by Alex Kane
The irony here, of course, is that identity is rendered meaningless, or at least trivial, through the theoretical technology of a cerebral-upload procedure. By removing the Dalai Lama’s consciousness from the physical form of the brain, an empty and transient organ of the body, the Dalai Lama ceases to exist for those around him, even as he speaks from a place of being, with sound memories and the ability to articulate his experience. In this way, the story confirms the Buddhist belief in “No-Self,” which Mitchell describes as “the Buddha’s view that the belief in a permanent substantial self is not only false, but also leads to selfishness and egoism . . . the absence of [which] leads to selfless loving kindness and compassion for others” (37). So in this story, at least, even the supreme wisdom of the Dalai Lama is corrupted by the human notion of a self-concept.
In another short story, titled “Beyond Lies the Wub,” Philip K. Dick uses parapsychology and metaphysics to describe a very different speculation on the nature of identity and karma. In this work of science fiction, a starship captain named Franco is in the middle of preparing for takeoff when one of his crewmen, Peterson, brings to the gangplank a “wub . . . sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A flew flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail” (28).
Captain Franco asks what the creature is, and Peterson replies, “it’s a pig. The natives call it a wub” (28). After their departure from Mars, Franco is discussing how best to cook and prepare the creature; and then the wub speaks: “Really, Captain . . . I suggest we talk of other matters” (29). Astounded, Franco examines the creature, and says, “I wonder if there’s a native inside it . . . Maybe we should open it up and have a look” (29).
After the captain calls the wub into his office for questioning, the creature describes its diet and survival mechanisms: “Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We’re very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That’s how we’ve gotten along” (30). Having revealed its seemingly Buddhist inclination toward compassion and nonviolence, the wub goes on to ask “how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes?” (30), perhaps implying that vegetarianism, or even veganism, is the necessary first step for humanity to take if it is to have an ethical, harmonic relationship with animals and the whole of the universe. A more conservative reading, however, might be that the wub’s intellect qualifies it as a sentient being to be privileged above the realm of the animal; but other short fiction of Dick’s, such as the stories “Roog” and “Fair Game,” both of which affirm his regard for humankind as being equal to animals, serves as evidence to the contrary.
Unconvinced of the wub’s relevance to Buddhist thought? This is a question worth asking, but the creature’s intellectual leanings reveal much more of its nature than can be inferred from its grotesque appearance: “Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts” (30), it says, before delving into an examination of Jungian archetypes in human myth. It explains, “I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation” (31). After much deliberation, the captain eventually decides to kill the creature by shooting it in the head. Later, as the crew is feasting on the wub, Captain Franco—the “only one who appeared to be enjoying himself” (33)—comforts Peterson by saying, “It is only organic matter, now . . . The life essence is gone” (33). Peterson realizes that the wub’s consciousness has seized the captain’s physical body when the man says, “As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths . . .” (33), and the reader learns that identity in Dick’s universe is like the state of being described by the Buddha himself.
Mitchell writes that “The Buddha always affirmed that persons have an empirical selfhood constituted by a body and a mind” (37)—two entirely separate concepts, then, that intersect in complex ways to comprise a living creature. So whereas Bacigalupi’s story describes consciousness as being a very real existence from the sense-experience perspective of the individual, but rendered irrelevant in the context of a society that cannot be certain of that consciousness’s identity, Dick’s “wub” illustrates the manner in which we experience the state of being. To qualify an individual’s distinct identity, especially in fiction and other types of stories dealing with these kinds of issues, we often use the deductive reasoning of exclusive knowledge. We ask the questions which only a given individual would be able to answer. When the wub speaks of Odysseus, we gain an understanding of the creature’s mind, of its distinctive selfhood; when more discussion of the myth is spoken from the captain’s mouth, we recognize that Captain Franco has ceased to exist, despite that his body endures. We also recognize that the wub yet lives, despite that its brain was destroyed and its physical form is being eaten by the starship’s crew. But because there is no definitive methodology for what constitutes identity, we must conclude that the Buddhist doctrine of “No-Self” is generally truthful; and the wub’s physical destruction for the sake of others’ sustenance proves the Buddha’s assertion that “the belief in a permanent substantial self . . . leads to selfishness and egoism” (37).
While science fiction may seem the most boundless canvas for exploring the implications of Buddhist thought, authors working within the narrative frameworks of fantasy and even mainstream fiction have managed to illustrate the concepts of compassion, karma, and the bodhisattva ideal with equal nuance. For example, the novels of Joe Hill may at a glance seem to be fairly conventional examples of popular horror fiction: suspense-based, often terrifying, and with an emphasis on mystery, atmosphere, and character. All these things describe his works accurately enough—but they are also so much more, beneath the surface.
