « Hy, HeT! Hy, HeT!» (78:435, 574). Innokenty rejects the self-serving limitations of Epicurus and, by implication, the self-satisfying but limited defi nitions of intellectual types (as Nerzhin discusses the virtues of the "natural man" vs. the "civilized man" in Chapter 62). Having debated about making a telephone call, and then having made one, Innokenty has become a philoso pher. The steel chain of the telephone is the metaphor for 91 | ! the chains that will lead him to prison. But the imprison- j ! I ment of his body, as of Bobynin, Nerzhin, and Gerasimovich, ' does not mean the imprisonment of his soul. He has been i reborn a new man. The last lines of this chapter indicate i that, in the two days since his telephone call, although Innokenty has fully evolved as a thinking person, time it self continues its inexorable, circular path: KpyaceBHHie CTpejiKH GpoH30B£jx vacoB noKa3HBajra 6e3 hhth ■qieTbipe. CMepKajiocb. The [lacy] [fretwork] hands of the bronze clock pointed to five of four. It was getting dark outside. (78:435, 574) The sentence echoes the book's first line, « KpyuceBHHie cTpeJiKii noKa3biBajiH naTb MHHyT naToro.» Is there a hint that, despite all such heroic acts of will, life is in fact just a circle, with no progress in any particular direction? The ironic perspective must be suspected throughout Solzhe nitsyn's work. At about the same time that Innokenty notices it is getting dark, on Monday, Oskolupov visits Room 21 at the Mavrino sharashka and demands the results of Rubin's work. When Rubin says he cannot tell which of two men made the call (Schevronok or Volodin), the impatient Oskolupov orders the arrest of both men (Chapter 80). Rubin rationalizes his dismay at this injustice by consoling himself that his efforts have at least saved three men from being arrested. Only a couple of hours after Oskolupov's order, « sa3- | bohhji TeJie<J>OH» ("the telephone rang" [82:458, 604]) at i Innokenty's apartment while he and Dotty prepare to go to the theatre. He knows that the telephone is a harbinger of doom and instinctively compares himself to a dog wary of a hedgehog. But both Dotty and Innokenty are vainly fooled by the trick of the Comrade General's calling and politely I asking that Innokenty leave immediately to coordinate de tails for his Paris trip. The telephone has signalled the beginning and the end of Innokenty's life. And now, like Agamemnon proudly walking down the purple carpet, Innokenty prepares to leave. His fears Vanishing after he « itojiojkhji Tpy6Ky» , he gleefully chats about his Paris trip, telling Dotty he will ring her up from the ministry to inform her of what is going on. But Innokenty has used a telephone for the last time; the simple freedom of dialing his wife will soon seem to be an unattainable dream. For the ride takes him not to the Ministry, but to the Lubyanka prison, where he will be kept "forever." Once Innokenty is sitting inside a windowless cell, he loses his fear and tries to analyze his situation. The possibility occurs to him that his arrest may be a mistake having noth ing to do «C 3THM 3JIOnOJiyMHHM TeJie<l>OHHJbJM pa3rOBOpOM» ("with that ill-fated telephone conversation" [82:464, 612 PG]). He then despairs that he had not protested his innocence i when arrested. His mind is clutching at straws; he is re sponding to the arrest system as if it were rational and human. But he soon feels defeated again, realizing that a deliberate attempt is being made to break his will: I . . . BCH B COBOKynHOCTH MeTOflH^eCKaH OKOJIH^IHOCTb npoiieflyptj Ha^HCTo cnaMJiHBajia bojieo B3HToro apecTaHTa. ! . . . in total, the whole methodically planned effect of this procedure was to break the prisoner's will com pletely. (83:469, 619 PG) The illusory sense of self-importance felt by free people whose lives are banal is finally destroyed when, Samson- like, Innokenty's locks are shorn. Innokenty had once been proud, self-confident, and blase to the allure of great cities. Now he is a mere human animal, frail and naked. Without our vanity, what are we? He begins to feel as in different as a man dying by freezing. But Innokenty's spirits rally; his condition inspires him to pursue the philosophical critique of Epicurus which he began earlier. Confronted with the concrete reality of a windowless box, Innokenty realizes that Epicurus' dicta ! 94 about not fearing physical suffering are merely platitudes. I He further rejects Epicurus' attack on immortality by re jecting attainable pleasures as the standard of all value. He realizes that he had experienced all the materialistic pleasures available in a modern technological society and was not "satisfied" (as Epicurus claimed a non-greedy person should be)— but would rather have thrown all those pleasures « b npencnoflHJOio 3a OfiHy t o j i b k o cnpaBeflJiHBOCTb» ("into the nether world for justice and truth... and nothing more" [84: 478, 630]). Abstractions such as truth and justice had not perturbed the calm of Innokenty"s pleasure-filled life until t I a few years ago. A small black device called a telephone was the catalyst for his concrete confrontation with such abstractions. By 8:00 Tuesday morning, after Innokenty"s first full night in prison, he finally understands the cri tique of a last remaining thread of Epicureanism, the idea that inner feelings of satisfaction and dissatisfaction are the highest criteria of good and evil. He perceives now clearly that such a philosophy justifies Stalin's enjoyment of killing. Since the moment two days ago when he made an emotional telephone call, at the price of his freedom for life, Innokenty has become a philosopher: C BtJCOTH 6 0PB. 6H H CTpaflaHHH, Kyfla OH B03HeCCH, MyflpocTk BejiHKoro $HJioco<l>a flpeBHOCTH Ka3ajiacB ueneTOM pe6eHKa. From those heights of struggle and suffering to which he had been lifted, the wisdom of the ancient l philosopher seemed like the babbling of a child. ; (84:488, 643) j During the night, Innokenty has philosophized about other matters besides Epicureanism, primarily the Ethical j i i Imperative that is one of the novel's main themes. In one of the many "boxes," Innokenty again vacillates about the i I I ultimate ethical value of his telephone call. Was it noble : or merely foolish? Who is to decide? If perpetrators of i acts that could be defined by a Categorical Imperative as i > "great," "good," were to spend their lives entombed in pri- , sons, by what standard are these acts judged great? Tejie$OHHtaft 3Bohok, etqe no3aBvepa xa3aBWHficH eMy BeJiHKO- HyuiHHM nocTynxoM, ceftvac hcho npeflCTaBJiHJicn HeobttyMaH- hum , 6ecxiera>HfcOM caMoybHftCTBOM. The telephone call, which only the day before had im pressed him as a noble gesture, now seemed as rash and futile as suicide. (84:481, 633-34) Since the doctor whom Innokenty had tried to help will also be arrested, even the implication of a Christian-type mar tyrdom that, redeems mankind is suspect; Innokenty has failed to save the man he tried to save. The system that has engulfed him is mechanized with such efficient use of , 96 ( I ! i 'electrical technology that no one will ever know of his j » ' l great deed, or even of his existence. Innokenty's agonizing| i over his telephone call has brought him back to the central j » philosophical problem that has confronted the Soviet state | since its inception. Can a society dedicated to wholly j secular aims flourish? And if it can flourish, what is the i i aim of its so doing? The Russian word for "magnanimous" ("generous," "noble") means "great soul" (as is the Eng lish) : « BejiHKOflyuiHHfi» . Where then is there place for a person with a soul in a society theoretically dedicated to technological "progress," without official recognition of I spiritual needs? Yakonov (and all those pursuing "power"), of course, decided that self-sacrifice was a sign of stu pidity, that intelligence is defined as keeping out of ! prison (see above, p. 44). Innokenty, Nerzhin, and Gera simovich are examples of alternatives to this form of prag matism. Innokenty's agonizing search for a definition of his self-identity, which was begun on the novel's first page with the chapter heading « A kto bu xaKO&» ("And Who Are You?") is culminated in the prison when a sympathetic guard asks him: « Th xeM btui?» ("Who were you?" [84:484, 639]). The past tense frightens Innokenty, who thereby realizes 971 that the outer identity of his life as diplomat, state j I counselor, traveler, husband, has been annihilated in a few | i \ hours of prison. The human being that was perceived by his society no longer exists; like an Invisible Man, he must i find some Socratic knowledge of himself in order to survive I I from now on. ! i i i t The specific material discussed in Part I has broad literary, philosophical, and political implications. In I summary, Part I shows concretely how the technoscape func tions in an integral way in the artistry of The First Circle. The telephone and telephonic laboratories, for example, con- tribute uniquely to the structure and style, and provide the background and setting for the development of the main j themes of the novel. These themes are universal in litera- < ture; the contemporary novelist incorporates the technoscape unselfconsciously as he expresses the range of human passion and profundity. The telephone relates in important ways to 1 the novel's theme of man's primeval urge to gain control over others. Technology is usually abused to oppress others in this "power set-up." The research laboratories, however, also paradoxically provide the occasion to show the exist 98 ence of men who are not driven by the pursuit of power, despite the obvious fact of the novel's story— that the power-hungry succeed and the idealistic are doomed. This :contrast between the redeemable in man and the corrupt is often expressed as the contrast between the infinite possi bilities of the human soul and the limitedness of the tech nology he produces to better himself. People may use the telephone, for example, as a weapon to thwart communication .and arrest honest citizens; yet men like Innokenty are still I miraculously capable of performing the absolute good. Furthermore, themes expressed in relation to telephones are similarly developed elsewhere in the novel, often in relation to other technologies. People like Nerzhin and Innokenty, for example, who perform ethically good acts that result in their own destruction must appeal to an intangible "conscience." One cannot, however, refer to "spiritual superiority" or appeal to standards of value that are "higher" than material standards without suggesting that there is some other way of viewing life than that sanctioned by what Harvey Cox would call a thoroughly secular mode de vie. The phrase Professor Chelnov borrows from Pierre Bezukhov (and that Tolstoy borrowed from tradition), "immor tal soul," suggests, of course, that mortality is not the final answer. Indeed, implicit throughout the novel, and loften explicit, is criticism of the viability of dialectical materialism, with its aesthetic assumptions. Nerzhin, when he visits with his wife on his own birthday, by no thematic coincidence Christmas Day, reminds her that many great scientists and philosophers have believed in God, such as Pascal, Newton, and Einstein (Chapter 37). D. Atkinson (p. 8) discusses how Gleb Nerzhin represents a saint (like Saint Gleb) in the tradition of Russian hagiography. Also, > ;C. Moody points out that disinterested goodness and con- 'science are linked in Solzhenitsyn with Christianity; I "morality is indeed a religious matter" (p. 110). Further more, after Yakonov is berated by Abakumov early Christmas morning, he wanders in depression to the ruins of an old Moscow church. As he watches the sun rise on Christmas Day, he dimly wonders if the destruction of the Church has been replaced by anything really superior and more progressive (Chapter 23). The telephone perhaps? When Innokenty is searching his soul for some answers not provided by his society's Weltanschauung, he realizes that the essence of the human soul is something superior to man's capability of scientific and technological achievement: « Tax h cyTH 3KH3HH HeJIb3H OXBaTHTB CaMUMH BeJIHKHMH $OPMyjiaMH» ("the "Too^ essence of life will never be captured by even the greatest j : formulas" [55:306, 399]). j Whereas in Soviet society technological and industrial j t 1 ‘ development is considered to be progress, in the novel, j I technological "advancements" are used as weapons of oppres- ' sion or as symbols of status (only the elite have private automobiles and telephones). Technology, then, has not resulted in any moral advances, but rather in the more effective domination by the unscrupulous. The novel devel- ' ops the Tolstoyan theme that simple human virtues are more precious than a way of life that .glorifies technological progress and the ethic that ends justify means. Edward Brown discusses how Rubin's willingness to identify Inno- ,kenty's voice stems from his belief in the Communist atti tude that ends justify means; Rubin's natural human feeling, his sympathy for helpless victims i of the terror like himself, is smothered by what he calls the "dialectic of history," whose perverse logic frus trates every clear thought, and any human impulse. . . . Rubin is impaled on the triple prong of a syllogism: USSR=Progress; Police=USSR; .*. Police=Human Progress. , But in that syllogism the major premise, the minor prem- i ise, and the conclusion all are false.1 Pp. 165-66. One of many other works stressing Sol zhenitsyn's theme of rejection of Communist philosophy is Alan J. Whitehorn's "What Men Live by: An Analysis of Sol- ;zhenitsyn's Writings," Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 101' There are, in fact, some bitter arguments in the novel over f , | the philosophy of dialectical materialism, e.g., between Sologdin and Rubin on Christmas night (Chapter 64). Earlier jthat evening Nerzhin had argued to Rubin the limitations of ■ a materialist view of human "progress" by saying: — Ha ^epTa MHe nporpecc! JicicyccTBO MHe TeM h HpaBHTCH, mto b HeM He Mo»eT 6htb HHKaKoro « nporpecca» . "The hell with progress. I like art because there can't be any 'progress' in it." (53:290, 377) The use of the telephone as discussed above in Chapter II, Section 2, shows what kind of "progress" the telephone rep- ! resents. As in the Invisible Man, the essentially superior ! qualities of mankind cannot be expressed solely by reference to his civilized achievements which usually represent his technology. To underscore his point, Nerzhin defines what is virtuous and good about Spiridon, the simple janitor who, without the benefits of civilization, displays the highest human qualities: HecMOTpn Ha yjicacaiomee HeBexcecTBO h 6ecrioHHTHocT& CnHpHflOHa EropoBa b OTHouieHHH bhjcwhx nopo>KfleHHii *iejio- Be^ecKoro flyxa h o6mecTBa — OT-mmajiHCB paBHOMepHOfi Tpe3BocTBK ero sefiiCTBHs h pemeHHH. 2-3 (1971), 235-42. Whitehorn discusses Solzhenitsyn's emphasis upon individual love, values, and rights and his rejection of "'scientific socialism.'" : -------------------------------------------------------------- ro'2] i i. Despite Spiridon Yegorov's shocking ignorance of the highest attainments of man and society, his behavior | was distinguished by a steady sobriety. (62:352, 461) ! I The artistic treatment of the technoscape in The First ' Circle reflects and often results in the affirmation of human value. I P A R T I I RALPH ELLISON'S INVISIBLE MAN Electric circuitry has overthrown the regime of "time" and "space" and pours upon us instantly and continuously the concerns of all other men. It has reconstituted a dialogue on a global scale. Its message is total change, ending psychic, so cial, economic, and political parochialism. The old civic, state, and national groupings have become unworkable. Nothing can be further from the spirit of the new technology than "a place for everything and everything in its place." You can't go home again. — McLuhan and Fiore, The Medium Is the Message, p. 16. 103 CHAPTER IV ELECTRICITY AND THE PAINT MACHINE In Invisible Man, the emphasis on the individual is expressed by a contrast similar to that in The First Circle, the contrast between men who pursue power and those who instead seek introspective values. The novel is set in a i I highly technological environment; most of it takes place in' i I New York City. The protagonist's character is forged by a i I series of confrontations with electricity and electrical i machines in the first half of the novel. These confronta tions are high points in his journey through initiation, but the novel is filled with less emphatic references to the technoscape, a technoscape that significantly affects the narrator's character and destiny. The technoscape is in tegrally related to the novel's main themes and motifs, such as the narrator's search for self-identity; the contrast between light and dark, truth and ignorance; and criticism of the ideal of material and technological progress. 104 105i I l I The electric lights in the "Prologue" and the power plant in several chapters show how electricity represents I 'different aspects of the power theme throughout the novel. | I ■In the Prologue, the Invisible Man shows how he has learned I from all the negative experiences with electrical power to i I use electrical power for an illumination, a confirmation, of| the power of his own individual identity. He further sees light as truth. The power plant in the novel provides the background symbolism that electrical technology has through-1 I out the book. It is the mysterious force behind the entire urban experience. More importantly, it shows how, on the one hand, there are men who use technological power as a means of controlling others; but on the other hand, there are those, like the Invisible Man, who pursue instead intro-j spective realms of power. The same dual theme is expressed in each of three inci-' I r dents where the Invisible Man confronts technology that is turned against him as weaponry; the electric rug, the paint machine, the ECT machine. For the protagonist, these at- j tacks upon him become stages in a mythical Initiation— his baptism, his Trial by Fire, his symbolical death, his r 106 | rebirth as a new identity.1 These external confrontations an the first half of the novel are balanced in the second half by a series of inner conflicts. i ; 1. Images of Power ; The Prologue: 1,369 lights : j Electricity is essential to the development of both the theme and the style of the Prologue. Electric lights sym bolize both "power" and "truth" in the narrator's search for: self-perception. Electrically produced sound also helps to define his identity. A young man who is groping for a sense' of individual identity engages in a modern technological version of archetypal sun-worship, with electric light re placing natural light. The electric lights also serve as the traditional symbol of enlightenment, "like Dante's 1Ellison himself mentions (in "That Same Pain, That Same Pleasure," Shadow and Act, p. 18) his fascination with myth, admitting that he was reading Lord Raglan's The Hero during the early stages of composition of Invisible Man. Other discussions of the broad role of myth and ritual in the novel are found in Ellin Horowitz, "The Rebirth of the Artist," in Reilly, Collection, pp. 80-88; and Barbara Christian, "Ralph Ellison: A Critical Study," in Black Expression, ed. Addison Gayle, Jr. (New York; Weybright and Tally, 1969) , pp. 353-65. John M. Stark, in "Invisible Man: Ellison's Black Odyssey," Negro American Literature Forum, 7 (1973), 60-63, shows correspondences between the Invisible Man and Odysseus. 2 travail to the blinding light of knowledge." Ellison com- t ments on how the novel develops the meanings which blackness and light have long had in Western mythology: evil and goodness, ignorance and , knowledge, and so on. In my novel the narrator's de velopment is one through blackness to light; that is, from ignorance to enlightenment: invisibility to visi bility . 3 ~ The Prologue takes place after the end of the story; the experience of the novel is assumed. The narrator ex plains that he is in rebellion against the established order, the establishment's crime being that it did not recognize him as an individual. The narrator's method of i rebellion is an_apt metaphor: he illegally taps the Monopo- lated Light and Power Company's electrical power line that leads into an old building. He lives underground, in a forgotten section of the basement that was shut off during the nineteenth century, where literally no one knows he is. The metaphor is apt because the twentieth-century city is what it is by virtue of its electricity, as New York City discovered on November 9, 1965, during the great power 2 Floyd Ross Horowitz, "Ralph Ellison's Modern Version of Brer Bear and' Brer Rabbit in Invisible Man," in Reilly, Collection, p. 32. 3 "The Art of Fiction: An Interview," in Shadow and Act, p. 173. 108 blackout. The Electrical Company does indeed have a "Monop- ! oly" of a sort over "Power,” but the narrator has cleverly amassed for himself all the "power" he wants. It is even more to his credit as anti-establishmentarian that he is ! .getting this power free of cost. He even makes a point of using more expensive filament bulbs instead of cheaper fluorescent ones, more effectively 15© sabotage the urban i 1 Monopoly. The Company cannot find out where the power is ! i being drained off, because its only way of monitoring the ! ' i use of power is a "master meter back there in their power 4 station" (pp. 8-9) — an inanimate machine that records i amounts but does not have a discriminating mind for locating people. Of course all those 1,36 9 light bulbs are not of very much practical use to the narrator. On the literal level, he explains that he can get away with the theft because, i being racially a Negro, he is not noticed by Caucasians,,. Besides the implication of social irrelevance is the impli cation that dark skin blends in with the sooty cityscape, ! which lacks sunlight. Most obviously, a black Negro is 4 This and all subsequent references to this novel are from Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (1952; rpt. Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1970). 109 invisible in a black coal cellar. The coal cellar by itself 5 had the potential for "a source of heat, light, power," but only electricity could utilize that potential. Alone in the I coal cellar in the Epilogue, the Invisible Man resorted ! first to primitive fire to define his identity; "his en- t J j 'lightenment couldn't come" until he burned the papers that : l represented previous illusions and authority figures (Elli- j son, "Art of Fiction," p. 17*6) . Then in the Prologue, the narrator enjoys light bulbs (needs, desires, loves them) because they convince him of his own existence— by their contrast of color: "Light confirms my reality, gives birth j ♦ to my form" (p. 1 0). i Hence the narrator quickly moves to the explanation of * the metaphorical level of his preoccupation with electric light bulbs. First he claims that his room is not only warm, but "brighter" than Broadway or the Empire State i 1 Building. Then he explains that it is not difficult to be 4- t tbu-s-- brighter because morally (he implies) those are "dark" spots. Here he gets involved in one of the book's most complex themes— the moral interchangeability of black and white. The complexity of many of the novel's motifs, such 5 Ellison, "Change the Joke and Slip the Yoke," Shadow and Act, p. 57. 110 ! as the color contrasts, often defies literal explication, as in impressionistic and surrealistic writing. 6 The narra- i tor's skin color is dark; yet the color dark often signifies the negative and at other times the positive. The meaning , i i of the color white vacillates., similarly. The protagonist is ■ ■just using the term "dark" here with its cliche moral mean- : : i ing, to convey that Broadway is something morally negative j because it maintains its existence by spawning artificial ity. Because Broadway breeds role players, and the narrator has expended his energies in this novel casting off roles, Broadway and all its electrical neon light glitter is a spot I "among the darkest of our whole civilization" (p. 9). In cluded is the Empire State Building, which, lit up dramati- i cally with, no doubt, tens of thousands of bulbs, represents] I business enterprise and urban impersonal living at their worst. To the narrator, it is a dark blight, for the ex- i periences he writes about in his novel disclose that he has learned in buildings like the Empire State about the nega tive aspects of apparent wealth and success, "I can now see j 6For a general discussion of the "symbolism of vision: light, color, perception, sight, and insight" and "the dual ism of black and white," see Charles I. Glicksberg, "The Symbolism of Vision," in Reilly, Collection, pp. 4 8-5 5. the darkness of lightness" (p. Iff) . But he is using both words in a double sense here, since he explains how "I love ' V light" (pp.,— £-=4-0) , because it "confirms" his reality. He t / has developed a personal dependence upon light because he i feels "f^rHi4 e^S'7J' ! ~“ l-'~'ew "invisible," without it. The electrical lights also provide form and meaning for the narrator because of the archetypal^ synonymity of "light"1 with "truth"; the narrator gu<rte^'^h^"’ %IJ ass‘ ic^lr’ ' S“ t'a't'emeTrt, n ! |"The truth is the light and the light is truth" (p. M) . By: . - * f \ ( X V ' . | metaphorically shining a spotlight on the Negro's existence in the coal cellar, the narrator forces his readers to I recognize the sociological "truth" about Negroes. But again, this interpretation of the meaning of the 1,369 lights is only literal. The <jaotif that light is truth re- * ( s . curs throughout the novel in complex m&taptharieal ways. For ( f t - * ■ , c - * % example, one of the moments of epiphany for the narrator * ... ' (th^cl^c.he.._.f-lashing ~of 'the-d-ight bulb) is when (Chapter—23) . he sees the words above Rinehart's pulpit: "Let there be M I light!" (p. 4-0-01. The narrator perceives that the cynicism j of Rihehart's role playing is one of the most successful ways to\urvive, but the narrator rejects it and its peiL-’ ^ | 1 cfidiQus(implications. That a dope-peddler can be also a preacher telling the truth of God's "light" shows the i J J 2 1 i narrator that he has been ! ; a fool. I must have been crazy and blind. The world in which we lived was without boundaries. . . . Per haps the truth was always a lie. (p. 40-ii And, of course, wave-like light itself is without boundaries1 * ' i (±jQ_-t.he naked-^eye) . The narrator perceives that "all boun- I daries down, freedom was not only the recognition of neces- ' sity, it was the recognition of possibility" (p. A r f r L ) . He finds himself in the dark hole of unlimited possibility, , ; | 'sart-re ' ls ultima:te'''exi~stential " ^freedom. " ^He also perceives i the danger of seeing too much ^ li'ke''''DbStoe'vsky-, -3~'Hnde'rg-rohnd: ^ o ^ _ _ _ f.h a .t « c j i h i h k o m c o S l S a B a T S y " o t o " 6 b 3 T e ''3 H i > » 1 ("to be too conscd.mis*-4rs—an— i-lln^SR",Vf In the Prologue, which takes place after the main action of the novel is completed, "light," the electrical kind that the narrator himself can turn on and turn off, has given the narrator a meaning for his existence that no other experience could: "I've illuminated the blackness of my invisibility— and vice versa" (p. . The "vice-versa" gives the clue to the I several levels of ambiguity in his phrase. In the Epilogue,1 the narrator explains that the "true darkness lies within my own mind" (p. ^66); hence, by illuminating his room he is emerging from a mythical heart of darkness. , rl3 i « ; That light "defines" the form and reality of the pro- j tagonist is especially understandable considering the terri-j fying experiences involving lack of light that he has under-! i gone. The electrical light images in the Prologue refer to I another important pattern of imagery that helps to impart unity to the novel. The narrator's first bad experience I i with lack of light was when he was blindfolded and forced i to fight in the battle royal. Being blindfolded, he says he1 i I"felt a sudden fit of blind terror. I was unused to dark- ! i ness. . . . I had no dignity" (pp. 2-2-r - 2 - 3 - ) . If lack of light so humiliated him, then his 1,369 light bulbs are a compensation giving birth and reality to his formA^ When he was hit so hard that his blindfold shifted a bit, he felt .less terror "and with my eye partly opened now there was not- C~’ so much terror" (p. 23) . This passage presages' the terrify-. ■ s w . * ing experience of darkness at the end in the hole, and the ; O y V l € , C \ C ' A me-ba^itrfical darkness of his not knowing who he is and why. Of course the experiences of greatestr "blindness" xia-tarlyzre his wisest visions; for example, he is "blindfolded" in the battle royal, and is functionally blind in the black hole at \ the end^cf. p. 401, "I must have been blind"). , The Invisible Man makes "blindness" (^a-s»«,i^noxan„Ge-) a figure of speech several times in the novel. In Chapter 2, t TOT he mentions how the campus undergraduates were swathed in illusions about their founders, white and black: the stu dents marched to church, "minds laced up, eyes blind like those of robots to visitors and officials" (p%3"3“ ) Moments I later he ponders, while contemplating the bronze statue of the founder lifting a veil from a slave's eyes, "Whether I am witnessing a revelation or a more efficient blinding" In Chapter 9, Mr. Emerson, Jr. warns the Invisible Man 1 L ^ ' that ambition can be blinding: "'The only trouble with ambition is that it sometimes blinds one to realities'" % (p. 151) He means the Invisible Man had failed to observe that his seven letters had not helped him. In his "blind ing" zeal to be successful in the big city, he had neither questioned his expulsion by Bledsoe nor tried to read the letters. After Mr. Emerson, Jr., in a fit of compassion, i has allowed the Invisible Man to read Bledsoe's letters, he ; gives advice to the Invisible Man, using the cliche of blindness: "'There is no point in blinding yourself to the | of the novel tries to overcome his blindness, finally re assuring himself of his sight and insight with 1,36 9 lights. Much later, after his inspired lecture to an auditorium (p. 34) truth'" Invisible Man, of course, in the rest; 115 ; I j of Harlem Negroes, the narrator has some insight into how j 1 I great his potential is and indirectly thanks Bledsoe and i I Norton: ; I thought of Bledsoe and Norton and what they had done. By kicking me into the dark they'd made me see the pos sibility of achieving something greater and more impor tant than I'd ever dreamed. Here was a way that didn't lead through the back door, a way not limited by black j and white . . . ( ) j i The recurring imagery of lightness (usually electrically produced light) and darkness is a unifying device in the nove1. In addition to using electricity to provide light, the protagonist uses it to provide sound, also as a means of identifying his self. sHe punningly places himself in the I — \ tradition of "great American tinkers" (p. 107), for he wants, to create all kinds of gadgets electrically powered. To I start with, he wants five phonographs to play simultaneously' I so that he can immerse himself in sound as he has in light.J For several pages he shows the relationship between invisi bility and visible things and invisibility and audible things: his electric power also taps the audible region of sensory experience, thus further confirming the reality of his invisibility. The narrator, obviously- musioal-ly” t ' a ' l - * " ' enbed> expands his sense of reality 116 Hi H his responses; he feels sound "with my whole body" -ll-l—■ and to a certain extent he sees it: That night I found myself hearing not only in time, but in space as well. I not only entered the music but descended, like Dante, into its depths. (£L~~--Ai) f j y y y These are the depths of Self, which become perceptible through the music— $o 1 zherii±,s.yn.!s inferno. The narrator proceeds to tell of a dream vision inspired by his hearing a record of Louis 'Armstrong. The dream probes i^-a.HEaudk-Het'£an way -the com plex ambiguities of the American context of black and white races. The narrator points out that, just as electric light helps him see the visibility of his invisibility, so does the electricity powering the phonograph (pius— some^niarir- Ins juana)' help him hear the inaudible. To the—K-ea’ t'sian meaning is added the metaphysical meaning of his whole invisibility^, ^identity^black/white^dark/iight multi-theme: "The unheard sounds came through, and each melodic line existed of it self" (p. The music is comforting to him because it, I like him, is not visible: "It was a strangely satisfying experience for an invisible man to hear the silence of # \ sound" (p. iSj.^JFrom the musician's standpoint, however, he feels that music is visible; i-~s_,.._,_„cxLl-y-.the--'-i-n±tl"ate'd 'can see- it :- Music is . . . seldom seen, except by musicians. Could this compulsion to put invisibility down in black and white be thus an urge to make music of invisibility? (p. 15) Now he makes a pun on "black and white," a cliche here for writing words on paper as well as a reference to the racial concerns of the novel. Obviously one could have an orches tra instead of technology's record player; but the point is | that the narrator can turn on and off this "music" or any ; , "sound" he wishes, at his own will, i.e.-, by his own power. , ! n -' - f \ . fr-A •- ^ In summary, in 'th^^iro-Logue, electricity has provided \ the narrator with the power to define his existence in sev eral dimensions. Electric light functions thematically in two ways, as "power" and as "truth." By siphoning off some i power from Monopolated Light and Power Company, the narrator, i ! controls to a certain extent his own identity, which is defined partly by the blazing electric lights. This light is shown to aid further in establishing the narrator's identity by symbolizing truth. In addition to functioning V jv as theme, this contrast between light and dark provides j ^ •rrs, f c ^ 1 imaqistic texture throughout the novel. Finally, electri city is also used to establish the narrator's identity in the dimension of sound. The power plant i The power plant is an unobtrusive but meaningful symbol that occurs several times in the novel. On one level, it symbolizes fundamental, mysterious forces. On another level, its function is similar to that of technology in The First Circle; it is a symbol of a "power set-up," yet a catalyst for the triumph of individual will. In Chapter 2, the power plant symbolizes two fundamen tal, mysterious forces: simmering Negro rebellion and powerful sexual instincts. In the first paragraph of the Invisible Man's first recollected description of the college campus, he mentions the powerhouse. From his dark hole, the narrator remembers the bucolic and lovely about the campus ("honeysuckle and purple wisteria" [p. 32]). In his mind he retraces a campus road which parallels "the black powerhouse with its engines droning earth-shaking rhythms in the dark, l its windows red from the glow of the furnace . . ." (p. 32). Pastoral images of rustic logs and southern verandas follow. But the powerhouse, which channels the mysterious forces of heat and electricity, stands by as a viable constant force: it is black; its windows burn like fiery eyes; its engines do not quit as they churn in "earth-shaking rhythms" (as most of the electricity Invisible Man comes in contact with i 119 » i j i s indeed "earth-shaking" for him). The bucolic scene is i interrupted by these mysterious, fundamental rhythms sym bolic of the heart of darkness pulsating beneath Bledsoe's sterile fagade of docile Negro administrators and students. : i Likewise, the Invisible Man represents the earth-shaking ; rebellion that is smouldering beneath the outwardly disci plined and docile appearance of his race at the time. • ! The next reference to the power plant is Trueblood's 1 simile at the peak of his narration to Norton (in Chapter 2) about his incestuous night: 1 I I I "At first I couldn't git the door open, it had some kinda ! ! crinkly stuff like steel wool on the facing. But I gits ! it open and gits inside and it's hot and dark in there. I goes up a dark tunnel, up near where the machinery is making all that noise and heat. It's like the power ; plant they got up to the school. It's burnin' hot as ■ iffen the house was caught on fire, and I starts to run- | nin' tryin' to git out." (p. 52) I I The comparison of the vagina to the power plant brings a 1 I technological dimension to the mythical elements in this 7 modern tale of incest. It is the energy of this machinery 7 The idea that fate is a machine is mythical; the in cestuous implications of fate (as biological destiny) are Oedipal. Linking technology with fate is modern. Jean Cocteau, in the Prologue of his play La Machine infernale (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1934), describes the combination of incest and mechanized fate in a sentence that could apply to Invisible Man: "Regarde, spectateur, remontee a bloc, de telle sorte que le ressort se deroule avec lenteur tout le 120: I ; i that has swept in Trueblood, and that now transfixes Norton,| i to the ultimate ruin of the Invisible Man. He will not ' i forget it; the power plant symbolizes that which is pro- j ! i ductive, which has much potential for misuse as well as : proper use, which generates earth-shaking mysteries. True- ; blood's simile foreshadows in a subtle way the novel's I criticism of technological parameters for "progress": "True-blood," the ignorant, earthy, primitive, backward peasant type, reminiscent of old man Jefferson in Ellison's "Flying Home" and of Spiridon in The First Circle, lived out' : i } and faced his sexual, primal instincts. Norton, symbol of i the type of white men who produced the technological "ad vancements" (like the power plant) of his culture, repressed his incestuous instincts and ultimately perverted them into j hypocritical, self-serving charity. In Chapter 5, the power plant symbolizes the abuse of technology. On the one hand, men would like to claim that technological advancement is "progress"; on the other hand, "progress" often means a more effective way of harnessing technology in the "power set-up." The Invisible Man learns long d'une vie humaine, une des plus parfaites machines construites par les dieux infernaux pour 1'aneantissement mathematique d'un mortel" (p. 15). i a crucial lesson about "power" from Dr. Bledsoe. j The young student is sitting in the campus chapel, deeply worried about his whole future because of the day's disasters with Mr. Norton (taking him to the Golden Day). The mood in the scene describing the chapel emphasizes all j that was Eden-like about the campus— from its soft lights ! i to its powerful vision of the Negro's triumph over slavery (with the help of the all-beneficent white man). Homer 1 Barbee's emotion-charged recollections of the Magnificent Founder raise even more poignantly in the Invisible Man's mind what great destiny he would lose if he had to leave I this place, the only significant channel for Negro talent in the country. At the climax of Barbee's narrative about the Founder's death, at the moment of evocation of the Founder's burial, "'back to the cold black clay . . . mother . . . of us all'" (p. Ill), the student can hear the power plant: i "As Barbee paused the silence was so complete that I could hear the power engines far across the campus throbbing the night like an excited pulse" (p. Ill). Not only is the j power plant the source of fundamental energy for the campus, and the symbol of fertility (and doom), it is now the very heart of the campus: throbbing away with some overwhelming but still incomprehensible power, echoing the Invisible 1221 Man's own racing pulse in his fear for his future. The Invisible Man does not attempt to explain this obtrusion; he only recognizes that it must mean something fundamental. It1 i functions like the technological equivalent of the "Bourn, j I Bourn" of the Marabar caves in Forster's Passage to India. I The Invisible Man is drawn to the power plant, as if he I ! i i subconsciously feels that his real destiny lies not with the j bucolic "lilac, honeysuckle, and verbena" (p. 92) of this jivory tower, but in the depths of the big city, where the power plant of technology sets the mood and generates life. : Barbee himself refers to the power plant as the true ! i symbol of the black man's triumph over primitivism. He sounds like a civil engineer as he tries to prove that the Founder's dreams have been fulfilled because we can count ; the technological improvements of the campus: from eight buildings to twenty, from roads of crushed stone for quad rupeds to those of asphalt for— the ultimate symbol— auto- t mobiles! And acme of all, jewel in the paradisical campus setting, is the power plant, set amidst a "wealth of green things, its fruitful farmland and fra grant campus. Ah! and the marvellous plant supplying power to an area larger than many towns— all operated by black hands. Thus, my young friends, does the light of the Founder still burn." (p. 112) Although Barbee intends to display optimism in the triumph . r 2 - 3 -J I of industrial growth, the situational irony exposes the hollowness of Barbee's description of progress. That all j these images of the campus' role are superficial is, of j course, one of the student's lessons: for all the campus' j I signs of technological achievement, the myth of the campus is built upon lies and deceptions. The student's experience. ■ i with men who associate technology with advancement teaches i him, like Nerzhin, to criticize the philosophy that estab- 1 I > jlishes technological and material parameters for progress. Much later, after the narrator realizes what is wrong with the Brotherhood's philosophy of historical progress, he ! criticizes in general the idea of upward success and prog ress : And that spiral business, that progress goo! . . . And that lie that success was a rising upwards. . . . Not only could you travel upwards towards success, but you could travel downwards as well; up and down, in retreat j as well as in advance, crabways and crossways and around 1 in a circle, meeting your old selves coming and going and perhaps all at the same time. (p. 410) While the narrator's observation is as profound as is Nerzhin's (see above, pp. 101-02), M. K. Singleton feels that Ellison is specifically showing the limitations of the progress ethic of Booker T. Washington. Washington founded the Tuskegee Institute, which the narrator's college resem bles, "in 1881 to save the Negro from degradation by ; 124 I training him in Christian virtues, farming, and the mechani cal arts, and patience" (p. 12). The Invisible Man's first discovery that establishment cynicism is not just "white" comes when Bledsoe rebukes the I young student for failing to lie to Mr. Norton. Bledsoe's ; I imagery might well be seen as an important thread in the ! 