just words

I feel the need to preface this entire entry with the following: I don’t like what I’ve written here, it meanders without making a cogent point, but I’m posting it anyway because, one, sunk-time fallacy, and two, I’m too lazy to “fix” it and have lost interest in doing so, and three, I don’t really care that much, although I do care enough to post this preface to “save face” with all three of my readers. Anyway, on with the 3443-word ramble.

Let’s say you’re a detective. You’re working a case involving a serial sex-trafficker murderer who has eluded capture for five years or something like that. The guy is always just barely slipping away, killing more people. He’s killed at least 15 people so far that you know of, according to the file. You’re tracking down a new lead for this case, a tip you got in your email last night, and this takes you to a house off the beaten path, a log cabin in the woods just outside town. The front door is cracked open; there’s a putrid smell coming from inside. You cover your nose with your collar and push into the house proper, removing your pistol from its holster and aiming it out like they taught you in training. In the kitchen, you notice mounds of meat, maybe animal, maybe human, lying in a mess of blood on the countertop. There is a trail of red leading to a door in the kitchen hallway. You radio for backup, then walk up to the door, noticing that the knob is wet with blood. You gag a little bit, lower your collar, and take a pair of plastic gloves, slipping them on, then twist the knob with your gloved hand. There is no light beyond the door, only a void pulsating with almost supernatural dread. You pull out your flashlight, turn it on, and hold it beside your pistol. The cone of light reveals a long, narrow stairwell, cement walls, and blood, smears and handprints of blood. You follow the blood down the steps into a small room where there is another door, a metal door with a latch that appears to be unlatched. You pull the door open to reveal a massive walk-in freezer room. There is a single bulb hanging from the middle of the room, swinging back and forth, casting a dim light on the bruised, battered bodies of once-living people dangling from meat hooks. There are dozens of them, missing arms, legs, faces, breasts, parts of faces, scrotums, and scalps. Strips of yellow-green flesh drip off some of the corpses, forming little piles below them. You feel bile rise in your throat; you swallow it, tighten your pistol grip, then notice something: a figure, a figure in the middle of the room. It’s a man, thin, balding, wearing a fur-collared jacket stained with blood. It’s him, the killer, the man you’ve been searching for. He’s on his knees, hunched over, making smacking and slurping noises. There’s something on the floor in front of him. It’s a human body. He’s hunched over the body. It’s missing an arm. You notice the man, whose back is turned to you, is holding something up to his mouth, something long and appendage-like. It’s the arm. He is eating flesh and drinking blood, making smacking and slurping noises. He has not noticed you. He is just there, on his knees, in the middle of the freezer room, hunched over, eating flesh off a human arm like some sort of storybook monster. You see the dead body below the feasting man, stiff-faced, young, stuck in its last look of wide-eyed horror. You don’t know what to do. It strikes you as almost ridiculous how blatantly evil this scene is. You know this monster has killed at least 15 people, more if you count the bodies on meat hooks. You know that if he gets out, he will do it again. He will find more victims. There’s no reform for this creature. He has thrown away his Human Race Membership Card. You lift your gun. You have a clear shot. It occurs to you that you could kill the beast right now, maybe even claim it was self-defense, that it was justified. Who’s going to know? Hell, who’s going to care? Wouldn’t you be doing everyone a favor, removing this vile creature from the world? Your finger inches toward the trigger. And then, well, I don’t know, then what?

Do you pull the trigger, thereby ridding the world of this monster, or do you arrest him, put him on trial, and hope that he’s found guilty? Maybe he’ll be thrown in prison for the rest of his life, or maybe he’ll be sentenced to death due to the heinous nature of his crimes.

All this begs the question: Do you, or does the state, have any right to take another human’s life, even if that person has basically thrown away their Human Race Membership Card? This is pretty much the core question behind any justice killing, whether it be capital punishment or vigilantism. Does anyone have the right? What does it even mean to “have the right?" Who bestows these rights? Are these rights God-given, or are they a construct of society, or are they something else entirely? Is it true what all the superheroes say, that if we kill the bad guys, we become like the bad guys? Is it really that simple, that black and white?

Well, spoilers for the rest of the entry, but I don’t actually know the answer to any of these questions. I just thought that, through rambling here, I might come to understand my own position better. But before I get into all that, I have a question for you.

Have you ever read The Crow, or maybe watched the movie?