Loy and Goodhew suggest that when looking at Buddhist teachings, it is more practical to view them with a skeptical, modern eye; that to question whether or not the teaching is literal does nothing to diminish it, so long as human psychology is kept in mind (34). They explain, “Karma need not be viewed as some inevitable calculus of moral cause and effect, because it is not primarily a teaching about how to control what the world does to us. It is about our own spiritual development: how our lives are transformed by our motivations” (36). For instance:
The traditional “six realms” of samsara do not need to be distinct worlds or planes of existence through which we transmigrate after death. . . . They can also be the different ways we experience this world, as our character, and therefore our attitude toward the world, change. For example, the hell realm becomes not so much a place I will be reborn into later, due to my hatred and evil deeds, as a way I experience this world when my mind is dominated by anger and hate. (38)
Ignatius Perrish, the protagonist from Hill’s novel Horns, is the embodiment of this understanding of karma. Ig’s fiancee Merrin Williams, who was raped and murdered a year before the start of the story, serves as the catalyst for Ig’s nightmarish experiences throughout the book; as a source of goodness in Ig’s life when she was alive, she has become for him a fatal attachment—a wellspring of suffering, or dukkha, that can best be described as hell on earth. In the beginning of the novel, after “[spending] the night drunk and doing terrible things” (3), he wakes “the next morning with a headache, [puts] his hands to his temples, and [feels] somthing unfamiliar, a pair of knobby pointed protuberances” (3).
Ig Perrish is given the ultimate test of human compassion when his new horns grant him the power to hear the sinful thoughts of complete strangers, and not long after, the darkest, most guarded secrets of his friends and family. His spiritual journey begs the question: In the face of the gravest tragedy, of a total lack of compassion from one’s childhood best friend, and almost no external incentive for justice or closure—other than simplistic, personal revenge—what good are his
parents, siblings, and friends, when they all believe him to be guilty of murder? Can they truly be seen as sources of love and compassion for Ig? As the novel proclaims, “It was difficult to maintain close friendships when you were under suspicion of being a sex murderer” (9).
During a conversation with his father, not long after the horns appear atop his head, Ig asks his him if he had ever considered the possibility that Ig might be innocent of Merrin’s murder, and his father replies, “No. Not really. Tell the truth, I was surprised you didn’t do something to her sooner. I always thought you were a weird little shit” (50). Things do not get much better for Ig; by Chapter Ten, he learns from his brother, Terry, that his best friend—“tall, lean, half-blind Lee Tourneau” (21)—was in fact the one who killed Merrin (55).
The story’s greatest challenge for both Ig and the reader is the prospect of sympathizing with Lee, despite all the evil things he has done. As if it were not bad enough that the reader is made to feel sympathy toward Ig throughout his transformation into the devil, a vengeful Judeo-Christian Satan, Hill, in what may be the novel’s boldest and most ingenious bit of storytelling, offers us an explanation for Lee’s murderous tendencies and objectifying regard for women: he was not born a sociopath, but instead made one through the misfortune of a single childhood accident.
A feral cat, we learn in Chapter Thirty-Six, stalked the perimeter of Lee’s home as a child, and at one point even slashed his mother’s hand open. The tom is described as having “ribs . . . visible in his sides [and] black fur . . . missing in hunks . . . and his furry balls were as big as shooter marbles . . . One eye was green, the other white, giving him a look of partial blindness” (271). This is an obvious parallel to Lee himself, who several years later loses sight in one eye when a cherry bomb explodes near his face. Lee’s mother warns him that “He won’t learn to like you . . . He’s past the point where he can learn to feel for people. He’s not interested in you, or anyone, and never will be” (271). This bit of advice foreshadows Lee’s own monstrous fate shortly before he sets out to befriend the cat, to tame it and disprove his mother’s hypothesis about the animal’s antisocial nature.
When Lee finally gets close enough to pet the cat, he’s balanced atop a fence, and when he moves to touch it, the cat “[lashes] out with one claw” (274), and Lee “[falls] sideways into the corn” (274). Falling six feet from where he stood on the fence, “The pitchfork that lay in the corn had been there for over a decade, had been waiting for Lee since before he was born, lying flat on the earth with the curved and rusted tines sticking straight up. Lee hit it headfirst” (274). Even though the pitchfork may be seen as a symbol of the modern, traditional Satan, this scene establishes that Lee’s future misdeeds are not the product of some abstract, cosmic evil, but rather the eventual tendency of one who has suffered from childhood head trauma. Loy and Goodhew write that the essence of compassion is that “we commiserate with the suffering of another because we share in it, because we are not other than it” (32). If Hill has been successful in convincing the rest of his readership, one may argue that we feel Lee’s suffering in this one chapter of tragic insight with the same intensity that we experience Ig’s suffering throughout the rest of the novel.
Perhaps the most potent example of Buddhist philosophy in mainstream Western culture, however, is the cult success of both the 1996 novel and 1999 film adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club. In his introduction, Palahniuk describes the novel as “‘apostolic’ fiction—where a surviving apostle tells the story of his hero. There are two men and a woman. And one man, the hero, is shot to death . . . a classic, ancient romance but updated to compete with the espresso machine and ESPN” (xviii); but one could argue that the narrative, and the “rules” that propel it, are really a kind of Dharma, or sutra, intended to show white-collar American males a new way to live their lives free from the dissatisfaction of an empty, consumer-driven existence.