1 ! novel's texture of electrical imagery; in describing the i power plant, Bledsoe says: i "Power doesn't have to show off. Power is confident, self-assuring, self-starting and self-stopping, self warming and self-justifying. When you have it, you t know it. . . . This is a power set-up, son, and I'm 1 ; at the controls." (p. 119) Bledsoe's words about turning "power" on and off may 1 remind the Invisible Man of the vet's enigmatic words at the' I ' Golden Day; to Norton he said: "'And you, for all your power, are not a man to him [i.e., the Invisible Man], but, j a God, a force'" (p. 82). A force which can be turned on and off? We wonder. A force which the Invisible Man does "turn off" after his wrenching experience in the Electro- i i convulsive Therapy machine, but a force which he still does not forget even at the end when he meets his "destiny" in the subway. Instead of becoming a power-hungry cynic, the young man takes the route of the artist, developing his faculties for ; 125 ; 1 i observation and introspection. By the end (i.e., the Pro logue) , his mind, though wiser, may be a bit unhinged. Since the 1,36 9 lights are "self-starting and self- 'stopping," they may be symbolic to the Invisible Man of his power. All he has to do to remind himself of his "power" isj i to flip on the light switch— and there is the "self-warming,: ! i self-justifying" display of his "power," which in his case ‘ is the fact that he exists. He is thereby only partly accepting Bledsoe's advice, given shortly after the Presi dent's "power set-up" speech, that the young man should "'learn where you are and get yourself power, influence, contacts with powerful and influential people— then stay in the dark and use it!'" (p. 121). Although he is utterly without influential contacts, he does have electrical "power"; he is "in the dark" but can flood his hole with i light anytime he pleases. i Ultimately, the Invisible Man's idealism, his commit ment to a goal beyond self-advancement, provides him with a vision far more "powerful" than Bledsoe's mere control of j people. Thus Bledsoe's speech has raised some philosophical: questions: is power something which you can, in fact, turn on and off, like a generator? The "powers" which are exer cised over the Invisible Man are often like that, whether it ! i ' 1*26 I be an electric rug giving him a blistering shock or a series I ! of electrocutions administered to his brain, "turned off" I i when he seemed conquered. Power in the form of personal ! i control is another matter— as Bledsoe's seven letters demon-] i t ; i strated. The damage they do is never turned off. On the I 1 I other hand, the Brotherhood shows the Invisible Man that ! they can "turn on and off" in such a mechanical way that he i is finally disaffected from them. The book is full of ! I ianalogies to technological power— but Ellison takes up the I I ‘ question where Machiavelli would leave off— he probes the I 'implications of human "control" and the existential limits j of "power." The power plant, then, functions as symbol and theme in important ways in the novel. As symbol of mysterious ener- I gies, it first attracts the attention of the Invisible Man. Upon closer analysis, he learns the crucial lesson that life1 , i is a "power set-up." Whereas men like Barbee claim that technological products prove man's advancement, they also associate advancement with "power" over other people. Like ' the zeks with "immortal souls" in The First Circle, the Invisible Man rejects the pursuit of power in the sense of controlling others. Instead, he pursues the power of indi vidual will, of self-probing and the establishment of his own identity. The image of the power plant is the catalyst for his analysis of the contrast between power over others and the power of individual will. 2. Three Confrontations When timid and hence biologically successful man i made for himself an artificial world in which he could live free of the dangers that beset his ancestors, he suddenly became ferocious. Ferocity was quite con trary to his evolutionary nature, which was pusillani mous and non-violent. He learned to make up for his lack of natural weapons by impatiently creating an in- i vincible armoury of artificial defences. He began to : live as if he possessed all the hoofs, horns, fangs and claws with which evolution had armed the animal world and to act as if he were the most aggressive creature on earth.8 The Invisible Man has three confrontations with exam-, pies of modern technology used as weapons against him: the electric rug, the paint machine, and the ECT machine. In stead of destroying him, these incidents result in the ex pansion of his consciousness. The electric rug incident In the first chapter, the function of electricity is dichotomous in the same way that technology is in The First Q A. T. W. Simeons, Man's Presumptuous Brain (New York: Dutton, 1960), p. 54. Circle. For some men, electricity is another means of , i exerting power over others, but the Invisible Man reacts against this power by asserting his own individual will. Iln the battle royal scene, the protagonist has his first i confrontation with the inequities and hypocrisy of the white: establishment which he would emulate: he sees, as if in a ; vision like Goodman Brown's, all the eminent men of the town i ("bankers, lawyers, judges, doctors, fire chiefs, teachers, merchants," and one pastor) behaving in a drunken, cruel i 1 manner. These pillars of society not only toss a naked young woman in the air, not only force Negro high school i boys to fight each other blindfolded, but also sadistically watch as the boys try to grab fake money on an electrified ,rug. This party is supposed to be the solemn occasion for the protagonist to deliver a speech that he, as an especi ally talented high school senior, had been chosen to give. j He is shocked to find that he too is expected to fight in stead of to deliver his speech with dignity. This horrible incident is the first in a series that breaks the protago nist's confidence in the white establishment. During the battle royal he expresses how he feels intellectually apart from the other Negro boys because only the white leaders of society, "only these men could judge my true ability" (p. 25)— an echo of Todd's respect for the values of the white Air Force officers in Ellison's short story, "Flying Home." The young man has, of course, been told all his life t ! pf his inferiority, and he has absorbed the evaluation; if he is so inferior (to them), they (the whites) must be isuperior. ' That the purpose of this first chapter is to prove the protagonist wrong is presaged by its initial recounting of jthe student's grandfather's dying admonition to "'keep up 1 the good fight'" (i.e., against whites), to ; "Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you ! to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." (p. 17) The narrator learns only in this evening what his grand father meant. At the beginning, he still keeps his white- geared value system even as the electric rug is wheeled out; he still believes in his own visibility and in the white man's integrity. Projecting his own sense of worth, his sense of destiny as an intelligent Booker T. Washington, onto the significance of the rug, he thinks: "Perhaps . . . I will stand on the rug to deliver my speech" (p. 26). This type of innocent irony is typical of Ellisonrs style, but is especially effective in Chapter 1. ’ l30l i i i 1 The student's first experience with the rug is, how ever, quite different from what he had expected. After reaching for an apparently gold coin (his "reward" for ,fighting), he shrieks like the others when he cannot remove his hand: "A hot, violent force tore through my body, { ! shaking me like a wet rat. The rug was electrified" (pp. 26-27). In the background, the pillars of society are roar ing with sadistic parrot-like laughter at their effective i means of humiliation. The boy's reflexes already show his ! Candide-like readiness to adapt to adversity. Adjusting lalmost immediately to the rug, he still tries to get the ; i Icoins: "Ignoring the shock by laughing, as I brushed the coins off quickly, I discovered that I could contain the electricity— a contradiction, but it works" (p. 27). We are not sure exactly what he means, but that it has a sig nificance that goes beyond this passage is indicated by the shift from the past to the present tense, "it works." In other words, he contains the negative shocks that he receives now and well into the future— shocks from Bled soe, Norton, Mr. Emerson, Jr., the paint machine, the hospi tal machine— within himself and his soul, and he forges them into a powerful personal and literary vision. His early containment of this electric shock foretells also his ; r a n 1 ultimate ability to contain and control electricity from i Monopolated Light and Power. The Invisible Man has, in fact, an incredible ability to "contain" and transmute the : I impersonality of electricity into a powerful assertion of ! i individual self. The student then witnesses the further degradation of the Negroes1 humanity on the rug— a boy who has been thrown ; on the rug is as sweaty as a "circus seal," his muscles twitch "like the flesh of a horse stung by many flies" (p. 1 27). When one of the white men tries to throw the pro- t 'tagonist onto the rug, his fear of it triggers his first | overt act of rebellion against the white establishment— he tries to throw the Mr. Calcord onto the rug (pp. 2 7-2 8). i Since of course he has the inferior strength at this point, > i ‘ t the other man succeeds. The Invisible Man's experience on the rug is baptismal: i It was as though I had rolled through a bed of hot coals. It seemed a whole century would pass before I would roll free, a century in which I was seared through the deepest levels of my body to the fearful breath within me and the breath seared and heated to the point of explosion. (p. 28) i This totally searing experience is a baptismal stage in his growing awareness of the meaning of established society; his consciousness awakens. It is a whole century of awareness , that passes, like the century since the slaves were "freed" but still treated like wet rats, seals, horses, objects for the amusement of society's hypocritical leaders. Whatever ; the "fearful breath within me" is, perhaps the awakening of his individuality, it heats to the point of explosion, but .does not explode. The explosion occurs at the end of the book when the. Invisible Man's consciousness bursts into the realization of his invisibility. : Feeling now only like a limp dishrag, the idealistic student attempts to give his speech. His perception that the objects of his admiration are not even listening to his speech (except when he slips and says "social equality") is blunted in his mind by the discovery that he has received a scholarship to college. In summary, electricity in Chapter 1 functions two ways. On the one hand, the scene of the electrified rug is testimony to man's urge to apply his most advanced techno logical tools as weapons to gain "power" over others. The electric rug here provides an ingenious form of torture. Being electrically charged, the rug is an active participant in the white men.'s dehumanization of the Negro boys. Some men, on the other hand, are capable of rising above the pressures of such "power." The protagonist is at first defeated by the electric shocks. Then they function as a form of baptism into the awakening of his self. The white men's plan backfires because their use of electricity as torture exposes their own hypocrisy and cruelty. The pro tagonist clearly sees that one cannot judge white men to be ! ... I .superior because of their advanced technology. This inci- I I I dent is only the first of a series of incidents where the ; Invisible Man contains rather than reacts against the force I , of electricity. Throughout the novel, the Invisible Man absorbs the modus operand! of those who use electricity for the "power set-up"; by the end (in the Prologue), having stored his reactions, he has learned to define his own iden- I tity by using electricity in a unique way (1,369 lights). , i The paint machine episode ^ Although the paint machine is not strictly a form of j "electricity," it is discussed here because it is a machine : that functions thematically in the same way as the electric rug and the ECT machine; they all are examples of technology1 i used as weapons against the Invisible Man, who reacts against all of them to establish his own sort of power. The paint machine is also stylistically important because it establishes textural continuity with the black/white theme elsewhere in the novel. The episode is, furthermore, .important for expressing the theme of the narrator's devel oping identity. After a month in New York City, the In visible Man has found his first job, at a paint factory. In trying to force back a wild valve wheel on a boiler, the young man is thrown back by the blast of the defective machine and knocked unconscious. The cause of this disaster is Lucius Brockway, an uneducated but skilled old black man, who feels that his job is threatened by younger, educated i jupstarts. He takes revenge on the Invisible Man by making l ■him try to control the boiler, which Brockway must have I known was defective. This machine that makes the company's celebrated paint symbolizes to Brockway his only power in the world, and he uses this power in a calculated but cruel way. The paint machine episode has been widely discussed for epitomizing the interplay of black/white imagery that runs Q throughout the novel. The incident in which the Invisible Man is injured is the climax of the chapter, throughout which some paint-machine-connected violence has been 9 See, for example, Jonathan Baumbach, The Landscape of Nightmare (New York: New York Univ. Press, 1965), p. 74 and passim; and Raymond M. Olderman, "Ralph Ellison’s Blues and Invisible Man," Wisconsin Studies in Contemporary Litera ture, 7, No. 2 (1966), 142-59. : 57351 I » foreshadowed. The tone of the chapter is tense; in the beginning, for example, the Invisible Man is anxious about i using, without permission, Mr. Emerson's name when he applies for the job. The name works; the Invisible Man, however, I i immediately notices something sinister about the paint fac- i tory. The electric sign outside announces that Liberty i < i I Paints "Keep America Pure"; inside, the narrator learns that i » the company, in order to avoid paying union wages, hires colored" men. The narrator soon discovers that the fac- I Itory's managers are not only hypocritical, but also con- t 1 I I fused: Mr. Kimbro, his boss, cannot tell the difference ! between a good batch of paint and a poor one. But the real mystery of the paint factory is that a "dead black" (p. 163) substance is added to white paint to make it whiter. Later, the Invisible Man is further bewildered to see "brown crys tals" being scooped by Brockway into "a strange-looking machine" (p. 174)--by chemical technology, brown too will be transmuted into white. The protagonist's developing awareness of the impor- [ tance of color in regard to his identity is here symbolized . by this paint: one finally is not sure what is white or black. To him, the paint appears to be "white diffused with grey." However, to Mr. Kimbro and the company, it is : 136 "pure," as the sign says. Furthermore, the people upstairs claim they make the paint, but black, prune-faced Lucius Brockway claims his underground inferno is where the real magic happens. Perfection, he claims, is the fact that white can completely cover black: j "Our white is so white you can paint a chunka coal and | ' you'd have to crack it open with a sledge hammer to prove it wasn't white clear through I" (p. 177) To this symbolically charged description he adds that he helped make up the advertising slogan for the paint company: j I "If It's Optic White, It's the Right White" (p. 177). The j protagonist cannot resist commenting on the racial connota tions of this imagery, so he mutters: "'If you're white, you're right'" (p. 177). Brockway misses the irony of the statement. This black/white/grey confusion, a product of the machines that make the paint, sets the tone for the climac tic confrontation between machine and man. The machine spells destruction for the Invisible Man, but is a tool of victory, however Pyrrhic, for the black foreman. Brockway sees himself as part of and yet superior to the mechanical workings of his basement. On the one hand, he explains his indispensability by describing his knowledge of the gauges, pipes, switches, cables, and wiring as if they are 137 j ; . i extensions of himself. An educated person can merely ana- j < !lyze the machinery, but he actually belongs to it: his j explanation is italicized to emphasize how intently Brockway j says it: "'We are the machines inside the machine1" (p. 17 7) . On the other hand, Brockway emphasizes his irreplace- ; able human touch: j i i "They thinks 'cause everything down here is done by j ; machinery, that's all there is to it. They crazy I Ain't a continental thing that happens down here that j ain't as iffen I done put my black hands into it. Them i machines just do the cooking, these here hands right here do the sweeting." (p. 178) Brockway is like a witch doctor who triumphs over technology i that is inexplicable to the technologist. i When the young man returns to tell Brockway about how he has been harassed by workers in a locker room lunch meet- . ing, the word "union" sends Brockway into a rage. The stu dent, perhaps mesmerized by Brockway's accounts of his in- i tuitive communion with the boiler-room machine, describes Brockway1s anger in a technological simile: "He started towards me as in a dream, trembling like the needle of one i of the gauges as he pointed towards the stairs, his voice t shrieking" (p. 183). At this stage, the Invisible Man can explain Brockway's behavior only by reference to a part of a machine. The comparison slips out unselfconsciously, yet 138 is remarkable for its implication of Brockway's symbiotic relationship with his machines; this wild old man will irrationally fight a much younger man to protect his hege mony over his own kind— gauges and boilers. Even his "voice shrieking" (p. 183) blends in with the previous human-like description of the "almost hysterial pitch" (p. 170) of the ; i l screaming pipes. ! i ! The younger man wins the fight on a physical level, but! I the older man conquers when he can use his technological I I I I tools as weapons. No sooner do the two shake hands after | their scuffle, than the boilers begin to hiss. Although { | i Brockway tells the Invisible Man to turn the big valve (notably the white one), he himself scrambles away in the ;opposite direction. Here our hero demonstrates his Candide-, * like innocence again as he ingenuously tries to pull the wayward valve down; Brockway evidently knows it is impos- ^ i jsxble to correct the valve and is even protecting himself in preparation for the explosion. The gauge, symbol throughout this chapter of the situation in that room, has i gone mad. Where Brockway's trembling like a gauge had been ineffectual, the gauge's actual mad swinging results in near death for the narrator: . . . and I turned, running now, seeing the needle on one of the gauges swinging madly, like a beacon gone 139 out of control, and trying to think clearly, my eyes darting here and there through the room of tanks and machines and up the stairs so far away and hearing the clear new note arising while I seemed to run swiftly up an incline and shot forward with sudden acceleration into a wet blast of black emptiness that was somehow a bath of whiteness. (pp. 187-88) I He has evidently been covered with paint and sent fly ing by the blast of the boiler. He has been seriously in- j jured. But what literally happens is obviously not as important as what the event symbolically represents. The I description of the event is Gogblesque, since the physical : i coalesces with the surrealistic, to express several levels jof ambiguity— the color problem, the identity problem, ..the i question of whether this "accident" was indeed accidental. The Invisible Man's perceptions about color lose co herence, merge, separate strangely; he is thrown forward into a "blast of black emptiness that was somehow a bath of whiteness." "Somehow" is literally the white paint but it i i 'is also emptiness, injury, confusion, delusion, collusion. A moment later the words used to describe the event still hinge on ambiguous usages of "white" and "blackV: Somewhere an engine ground in furious futility, grating loudly until a pain shot around the curve of my head and bounced me off into blackness for a distance, only to strike another pain that lobbed me back. And in that clear instant of consciousness I opened my eyes to a blinding flash. (p. 188) I 140 i : i Now unconsciousness is "blackness." Now consciousness occurs at the moment of a "blinding" flash. This usage of I the word "blind" adds a new dimension to the intricately I i woven texture of the associations of the word in the novel ! (see above# pp. 113-14). Elsewhere, blindness is "lack of light"; here a "blinding flash" awakens consciousness. The i i I 'narrator is undergoing a crucial identity crisis here while j < i he is being physically mangled. The baptism by electrified 'rug awakened his consciousness to white hypocrisy. This baptism by boiler machine further awakens the consciousness of the young Negro to the fact that treachery can be trans- : I racial--an observation appropriate to the paint machine