The Crow is a comic book published in 1988, written and illustrated by James O’Barr. It’s about a young man, Eric Draven, who, after he and his wife are murdered by a group of thugs, comes back to life as an immortal avenger, possessed by the spirit of a mystical crow, to enact revenge. The whole appeal of The Crow is that it’s a violent revenge fantasy with a dark, beautiful aesthetic. The entire comic is drawn in this super moody black-and-white style, with lots of violence, blood, and gore, all presented without even the slightest hint of critical introspection. In fact, there’s such a lack of introspection that one can’t help but think that The Crow reveals something about the author, James O’Barr himself, who had to have been working through some seriously dark shit as he was writing and illustrating this book. It’s easy to assume that The Crow is some sort of wish-fulfillment fantasy on behalf of James O’Barr, and if true, his wishes are both violent as hell and superficial as hell, considering that The Crow himself is depicted as a gorgeous American bishonen, even as he’s brutally killing his victims. He’s got a chiseled jaw, dark shoulder-length hair, an Adonis-like physique drawn in near-perfect anatomical detail, and a penchant for black leather and goth makeup. James O’Barr even made it a point to add a number of full-page illustrations showing The Crow in hyper-sexualized poses reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David, portraying him as a sort of pinup girl of death, if that tells you anything about the author’s mental state. It’s also obvious that O’Barr was a mega goth in the 80s, as The Crow has to be one of the most goth-coded comic books ever created, both in its visuals and in the fact that it’s full of song lyrics from bands like Joy Division and The Cure, all plainly cited, which is one of the things that originally drew me to the comic book.

Back in the mid-2000s, when I was a teenager, The Crow was like a perfect match for me. It combined all my adolescent rage, all my musical tastes, all my woe-is-me bullshit, and my preference for violent, disturbing media into one irresistible package. I remember the first time I saw the comic. It was during summer break, and I was at the corporate bookstore. The Crow was pulled out of the row of graphic novels as if someone had just been looking at it but forgotten to slide it back into place on the shelf. I was immediately captivated, thumbing through its pages, awed by the unique art style, the tasteful violence, and the Joy Division quotes. I was so captivated that, before even purchasing it, I had decided it was my favorite comic book ever. That was pretty much how I decided what I liked back then, through style-over-substance snap judgments.

As a teenager, style over substance isn’t such a big deal; it’s actually kind of expected teenage behavior. But as an adult, this shortcoming is harder to ignore. It’s especially hard to ignore with The Crow, which is all style over substance to an irresponsible, arguably unethical degree, as it’s an unapologetic revenge fantasy promoting an ethical system that, if taken to its logical conclusion, probably produces an endless cycle of violence. I mean, The Crow comes back to life, kills the thugs, who I’m sure had kids of their own, and those kids are likely to seek revenge for the deaths of their thug parents, turning them into little avengers themselves, which will no doubt lead to more violence, which will only produce more little avengers, and so on and so forth. Such is the cycle of retribution, and you know what they say: an eye for an eye, no more eyes, or whatever.

Upon first read, it’s easy to think that the violence in The Crow is justified, especially when you’re an edgy teenager. After all, Eric Draven, The Crow, had been shot in the head by thugs before becoming The Crow, and this headshot didn’t kill him immediately, only paralyzed him, leaving him conscious enough to watch the thugs do awful things to his wife before finishing her off. Eric, with a hole in the back of his head, watched all this terrible shit happen to his wife, and it filled him with rage and despair. He becomes a hungry ghost, starving for revenge. The idea here is that Eric cannot go peacefully into that good night without first wreaking serious havoc on those who wronged him. And in some ways, he’s also like a karmic consequence made manifest, distilled to its purest form, that is, if you kill someone, The Crow will come back from the dead and kill you, like a cautionary tale of retribution, of getting what’s coming to you, of sleeping in the bed you made, all that stuff. So, again, it’s easy to think that the violence is justified. Eric goes out as The Crow and brutally murders all those who wronged him, and, reading it, it feels good, it feels right, like you yourself are the one getting the revenge. You are vicariously killing people through Eric Draven. Watching him torture remorseless thugs as The Crow appeals to some base, primordial urge deep inside, that shoulder-devil whisper to hurt people whenever they hurt you. The revenge feels justified, necessary almost. Certainly, you can’t have these evil thugs roaming the streets; someone has to put them down, and who better to do it than one of their own victims? The moment those thugs raped and killed Eric’s wife was the moment they threw away their Human Race Membership Cards, the moment that “human rights” might as well no longer apply to them because they are no longer part of the “human” category at all. So, you end up cheering Eric on as he’s killing these thugs because, well, these guys are bad dudes, obviously. They deserve it, right? They deserve to have their skulls repeatedly crushed with a hammer or their brains blown out all over the walls or whatever other heinous shit we can think of. And not only do they deserve it, we as readers demand it. We demand our pound of flesh, our revenge; we sit on the edge of our seats, quickly thumbing through pages, demanding violence, drooling as The Crow bashes some dude’s brains out with a hammer. We cannot get enough. The Crow, the comic book, does this to you. It makes you want it. And it delivers. Eric gets his revenge, and it feels great.