Take the ideology of the protagonist’s “apostle,” for instance: Tyler Durden is the embodiment of the bodhisattva ideal, if one can overlook the necessity for consensual violence in the novel. Mitchell explains that the “bodhisattva life begins with what is called the ‘arising of the thought of Awakening,’ or bodhicitta . . . the altruistic desire, or heartfelt aspiration, to attain Buddhahood so that one can help others gain freedom from suffering” (104).
In Fight Club, Tyler Durden’s motivations for starting fight club, and later Project Mayhem—a kind of Zen monastic society within a soap production company within an urban terrorist organization—all stem from the most basic desire to jar hard-working, dissatisfied individuals out of their complacency and into a position where they can regain control of their lives and of their spiritual paths. Of the actual violence, the narrator explains that “Nothing was solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered” (45). Fighting, for Tyler Durden and our unnamed narrator, is an enlightenment in itself; an escape from that which causes our suffering. The narrator describes fight club as a means of overcoming the fear that leads to dukkha: “Most guys are at fight club because of something they’re too scared to fight. After a few fights, you’re afraid a lot less” (45). In other words, a member of fight club is not really fighting his opponent, but is conquering his own inner turmoil. It is not a contest of violence so much as it is a therapy session.
The sense of community within Project Mayhem is strengthened through mantras chanted by Tyler and then parroted by his followers. He chants, “You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile” (126). This sounds dismal, but perhaps that is precisely why Buddhism has had such a difficult time gaining widespread appeal in the Western world; we overemphasize things like individualism and identity. Without them, we would have no capitalism in the way we have capitalism today, and we would have a vastly simpler society overall.
For many, this is no doubt the true appeal of Buddhism—it is simply the opposite, more or less, of the ideals that dominate our civilization at present. But we would do well to acknowledge the foundational truths of Buddhist thought, and the merit they carry, and apply them to not only our daily activities and interactions but also to our myths—because after all, stories are quite often the templates by which we pattern our lives. Our lives are impermanent, true, and they are by nature filled with suffering; but through compassion, nonviolent discourse, and seeking to impart kindness to those around us, we may one day cure some of this world’s many social ills.
Works Cited
Bacigalupi, Paolo. “Pocketful of Dharma.” Pump Six and Other Stories. San Francisco: Night Shade, 2010. 1-24. Print.
Dick, Philip K. “Beyond Lies the Wub.” Paycheck and Other Classic Stories. New York: Citadel, 1990. 27-33. Print.
Hill, Joe. Horns. New York: William Morrow, 2010. Print.
Loy, David, and Linda Goodhew. The Dharma of Dragons and Daemons: Buddhist Themes in Modern Fantasy. Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2004. Print.
Mitchell, Donald W. Buddhism: Introducing the Buddhist Experience. New York: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.
Palahniuk, Chuck. Fight Club: A Novel. New York: Henry Holt, 2004. Print.
Postcards from the Future: The Chuck Palahniuk Documentary. Dir. Dennis Widmyer, Kevin Kölsch, and Josh Chaplinsky. Perf. Chuck Palahniuk. Kinky Mule Films, 2003. DVD.
Kaiju Rising
An Interview with Nick Sharps, Editor of Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters
. . . [When] there was a sound, it carried; the skirl of RAF jets circling high, the faint and irregular rumble of buildings collapsing. And now and then, animalistic shrieks echoed off the low cloud. Sounds made by unnatural things, things with lungs the size of football pitches and throats wider than railway tunnels.
—James Swallow, “The Turn of the Card”
Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters, released by Ragnarok Publications earlier this month, is a standout project among our industry’s countless Kickstart
er-funded fiction anthologies. Inspired in part by Guillermo del Toro’s latest blockbuster, Pacific Rim, the book takes all the excitement—and cosmic terror—that comes with the giant-reptilian-monsters-ravaging-urban-cities territory and establishes a foundation for what could very well be a resurgence of the genre. Especially with a new Godzilla flick on the way in 2014. Project creator and co-editor Nick Sharps kindly agreed to an interview.
Thanks so much for taking the time to drop by and answer a few questions about the book, Nick. I’ve been a fan of creature horror for as far back as my memory goes, and while the kaiju tend to go overlooked here in the U.S., del Toro’s homage to the old monster films and anime of the East was a tremendously fun reminder of the full breadth of the form.
And it is an art form, I think; there is nothing so fundamentally terrifying as the monster that speaks to our most deep-seated fears, both physical and psychological.
I’ve been fascinated by The Creature from the Black Lagoon for years, and reserve a special place in my heart for the Creepshow segment “The Crate,” adapted from a Stephen King novella—itself an excellent work of horror fiction. Do you have a favorite monster film, and can you articulate for us what it is you find so compelling about the beast itself?
I know that J. J.’s Cloverfield has its fair share of critics, but it will always be a favorite of mine. I remember reading an article about the origin of the project before the film came out. It said that Abrams visited a toy store in Japan with his son; he saw a bunch of Godzilla toys and decided that America needed its own kaiju. That struck a chord with me.