episode because this job at the paint factory is the cul mination of Bledsoe's treachery, the attempt to prevent the j I narrator from getting a job. As for Brockway's treachery, the fact that he raced out of the room while ordering the young man to the boilers raises sinister questions about his previous boast that "'Ain't a continental thing that happens down here that I ain't as iffen I done put my black hands into it'” (p. 178). It is finally beginning to filter through the Invisible Man's mind that Bledsoe's words "'This is a power set-up, son'" have wider applicability than just to the black , college and its white trustees. He finds power struggles i at all levels of his experience. Realizing that the boilers were weapons, he says at the end of this chapter that he was "transfixed and numb with the sense that I had lost irrevo cably an important victory" (p. 188). What was the contest? Surely not simple old Brockway’s authority vs. the young I man*s. The seriousness of his utterance ("irrevocably") suggests a broader allusion to his expanding consciousness, his realization of the inadequacy of his former frames of reference in dealing with reality. Electroconvulsive Therapy (the ECT machine) Just after the paint machine accident, in the late ' \ afternoon, the Invisible Man wakes up to find himself inside a glass cubicle. He is in a hospital and the glass cubicle is a machine for Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT); the j episode lasts one or two hours. After he has had so many convulsions that he cannot remember his own name, the doc tors and nurses let him out of the machine and send him to speak with a supervisor of the paint factory. He is fired from his job and he leaves. The symbolical function of the ECT machine is similar to that of the electric rug and the paint machine. The ECT machine is a tool of persecution by men in power on the one ; : i jhand; the protagonist, on the other hand, transcends the ! ; I 'intended destruction, transmuting it into the birth of a new! . I ^identity. The electrical shocks are the third form of : i technological attack made upon the protagonist. The events ; in the cubicle take on the dimensions of a rite de passage; | this is the final stage in the protagonist's initiation. He! symbolically dies and survives the technological equivalent j Of the descent to Hades. He is reborn; the ECT machine is i I dike the mother, the all-embracing womb from which he is detached by having his umbilical cord cut. Then he loses 1 \ !his fear and accepts his "invisibility." Finally, the epi sode is stylistically important because it shows the way in .which technological images and metaphors are used in the novel, particularly to express the theme of alienation and the black/white theme. The young man is in the ECT device i for two-thirds of the chapter, hence there is a particularly great opportunity for technological imagery. The ECT episode is a good example of how the techno- | scape in the novel can express certain aspects of the urban i experience. The electrocution episode takes place in an atmosphere of unreality. At first, the narrator is unsure of his exact location, and the people outside the glass box ; 1431 seem phantasmagoric: he perceives the light on the doctor'sj forehead as a "bright third eye"; a doctor's voice has "a J mirror on the end of it"; a machine begins to hum "some- J where"; the two nurses are "indefinite young women." The : allusive suggestiveness of the imagery conveys the idea that something more than a literal electrocution is occurring. j There is an acute feeling of disorientation and aliena-i tion. After the narrator's first series of electric shocks, the eyes of a doctor (or assistant) seem to him to be de tached from the person, and the metaphorical vehicle to describe lenses of eyeglasses is another type of modern glass, the ubiquitous Coke bottle: "A pair of eyes peered down through lenses as thick as the bottom of a Coca-Cola / bottle, eyes protruding, luminous and veined, like an old biology specimen" (pp. 191-92). The young man's own sense of alienation is also expressed in technological terms appropriate to the disorientation produced by urban condi tions : I seemed to go away; the lights receded like a tail- light racing down a country road. I couldn't follow . . . I twisted about on my back, fighting something I couldn't see. Then after awhile my vision cleared. (p. 190) This simile is notable not only because it employs a techno logical vehicle, but also because it balances the imagistic , . 144_, : i texture of cars in the novel (see below, Chapter V). The i i I ! reference to the country road reminds us of the Invisible f Man's ill-fated drive along the country road with Norton, \ the drive that set the narrator wandering after something he "couldn't see." Here "vision" relates to his prolonged I attempt to understand things and to hxs , r blindness, r --all j woven in with color imagery. It is typical of Ellison's use of irony that this exhausted, alienated man lying in an ! electrical bed thinks he hears a musical rendition of "The I Holy City." The only thing holy about New York City as he has seen it is the Forty-Day Trials (by fire) he has en- J 10 dured. The effects of feeling alienated behind the glass cubicle are traumatic, because the narrator feels distant ■ - i i and isolated despite the tangible proof of propinquity to I others when "a palm smacked sharply" upon the glass (p. 197). 10Floyd Horowitz discusses the Christian aspects of the Invisible Man's character: ". . .we may trace the invis ible Man as a Christ-like figure, sacrificed and sacrific ing. Many of the symbols by which he is described are dis tinctly Christian symbols, many of his actions are ana logues of Biblical events" (p. 34). While the Christian theme is less emphatic in Invisible Man than in The First Circle, its existence in both novels relates to their themes of human values in opposition to material and technological values. 145 Months later he incorporates the experience, using the glass box as the most apt metaphorical vehicle to describe the fear he feels just before he gives his first public lecture i - i for the Brotherhood. On stage, he realizes he cannot see j the audience although they can see him: "It was as though a semi-transparent curtain had dropped between us" (p. 275). > I Then he clarifies this comparison: "I felt the hard, ! mechanical isolation of the hospital machine and I didn't * I like it" (p. 275). The cold stage, the electric lights, and I the microphone are depersonalizing, "strange and unnerving." ; i i i In fact, in order to regain his composure he has to make a I : joke about the gawking country Southern boy new to the ways of technology: "'Up to now they've kept me so far away from these shiny electric gadgets I haven't learned the tech nique. . . . it looks like the steel skull of a man!1" (p. 275). Of course this is the skilled rhetorician speaking, I who by now knows he is certainly no stranger to technologi cal gadgets. In addition to its contribution to the imagistic tex- | ture of the novel, the ECT machine episode functions the matically as did the other two machines that were used to degrade the protagonist. The ECT machine is used, as is technology in The First Circle, by men as a weapon to force | 146 I other men to conform. But the Invisible Man rises above this kind of force as he asserts the force of his own iden tity. 1 I i ! The description of his first electric shock is quite I literal; a woman I sat at a panel arrayed with coils and dials. Where was j I? From far below me a barber-chair thumping began and ' I felt myself rise on the tip of the sound from the floor. . . . A whirring began that snapped and cracked with static, and suddenly I seemed to be crushed between ( the floor and ceiling. Two forces tore savagely at my | i stomach and back. A flash of cold-edged heat enclosed : me. I was pounded between the crushing electrical ' pressures; pumped between live electrodes like an ac- i cordion between a player's hands. My lungs were com pressed like a bellows and each time my breath returned I yelled, punctuating the rhythmical action of the nodes, (p. 189) Although the protagonist has previously suffered the pain of' deliberately applied electrical shock (in the battle royal),I this episode, more intense, leaves him feeling even more | drained. The experience of the electrified rug had reduced ' him and the other boys to feeling like low animals— a wet rat, a seal, a horse (p. 27). This time, having come to New York City with visions of being a successful young student, he is reduced to a status below that of animals— to only an insentient thing— an accordion. The simile is an apt de scription for his role in most of the book— a fellow who is "played upon" by others until in exasperation he retreats I 'entirely underground. Norton, Bledsoe, the Brotherhood— allj want the Invisible Man to do something for their purposes i and, being youthful, he is at first moldable. The ECT machine is a metaphor for all the manipulative forces that I contribute to the world's being a "power set-up." One of j the most destructive uses of electric power is, of course, I America's electric chair, to which the ex-student compares ; his present bondage: "I discovered now that my head was 1 : i encircled by a piece of cold metal like the iron cap worn ' by the occupant of an electric chair" (p. 190). Where the rug had been strictly a means of providing a i . 1 jaded male leadership with sadistic kicks, this electric cubicle has the imprimatur of medical science as a device I for curing mental illness. The doctor who is controlling j the procedure praises what he considers the machine's super-' i iority over mere human-conducted surgery. The doctor's praise rings with Barbee-type optimistic faith in the powers of the machine, which he elevates to an idol-like position worthy of worship: "'Aha! You see! My little gadget will solve everything! he exploded" (p. 192). When his colleague, remonstrates in favor of surgery and "'simple prayer,'" the doctor retorts with the zeal of the mechanized robots in the Secular City: "'Nonsense, from now on do your praying 148 1 4 i I 'to my little machine'" (p. 192). He zealously explains how j "'the machine will produce the results of a pre-frontal | i l lobotomy without the negative effects of the knife'" (p. | I 192). The doctor, without indicating that he perceives the j irony of his words, praises the fact that the machine can ; produce a complete "'change of personality'" (p. 193) while the person treated will remain "'physically and neurally whole.'" His colleague asks, almost as an afterthought, a question that is central to the theme of the novel: "'But what of his psychology?'" The answer is fully ironic, con- I sidering the novel's attention to psychological identity: , "Absolutely of no importance!" the voice said. "The patient will live as he has to live, and with absolute integrity. Who could ask more? He'll experience no major conflict of motives, and what is even better, society will suffer no traumata on his account." (p. 193) j The inhumane coldness of this scientific detachment later , J seriously bothers the Invisible Man when Brother Hambro praises its modus operandi: "We judge through cultivating scientific objectivity," ; he said with a voice that had a smile in it, and sud- i denly I saw the hospital machine, felt as though locked in again. (p. 406) The Invisible Man learns that the methods of the Brotherhood in suppressing the individual are at least as effective as the technological methods that have been turned against him by the white establishment. Hambro's idea of "scientific » objectivity" is his belief that the individual must be sacrificed for the "good of the whole"; just as here in the I ECT machine, the Invisible Man's individuality must be sac rificed for the good of the "society." As Nerzhin, Solog- din, and Innokenty realize in The First Circle, the In visible Man realizes (here in Chapter 11 and later in Chap ter 23) that a philosophy of so-called "scientific objec tivity" where the ends justify the means also justifies the persecution of the individual. The narrator finally real- ) izes that "'the only scientific objectivity is a machine'"; i I that where human judgment is used, there must be compassion and evaluation. The doctor is so excited about what the machine can "accomplish" that he fails to consider the psychology of the individual important. His prediction about the subject's 'future lack of conflict of motives is, of course, wrong. The protagonist goes off to experience a series of inner conflicts that structurally balance the external conflicts of the first half of the novel. The Invisible Man again transmutes this negative application of power, as he has twice before, into a tool for finding the power of his "immortal soul." The protagonist's identity suffers serious ; 150 I I disorientation immediately after the doctor's colloquy; but I perhaps they are too busy praising their technology and t having a little fun on the side to notice. As the boy is j Vracked with convulsions, one "oily face" cannot resist { observing "with a laugh": "'They really do have rhythm, I i don't they? Get hot, boy! Get hot!"' (p. 193). The ab- i I surdity of curative theories is obvious when they are juxta-j posed with this cruel joke, which is reminiscent of the drunken white man's jeers at the battle royal. The interplay of black and white imagery in the ECT episode contributes to the novel's pattern of color imagery; ! as elsewhere, the color contrasts are integral to the theme of the narrator's evolving identity. In the beginning of j Chapter 11, the Invisible Man still perceives the color i i white, despite his uncertainty about his whereabouts. The i cold,.rigid chair he is in is white; his strange overalls I are white; the two women are dressed in white (pp. 188-89). . From this atmosphere he has the presence of mind to deduce ; i he is in a hospital; but in a symbolic sense, the man is a | prisoner in yet another type of "bath of whiteness" (as in Chapter 10). White is not merely a color; it is a condition whose true meaning has something to do with the Invisible Man's suffering. White is also an elusive quality, a "vast , 1511 1 whiteness in which I myself was lost" (p. 194) , an echo fromj Moby Dick of a mystical evil. j I j The ultimate expression of the Invisible Man's dis- j orientation vis-a-vis colors is his perceptual blurring of j I the distinction between the machine he is bolted into and j his own self: I seemed to have lost all sense of proportion. Where : I did my body end and the crystal and white world begin? Thoughts evaded me, hiding in the vast stretch of clini cal whiteness to which I seemed connected only by a scale of receding greys. (p. 194) While Brockway had felt that he was a part of his machines, i |the Invisible Man's existential merging with the crystal product of advanced technology is on a more profound level. The "receding greys," of course, are not literal; they are j i the metaphorical no-color, neutrality, nothingness, vague- I ness, racial ambiguity. Furthermore, despite his immersion | in whiteness, the narrator expresses his bewilderment and ' disorientation after the electric shocks by saying that he rolled "out into blackness" (p. 194). Not being able to remember his name is "plunging into the blackness of my mind" (p. 195). Is this cliche usage of the word "black"? Or are there racial implications? When he cannot answer in even a general way who he is, his response can be inter preted as either philosophical or quotidian: "Maybe I was I I just this blackness and bewilderment and pain" (p. 196). In these phrases he has reverted to a usage for "blackness" 'that he expressed during his accident with the paint ma chine . » ! i The ECT episode culminates in what is structurally the | climax of the novel's theme of subversion of the protago nist's identity: a man, significantly "dressed in black," writes a question on a card: "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" (p. 195). Because ECT produces temporary memory lapse, the protagonist! i ' cannot remember his name. However, since his name is not mentioned in the novel, evidently there is a greater sig nificance to his failure to remember it now. He is a name- i less person because there is no name for the role he plays j in life, except that given in the title of the novel. ! j Abbreviated, of course, the two words are a kind of Carte- ; I sian pronouncement— "I.M." = "I am"— not exactly because he ' i thinks, nor for any clearly definable cause other than hxs overwhelming belief that he must exist and the reinforcement of that belief with 1,369 electric lights. When the pro tagonist forgets his name, he puts his novel-long identity i crisis on a literal level. The next question written on the card re-places the crisis on an existential level: WHO. . .ARE YOU? I . . . This phrasing of the question seemed to set off : a series of weak and distant lights where the other had thrown a spark that failed. (p. 196) Having received so many jolts to his being by electricity, the protagonist now speaks of his self as being composed of I electric lights. (The question, of course, is also the I ' central question in the Innokenty plot; see above, pp. 75, I > I 80, and 96.) He goes on: Who am I? I asked myself. But it was like trying to identify one particular cell that coursed through the torpid veins of my body. Maybe I was just this black ness and bewilderment and pain, but that seemed less I like a suitable answer than something I'd read some- ! where. (p. 196) That he does not know who he is after ECT is predictable, [ but he never finds out in the novel, except by indirection. , i i He tries now to think "of many names, but none seemed to fit, and yet it was as though I was somehow a part of all of' them, had become submerged within them and lost" (p. 196). His experiences have indeed submerged and overwhelmed him; instead of being able to announce, like Tennyson's Ulysses, that "I. am a part of all that I have met," this young man has to admit that he is lost in a world in which everything he meets isolates him more. He is aware enough to realize that the immediate cause of_his_loss_of_iden.tity__is—the_machine„in_which_he_is ___! 154 I entrapped: "Why didn't they leave me alone? I would re- I member [i.e., his identity] soon enough when they let me out f I of the machine ..." (p. 197). Just why he is so certain j 1 I ■that he would be able to remember his name "soon" is un- | | clear. He has a general feeling that he is pitted against I the machine and will not give up his esprit de vivre even ! I if he has given up his memory. He even thinks of sabotage, 1 but realizes that his destiny at this point is ineluctably I jlinked with the machine: | I fell to plotting ways of short-circuiting the machine. Perhaps if I shifted my body about so that the two nodes would come together— No, not only was there no room but it might electrocute me . . . I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what the scheme I conceived, there was one constant flaw— myself. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with each other. When I dis cover who I am, I'll be free. (p. 198) ,This is one of the most expository passages in the book, be cause it explains how the ECT machine is a symbol of the forces, many urban, that imprison the true self of the nar- ; I rator. The ECT machine is a metaphor for a situation like ' that portrayed in Sartre's play Huis clos, a condition where the narrowing of options allows for the definition of self. The Invisible Man, like Innokenty and some of the zeks in Mavrino, discovers existential freedom in confinement. A little later, after the Invisible Man is released from the machine, his state of mind is so confused that the confusion finds the best literary expression in a technological simile: He began asking questions and I could hear myself reply ing fluently, though inside I was reeling with swiftly ; changing emotional images that shrilled and chattered, like a soundtrack reversed at high speed. (p. 2 0 0) While the archetypal critic can see in this man's experiences with the ECT machine a ritual death and rebirth sequence, it is interesting to note that the medical doctors have scientifically considered that function of ECT. In a I widely used medical reference book, Current Diagnosis and 11 Treatment, ECT is thought possibly to "fulfill the pa tient’s fantasies of death and rebirth." Death we can see in the horribly painful convulsions and the submergence of self into "blackness." Rebirth as an archetypal motif is i inadvertently suggested by one of the doctors in the hospi tal when he writes on a card, after the Invisible Man has been unable to answer "'Who Are You?'": "WHAT IS YOUR MOTHER'S NAME?" This question leads the unwilling victim onto a new line of thought: i;LEd. Henry Brainerd et al. (Los Altos, Calif.: Lange Medical Publications, 1969), p. 615. 