Well, it feels great until you close the book and start to think about it for more than two seconds.

By the end of the comic, after Eric kills all the thugs, it is implied that he stops being The Crow because his soul can finally rest or whatever, as if it’s just that simple, as if all you have to do to find peace is just kill all the dudes in your life who have wronged you. If we were to draw a moral from the story, it would be something like this: “Some people are just so bad that they deserve to die, and you might even deserve to be the one who kills them, and yes, killing them will probably make you feel better.” It quickly becomes apparent that one’s enjoyment of The Crow hinges entirely on not analyzing it too much, or at all.

Because when you start to analyze The Crow, you start to feel really weird and conflicted. The whole thing just seems wrong. But it’s hard to explain why it’s wrong. How can it be wrong when, while reading it, it just feels so right? It doesn’t make sense. The thugs deserved it. They raped and killed Eric’s wife, for God’s sake. They threw away their Human Race Membership Cards.

So now, in hindsight, why does killing them feel so wrong? Is it just me?

Take the long-winded hypothetical at the start of this journal entry, for example. I don’t think I could kill the monster, even though I recognize that the guy is a monster and probably shouldn’t be allowed to mingle with civilized people. I still wouldn’t kill him. I don’t know why not. Sometimes I think about Batman, or Spider-Man, or whoever, when they’re given the choice to kill the villain or let them live. This applies to Eric and the Thugs, too. There are many opportunities for Batman to just kill the Joker, for example, yet Batman never does, even though he would face literally no repercussions for doing so. In fact, by killing the Joker, Batman would probably be saving countless lives. So, if you think about it from that perspective, shouldn’t Batman kill the Joker? Would Batman not be at least a little bit culpable for the lives that the Joker takes if Batman were given the chance to kill the Joker but did not take it? I don’t know. Is it that black and white? Batman, after all, is not controlling the Joker. The Joker is his own man. He makes his own choices, and he chooses to kill people. Batman does not choose for the Joker to kill people; the Joker chooses for himself. So why would we ever consider Batman responsible for the Joker’s choices? Is it because we know, as readers of the comic books, that Batman is the only one capable of stopping the Joker, therefore Batman should use his great power to kill the Joker, because otherwise people are going to die, and since Batman knows that, he should therefore kill the Joker? If Batman is passive here, is he responsible for deaths the Joker causes, and by extension, is he responsible for the Joker’s own choices? If so, how far do we take that?

In the real world, couldn’t we apply this argument to all sorts of people? For example, in the case of a certain president, are we all culpable for the deaths of immigrants simply because we haven’t unalived the man ourselves? If we are passive, are we responsible for those deaths? Wouldn’t that make a lot of people responsible? How can so many people be responsible in this case? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s almost meaningless, these words like “culpable” and “responsible.” Semantics, really. I am not responsible for the choices of the president, just as Batman is not responsible for the choices of the Joker. We are only responsible for our own choices. That makes sense to me. But I don’t know. None of this makes any sense, actually. On the one hand, there are arguments for killing the Joker; on the other, there are arguments for not killing the Joker. It’s all a matter of philosophical perspective, I guess.

But perhaps that’s where the problem festers, in philosophical debate. There is a certain passivity in philosophical debate, a certain detachment, where both sides have strong stances on the subject of killing the Joker, for example, but neither side really does anything. Sometimes I think philosophy is less about making cogent points or convincing the other side and more about justifying your position to yourself, to make yourself feel better about a belief that, when you get right down to it, is purely emotional. I think that under all philosophy there is some raw emotion that we either don’t understand or can’t come to grips with for whatever reason. In the Joker example, or the thug example, there’s a raw hatred there, in the gut. You want to kill the Joker, you want to bash the thug’s skull in. There’s something a little gross about this feeling, isn’t there? Now you have to justify why you want to kill the Joker, not to others, but to yourself. And you justify it to yourself by turning the raw emotion into less of an “I want” statement and more of a “We need” statement: “I don’t want to kill the Joker, but we need to kill the Joker because, if not, he will kill lots of people.”

