The satirist always walks a narrow line: it is a job that requires enormous delicacy and skill—but not even Dr. Swift himself could circumnavigate Dr. Stableford successfully. Among other disingenuous reservations he fears that the feminist has painted herself into an awful corner by suggesting that the behavior of the men in Gilead can be forgiven: will be forgiven and forgotten, eventually. He contrasts Ms. Atwood’s position here unfavorably (from her own point of view, of course) with that of Orwell at the conclusion of Nineteen Eighty-Four—Orwell being bold enough to envisage the future as a boot stamping on a human face eternally. To each time the dystopia it can bear: it may be that in the nineteen-eighties writers of futuristic satire live in a perceived world too small and too threatened for the luxury of absolute and nihilistic despair. It may also be that Atwood is a writer of greater subtlety than Orwell—essentially a journalist capable of producing powerful satire, and neither skilled nor profound in his treatment of human character. To tease out the whole “meaning” of The Handmaid’s Tale, and particularly of the curiously disturbing afterword, in a short “appreciation” would not have been an easy task. But it is clear that Dr. Stableford has been distracted from his job by the circumstance that in this particular warning vision the sufferers from “man’s inhumanity” are women—not rain forests, telepaths, or the ozone layer. The result is a mixture of distinctly backhanded compliments, and what seems almost calculated obtuseness. But whatever Dr. Stableford’s true position on the question of rights for women—to cattle prod or not to prod—the Arthur C. Clarke Award is supposed to be for a novel with a science fiction theme, not for a writer’s political stance. I can only be thankful that the editorial of No. 39 makes clear that the panel of judges as a whole were not similarly affected and that they made their award on the basis of the book’s considerable literary merits, as much as on “the relevance of its theme.”
5Atwood, Margaret. The Handmaid’s Tale. London: Jonathan Cape, 1986, p. 144-145.
A FEW MORE CROCODILE TEARS?: Gwyneth Jones
In Foundation #41 Gwyneth Jones remarks upon the ambivalence of my brief appreciation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, which appeared as the “Cover Feature” in Foundation #39. She suggests that the compliments which I pay the book are “backhanded” and that I “seem to say” that I approve of the book “because it demonstrates that women can never get the better of male oppression.” She ends her letter by suggesting that whatever the actual intention of my comments was, there remains a sense in which I was “not doing my job” because I wrote about the political ideas which feature in the book rather than its “considerable literary merits.”6
My representation of The Handmaid’s Tale as a book of lamentations, although it does not please Gwyneth Jones, has clearly touched some kind of chord, because she begins her letter with a headquote from Lewis Carroll’s poem “The Walrus and the Carpenter”: “I weep for you, the walrus said. I deeply sympathise.” The fact that the editor advertises her letter on the contents page as “Weeping for Stableford” suggests that he, at least, is not sure which of us is supposed to be the walrus, but I am happy to assume that Ms. Jones’s attempt to devour my argument is entirely candid in its rapacity, and that the only one who could reasonably be suspected of walrusian hypocrisy is me.
I would like to defend myself against this charge, if I may, not by making any plea of injured innocence (I can hardly ask a court to accept me as a character witness on my own behalf), but by asking some general questions about the addressees of feminist science fiction, and the kind of responses which they might plausibly expected to have, if they are male. I would like to demonstrate, if I can, that there is no possible attitude which a male reviewer could strike which would not lend itself readily to the accusation of hypocrisy. It will be convenient for my case if I can call upon a couple of witnesses, and I will therefore take the liberty of issuing a subpoena to two works which have recently been sent to me for review: Sarah Lefanu’s In the Chinks of the World Machine: Feminism and Science Fiction (1988), published by The Women’s Press; and Anna Livia’s SF novel Bulldozer Rising (1988), published by Onlywomen Press.
First of all, let me consider the case that the reviewer of a novel has no business placing in the foreground any political rhetoric which it might contain, but should instead focus on its “literary merits.”
It is not at all clear whether one could actually characterize a set of “literary merits” which a text might possess apart from its rhetorical content, because even such apparently-basic matters as grammar and vocabulary cannot be considered neutral in terms of content. In respect of feminist works this situation is further complicated by arguments alleging that sexual politics is built into the way we use language. Sarah Lefanu’s study of feminist SF refers us to Suzette Haden Elgin’s Native Tongue (1984) as a novel which discusses the notion of a distinctive “women’s language,” and one of the topics discussed en passant by the characters in Bulldozer Rising is the sexual-political significance of using verb-based descriptions rather than noun-based ones. Given that this argument is stated in the text of Anna Livia’s book, it would surely render absurd any attempt to talk about that novel’s “style” as if it were a matter independent of its rhetoric. Bulldozer Rising does indeed have a distinctive tone of voice, but its author has adopted that tone mainly because it suits what she has to say, not as a mere affectation of artistic individuality. If one is to describe Bulldozer Rising as “well-written,” then the text itself demands that one should be saying something about the force of its argument rather than any kind of “purely literary” merit.