156 Mother, who was my mother? Mother, the one who screams when you suffer-— but who? This was stupid, you always knew your mother's name. Who was it that screamed? Mother? But the screams came from the machine. A machine my mother? (p. 196) t I :Reduced to a state of infantilism, the exhausted young man considers the symbolism of being inside the womb of a ma chine. In his mind, which is open to a mixture of associa tions, the "scream" is confused with the scream of the ! ;boiler that exploded in Chapter 10, the screams he thought ithe ECT machine made, and his own screams of pain, of— rebirth? The language is as symbolical as Faulkner's in his description of the boy Isaac McCaslin's entrance into the dark forest in The Bear. The Invisible Man's description of; his release from the ECT machine is literal on one level: , I I felt a tug at my belly and looked down to see one of ' the physicians pull the cord which was attached to the stomach node, jerking me forward. "What is this?" I said. ; "Get the shears," he said. I recoiled inwardly as though the cord were part of me. Then they had it free and the nurse clipped through the belly band and removed the heavy node. (p. 199) The ultimate umbilical cord is cut; the man is dressed in white overalls and is told, "'You're a new man'" (p. 199). In one sense, "The old personality is dead and the initiate has a new identity born out of the machine" (Horowitz, p. 84). At first he feels that his responses are not his own; 157 he feels, rather, "as though I were acting out a scene from some crazy movie" (p. 2 03). The technology of modern cinema i provides the imagery to express the old theme of role play ing; "all the world's a stage and all the men and women I ; merely players." But the Invisible Man soon realizes that j the essential difference between his new self and his former self is "that I was no longer afraid" (p. 203). He walks without fear now through the cityscape--past the "uniform" ' jtall buildings, across the bridge, into the subway train | i where he sits opposite a white Eve munching on an apple as ; if in a preview for Le Roi Jones' Dutchman (1964). I In Chapter 11, then, the mental state of alienation, a theme of the great classics of literature, has found wholly i communicable expression via the metaphorical vehicle of a i contemporary technological image, a machine that represents t - (in the 1940s) the acme of man's harnessing of electrical I i power for use in psychological control. The hero, never the, same after the initiation, is reborn. After Chapter 11, he rids himself entirely of his previous dependence upon formerj values embodied by Bledsoe and the trustees. He had thought only the magic mention of the college would get him a job, and that job ended in the cataclysmic loss of his identity and the finding of a new one. After this, he goes out into , ; 158 1 the city a new man, totally alone, without even the illusion! ♦ of help from friends or benefactors. Of course, he does not "succeed" in a material sense, any more than Innokenty or : Nerzhin "succeed," but he does succeed in probing levels of ' his self-awareness. ( CHAPTER V i 1 URBAN TRANSPORTATION Twentieth-century methods of transportation are im- I portant in carrying the Invisible Man on his journey through life. The role of the automobile in forging his destiny is j crucial, beginning before he enters the city. When he migrates from the country to the city, he is affected in ^various ways by buses and subways. In the Prologue, the : i ; _ ; ■voice of the experienced Invisible Man speaks; after all his' urban adventures, he refers allegorically to machine-powered vehicles in general. In his drug-induced dream (see above, Chapter IV, Section 2) he tries unsuccessfully to escape an unnamed terror, to cross the mythical road between danger land safety: "Once I tried crossing the road, but a speeding machine struck .me, scraping the skin from my leg as it roared past" (p. 14). His summary view of "speeding ma chines" suggests danger. Implied in the references to urban, transportation are the identity disorientation and aliena 159 160"! I tion that may result from high speeds, mobility, and tran- i i sitoriness. "The diversity of American life with its ex- j treme fluidity and openness" (Ellison, "Brave Words," Shadow< I ■ ;and Act, p. 103) is represented by the importance of modern I modes of transportation in the technoscape of the novel. Cars, buses, and subways are also interwoven in the novel's > I I central themes and motifs, which have been outlined above: j > i the search for identity, the development of consciousness, : the idea of invisibility, the black/white ambiguity, the contrast between spiritual potential and technological limi-! I .tations. Finally, the Invisible Man, while in the subway— | the region underneath the everyday world--ultimately under- I stands his individuality and therefore learns to affirm human value. 1. Automobiles and Roads , Automobiles and roads are important in the expression of the novel's main themes. In the country, the car the student drives for Mr. Norton is the vehicle with which he begins his mythical journey through tribulations. On this journey the student begins to lose his only known identity. The contrast between the limitations of technology and the possibilities of spiritual superiority is expressed in .scenes related to this car. The black/white theme is 161 i interwoven with the references to the "destiny" of white Mr. Norton and the Negro people, and further developed in the contrast between dark roads and white lines. In the city, automobiles further complicate the identity problem byj representing urban disorientation and impersonality. i I The country ' Norton.— The reference to the danger of the "speeding i machine" is one of many images in the Prologue that estab- i I lish a recurrent motif: while the narrator is not literally ."struck" by any moving vehicle (as he is by other machines— electric rug, ECT machine, paint boiler), he is metaphori cally "struck" by his encounters with an automobile as he attempts to cross the road of college to respectability and postgraduate "success." The quotation on page 14 could be taken as a description of the events in Chapters 2, 3, and 4, for these events deflect the student from a socially conventional career without, however, destroying him com pletely. Being a chauffeur for Norton begins as an honor for the student but results in his downfall. Instead of being the instrument of the student's betterment, the auto mobile becomes the instrument of his destruction. Asked by Mr. Norton merely to drive around, the student happens to 162] go by the cabin of a Negro man who had committed incest, and then he happens to drive Mr. Norton to a bar for insane asylum patients. For these transgressions of diplomacy, Dr. Bledsoe expels the student. The automobile, because of 1 i its capacity for speed, can travel in a few minutes from the twentieth-century civilization of a college to a pre- I literate rural scene. The contrast between levels of civi- I lization, bound together by modern transportation, which has radically altered all previous conceptions of space and I time, is one of the themes of the novel. ! The narrator first mentions the road when he begins to I reminisce about the college. At the end of the Invisible Man's first paragraph describing the rustic beauty of the college is a line that can be taken as a foreshadowing of the sudden change that was to come in his fortunes; his mind I retraces "to the sudden forking, barren of buildings, birds, I I or grass, where the road turned off to the insane asylum. I always come this far and open my eyes" (p. 33). The forking; is a traditional symbol of divergent possibilities. In his j reminiscences from his dark hole, the young man realizes that where two roads diverged, he "took the one less trav eled by, / And that has made all the difference" ("The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost). His eyes open suddenly, , 1631 I giving the reader a clue that it was at this point in the j i i narrator's journey that he began to lose his blindness, for at this point he took the fork to the asylum and suddenly changed the course of his life. ; J in Chapter 2, the student's fateful drive with Mr. j Norton begins with an ironic bad omen. In the first place, he acknowledges that the purr of the motor fills him with "pride and anxiety” (p. 35). Second, he is worried that, I because of his accidental blast on the horn (as he tries to I :suppress a belch), Bledsoe might revoke his right to drive. ; i I I ;He is worrying over trivia, when the real import of the \ ) i :"powerful motor purring" is to be vastly more serious. The car transports the young chauffeur and the trustee : l on an epic drive during which the young man learns something, i about his "destiny" and how it is linked with Mr. Norton's. The implications of this bond, of course, extend far beyond i ! the lives of these two individuals; there is a suggestion ; of the strange symbiosis between the Negroes and Caucasians in American culture. The young student notes several times i that being a chauffeur for a rich white man was one of the highest honors he could have. Meanwhile, Mr. Norton wishes him "a pleasant fate" (p. 37), a statement that foreshadows the plot, in an ironic way, since Norton's crucial role in 164 I I the Invisible Man's fate is far from pleasant. While the student muses about Greek overtones of "fate," he feels "the car leaping leisurely beneath the pressure of my foot" (p. 37). While guessing correctly that fate is not "pleasant," he has a foreboding that the car will be the vehicle of i disaster: "Now, riding here in the powerful car with this white man who was so pleased with what he called his fate, Ij felt a sense of dread" (p. 37). He remembers his grand father's dying admonition to fight the white man, but he is i too confused to apply the dying man's warning to his present circumstance. The car passes a team of oxen, which the student tries to point out to Mr. Norton, who, however, pointedly can't i see it "for the trees." Mr. Norton in explicitly symbolic j language reveals that he cannot see the overall Negro situa-. I tion, that he sees only the isolated instances he chooses ' ! to, like the success of the college, and not the widespread : poverty of the majority. The young student's response to the oxen team is pride by contrast. The sense of importance; he feels at being in control of this technologically sophis-. ticated automobile gives him the courage to converse with Mr. Norton. He proudly listens while "the tyres sang over the highway" (p. 38). His power over the complex machine is ! 165 j i , I an obvious reminder of his own success, of his advancement i over his primitive brethren like the "ragged driver" of oxen who cannot drive cars. The student's revulsion at the 'ox-driver is similar to Todd's in "Flying Home": both young i Negroes associate technology with progress. Hours later, ; i in Chapter 5, Barbee, during his speech, enunciates the | symbolism of this implied contrast when he praises the out- j ward signs of the college's "progress": "'And now where you' ;have roads of asphalt for the passage of rubber tyres, then the roads were of crushed stone for the passage of oxen, and mule teams" (p. 112). One of the themes of Invisible Man, of course, as of The First Circle, is that there is no correlation between technological sophistication and moral or spiritual superiority. The student will soon discover that, for all Norton's education and high status in a technologically advanced culture, he is no more morally advanced than Trueblood, who is at least "true" to his in stincts . Before the student realizes how far the car has trav- j eled, he finds himself parked in front of Trueblood's log cabin. The children eye the automobile, which, so out of place there, is symbolic of the rich folks up at the school. Much to Norton's amazement, the rural Negroes hate the 166] college people. The young chauffeur, fortified by his sense| of status as college student and driver of a sophisticated automobile, is humiliated by Trueblood because of his bar baric and primitive level of development. But the Invisible i Man is shocked and embittered when Mr. Norton rewards True- i I blood, not the chauffeur, with $100. Norton then suddenly j commands, "'Drive me away from herel'" (p. 61). He thereby ! reveals his complete reliance on the automobile as a magic t carpet to transport him a hundred years in time from a slave: era log cabin back to the civilization and order of the modern campus. The car has indeed been an instrument of ! destiny because Norton was driven to a place he would other wise never have gone, where he looks into his incestuous soul. The student fails to realize the relativity of the ; I truth that the white man wants to know. As the Invisible Man steps on the gas when he drives away, he figures that "Dr. Bledsoe would blame me" (p. 61) if anything happened to■ Norton; he thus foreshadows the downfall in his "destiny." The automobile next transports the incongruous pair to ; i the Golden Day, where Mr. Norton has an experience even more; damaging to the student's future. The automobile noses into a crowd of shell-shocked war veterans on their way to a local whorehouse, the Golden Day. For a surrealistic , . . moment, the car becomes General Pershing's; otherwise the j I drum major would not let it pass. To the crazed men in the ! bar, the car entirely loses its status value; they insist ! [ I . t jthat the rich white man come inside and get his whisky. j Deprived of the support of money, class, status, Mr. Norton j is to these people just "like a sack of old clothes" (p. ; 67). What Norton and the student experience inside the Golden Day is like Stephan Daedalus' and Leopold Bloom's Walpurgisnacht scripted by Pirandello. Mr. Norton admits to! the vet that he feels that "your people are in some impor- I jtant manner tied to my destiny" (p. 81); what the importance ! of this "destiny" will be for the student is yet to be re vealed. By the time Norton is well enough and angry enough to leave, he seeks refuge in the car waiting outside. While the car has lost its glamour and protective mys- , tique, the student has lost his self-confidence. He ex presses his sense of foreboding by reference to the car: "the wheel felt like an alien thing in my hands" (p. 83). Instead of being in control of the purring instrument of ; mobility and status, he is now alienated from it, and con sequently from his own status. This insecurity increases as he drives closer to the campus, where he "headed the car through the red-brick campus gateposts with a sense of cold 168 apprehension" (p. 84), abandoning hope as he enters. The erosion of his sense of identity is first expressed by reference to the automobile: I had a sense of losing control of the car and slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. . . . Here within this quiet greenness I possessed the only iden- ; tity I had ever known, and I was.losing it. In this brief moment of passage I became aware of the connexion | between these lawns and buildings and my hopes and > dreams. I wanted to stop the car and talk with Mr. Norton, to beg his pardon for what he had seen. (p. 84) i To lose control of his car is the twentieth-century hero's way of failing his manhood, as bad as a Lermontov Cossack iloosing his rein on his horse. But the young man is losing i more than his manhood; he is losing not only a sense of belonging, but also a sense of identity. Both were impor- I tant for his selection as the student responsible enough to : be a trustee's chauffeur. The car began as agent of status and was to end as agent of destruction, as the young man proceeds along his mythical journey through one of a series of "moment[s] of passage." Of course it is too late to "stop the car"; he knows now that with each tire rotation he is losing his "only identity"; he vaguely realizes he has been "struck" by a speeding machine. Later, when the student goes to pick up Dr. Bledsoe, he lists the President's accomplishments; the ownership of "not one, but two Cadillacs" (p. 8 6) ranks before his high salary and light-colored wife. But inside the car with Bledsoe, the boy acquires more revelation than status. On the drive to see Norton at Rabb Hall, the student has his first insight into Bledsoe's hypocrisy: "'We take, these white folks where we want them to go, we show them what we Want them,to see'" (p. 87). The amazed young man is weak and shocked when he stops the car. A little later, he sus pects that something is seriously wrong when Mr. Norton I explains that someone else will drive him to the station. When Mr. Norton says "'I won't be needing the machine'" I (p. 91), the young man's only available link across racial and socioeconomic boundaries is irrevocably broken. I The dark road and the white line.— Mingled throughout this description of the student's early trauma with the car are references to the contrast of the white line on the grey/black highway. These references often have symbolic overtones suggesting the book's themes of color ambiguity and alteration of identity (see discussions above, in Chap ter IV) . In the beginning of his drive with Mr. Norton, who is explaining the early history of the college, the student refers symbolically to the road: "I listened with 1 7 _5_j I fascination, ray eyes glued to the white line dividing the | highway as my thoughts attempted to sweep back to the times : i of which he spoke" (p. 36). The highway of his destiny is j ! split irrevocably, and staring at the white line does not, j i i in fact, bring him closer to the representative of white | \ culture sitting in the back seat of the car. Norton's con versation moves from history to the astounding revelation that "'even if you fail, you are ray fate. And you must write me and tell me the outcome'" (p. 40). The hapless i 'student thinks that this juxtaposition of philosophy and 1 [ . I platitude must be a joke; in the context of the novel it is | ironic. Not understanding, he does at least realize that the separation between himself and the white man is abso lute : i I How could I tell him his fate? He raised his head and our eyes met for an instant in the glass, then I lowered 1 mine to the blazing white line that divided the highway. ' : (p. 40) : Somehow, following the white and straight is the only direc-! tion he has during this phase of his development; he is j dimly aware of the symbolism of the line, for he says that "Half-consciously I followed the white line as I drove" (p. 42). This sentence juxtaposes the color theme and the theme of "consciousness." At this juncture in the develop- ; 1 7 1 ment of the plot and theme, the Invisible Man is indeed only "half-conscious," for "coznavanie" is something he will acquire. i Before the boy realizes it, the straight white line has led to Trueblood's cabin. Against a background of amorphous; greyness, the white line is the link of primordial urge between the illiterate black farmer and the refined trustee., i '* Suspecting this, the boy "wished we were back on the other « I side of the white line, heading back to the quiet green i stretch of the campus" (p. 45). Of course, there is no turning back to the idyllic and sterile campus atmosphere. j The prelude to the experience in the Golden Day, where the vet transgresses all social rules regarding the color line, begins with the student's remarking on how the veter ans blurred the line on the road: They straggled down the highway in a loose body, block- l ing the way from the white line to the frazzled weeds that bordered the sun-heated concrete slab . . . They were blocking the road. (p. 62) Indeed, they do allegorically represent the second major | obstacle in the path of the hero. It is a bad omen that they do not make way for him, but he must cross the myster ious color line in order to get past them; one of the vets "stepped aside and I shot the car across the line to avoid 172] I the men and stayed there on the wrong side as I headed for j I the Golden Day" (p. 63). From that moment on, the student 1 is definitely on the "wrong side" in his mythical journey ' 'and he remains there. By the time he emerges from this ( trying aspect of his initiation, the car feels completely alien as he "followed the white line of the highway" (p. 83) . 1 ! He is still following the white line, but all confidence in j the rectitude of its direction is gone. By the time he turns into the campus, the highway has explicitly become a ! . / vehicle for a simile: Now even the rows of neat dormitories seemed to threaten 1 me, the foiling lawns appearing as hostile as the grey highway with its white dividing line. As of its own compulsion, the car slowed as we passed the chapel . . . (p. 84) i Only by comparison with the highway can the young man ex press his sense of loss. Even the innocence of the bucolic greenery has been lost, replaced by the evil lurking in the refinement represented by Norton and his "sophisticated" technology of roads and automobiles. As the student begins i to lose his sense of identity, he simultaneously loses con trol of the car. As the Invisible Man walks toward the chapel at the beginning of Chapter 5, his narration is intensely poetic, perhaps in reflection of the momentous change about to 173 | i I occur. In the midst of a lyrical description of the naturalj beauties of the campus, the image of the dark road contrast-| I i ing with white intrudes itself in a slightly different way: . . . and I recall the sudden arpeggios of laughter lilting across the tender, springtime grass— gay-welling, ! far-floating, fluent, spontaneous, a bell-like feminine j fluting, . . . Above the decorous walking around me, ! sounds Of footsteps leaving the verandas of far-flung , buildings and moving towards the walks and over the walks to the asphalt drives lined with whitewashed stones, those cryptic messages for men and women, . . . | (p. 92) : t The description of the campus soothes at first, ringing with Tennyson-like euphony. But then comes the mysterious com- | ment about "cryptic messages"; the "messages" may refer to "sounds of footsteps" or to "whitewashed stones." The ambi guity suggests the complexity of the black/white theme. 