It may sound like a lot of judgment, but I’m just typing up whatever words come to mind here, some of which I might not even agree with tomorrow or in a week or whatever, so there’s no real judgment here. In fact, I think it’s almost impossible for me to say definitively whether we should kill the Joker or the thugs or whatever. What’s not impossible for me to say, however, is this: for me, personally, it feels wrong to kill anyone, even the Joker or the thugs.

In Buddhist mythology, there’s this term they use, “hungry ghost,” used to refer to the spirits of people who died with great jealousy, anger, or negativity in their hearts. In Japanese mythology, these hungry ghosts are doomed to wander the Earth, endlessly seeking sustenance for their insatiable negative-emotion appetites, often shown eating human excrement, sometimes even corpses, in a vain attempt to satiate themselves. These hungry ghosts can never escape samsara, the cyclical process of birth, death, and rebirth, because their souls are forever attached to the material world through their anger and jealousy. A core idea of Buddhism is to break the samsaric cycle by reaching a state of enlightenment, and you supposedly reach this state of enlightenment by eliminating suffering. You eliminate suffering by ridding yourself of desire and attachment, and you do this, supposedly, through focused meditation. Again, hungry ghosts cannot reach a state of enlightenment, because they are still attached to the material world, filled with negative emotions stemming from desire and attachment.

This is not meant to be a primer on Buddhist ideology. I only bring this up because I think it brings me closer to understanding why The Crow feels so wrong to me.

It feels so wrong because Eric Draven is a hungry ghost, filled with the negative desire for revenge, and yet the story implies that only through satiating this negative desire can Eric be at peace. But I don’t think peace, or any semblance of contentedness, can be achieved through fostering the negative emotions that produce a desire for revenge. I know, personally, that I have never felt content after giving in to anger, if anything, I’ve always felt worse after indulging those negative emotions. So I don’t buy for a minute that, by indulging his worst impulses, like bashing a thug’s head in with a hammer, Eric is somehow reaching some state of enlightenment. In fact, it feels like he’s moving away from enlightenment when he indulges these terrible urges. It seems to me that any decision born from negative emotion is a wrong decision. I get that Eric is full of anger and hatred because of all the terrible things that have happened to him, that makes sense, but I don’t think he gets a karmic free pass just because he had a terrible experience. The goal for Eric should be to move past the anger and the hatred, not give in to it. I am not convinced that simply killing all the thugs can satiate Eric’s desire for revenge, because his desire for revenge does not come from the material world, it comes from within.

Eric just needs to let it go, otherwise he’ll be a hungry ghost forever.

A few days ago, I finished Don DeLillo’s Underworld. It took me over a month to finish, and now, looking back, that entire month is like a gaping hole in my memory, a void, one of those paranormal loss-of-time events almost, because I barely remember a thing.

I don’t blame Underworld. I blame myself.

I've got more than a few bad habits, like smoking almost a pack a day, eating whole bags of candy in one sitting, biting my nails to the quick, chewing at the tips of my fingers, drinking coffee after midnight, staying up way too late, being an absolute terror in the mornings, compulsively watching YouTube videos that I don’t even like just to post snarky comments, picking scabs to the point that they take months to heal, picking my nose, eating boogers, drinking straight out of the carton, throwing recyclables in the garbage because I’m too lazy to go through the whole can-crushing process, a seriously unhealthy relationship with digital entertainment of all kinds, sudden-onset procrastination when some mandatory task presents itself, eating only like three types of food because I refuse to try new things, and all sorts of other stuff. But the bad habit that’s most applicable here, which is sort of a blessing and a curse in some ways, is my tendency to finish every book that I start regardless of quality, because that’s exactly what happened with Don DeLillo’s Underworld, a book that, in hindsight, was a colossal waste of my time, like I could have read three other books in the time it took to read all 900 or so pages of Underworld, and the worst thing about it is, I barely remember what happened in the book. In fact, I’m pretty sure nothing happened at all.