It would in any case be a fatuous argument which tried to remove the rhetoric of a writer from a consideration of literary merit. Critics only try to do that in respect of writers like D. H. Lawrence, because they recognize that his undeniable oratorical skill is often placed in the service of socio-sexual and psychological theories which are mind-numbing in their stupidity. I cannot imagine that any feminist writer would welcome such a defense, even if she needed one. It is surely the case that feminist fiction is interesting mainly because of what it reveals about the predicament of women in a social world whose every configuration disadvantages them, and that feminist science fiction is interesting because it may have the potential to explore the possibilities which lie beyond those disadvantages. This cannot be made plainer than by the kind of questions which Sarah Lefanu’s survey of feminist fiction attempts to address; the back cover blurb (which, given that the author was an editor at the Women’s Press while the book was in production, can presumably be taken to have her approval) describes the enterprise thus:
Can women withstand the weight of misogynist ideas that burdens science fiction and, instead, use its radical and progressive potentialities for their own ends?
Does science fiction offer certain freedoms to women writers—in terms of form as well as content—unavailable to them in the mainstream?.…
Sarah Lefanu explores these ideas and links them to her thesis that science fiction is the ideal form for the fusion of feminist politics with the imagination…she explores the ways in which feminist ideas have been stealthily at work, subverting male authority in one of its strongholds.7
If we can accept that it is the rhetoric of fiction rather than any mere literary prettiness which demands the attention of readers, critics and reviewers, we can progress to the next stage of the argument. This requires us to ask who it is that literary texts address themselves to, and what kinds of responses are possible. In respect of feminist fiction, the first question which arises is whether such texts are, or should be, addressed only to women.
There are some points of evidence which might be brought forward to suggest that this is indeed the case. For one thing, many of them are issued by specialist publishers; the two books which I am using as examples are issued by “The Women’s Press” and “Onlywomen Press” respectively (although it should be noted that m
y possession of the two books implies that neither publisher refuses to send their books out to male reviewers). Then again, the books characteristically offer female central characters, and present an analysis of their difficulties which is clearly of primary interest to readers who are able to associate their own feelings, hopes and predicaments with what is being described.
The argument that feminist fiction is addressed only to females is, however, not so very different from the argument that science fiction is addressed only to scientists. The fact that feminist fiction flourishes mainly within the protective wall of speciality really implies no more than the fact that it is frequently excluded from consideration or downgraded by mass-market publishers. The Onlywomen Press, which labels itself a “Radical Feminist and Lesbian Publisher,” is practising protectionist marketing for perfectly sound economic reasons as well as being conscientious in terms of description. The fact that such novels offer female central characters is also less relevant than it may appear; it would be naive in the extreme to suggest that the readability of a literary text depends on the similarity of the central character to the reader (or even to the reader’s heroic ideal).
The simple fact of the matter is that insofar as the rhetoric of any literary text touches on matters of injustice or intolerance, then it is relevant to anyone. If a work of fiction intends to dramatize by extrapolation or subversion the sexual-political injustices of our world (or even if it does so accidentally), then it is of interest to everyone. If it intends to be (or is by accident) subversive of the existing social order, or progressive in trying to point out directions of desirable change, then it is equally significant for all parties involved in that social order, whether they are assumed to be trying to maintain it or trying to change it.
This brings us to the real point of the argument, which is to ask whether the response to feminist fiction of male readers is necessarily different from, or necessarily opposed to the response of female readers. This question is, presumably, closely linked to the question of whether men’s and women’s real interests are necessarily different or necessarily opposed (and if the two questions are not identical that raises interesting questions about the differences between literary experience and lived experience).
It is not too difficult to draw an analogy here between sexual politics and another kind of politics. The writings of Karl Marx suggest that there is a fundamental and objective opposition of the economic interests of the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. Thus, the proletarian reader of Marx, if he (I use “he” consciously and without apology in this particular case) is convinced by Marx’s argument, will receive the gift of authentic class consciousness to replace the false consciousness which had previously been foisted upon him by his masters. In contrast, the bourgeois reader, if he is convinced, will realize how very clever the apparatus of oppression from which he has been benefiting really is, and will perceive how much cleverer he might have to be in future in order to preserve that apparatus against the threat of subversion. It is arguable that if Marx was correct in his analysis of the workings of the Capitalist system, the people who benefited most from a better understanding of it were the members of the bourgeoisie who then set out to insulate the system against the implications of its own contradictions.
The situation looks different, though, if we decide that Marx was actually wrong about there being a fundamental and objective opposition of interests. If that were the case, such enlightenment as remained to be derived from his works might be much more homogeneous, with bourgeois and proletarian readers learning more about the logic of a situation which could be altered in both their interests (although not necessarily to the equal advantage of both). It would then become arguable that the world has progressed since Marx’s time so as to give everyone’s interests a real boost—despite having preserved, in large measure, the inequalities of economic opportunity which were there before—and that further progress might still be made without the actual annihilation of any social group being necessary.