1 i I Exactly what those messages mean is unclear, but the stones 1 lining the black roads have been "whitewashed" with neat ness, order, direction— like white lines. The phrase "cryptic messages" is echoed much later (in Chapter 20, p. 356) in the context of other "sounds of footsteps," the clicking of shoes upon the subway floor (see below, pp. 183- 85). Neatness and discipline may not be the final answer of life, as the college pretends. Months later, when the young man, immersed in the Brotherhood, is giving a prepared lecture in Harlem, he ; 174 i articulates the symbolism of this contrast between the dark-j I ness of roads and whiteness, especially white lines: , I « "They think we're blind— uncommonly blind. And I don't ; wonder. . . . So now we can only see in straight white lines . . . Up to now we've been like a couple of one- eyed men walking down opposite sides of the street. Someone starts throwing bricks and we start blaming each other and fighting among ourselves. But we're • mistakenI Because there's a third party present. • There's a smooth, oily scoundrel running down the mid- , die of the wide grey street throwing stones ..." (pp. 277-78) ! < This reference is one of the many examples of the novel's imagistic texture, which is imparted by interconnecting and ■recurring motifs. Here the color theme, the blindness i 'theme, and the character development of the protagonist are merged. The urban highway is explicitly the mythical path way through life; the white line is both the illusion that solutions are simple, and the belief that the best solutions are directed by "white" culture. The symbolism of the I "third party" goes so far astray from literal communication that Brother Jack is forced to interrupt the Invisible Man's speech a bit later and caution him. Brother Jack's faith ini the literal and explicable precludes his recognition of the : non-categorizable. Invisible Man and The First Circle are testimonials to the persistence of the non-conforming and astoundingly unpredictable potential of human life and thought. The city After the Invisible Man's expulsion from the campus paradise because of his transgressions as a driver for Nor ton, he ends up in Harlem. Although the Invisible Man is i immersed in the big city's plethora of urban vehicles, his experiences with automobiles are paradoxically less dramatic .than they were in the country. The sights and sounds of the I cxtyscape, of which automobiles are essential, are so in tegral a part of his urban experience that the Invisible Man takes them for granted as he pursues personal and philo sophical confrontations. The protagonist does not again drive an automobile, but he is driven frequently and often sees cars. Although there are few references to automobiles in the city, they often qarry metaphorical overtones. For example, on the first day of the emergence of his new self, the day he gives the extemporaneous speech at the scene of the dispossession, he sees a car whirling "completely around on the ice" (p. 2 1 1), gaining control again, and continuing on. He, too, has spun around and headed on a new, though as yet unspecified, direction. Automobiles in the city are sterile and imper sonal. Contacts with people passing by in automobiles are brief and mechanical: one day as the Invisible Man is walk- I ing along the street, a police car drives alongside him and the police, mistaking him for Rinehart, demand their cut of the dope trade. Then "the car speeded up and away" (p. 396) . People speed in and out of this boy's life in such an im personal and abrupt way that he never gets close to anyone; i most significantly, no one knows him well enough to pene trate a superficial disguise. j The Invisible Man's only other experiences in auto- ; mobiles are from his association with the Brotherhood. Con tacts with people in cars are mute, cold, and disjointed. ; I ; When Brother Jack takes the young protege to his first I Brotherhood party, from the car the boy witnesses a kaleido-i i scopic view of the city's "street lamps and passing cars" (p. 2 42). He is as distant (spiritually, philosophically) i from the workings of the city as is Pryanchikov when he is driven from Mavrino to Abakumov's at night. When the car rides through Central Park, the Invisible Man suddenly thinks he is in the country, but is reminded of the mytho- j logical wild and dangerous animals of human discontent that ; lie just below the placid observable surface of human civi lization. He remembers the mythical "dark water" of discord "buried beneath black and white, grey mist and grey silence" (p. 242). This imagery ties in the description with the j color theme and recalls the seething of discord beneath the j campus tranquillity (see above, pp. 118-19). The Invisible I I Man's epiphany subsides as "the car nosed slowly into traf- | fic" (p. 242). Furthermore, he notices that although there i are three other passengers and the driver with him, they observe a peculiar silence: "It was as though we were mere chance passengers in a subway car" (p. 242). This observa- 1 ,tion foreshadows the fact that he never will get closer to ! I these intellectual white men. He feels similarly alienated when Brother Jack and a few others pick him up in a taxi some time later and drive him to the auditorium where he will give his speech; and he notices that "As before, no one spoke a word" (p. 269). Rhetoric notwithstanding, he is no ! closer to comprehending these men than he had been to Norton in the back seat of the car he had chauffeured. Four months later, Brother Jack again picks him up in the car, and again is silent, "staring at the road as though lost in thought" (p. 2 87). The advantages of mobility provided by the auto- ' mobile are offset by the alienation consequent upon such ; transitoriness. This alienation no doubt contributes to the Invisible Man's continuing search for a stable identity. The automobile is a significant part of the strange and 178 estranging technoscape of the novel. 2. Buses i If it is the automobile that drives the young man out j i of nature's paradise, it is the bus that actually transports: i him to the big city (Chapter 7). Just as his conversations ; with Mr. Norton in the car were crucial to his development, ! i I his conversation in the bus with the vet is of central the- , matic and structural significance. The vet predicts, for j I ! t example, that the boy will meet some white folks in the big . i ;city. (The vet, of course, is leaving, as is the student, j on Bledsoe's edict.) The vet ribs the ex-student about the : big world of the North, and then takes this epic journey of . ! » transition as the opportunity to give advice: "'You're J i hidden right out in the open . . . They wouldn't see you because they don't expect you to know anything'" (p. 1 2 8). .This prognostication is the vet's second articulation of the protagonist's invisibility (see p. 81, Chapter 3). Here in the bus, the ex-student, still assuming that this is the I raving of a madman, fails to perceive that people who tell the truth are often described, like Lear's fool, as "in sane . " The Invisible Man does recognize, however, the symbolic significance of the speed with which the bus can remove him 179 from all things with which he is familiar: We were going at last and I took a last longing look as the bus shot around the highway which circled the school. I turned and watched it recede from the rear window; the I sun caught its treetops, bathed its low-set buildings 1 and ordered grounds. Then it was gone. In less than five minutes the spot of earth which I identified with j the best of all possible worlds was gone, lost within \ the uncultivated countryside. A flash of movement drew my eye to the side of the highway now, and I saw a moc- , ■ .casin wiggle swiftly along the grey concrete, vanishing into a length of iron pipe that lay beside the road. I watched the flashing past of cotton fields and cabins, feeling that I was moving into the unknown. (p. 12 9) Again, like a paragraph from Joyce or Faulkner, this pas sage, in which several of the novel’s themes are interwoven,: shows how carefully the book is structured. The comparison of the protagonist's character to Candide is here made ex plicit ("best of all possible worlds"); his innocence and idealism are a tabula rasa for experiential rape. Instead of going to seek his fortune on a horse, he ventures out on ( a bus. The passage is also a vignette of contrast between the uncultivated countryside and the cultivated: the wiggling moccasin is one of the last living non-human crea tures that he will see; here its wildness contrasts with the I "grey concrete" and iron pipe, both of which are only hints , of the technoscape he will soon be engulfed in. As the pastoral scenes rush by, he realizes he is entering another phase of an archetypal journey; in less than five minutes 180 ' 1 ! i he passes "into the unknown." The speed of modern vehicles j ■ offers hitherto unprecedented mobility and therefore change,! 1 i along with personality disorientation and cultural conflict*; i This migration from the South to the North has, of course, i great significance for American Negroes as a group. The bus has carried the Invisible Man "from contact with slavery to " i contact with a world of advanced scholarship, art and sci- 1 ence" (Ellison, "Brave Words," p. 104). The cultural up heavals consequent upon such migrations are suggested by the I Harlem riots the narrator later witnesses. I 3. Subways After the vet gets off the bus, the young student is ( left alone with his thoughts until he is dropped off in New 1 i I York, to be swallowed immediately by the subway, that sub terranean region beneath the city. The subway is yet an- [ other important part of the novel's technoscape that com- : prises the narrator's incomprehensible, irrational, and mysterious world. Here he experiences for the first time two main aspects of the city— integration and crowding. His very first experience of integration is expressed with a type of imagery quite different from his white line/grey road descriptions. This whole mob of passengers is "salt- and-pepper" and he is so close to a white woman that he can 181 I see a mole on her face: "I stared with horror at a large mole that arose .out of the oily whiteness of her skin like a black mountain sweeping out of a rainwet plain" (p. 131). This is an experience of the black/white contrast that he had never imagined. The crowding was so unpleasant that he j | felt "like something regurgitated from the belly of a fran- j I tic whale" (p. 131). In his room at the Men's House he can | hear "the sound of traffic, the larger sound of the subway"! I ;(pp. 133-34). Gone are the sweet sounds of lilting laugh- 1 ter, chapel bells, chirping birds. ; About a year later the narrator has a far profounder ■ experience than the introduction to integration'. He sheds yet another role of identity as he peels another layer off the onion of reality. Literally the Underground Man while in the subway, he plunges into the depths of his mind to probe the subterranean regions of consciousness. After witnessing Tod Clifton's death in the street, the Invisible Man goes into the subway and sheds his reliance upon the Brotherhood as he perceives the limitations of dialectical j materialism. < The Invisible Man wanders in a daze down into the sub- : way after seeing Tod Clifton's murder by a policeman: I wandered down the subway stairs seeing nothing, my 182 mind plunging. The subway was cool and I leaned against a pillar, hearing the roar of trains passing across on the other side, feeling the rushing roar of air. (p. 353) I The subway is here a metaphor for the depths of his own mind* into which he must plunge in order to understand the meaning of what he has just witnessed: a bright, handsome, intelli gent young man like Tod Clifton voluntarily left the pro- I ( tection of the Brotherhood, sold paper dolls in an absurd j I assertion of capitalism, and committed suicide by attacking > i 1 a policeman. The subway environment provides the Invisible Man with the logical metaphor for Tod's experience: "Why i had he chosen to step off the platform and fall beneath the train?" The platform of the Brotherhood had provided sta bility, meaning, and order in the chaotic, dangerous urban I setting. What disturbs the Invisible Man is why Tod could have rejected the neat "pattern and discipline" (p. 308) of the Brotherhood's dialectical materialism. Heretofore the Invisible Man had welcomed its security; he had accepted Brother Jack.'s definitions of the importance of "history," where individuals "don't count" (p. 236). The Invisible Man had ignored Tod's admonitions that sometimes "a man has to plunge outside history" (p. 305); and now he is himself : 1831 i ; forced to plunge to new depths of perception: "Why did he j ; ' j [Tod] choose to plunge into nothingness, into the void of j | faceless faces, of soundless voices, lying outside history?"I i (p. 353). | , ; The Invisible Man ponders the contradiction of Tod j while watching the changing subway trains: "I stood there with the trains plunging in and out, throwing blue sparks. ' < I What did they ever think of us transitory ones?" (p. 354) . ; He begins to understand that a logical definition of "his- ^ Itory" could not encompass the radical diversity of human experience, especially with the transitory migrations made I possible by urban transportation. "As a gust of cool air rolled up the tunnel" (p. 354), his mind has an infusion of insight. His eyes alight on three Negro boys who enter the subway. He suddenly realizes that their looks, behavior, manners, and minds in no way fit into any neat definitions of human history: "their black faces secret, moving slowly ■ down the subway platform, the heavy heel-plated shoes making, a rhythmical tapping as they moved" (p. 354). The "secret" t that their faces hold has not yet been fathomed by any for mula for life. As the taps of their shoes echo on the sub way floor, the Invisible Man perceives how the three relate to Tod Clifton: i ' ^ 8 4 ] I For they were men outside of historical time, they were untouched, they didn't believe in Brotherhood, no doubt ; had never heard of it; or perhaps like Clifton would mysteriously have rejected its mysteries; men of tran sition whose faces were immobile. (p. 355) As Spiridon was for Nerzhin, these boys, Tod, implicitly ! i Trueblood, and later Dupre (p. 440) are for the Invisible j i I Man the demonstration of the amorphous unclassifiabllity of , human life. These boys will click their heels through life; I they will, like Spiridon, reproduce, eat, thrive, live whole lives with no ideological consciousness, and start riots in I Harlem on their own initiative (p. 4 41). They will doubt- i less inherit the earth--these assorted individuals who do i not fit any categories. Although the Invisible Man has for months accepted the ■ precepts of the Brotherhood, he now sees their limitations: ; What if Brother Jack were wrong? What if history was a gambler, instead of a force in a laboratory experiment, and the boys his ace in the hole? What if history was not a reasonable citizen, but a madman full of paranoid guile and these boys his agents, his big surprise! (p. 355) The boys and Clifton do not fit any system because, for one 1 I thing, systems by definition are permanent: "For the boys speak a jived-up transitional language full of country gla mor, think transitional thoughts, though perhaps they dream the same old ancient dreams" (p. 355). The Harlem Negroes : i are as transitory as the trains going in and out of the subway. Unlike the trains, however, they are not amenable I to schedule. Partly because of their transitory nature, I .partly because of the "secret" their faces hold, they are I unclassifiable. Transfixed by this revelation, the Invis- j ible Man follows the three boys into the subway train. I Overcome with the implications of his discovery, he can hardly stand up: "I staggered with the lunging of the : jtrain, feeling the overhead fans driving the hot air down j upon me" (p. 356). Remembering Clifton's unnecessary death, the Invisible Man continues to study the boys until they I Heave the train, "their shoulders rocking, their heavy heel plates clicking remote, cryptic messages in the brief si- l jlence of the train's stop" (p. 356). The messages of ele- j t mental life are cryptic, inaccessible to explanation by i rational schemes of thought, not containable by boundaries, unpredictable. Not only has the protagonist seen where dialectical materialism fails— he had simply ignored people like these three boys who were "outside the groove of his- ! tory"— he has come to understand the basic truth, which Innokenty also saw, that "the essence of life will never be captured by even the greatest formulas" (see above, p. 1 0 0). Later, the Invisible Man states that "the world in which we 186 I . lived was without boundaries" (p. 401). Then he criticizes | the Brotherhood because it wants him to "deny the unpredict-J able element of all Harlem" (p. 414). The three boys, j whether one sees them as mechanized and unresponsive or as ! individuals, will definitely not fit into the Brotherhood's "picture of a bright, passive, good-humored, receptive mass , ever willing to accept their [Brotherhood's] every scheme" i | (p. 414) . : | Hence, this experience in the subway has allowed the j Invisible Man to peel off another inadequate layer of iden tity that he had worn for some time. After this experience r in the subway, the protagonist will be able to detach him- i self from the Brotherhood and to understand why its dogma I did not include the human variety of Tod, Rinehart, Ras the • Exhorter, Dupre, and of course the narrator himself. But \ the new wisdom burdened him: "I came out of the subway, : I weak, moving through the heat as though I carried a heavy stone, the weight of a mountain on my shoulders" (p. 357). ! It was so much easier to believe in a disciplined pattern of j ideology that answered all questions except the most impor tant. The Invisible Man's recognition of the significance of the three boys and of Clifton is an overwhelming affirma tion of humanity, similar to that which was seen in The 187” First Circle. Now, about a year after his symbolic death and rebirth in the ECT machine, the Invisible Man emerges from the subway, and from the depths of his consciousness, j with yet a new sense of identity, a sense of his right to be' an individual: "I'd been asleep, dreaming" (p. 357). Whereas the Brotherhood had taught him the denigration of ,the individual, the Invisible Man has now seen, as did Nerzhin, how very much, indeed, individuals do count. Within a few days, the narrator will return to the Brother hood and assert his "personal responsibility" (p. 372). ■When he sees that the effect of this phrase on the Brother- l I hood is as electric as was the effect on the white society men in the battle royal scene when he mentioned "social equality" (see above, p. 132), he realizes that the Brother-! hood is another form of the "power set-up." At the end of the novel, the Invisible Man, in the subway, has a final experience during his search for iden tity: he meets Mr. Norton. This confrontation reminds him paradoxically of his invisibility on the one hand, but of j the strength of his individuality on the other. He remi nisces about this confrontation while he sits in the black hole reviewing the lessons of the year since expulsion from the campus: he accepts the necessity of allowing for 188 diversity in human life. "Life is to be lived, not con trolled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in the | I face of certain defeat" (p. 465);; his own humanity is justi-’ i ,fied because of his ability to prevail (as Faulkner would i put it), just as the humanity of the zeks in the Mavrino ' I isharashka is won. . I I As the narrator stands in the subway, he sees an el- 1 derly gentleman who is lost. The subway had provided the rural Negro with his first experience of integration; now the white man asks directions from the black. The subway is the quintessence of urban mobility; now the white man is I lost and unsure, disoriented in the regions that run below the big city. The Invisible Man immediately recognizes the i symbolic implications of the white man's disorientation, ! i even before he realizes who the man is: Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the ! danger of losing a sense of who you are. That must be it, I thought— to lose your direction is to lose your face. So here he comes to ask his direction from the lost, the invisible. (p. 465) The Invisible Man then recognizes the irony of being asked i for help by the man who did so much to hurt him. Although the protagonist has fought such a difficult battle ever since Mr. Norton plunged him into invisibility, ,it is now the Invisible Man who has strength and direction; I 1891 f I I Mr. Norton wants to get to "Centre Street." The Invisible Man sees clearly that Mr. Norton has no firm idea of where he is going now, no more than he did on the fateful day iwhen the student took him for a ride. Mr. Norton wants and i ; needs a "Centre" but has no idea of how to get there; his j center has not held for some time. ■ The protagonist, taking advantage of the strength given him by his invisibility, mocks the old man, recalling his talk of "destiny" at the Golden Day (p. 81): ' "So. Last time it was the Golden Day, now it's ! Centre Street. You've retrenched, sir. But don't you ! know who I am?" | . . . "Why should