I don't know why I do this to myself, the whole force-myself-to-finish-things thing, because it's a catch-22 really, a situation that ends up making me feel like shit whether I finish the thing or not. There's also a sunk-time thing going on, too. But mostly, when I tell myself I'm going to do something, it becomes like a matter of personal responsibility for me, a self-inflicted obligation almost. So when I don't finish something, it feels like I’ve broken some sort of oath, which makes me feel like a failure on some level, as if I can't keep my word, which makes me feel like a dishonest, lazy person. Yet, when I do force myself to complete things, I’m always doing it begrudgingly, and there’s never a feeling of satisfaction afterward, because I’m very aware that I only have a limited amount of time on this planet and not everything is actually worth completing, and so every minute spent doing one thing sacrifices time for another thing, so when I force myself to complete things I don't want to complete I end up feeling like I've wasted a bunch of time. And even though I know the outcome of the whole finishing-things-I-don’t-really-want-to-finish thing, I still persist with finishing the thing because of the whole aforementioned personal-responsibility thing, and this, combined with feeling that I’m effectively wasting my time, creates a sort of dissonance in my mind, a dissonance that's present not only when completing the thing but also upon completion of the thing, so I can’t win. This is one of the many types of psychic torture I inflict upon myself daily. Underworld being just one of many such cases.

Underworld itself is one of those works of literary fiction that functions as a sort of commentary on twenty-first-century, first-world society. It takes place mostly in New York City between the 1950s and 90s, chronicling the life of a man named Nick Shay, who killed someone in his delinquent youth, then went through the justice system and came out reformed as an executive for a waste management company, which is supposed to be some profound comment about something, but what that something is is elusive to me, as the novel attempts to wrestle with multiple themes but is so overwrought that it only ends up wrestling with itself and the reader.

The themes, from what I gathered, are garbage, literal garbage, like waste, refuse, trash, but also spiritual garbage, like dealing with life-altering mistakes and bad habits and harmful obsessions and aversions to change. Another major theme is human interconnectedness, like how everyone is connected, how every human action has an equal and opposite reaction, even though you might not be aware of it, and also how six degrees of Kevin Bacon applies not only to Kevin Bacon but to everyone you meet, like how you could probably connect yourself by association to someone on the other side of the planet when considering that the people you interact with also interact with other people and so on down the chain. “There are only connections. Everything is connected. All human knowledge gathered and linked, hyperlinked, this site leading to that, this fact referenced to that, a keystroke, a mouse-click, a password—world without end, amen.” And the novel’s theme of garbage supports this theme of interconnectedness as well, as DeLillo is keen to point out that one person’s garbage is often recycled into another person’s cardboard box or plastic bottle or whatever, highlighting that we are even connected by our own waste. Also baseball. Baseball is a big theme. In fact, you could probably make the argument that the main character of the novel is not Nick Shay but actually a baseball, a literal baseball, the baseball hit by New York Giants outfielder Bobby Thomson at the Polo Grounds in New York City on October 3, 1951, dubbed the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” because the novel sort of follows this baseball chronologically from owner to owner, starting from when a young boy named Cotter Martin obtains the ball at the ball game itself, which is told in a beautifully written novella-length chapter at the start of the book, to when Cotter’s father steals the ball from his son and sells it for rent money, after which the ball exchanges hands multiple times, each of those hands belonging to a different character in the book, so there are a lot of interconnected characters associated with this specific baseball. There’s Nick Shay, Cotter Martin, his father Manx Martin, Nick’s wife, who’s like a heroin addict or something, Nick’s wife’s secret lover Brian, Nick Shay’s secret lover Klara, who’s a “reclamation artist” that turns trash into art which obviously ties into the themes of garbage and interconnectedness, then there’s this gay graffiti artist who might have AIDS, then there’s Sister Edgar, a nun whose consciousness gets uploaded into the World Wide Web after death or something, then there are like twelve other characters who are so underdeveloped that I could barely tell them apart. Oh, and also fictional versions of J. Edgar Hoover, Frank Sinatra, and Lenny Bruce, the latter of whom functions as a sort of comic-relief sage who does subversive stand-up comedy highlighting the existential dread and paranoia of living through the Cold War, ending most of his raunchy routines with “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE.” And all of these characters are connected in some way through the Bobby Thomson baseball, which all serves to reinforce the novel’s Zen-like central theme of human interconnectedness, which is basically the only thing I like about the book. And, considering that Underworld was written late in Don DeLillo’s career, when he was like 60 or something, this Zen-like theme of interconnectedness kind of reinforces my suspicion that most philosophically minded writers, given enough time, tend to lean toward Buddhism. And if you don’t believe me, see the late work of J.D. Salinger, David Foster Wallace, Jack Kerouac, and now Don DeLillo, because, despite the fact that Buddhism isn’t mentioned even once in the novel, Underworld is essentially a Buddhist text.