If one were to adopt the view that the interests of men and women are essentially and objectively opposed, one could support the case in either of two ways. One could assert (as some people do) that male and female psychology are fundamentally different, so that they are physiologically programmed to value contradictory things; thus, any relationship between men and women, whether at the individual or collective level, would be bound to involve a power-struggle to determine whose ends are served. On the other hand, one could assert that even though men and women might have identical values if only socialization did not force them into disparate roles, the mere fact that men do have the lion’s share of the power leads to such irrevocable corruption that no adjustment is possible save by usurpation. This quasi-Actonian view (power corrupts, but economic power does not corrupt economically!) would direct us to the conclusion that men’s interests lie solely in preserving the advantages which the social system gives them, and women’s interests solely in arrogating them.
In either of these two cases the male receiver of feminist messages can only be in the same situation as the bourgeois student of Marx—he may learn something to his advantage, but if he does, it will be a very different kind of enlightenment from that which the female writer tries to convey to her female readers. If this is assumed to be the case, then any praising of feminist rhetoric by males cannot help but seem insincere, and any ambivalent comment is bound to seem Machiavellian.
What happens, though, if we do not assume that men’s and women’s real interests are contradictory?
If one is to avoid the notion of a fundamental and objective opposition, after the fashion of those who try to argue that women’s liberation is men’s liberation too, then one would have to cast about for a formula for progress in which everyone can get some sort of payoff from a reorganization of society in which inequalities of opportunity are removed or (at least) gradually eroded. The payoff in question might be defined in utilitarian terms or in terms of abstract justice, or both. If such a formula can be offered by the feminist writer, then the male reader of feminist works can receive the same good news as the female reader, and can be glad about it for much the same reasons. Male praise for feminist rhetoric could then be judged sincere, and even ambivalence might be underlaid by real sympathy.
It is interesting to ask what assumptions feminist fiction itself tends to make in respect of the question of male and female interests; and in particular, what assumptions feminist SF tends to adopt.
Not all feminists are alike, of course, and feminist SF comes in several different varieties, as Sarah Lefanu’s survey makes clear. Sarah Lefanu also makes clear, though, that there are certain images which are very commonplace in feminist SF—commonplace enough, I think, to be reckoned its nascent clichés—which seem to assume a very radical and fundamental opposition of male and female interests.
One such image which crops up frequently is the Utopian society from which men have been excluded, examples of which we find in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland (1914), Joanna Russ’s accounts of Whileaway (1972-75), Suzy McKee Charnas’s Motherlines (1978), and Sally Miller Gearhart’s The Wanderground (1980). It is not infrequently the case in feminist SF that when such all-female societies are invaded by men, as in James Tiptree Jr.’s “Houston, Houston, Do You Read?” (1977) or Caroline Forbes’s “London Fields” (1985), the threat of disruption is perceived to be so awful that the logic of the situation points inexorably toward extermination of the invaders.
These are not the only Utopian images in feminist SF—the most striking example of a Utopian future which still includes men is to be found in Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time (1976)—nor are they necessarily pictures of perfect worlds, but Sarah Lefanu’s survey leaves no doubt that all-female societies are in a very considerable majority where feminist SF’s visions of better worlds than ours are concerned.
These Utopian stories exist alongside a whole series of
dystopian images, describing future societies in which the oppression of women has intensified very greatly. Key examples can be found in Suzy McKee Charnas’s Walk to the End of the World (1974) and, of course, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (1985); Bulldozer Rising also belongs to this group. Such dystopian works as these are not necessarily despairing; although The Handmaid’s Tale refuses to tell us whether or not the heroine got away, or whether the world has changed for the better, both Walk to the End of the World and Bulldozer Rising feature eventual escapes by the female characters. It is usually the case, however, that the climactic escape is to an all-female situation, not one in which men and women are going to live together more equally.
These cases, together with like examples, can be held to constitute the heartland of feminist SF (I hesitate to characterize it as a “hard core”). The assumptions adopted within the texts are that the interests of men and women are so fundamentally opposed that no hope of reconciliation can be glimpsed. It is not merely alleged that women can only be free in the absence of men but, as Sarah Lefanu points out in her discussion of Joanna Russ,8 that women can only be human when there are no men to diminish them. This puts strict limits on the kinds of position in which male readers seem to be placed by the texts.
Sarah Lefanu observes this phenomenon several times in the course of her argument, opining that The Wanderground is “a difficult book for men to read,”9 and quoting Joanna Russ’s observations about male hostility to The Female Man. 10Anna Livia’s characters are also aware of the difficulty—particularly Ithaca Benaccar, who has tried to chip away from within at the oppressive system which rules and regulates the dystopian future city:
Slaves of the Death Spiders and Other Essays on Fantastic Literature Page 3