I know you?" . . . "Because I'm your destiny." "My destiny, did you say? . . . Young man, are you well? Which train did you say I should take?" (p. 466) The Invisible Man asks Norton if he is not ashamed to be lost. Needless to say, the black man only frightens Norton: "'But I'm your destiny, I made you.' . . . I said, walking closer and seeing him back against a pillar" (p. 466). The protagonist has finally understood what the supposedly in sane vet in the Golden Day was trying to tell him ("'poor t stumbler, neither of you can see the other'" [p. 81]): that, the eleemosynary motives of the Mr. Nortons are the epitome of hypocritical parasitism. The sterile rich feed off of suffering but persevering humanity. ‘ 190 Having conquered the pain of his own directionlessness, the Invisible Man is now the protector of the man who is lost because he has not been forced to peer into his own psyche and find his identity: "Don't be afraid, Mr. Norton," I said. "There's a guard ! down the platform there. You're safe. Take any train? ' i they all go to the Golden D- ." (p. 466) j ,The old man jumps into a subway car before he realizes that the Invisible Man has just told him that all cars will lead to the blurring of the distinction between the sane and the insane, the real and the unreal, the visible and the in- I Ivisible. This subway incident contributes to the novel's struc- I ture by linking the end to the beginning, providing a fur- ■ ther example of the black/white theme, and finally by com- 1 pleting a stage in the narrator's quest for identity. The [incident also provides yet another example of how the tech noscape can be artistically incorporated in -the expression of universal themes. The narrator turns away from this | encounter in the subway with a renewed understanding of the worth of his grandfather: "He accepted his humanity just as he accepted the principle. It was his, and the principle lives on in all its human and absurd diversity" (p. 467). Writing this book, communicating this final idea, was of 191 | ' i course an act of love: "And I defend because in spite of j ] all I find that I love" (p. 467). By stressing the ability j ! to love and to accept human diversity, Invisible Man ex- j presses, as does The First Circle, the ultimate affirmation ' of the preeminence of humanity. , i I I CONCLUSION: SUMMARY, PHILOSOPHY, j < AND SPECULATION ; The two novels discussed here have been particularly fruitful examples of the range of artistic expression that | the technoscape provides. Each novel not only incorporates ! technology to express similar universal literary themes, but I j ,each also creates a world where technology provides, in fact, a special opportunity to dramatize the human condition, in very human terms. These two novels present some of the most powerful demonstrations of the spiritual resilience of mankind in all of literature, even though they make differ- ! ent artistic use of the technoscape. The different styles of these novels illustrate the virtually limitless aesthetic possibilities of the techno scape. While both draw upon the traditions of nineteenth- century realism in certain respects, Ellison's style is more innovative. Both writers present, for example, accurate observations of the details of everyday life; in particular,; 192 193 like Twain and Gogol, both are masters at reproducing the words and rhythms of colloquial speech. 1 In the modern tra dition, however, Ellison experiments with surrealism, ex- ‘ i pressionism, impressionism, dreams, and symbols, whereas I Solzhenitsyn is more traditional.' While Ellison was in fluenced by Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, T. S. Eliot, Ger- I ! trude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, and James Joyce, Solzhenitsyn: "is an old-fashioned realistic writer, raised on the Russian classics and probably not greatly aware of modern tenden cies" (Edward Brown, p. 156). Solzhenitsyn's technoscape is for the most part literal; Ellison's often is not. As regards style, both writers have been compared to Kafka. Edward Brown writes that like The Trial, The First Circle is about arbitrary imprisonment, but Solzhenitsyn's style is J I more grounded in observable reality (p. 156). Ihab Hassan I discusses how the ECT incident is "a Kafkaesque scene," how ' ) the Invisible Man "is a world of magic transformations, for For more discussion of Solzhenitsyn's revitalization of the Russian language, especially with prison-camp argot, see M. Stern, « HeKOToptje CTHJiHCTHvecKne h jieKCHvecKHe ocofieHHOCTH H3tJKa A . H. CojDKeHHUifcJHa,» Russian Language Journal, 27, No. 96 (Winter 1973), 8-16. Ellison's "experi mental idiom" has been commented on by numerous critics, as by Robert Bone, "Uses of Imagination," in Reilly, Collection, pp. 22-31. 194 2 nothing in it is exactly what xt seems" (p. 171). Other j examples of this magic are in the Prologue and in the paint factory scene, where the paint boiler is less like a literal machine and more like a supernatural force— similar to the I machines in Chaplin's Modern Times, for example. Both writers have also been compared with Dostoevsky; both have been influenced in different ways by his work. Solzhenitsyn stresses the theme of Christian redemption and the develop ment of conscience through suffering, but he uses descrip tive techniques of which Belinski basically would have approved. Ellison attempts to convey the symbolic overtones i inherent in Dostoevsky's work. The Invisible Man is, like Dostoevsky's Underground Man, witness to the subterranean, subconscious aspects of man that are inaccessible to ra tional description. Ellison feels that Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground is "a protest against the limitations of i nineteenth-century rationalism." 2 » Jules Chaix-Ruy, in Soljenitsyne, also discusses Sol- j zhenitsyn in relation to Kafka (as well as to Dostoevsky). 3 "Art of Fiction," Shadow and Act, p. 169. For discus sions of Solzhenitsyn and Dostoevsky, see, for example, Ed ward Brown, p. 155, and Deming Brown, "Cancer Ward and The First Circle," Slavic Review, 28, No. 2 (June 1969), 304. In addition to the many references to Dostoevsky in Ellison criticism in general, see particularly Earl A. Cash, "The Narrators in Invisible Man and Notes from Underground: While their fictional techniques differ, in two impor tant ways both authors treat the technoscape similarly. First, style notwithstanding, the reality depicted in both : is incredible. Edward Brown feels that "the reality he [Solzhenitsyn] depicts is fantastic"— just as Dostoevsky's 1 newspaper accounts were of fantastic incidents. Machines I I that can identify a random telephone voice? Prisons for ' millions, unknown to the society at large? Prisoner trans port trucks labeled "meat"? Ellison, furthermore, claims in an interview that if his novel is surrealistic, it is be- 4 cause the life he is attempting to portray is surrealistic? ■that is, the reality his narrator experiences is wholly lacking in predictability and stability. t Second, each novel expresses the theme of the superior-' ity of the spirit over matter. Ellison's stylistic experi- mentations involved his rejection of naturalistic and deter ministic assumptions of the moldability of man by his envi ronment. Ellison purposely rejected "the narrow naturalism I which has. led, after so many triumphs, to the final and j unrelieved despair which marks so much of our current ! Brothers in Spirit," College Language Association Journal, 16 (1973), 505-07. 4 Allen Geller, "An Interview with Ralph Ellison," Tama rack Review, No. 32 (1964), 3-24.__________ __ _______ : 196 fiction" ("Brave Words," Shadow and. Act, p. 105). Robert + - ' Bone thinks that this rejection shows Ellison's theme that . i Man is the creator of his own reality. If a culture j shapes its artists, the converse is equally the case j . . . This turn toward subjectivity, this transcendence of determinism, this insistence on an existential | freedom, is crucial to Ellison's conception of the artist. 5 Obviously, Solzhenitsyn's emphasis on pre-Soviet values such' I as those embodied in Christianity, Russian Symbolist poetry, I |and nineteenth-century idealism demonstrates his theme of man's ability to overcome the environmental influences so highly touted by the naturalists. I Observations about the stylistic uses of the techno- i scape provide relatively concrete answers to the more gen eral , and perhaps unanswerable, questions that inspired this study— questions regarding man's place in the universe, and I the relationship between art and reality. The Romantic ; i outcries against the evils inherent in the machine are still "Uses of Imagination," in Reilly, Collection, p. 29. Many critics have noted the surrealistic and impressionistic qualities of Ellison's style. Besides the sources cited above, other discussions may be found in Therman B. O'Dan iel, "The Image of Man as Portrayed by Ralph Ellison," in Reilly, pp. 89-95; and John M. Reilly, "Introduction," also in Reilly, pp. 1-9. Many of the comments on Ellison's style can be traced to Alain Locke's article, "From Native Son to Invisible Man; A Review of the Literature of the Negro for 1952," Phylon, 14 (First Quarter 1953), 34-35. heard, despite the fact that man himself is in-a sense man- j + made: He is the only living creature that has brought its natural evolution to an end. Man has ceased to adjust I his body to his environment; he now adjusts his envi ronment to his body. (Simeons, p. 79) ; . t I Man's uneasiness about his relationship with nature is ex- ! pressed in the tension between his desire to control na- j ture's inherent chaos and his fear of the results of hxs imposed order, such as his capability of destroying himself ; i and the entire natural world. I Although at least since the dawn of recorded history I there has not been a clear-cut separation of man from na ture, man's folklore, literature, and art have always ex pressed a longing for the supposed purities of a natural paradise. Adam and Eve's eviction from the Garden entailed the necessity of cultivation and the labor concomitant with 'civilization. The tension between Enkidu and Gilgamesh is that between the wild, unrestrained, and therefore "free" natural man and the civilized one. The "civilized" one is J always proud of his technological accomplishments, by which , he ranks his superiority over mere animals; at the same time, however, he fears the effects of his own creations: order brings with it an incursion upon spontaneous instinct; ; 198 t organization distorts the natural.scene; things may be used -4- - as weapons. Sigmund Freud (in Civilisation and Its Discon tents , 1930) was intrigued by the evidently deeply subcon- J scious aspect of these fears. Leo Marx discusses Freud's j concern: ; i j ! He is puzzled by what he calls the "amazing" tendency ! of presumably civilized men to idealize simple and often primitive conditions of life. What puzzles him most is the implication that mankind would be happier if our > complex, technical order could somehow be abandoned. ; "How has it come about," he asks, "that so many people I have adopted this strange attitude of hostility to i civilization?"® How, indeed? The source of this hostility may lie in man's anthropological origins; the wild animal in him may still I i be the cause of numerous unexplained fears. As Desmond Morris says in The Naked Ape: . . . in acquiring lofty new motives, he [Homo sapiens] has lost none of the earthy old ones. This is fre- ! quently a cause of some embarrassment to him, but his I old impulses have been with him for millions of years, his new ones only a few thousand at most— and there is no hope of quickly shrugging off the accumulated gene tic legacy of his whole evolutionary past. 7 Many of the discussions of the man/nature theme in 1 £ The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pas toral Ideal in America (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1964), pp. 8-9. 7(New York: Dell Publishing Co., 1967) , p. 9. literature have emphasized this hostility toward the sup- j posed sinfulness of the city (which is both a product and the'producer of technology), as opposed to the pure goodness in nature. Typical is a survey by. Irving Howe called "The City in Literature," which is for the most part a descrip tion of how Western literature has seen the city as inimi- , cal. Jane Jacobs, in The Death and Life of Great American j Q Cities, shows the sociological genesis of this idea. Leo Marx, in The Machine in the Garden, traces the longing for i 1 " "" . what he calls the pastoral ideal in American literature. He points out that "the theme of withdrawal from society I into an idealized landscape is central to a remarkably large number" (p. 10) of American major writers, notably Cooper, Thoreau, Melville, Twain, Faulkner, Frost, and Hemingway. Emerson's lines, "things are in the saddle and ride man kind," are widely quoted in discussions of man's fears of his own technology: "law for thing / . . . builds town and fleet, / But it runs wild, / And doth the man unking. " 10 8 Commentary, 51, No. 5 (1971), 61-68. 9 (New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1967). 10"Ode Inscribed to W. H. Channing," Oxford Book of American Verse, introd. F. O. Matthiessen (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1950), pp. 103-04. | 200' This longing for nature persists even into the work of con^ + 11 temporary urban Black poets. The concomitant but converse of this longing for the pastoral ideal, namely, the non-judgmental acceptance of the i : technoscape, has been much less frequently documented (e.g.,; by Marshall McLuhan and Alvin Toffler). Modern urban man, in some ways, may not be likely to yearn for a pastoral ideal because he has no experience of it; to assume i that nineteenth century Americans were overwhelmingly hostile to the city and to urban, values is grossly to i oversimplify the complexities and ambivalences of popu- j lar thought. The easy assertion, made frequently by students of contemporary American culture, of a basi- ' cally anti-urban tradition does not stand the test of historical analysis. 12 I The ecological movements in the United States in the late I i 1960s and early 197 0s were based on a recognition of the ‘ 1;LExamples of Black poetry with Romantic longing for uncorrupted nature may be found in Dices or Black Bones: Black Voices of the Seventies, ed. Adam David Miller (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1970). Note, for example, the following images: "coming on a stream / in hidden midst the amber- adornment of falls" (by N. H. Prichard, p. 64); "remember j when we were young / together baby & every day where fields / rolled out spring came" (by A. B. Spellman, p. 56); "and , singing in the woods / in the fields / when you walk / . . . and dancing by the light of the moon" (by Adam David Miller, p. 115). 12 Charles N. Glaab and A. Theodore Brown, A History of Urban America (New York: Macmillan, 1967) , p. 53. I 201 t destructive implications in the traditional definition of progress as the subduing and harnessing of nature. Man had succeeded too well in subduing nature, so he risked destroy- 13 ing it and himself. "There is no enemy left but man." As Lewis Mumford put it, instead of a "city that was, symboli- | cally, a world," the world "has become, in many practical ..I4 aspects, a city." The effect of the saturation of industrialized, post- 'electric man in his own technoscape has been to create what 1 1 Schiller did not foresee, the development in the artist of ' a naiv rather than sentimentalische relationship toward the I technoscape. Instead of longing for an innocence he has never experienced, the artist who is part of the modern trend accepts the technological environment to such an extent that "nature" may perplex him. This naiv relation ship toward the technoscape is exemplified by deep-city Portnoy's trip to Iowa, where he experiences an epiphany as he realizes that a street is named "Elm Street" because of a, tree. What Coleridge would consider too commonplace to 13 Dennis Gabor, "Growth," Intellectual Digest, 3, No. 3 (Nov. 1972), 65. 14 The Cxty m History; Its Origins, Its Transforma tions, and Its Prospects (New York: Harcourt, Brace, & World, 1961), p. xi. write of, Portnoy sees as more exotic than Xanadu. The urban dweller cannot tell an oak without acorns and does not know during which season seeds drop from trees. Yet he con siders himself a keen observer of people, whom, however, he views as "the human opposition," with the paranoia bred by densely crowded living conditions. Portnoy describes his ; "Archimedean experience": I i . . . there is, to compound the ecstasy of disorienta tion, the name of the street upon which the Campbell house stands, the street where MY girl friend grew upl skipped I skated! hop-skotched! sledded! all the while i I dreamed of her existence some fifteen hundred miles away, in what they tell me is the same country. The street name? Not Xanadu, no better even than that, oh, more preposterous by far: Elm. Elm! It is, you see, as-though I have walked right through the orange cellu loid station band of our old Zenith, directly into "One Man's Family." Elm. Where trees grow— which must be j elms! 15 The reality that he understands is the radio, and only in terms of it, this epitome of artificial technology, can he comprehend an "Elm." Irving Howe, at the end of his afore mentioned article, parenthetically acknowledges this lack of, a negative attitude toward the city and technology: "Mod ernism is becoming a part of history" (p. 67). Whitman, Emerson, and Goethe are nineteenth-century examples of 15 Philip Roth, Portnoy1s Complaint (New York: Bantam Books, 1969), pp. 250-51. , ^q-j] : I writers who embraced and praised, if somewhat guilelessly, j ithe technological advances of their day. Contemporary j Writers— Updike, Gun.ther Grass, Nabokov, Mailer, to name a j few— assume the technoscape as subject matter and as source of inspiration. ; Joseph Warren Beach criticizes the anti-science stance ! of writers like T. S. Eliot and W. H. Auden, tracing it to their religiosity. Of Eliot he says, "His scorn for the i 16 jfaith in progress is rooted in his hatred for secularism." Of course the question of religion is probably at the root of man's traditional uneasiness about his relationship with ! I | ’ nature: if something is "natural," there remains the mys tery of its creation. The implications of worshiping a man-; pentered ideal extend far beyond the definitions Of Christi-j ' I anity. All religions recognize the sacredness of the natu- ral. Yet the urban man, whether a product of Harlem or 1 i : Moscow, does not have a close relationship with the mystery, and therefore the possibly Godly, in nature. The discussion of Ellison and Solzhenitsyn has shown that the longing for a pastoral ideal is not a necessary 16 Obsessive Images: Symbolism in Poetry of the 1930's and 1940's (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1960), p. 2 6 8. iconsequence of a highly technological environment. Both I Ellison and Solzhenitsyn write with am acceptance of the terms of the technoscape. The campus in Ellison is indeed a sort of Eden, but the snake is very visible. Air is rationed in Mavrino; prisoners hardly ever see birds or trees, yet they do not spend time thinking of the nature they do not have. In both novels, the existence of evil is not conditional upon man-made things; "good" is not auto matically in the natural. What evil or good there is, lies \ within man himself. The traditional theme of the criticism of technological parameters of progress is sounded in both t novels, but not because of a longing for a pastoral ideal. The motivation for the criticism lies rather in the recog nition of the fundamental and traditional contrast between l the spiritual strength of man and the limitations of things. The criticism also stems from the classical recognition of man's tendency to abuse technology as weaponry rather than to use it for constructive ends. Where man could use tele phones mainly to communicate, he uses them primarily to spy. Where electric current might provide useful energy, it is used to hurt. In these novels is expressed one of the most prevalent philosophical themes of today— from Bertrand Russell's Has Man a Future? to Bronowski's Science and Human ! 205“ I Values: man's technological expertise, in the absence of - + ■ - judgment and values, could lead him to destroy himself. Herbert Marcuse notes the "psychic powerlessness" that re- I 17 'suits in proportion to technological power.. To a certain I i degree Marcuse is correct, but The First Circle and Invis ible Man convey the ability of the individual to assert psychic power in the face of the strongest technological oppression. 