But that alone does not save Underworld from being a boring, overwrought waste of my time, unfortunately.

And despite the novel’s name, the Mafia is not involved here. The book is not about crime, although crime does happen. The name Underworld is more like a symbol for what’s going on underneath the surface of society, how underneath everyone is connected, both spiritually and metaphysically, and maybe the name is also a reference to the World Wide Web, which is also used as a symbol for human interconnectedness, a point DeLillo clumsily shoehorns into the epilogue, which is one of the few highlights of the book, alongside the opening baseball chapter, and this one late chapter that reveals the circumstances around how Nick Shay killed a guy, a scene that did indeed make me put the book down and be like, “damn.” The rest of the book is a series of short vignettes that jump from one time period to another in random order, which only serves to make the novel more confusing than it needs to be. These vignettes follow one of the many dull characters as they just go about their normal lives talking to each other about stuff, which results in a reading experience that goes something like, “nothing is happening but surely something must happen soon because, according to literary critics, Underworld is a masterpiece, so I’m going to keep reading because surely there must be a big payout coming up here soon,” but, spoilers, there’s no payout. There’s no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. Nothing fucking happens. All the excitement is frontloaded into the beginning of the book, when Cotter Martin, who only appears in the first chapter despite being the novel's only likable and compelling character, obtains the baseball. That’s pretty much it. There’s your excitement. The rest is so dull that I can’t even recount it here, because, frankly, I do not remember. The majority of Underworld is just dialogue exchanges between characters who talk past each other about literal garbage and other topics loosely related to the overarching themes of the book. And, due to the nature of this quote-unquote “story” being told in a disjointed, out-of-sync manner, there’s no real build-up or climax or whatever, just lots of pretty words with supposedly deep subtext.

As I read through Underworld, I was struck by just how much it resembles David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, in its length, its number of characters, its fragmented storytelling, its critique of modern society, and its story that loosely gravitates around a central object. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Infinite Jest was inspired by Underworld, given that, if you check the Underworld Wikipedia page, one of the only cited pieces of praise is actually a quote from David Foster Wallace himself. “This novel is (1) a great and significant piece of art fiction; (1a) not like any novel I've read; (2) your best work ever, so far; (3) a huge reward for someone who's read all your previous stuff because it seems to be at once a synthesis and a transfiguration—a transcendence—of your previous stuff; (4) a book in which nothing is skimped or shirked or tossed off or played for the easy laugh, and where (it seems to me) you've taken some truly ballsy personal risks and exposed parts of yourself and hit a level of emotion you've never even tried for elsewhere (at least as I've read your work).” But the difference between Underworld and Infinite Jest, frankly, is that Infinite Jest is actually good, whereas Underworld is just not. Infinite Jest is sprinkled with exciting moments, occasionally beautiful prose, outrageous situations that capture your attention, short stories within stories that cause you to put the book down and stare off into space thinking about shit, spot-on future-sight prescience, well-developed characters that you actually grow attached to, and comedic moments that break up all the existential dread, all written by an author who could speak in multiple subcultural languages. Whereas Underworld is just like, “here’s a baseball game for 100 pages, here’s people making supposedly profound observations for 700 pages, here’s a nuke going off and a nun getting trapped in a computer or something for 30 pages, the end,” written in dreary prose by a 60-year-old boomer who lost touch with modern culture decades ago and is now interested solely in baseball and writing, desperately trying to marry these two loves to produce some sort of grand meaning-of-life type statement that vaguely hits on conclusions Buddhism already uncovered centuries ago, all of which basically amounts to a 900-page ramble, likely because DeLillo’s editor probably wasn’t ballsy enough to be like, “OK, grandpa, time to put the pen down.” And this is obviously true when reading the epilogue, which feels tacked on as an afterthought because, one, it’s written in an altogether different tone from the rest of the book, and two, it reads more like a thesis paper than an actual part of the novel, almost as if it were written solely because, after finishing the main bulk of the novel, DeLillo realized that he had failed to sufficiently make any sort of cohesive point whatsoever, so instead he just decided to tell us the point point-blank, meaning the bulk of Underworld functions as literary masturbation while the epilogue functions as a sort of post-nut clarity.

To me, a long novel is like a rainbow, a beautiful, awe-inspiring, mysterious thing, and you kind of expect there to be a pot of gold at the end, but there’s no pot of gold at the end of Underworld, only a wastebin full of garbage, in keeping with the major theme of the book. And, in comparison with other long novels I’ve read, notably Moby Dick and Infinite Jest, two books I enjoyed overall but also have grievances with, at least there were nuggets of gold sprinkled along the arcs of those rainbows, whereas in Underworld there are just a few gold flakes here and there, but not enough to justify the journey.

I want to caveat all this with the following disclaimer. I have a deep respect for all writers. It takes serious dedication and love-of-the-craft to write anything, especially a novel, especially one that’s almost 900 pages long. Underworld is an incredibly impressive book, from this standpoint. I also want to caveat by saying that, despite throwing around claims like “Underworld is just not good” and other criticisms, the qualitative measures of “good” and “bad” are basically stupid and almost entirely subjective. As such, my opinion of Underworld is just that, an opinion, a stupid, subjective opinion. I am not trying to make any objective claims about the quality of Underworld here. I am probably not even qualified to critique a work of this caliber to begin with, as I have not written a novel myself, and I’m also not that great of a writer. I’m also not that smart. I just have a high-school-level grasp of English vocabulary and grammar, opinions, and a tendency to ramble using far more words than necessary, as evidenced by this poor excuse for a book review. What I’m trying to say is, there’s a good chance that Underworld just went over my head. I probably just didn’t get it. And since I begrudgingly forced myself to read it, I was probably not in the best mindset to fairly judge the material when I was reading it. But, if I’m being fair, Underworld’s themes are interesting, and the way it ties those themes into baseball and trash is clever. But the whole thing just kind of fell flat for me, likely because these are things I’ve already thought about on some level, so there was nothing new for me here, at least nothing new that I picked up on, keeping in mind that I’m not that smart and that this book probably just went over my head.

To be honest, I didn’t even want to write about Underworld. I was just going to move on. But then, after considering that I had spent over a month with the book, living in its world, breathing its air, getting to know what little there is to know about its incredibly dull characters, the sunk-time fallacy sunk in, and I felt obligated to write something about it, otherwise, I would feel like I’ve wasted a bunch of time.

So here I am, making up for lost time, inflicting that old psychic torture on myself again, finishing something I don’t want to finish, effectively wasting my time, writing the last sentence of a highly subjective review of Underworld.

A few weeks ago, I read J.D. Salinger’s short story collection, Nine Stories, and it got me thinking, to say the least.

The collection itself is alright, there are a few standouts, like “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” and “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor,” both touching on the psychological and interpersonal impacts of war, but there was one story, in particular, that stood out to me as truly special, a story I would recommend to anyone, called “Teddy.”

I won't get into all the details of the story, you can read it yourself, but it's essentially a beginner’s primer to Zen, a Buddhist concept, centering around this idea that, through meditation, you can come to realize your true nature, how everything is connected, and, eventually, tap into your own Buddha-nature, which is this idea that everyone is the Buddha, or has the potential to become like the Buddha, through self-control and meditation. Ultimately, the goal of Zen is to become Enlightened, and one of the core ideas of Zen is that human logic often gets in the way of this goal.

In the story, the titular character, Teddy, is like this ten-year-old Zen prodigy or something, possibly reincarnated from some long-dead Zen master, and he's chock-full of all this incredible Zen wisdom, which he attempts to share with his family and friends while on a cruise to the Bahamas, or something like that, and, of course, no one really takes him seriously, except one guy who tries to use logic to challenge some of Teddy’s wisdom, but, of course, Teddy, being a Zen master or whatever, has a wise counter to every objection, and some of the stuff he says is really out there and cool, like the long excerpt I'm about to copy-paste just below this paragraph.

( Excerpt from Teddy... )

On the surface, Teddy’s philosophy might seem like that of a stoned high-schooler, but he has a good point, that being, humans make up the definitions for stuff, an arm is an arm because we say it is, collectively, and an arm “stops off” where it stops off because, well, we say it does, collectively. We all share in this sort of collective dream world in which we construct the meaning of everything based on usefulness or whatever, but, ultimately, we are constructing the meaning, the meaning does not construct itself, which calls into question exactly where the arm stops, actually.

To illustrate further, the atoms in my fingertips surely touch the atoms in the air around me, and at a microscopic level, if one were to look, those atoms probably look nearly identical, so, at that microscopic level, it would be impossible to tell when the arm truly stops and where the air begins, which begs the question, is everything, in fact, connected? Is everything one and the same? I don’t have an answer to that question, it’s just something interesting to think about.