1 The expression of these themes in literature pervaded by the technoscape demonstrates that insight and goodness i are not necessarily products only of a pastoral ideal. Yet the Wordsworthian idea that the artist's sensibilities would be destroyed in a technological environment dies hard. This idea can be traced also to the classical question of the I relationship between art and reality. If art is a re presentation, or even an improvement, of reality, to what extent is the quality of art dependent upon the quality of its source material, the "reality" it seeks to re-create? Implicit in the longing for the pastoral ideal was probably the assumption that if the artist were deprived of the in trinsically good qualities of nature, he could not produce 17 Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud (New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1955). S 206 i i . art that expressed the transcendental or eternal truths. i Probably the root of that fear again is traceable to the question of religion. For prior to man's technological dominance over nature, poets and philosophers could always find mystery in nature and therefore perceive, if they chose, a divinity in the ambience. Since limitations of the i natural world were not perceptible, there was the pervasive possibility that a metaphysical being (or God) could be the fount of all phenomena (thunder is God's noise; the sun is itself a God of harvest and fertility). There was the cor relative possibility that man and his art may be invested with the grandeur of eternality— grandeur either .evil or good. If the poet's ambience consists basically of man-made objects, does he not perceive their limitedness, their source as well as their temporality? If so, is his art without metaphysical or lasting value? Can art expressed ■in terms of the limited, i.e., the designed technoscape, express transcendental truths? Of course, the apparent philosophical complexity here may diminish somewhat if the original Aristotelian premise is challenged, as by Jacob Bronowski: "How slipshod . . . is the notion that either , 2 0 7 1 2 Q ! 'art or science sets out to copy nature." j t - - - - - - - - . . . - - - - - - j i A typical expression of the fear that man's soul needs ! nature for inspiration is by Oswald Spengler in The Decline ' i i of the West; In the earliest time the landscape-figure alone dominates ' , man's eyes. It gives form to his soul and vibrates in ! tune therewith. Feelings and woodland rustlings beat | together . . . And then begins the gigantic megalopolis, j this city-as-world, which suffers nothing beside itself ; and sets about annihilating the country picture. 19 ! In other words, as William Cowper put it in "The Task" (17 95): "Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, / Ex hilarate the spirit, and restore / The tone of languid I i nature." The development of mass-production increased fears i i that the artist's sensitivities would be destroyed. John i i W. Aldridge discusses how intellectuals like H. L. Mencken, j Van Wyck Brooks, and Harold Stearns "had been expressing grave concern for the plight of the sensitive artist in a | * 20 ' machine-made, standardized society." Aldridge, along with; 18 Science and Human Values (New York: Harper & Row, 1956), p. 31. 19 The Decline of the West, Vol. I: Form and Actuality, trans. Charles F. Atkinson (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926), p. 94. 20 After the Lost Generation: A Critical Study of the Writers of Two Wars (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1951), p. 12. 20 8 many others, felt that it was clear that the events of the last fifty years, particu larly the breakdown by science of public truth into | countless isolated individual truths, have dangerously ' narrowed the area of subject matter available to writers 1 j and, consequently, crippled their means of discovering themselves and their age. (p. 85) : The fact that art did not die with the intensification ' of technology, indeed the 1960s saw an outburst of unprece- . dented artistic creativity in the United States, does not ' (eliminate the profounder implications of the question. The ! ^elevation of the technological as an ideal, as in the Soviet ’ I I Union, has wider implications for society than for art. Art. i - > is repressed there, but the society flourishes. Where Soviet art is of high quality, as in Solzhenitsyn, there is I not a lament for lost innocence, but a transmutation of the i . technoscape into powerful literary expression. i The recognition of the potential aesthetic value of the1 i technoscape has never eluded great artists. Some of Homer's finest metaphors are drawn from technology; for example, Athene improves Odysseus' appearance after he is washed ashore, before he visits Nausicaa's family: cbg 6 * oxe tig xpuoov nepixeuexai apyupcp avtjp £6pig, Sv “Hcpauaxoc 6 e6aev xaC naAAag 'AOfjvn xexvriv rcavxotriv— -xaptevxa 6 e £pya TeXetei— 209 j < i ^ - 21-__ cos a p a xcp x a x e x e u e x a p tv xeqxxAti t e x a i &u o i c • 4- -------- --------------- And as when a master craftsman overlays gold on silver, and he is one who was taught by Hephaistos and Pallas Athene in art complete 22, and grace is on every work he finishes, so Athene gilded with grace his head and his shoulders. 23 In other words, Odysseus' transformation from a tired, 1 sickly-looking man to a healthy, handsome warrior is defined, in terms of metal-working. He becomes "gilded" with a noble i appearance, even though he was of high quality (like "sil- i ver") to begin with. Athena is the patroness of all crafts. Hephaistos, of course the patron of metal work, is also elsewhere invoked for metaphors drawn from his technology (the most famous being in Book 8 , 266-342, the snare for Aphrodite). This, of course, is but one of a multitude of examples, all of which should provide fruitful ground for the continuation of this type of study. There has been, however, very little formal critical I recognition of this phenomenon. Hart Crane touched upon the 21 Ou 'tipou oSuooELa, The Odyssey of Homer, ed. W. B. Stanford, 2nd ed. (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1967), I, Book 6 , 232-35. 22 Translatxon by E. V. Rieu (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1946): "trained . . . in the secrets of his art." 23 The Odyssey, trans. Richmond Lattimore (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1968), p. 10 8 . ! ' 2101 : i 24 question in two essays. Basically, Crane contends that ,the environment, whatever it be, has to be the poet's source for imagery; the more familiar the reader is with the par- j jticular environment— whether oak trees or radio antennas— i the more he is likely to understand the meaning of a given | metaphor, image, or simile. Also, literature expressed in i terms of the technoscape can perfectly well express classi- i 1 I cal, traditional, universal themes. In his work about ' Faustus and Helen, for.example, Crane wanted to create "a contemporary approximation" of classic experience, and he I ifound he could do so by incorporating his contemporary ex- I . perience, including its technology. "Helen," for example— a universal "very real and absolute conception of beauty"— i he found "sitting in a street car" (discussed in Horton, p. 32 3). In the same essay, he articulates a theory for i what writers have been doing for centuries (even those like Auden and Eliot): The poet has a right to draw on whatever practical re sources he finds in books or otherwise about him. He must tax his sensibility and his touchstone of experi ence for the proper selections of these themes and 24 "General Aims and Theories" (1925), first published in Philip Horton, Hart Crane (New York: Norton, 1937), pp. 323-2 8 ; and "From Mr. Crane to the Editor [Harriet Monroe]," Poetry, October 1926, quoted in Horton, pp. 329-34. details, however, and that is where he either stands or falls into useless archeology. (Horton, p. 324) I ( Theory has lagged behind practice. This discussion of Ellison and Solzhenitsyn has shown how the technoscape can :be incorporated to express universal themes, and how the artist immersed in a technological ambience can transcend its banality and rise to superior heights of insight, value, and form. As Victor C. Ferkiss says: That there is an inherent aural or visual beauty that the artist seeks to draw from nature, that form is any thing other than our own subjective whim— these are ideas that are rejected almost automatically in the ! contemporary artistic world. 25 Even "socialist realism" j is bowing to the times. Science and technology define ; reality, art does not. 26 Regardless of the "limitedness" of the source material in his environment, the talented artist can express universal truths, because his ultimate subject matter is humanity. The environment provides the tools, but not necessarily the I I inspiration. What the artist, at his best, represents is the human condition, of which technology is only an adjunct, despite its overwhelming ability to mold human character. 25 See Erich Kahler, The Disintegration of Form in the Arts (New York: Braziller, 1968). 20 Technological Man: The Myth and the Reality (New York: New York Times Co., Mentor, 1969), p. 195. 212 The technoscape has not blunted man's sensitivity for ex pression, because the artistic impulse stems from within the i 1 human being himself. He can adapt to his environment and j transmute it to express universal themes and produce lasting I i art. ! \ I SELECTED B I B L I O G R A P H Y 213 r SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY General Works Aldridge, John W. After the Lost Generation; A Critical Study of the Writers of Two Wars. New York: McGraw- Hill, 1951. Banfield, Edward C. The Unheavenly City. Boston: Little, Brown, 1970. Beach, Joseph Warren. Obsessive Images: Symbolism in 1 Poetry of the 1930's and 1940's. Minneapolis: Univ. . of Minnesota Press, 1960. Brainerd, Henry, et al., eds. Current Diagnosis and Treat ment. Los Altos, Calif.: Lange Medical Publications, 1969. Bronowski, Jacob. Science and Human Values. New York: Harper & Row, 1956. Brown, Harrison. The Challenge of Man's Future: An Inquiry Concerning the Condition of Man During the Years That Lie Ahead. New York: Viking Press, 1954. Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Cleve- 1 land and New York: World Publishing Co., Meridian Books, 1949. Cocteau, Jean. La Machine infernale. Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1934. Cox, Harvey. The Secular City. New York: Random House, 1966. 214 215' Emerson, Ralph Waldo. "Ode Inscribed to W. H. Channing." ; Oxford Book of American Verse. Introd. F. 0. Matthies- sen. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1950. Rerkiss, Victor C. Technological Man: The Myth and the Reality. New York: New York Times Co., Mentor, 1969. Gabor, Dennis. The Mature Society. New York: Praeger, 1972. Condensed into an article entitled "Growth," Intellectual Digest, 3, No. 3 (Nov. 1972), 65-72. Glaab, Charles N., and A. Theodore Brown. A History of i Urban America. New York: Macmillan, 1967. j Homer. The Odyssey of Homer. Ed. W. B. Stanford. 2 vols. 2nd ed. New York: St. Martin's Press, 196 7. _____. The Odyssey. Trans. Richard Lattimore. New York: Harper Torchbooks, 196 8 . Horton, Philip. Hart Crane. New YOrk: Norton, 1937. i ! Howe, Irving. "The City in Literature." Commentary, 51, No. 5 (1971), 61-68. Jacobs, Jane. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. 1 New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1961. j Kahler, Erich. The Disintegration of Form in the Arts. New York: Braziller, 1968. , Kazin, Alfred, author and narrator. "The Writer and the ' City." Film produced by University-at-Large Programs. , Levin, Harry. The Gates of Horn: A Study of Five French Realists. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1966. McLuhan, Marshall, and Quentin Fiore. The Medium Is the Massage. New York: Bantam Books, 1967. Marcuse, Herbert. Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud. New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1955. ' ' 216 j ______________j Marx, Leo. The Machine in the Garden:Technology and the t Pastoral Ideal in America. New York: Oxford Univ. | Press, 1964. Miller, Adam David, ed. Dices or Black Bones: Black Voices i of the Seventies. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1970. ! Moholy-Nagy, Sibyl. Matrix of Man: An Illustrated History of Urban Development. New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1968. i Morris, Desmond. The Naked Ape. New York: Dell Publishing! Co., 1967. Mumford, Lewis. The City in History: Its Origins, Its Transformations, and Its Prospects. New York: Har- i court, Brace, and World, 1961. ; ! ; _______________. The Myth of the Machine: Technics and i Human Development. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and i World, 1967. Nelson, George. The Synthetic Landscape. Boston: Little, Brown, 1970. Adapted in Saturday Review, Oct. 2, 1971.; Reilly, Alayne P. America in Contemporary Soviet Litera ture . New York: New York Univ. Press, 1971. i Richards, I. A. The Philosophy of Rhetoric. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, A Galaxy Book, 1965. I Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflee- ; tions on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1969. Roth, Philip. Portnoy1s Complaint. New York: Bantam Books, 1969. : Sartre, Jean-Paul. "American Towns." Literary and Philo sophical Essays. Trans. Annette Michelson. New York: Collier Books, 1962. • Schiller, Friedrich. "On Naive and Sentimental Poetry." Friedrich Schiller: An Anthology for Our Time. Ed. Frederick Ungar. New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1959. 2171 Simeons, A. T. W. Man1s Presumptuous Brain. New York: ; Dutton, 1960. Singer, Charles, E. J. Holymord, and A. R. Hall, eds. A i ' History of Technology. Vol. I: From Early Times to ! the Fall of Ancient Empires. Oxford: Clarendon Press,! | 1954. j Spengler, Oswald. Per Untergang des Abendlandes. 2 vols. ' Vol. I: Gestalt und Wirklichkeit. Vol. II: Welt- j historische Perspektiven. Miinchen: C. H. Beck'sche i Verlag, 1926-1928. ! ! _________________ . The Decline of the West. Trans. Charles F. Atkinson. Vol. I: Form and Actuality. Vol. II: 1 Perspectives of World History. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926-1928. J Sypher, Wylie. Literature and Technology: The Alien Vi- sion. New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 196 8 . I iToffler, Alvin. Future Shock, New York: Bantam Books, 1970. i Weimer, David R. The City as Metaphor. New York: Random House, 1966. ' Wordsworth, William. "Observations Prefixed to the Second ! Edition of Lyrical Ballads." The Great Critics: An Anthology of Literary Criticism. Ed. James Harry Smithj and Edd Winfield Parks. New York: W. W. Norton, 1951. Pp. 498-518. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Atkinson, Dorothy G. "Solzhenitsyn's Heroes as Russian His-j torical Types." Russian Review, 30 (1971), 1-16. Brown, Deming. "Cancer Ward and The First Circle." Slavic Review, 28, No. 2 (June 1969), 304-13. Brown, Edward J. "Solzhenicyn's Cast of Characters." Sla vic and East European Journal, 15, No. 2 (Summer 1971), 153-66. 218 I Chaix-Ruy, Jules. A. Soljenitsyne; ou, La Descente aux enfers. Paris: Editions Mondiales, 1970. i I Grebenschikov, Vladimir I. "Les Cercles infernaux chez j Soljenitsyne et Dante." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, j I Nos. 2-3 (1971), 147-63. i Kisseleff, Natalia. "Literary Allusions and Themes in The 1 First Circle." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 j (1971), 219-33. i Korg, Jacob. "Solzhenitsyn's Metaphors." Centennial Re- [ ; view, 17 (1973), 70-91. i ) Lukacs, Georg. Solzhenitsyn. Trans. William David Graf. Cambridge, Mass.: M.I.T. Press, 1969. Moody, Christopher. Solzhenitsyn. Rev. ed. New York: Harper & Row, Perennial Library, 1973. Muchnic, Helen. "Solzhenitsyn's The First Circle.” Russian j Review, 29 (April 1970), 154-66. i Nivat, Georges. "La Symbolique de Soljenitsyne." L'Herne, Serie Slave, Numero 12.245, Soljenitsyne. Ed. Georges Nivat and Michel Aucouturier. Paris, 1971. j Obolensky, Alexander P. "Solzhenitsyn in the Mainstream of 1 Russian Literature." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 131-39. i Pervushin, Nicolas V. "Preliminary Remarks on the Literary Craft of Solzhenitsyn." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 141-46. Radosh, Stanley R., and Laszlo M. Tikos. "Aleksandr Isaye- vich Solzhenitsyn: A Selected Bibliography." Bulletin■ of Bibliography, 29 (1972), 1-6. Rea, Natalie A. "Nerzhin: A Sartrean Existential Man." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 209-17. Rzhevskii, Leonid D. TBopeu; h noflBHr. OvepKH no TBopvecTBy AjiexcaH^pa CoJiaceHHUBiHa. Frankfurt/Main: Possev Ver- lag, 1972. 219 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I. B Kpyre nepBOM, New York: Har- , per & Row, Colophon Books, 196 8 . ; ___________________________. The First Circle. Trans. Thomas P.. Whitney. New York: Bantam Books, 196 8 . 'stern, M. « HeKOToptie CTHJiHCTHx iecKHe h jieiccHHecKHe ocodeH- : h o c t h H3HKa A. H:. CojraceHHUtJHa.» Russian Language Journal, 27, No. 96 (Winter 1973), 8-16. Whitehorn, Alan J. "What Men Live by: An Analysis of Solzhenitsyn's Writings." Canadian Slavonic Papers, 13, Nos. 2-3 (1971), 235-42. Ralph Ellison i I Baumbach, Jonathan. The Landscape of Nightmare. New York: New York Univ. Press, 1965. Bone, Robert. "Ralph Ellison and the Uses of Imagination." Anger and Beyond. Ed. Herbert Hill. New York: Harper & Row, 1966. Rpt. in Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice- Hall, 1970. Pp. 22-31. Cash, Earl A. "The Narrators in Invisible Man and Notes from Underground: Brothers in Spirit." College Lan guage Association Journal, 16 (1973), 505-07. Christian, Barbara. "Ralph Ellison: A Critical Study." Black Expression. Ed. Addison Gayle, Jr. New York: Weybright & Talley, 1969. Ellison, Ralph. "The Art of Fiction: An Interview." In terviewed by Alfred Chester and Vilma Howard. Paris Review, No. 8 (Spring 1955). Rpt. in Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 1964. Pp. 167-83. _______________ . "Brave Words for a Startling Occasion." Acceptance speech, National Book Award Presentation Ceremony, Jan. 27, 1953. Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 1964. Pp. 102-06. Ellison, Ralph. "Change the Joke and Slip the Yoke."Par- tisan Review, 25 (Spring 1958). Rpt. in Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 19 64. Pp. 45-59. _______________. Invisible Man. 1952; rpt. Middlesex, Eng land:__Penguin Books, 1970. _______________. "That Same Pain, That Same Pleasure: An Interview." December (Winter 1961). Rpt. in Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 1964. Pp. 3-2 3. Geller, Allen. "An Interview with Ralph Ellison." Tamarack Review, No. 32 (1964), 3-24. Glicksberg, Charles I. "The Symbolism of Vision." South west Review, 3 9 (Summer 195 4). Rpt. in Twentieth Cen- i tury Interpretations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. Pp. 48-55. 'Hassan, Ihab. Radical Innocence: Studies in the Contempo rary American Novel. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Univ. Press, 1961. Horowitz, Ellin. "The Rebirth of the Artist." On Contem porary Literature. Ed. Richard Kostelanetz. New York: Avon Books, 196 4. Rpt. in Twentieth Century Interpre tations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. Pp. 80-88. ■Horowitz, Floyd Ross. "Ralph Ellison's Modern Version of Brer Bear and Brer Rabbit in Invisible Man." Midcon tinent American Studies Journal, 4, No. 2 (1963). Rpt. in Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. Pp. 32- 38. Jackson, Esther Merle. "The American Negro and the Image of the Absurd." Phylon, 23 (Winter 1962). Rpt. in Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. Pp. 64- 72 . 221 Locke, Alain. "From Native Son to Invisible Man: A Review - i of the Literature of the Negro for 1952." Phylon, 14 (First Quarter 1953), 34-35. Neal, Larry. "Ellison's Zoot Suit." Ralph Ellison; A j Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John R. Hershey. ; Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1974. Pp. 58- 79. O'Daniel, Therman B. "The Image of Man as Portrayed by Ralph Ellison." Twentieth Century Interpretations of i Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. j John M. Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice- Hall, 1970. Pp. 89-95. Olderman, Raymond M. "Ralph Ellison's Blues and Invisible Man." Wisconsin Studies in Contemporary Literature, 7, No. 2 (1966), 142-59. i Reilly, John M., ed. Twentieth Century Interpretations of j Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. Ruzicka, Dolores Anne. "Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man as a Repository of Major Elements from Principal Western Literary Traditions." Diss. Univ. of Southern Cali fornia 1973. Singleton, M. K. "Leadership Mirages as Antagonists in Invisible Man." Arizona Quarterly, 22 (Summer 1966). Rpt. in Twentieth Century Interpretations of Invisible Man: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John M. ; Reilly. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970. ■ Pp. 11-21. Stark, John. "Invisible Man: Ellison's Black Odyssey." Negro American Literature Forum, 7 (1973), 60-63. Warren, Robert Penn. "The Unity of Experience." Commentary, 39 (May 1965), 91-96.

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Asset Metadata

Creator Griffith, Patricia Anne Thomas (author)

Core Title The technoscape in the modern novel: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "The First Circle" and Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man"

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Comparative Literature

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag comparative literature,literature, American,Literature, Slavic and East European,OAI-PMH Harvest

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c17-733791

Unique identifier UC11344531

Identifier DP22527.pdf (filename),usctheses-c17-733791 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier DP22527.pdf

Dmrecord 733791

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Griffith, Patricia Anne Thomas

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the au...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus, Los Angeles, California 90089, USA