The point of all this, however, is that “Teddy” got me really interested in Zen, to the point where I even purchased a book, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, which I have yet to read, but I have thumbed through it, and I came across this idea that, to achieve Enlightenment, you must practice Zen with “no gaining idea,” and that got me really curious, so I looked it up online, and I found this quote from an ancient Zen master, or whatever, which I will now copy-paste below.


“As soon as you produce any opinion or interpretation, and want to attain Zen and be a master, you have already fallen into psychological and material realms. You have become trapped by ordinary senses and perceptions, by ideas of gain and loss, by ideas of right and wrong. Half drunk and half sober, you cannot manage effectively.”
-Yuanwu Keqin


This quote, to me, is the most interesting Zen-thing that I have read thus far. It actually sent my mind swirling, to tell you the truth, because the quote seems to be suggesting that, if your goal is to reach Enlightenment, you will never reach Enlightenment, like, ever. This is the concept of “no gaining idea,” which essentially means that, in order to become Enlightened, you must sit there and meditate with "no gaining idea” of actually becoming Enlightened, or else you are doomed to never reach Enlightenment. And this idea struck me as not only incredibly wise, but also incredibly paradoxical.

To work through the paradox, we must first understand the paradox, which I barely even understand myself, but I am going to try to explain it in the clearest way possible.

The aforementioned copy-pasted quote above, which encapsulates the “no gaining idea” concept, essentially makes two strong points. One, the desire to attain Enlightenment is itself a barrier to Enlightenment, because Zen philosophy itself seeks to remove desire, as desire leads to suffering and discomfort and other bad stuff. And two, the very idea of Enlightenment itself comes baked-in with the dualistic implication that there are those who are Enlightened and those who are not Enlightened, which is categorical, dualistic thinking, which ends up placing people into camps of “have attained Enlightenment” and “have not attained Enlightenment,” which naturally leads to hierarchical thinking, which leads to seeing some people as lesser than others, which leads to concentration camps, war, segregation, caste systems, death, and all sorts of other bad stuff, all of which Zen aims to eliminate, because, as Teddy so succinctly tells us above, we are all connected, we are all one, things don’t “stop off,” we just pretend like they do.

So herein lies the Zen paradox, or paradoxes, because there’s more than one, actually.

The first paradox is, if you want to become Enlightened, you are already trapped in the cycle of desire that Zen itself seeks to eliminate. Yet, if that’s the case, why are there so many books and schools and masters of Zen Buddhism, all of which aim to provide guidance in the attainment of Enlightenment, if the very idea of trying to “gain” that Enlightenment is itself a barrier to said Enlightenment? Essentially, what this is implying is that, in order to eliminate desire and thus reach Enlightenment, you must first desire to reach Enlightenment, but Zen teaches that you can’t reach Enlightenment through desire, yet, to even attempt to reach Enlightenment, you must first desire Enlightenment, yet you can’t attain Enlightenment if you desire it, and so on and so forth. I could keep going, but I think you get the point. Wanting to be Enlightened is the very thing preventing Enlightenment. This is the first Zen paradox.

The second paradox is, by even engaging with the idea of Enlightenment, you are dealing in dualistic thinking. Yet, these various schools of Zen all teach of Enlightenment and how to reach it, so the implication seems to be that, in order to abolish dualistic thinking, you must first engage in dualistic thinking by thinking about Enlightenment. But by engaging in dualistic thinking, you are actually further from Enlightenment, because Zen aims to abolish dualistic thinking, yet you need dualistic thinking to even think about Enlightenment, yet you can’t be Enlightened if you engage in dualistic thinking, and so on and so forth. I could keep going, but I think you get the point. In trying to reach a state where such dualistic thinking is abolished, you must first engage in dualistic thinking. This is the second Zen paradox.

Honestly, I’m not sure what to do with these Zen paradoxes. My first thought was that they undermine the teachings of Zen, because how could a philosophy be built on the back of two pretty strong paradoxes without collapsing in on itself like two supermassive black holes trying to suck each other up?

But then, I started thinking about Teddy and what he said about the forbidden fruit. I started thinking that, perhaps, in twisting my mind around these paradoxes, I am simply being too logical. After all, the very concept of a paradox is, indeed, just a human-made concept, a concept that doesn't actually exist out there in the ether, just in our minds.

So, after some meditation, I started thinking that maybe I’ve just taken one too many bites of the apple, and then I got this crazy idea, maybe I should just vomit it all up.

Now I just have to figure out how the hell I’m going to do that.