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Sunday, September 18, 2005
Everyday I subject myself, bodily and mentally, to self-imposed torture so that pleasure, when it is earned, may be doubled.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Our bodies and the ways in which we perceive our bodies have a profound impact on how we see and conduct ourselves in the world. No two persons’ bodies are the same: like our fingerprints, they are customised to suit our own needs and comforts; they are shaped and defined by events and circumstances throughout our lives. As we grow and move towards life’s finish line, our bodies grow and evolve with us. In that sense, our bodies are like our most immediate identity markers, marking off where we begin and end and where someone else begins again.
Today’s societal and cultural definitions of the “ideal body” are powerful notions which influence the way we live. They have driven many of us to seek professional help to alter our bodies. A little firmer here, a little larger there. Fat people want to get slim; slim people want to stay slim. Because we refuse to wear particular markers that are associated with particular bodies, the only way out is to redefine these markers. In a world where how we look has a direct correlation with how we are treated and perceived by others, body altering seems like an anomalous fashion trend: one that will never go out of fashion.
Slim is fashionable. At least for now, at least in Singapore. Slim people are generally more readily accepted into social groups and communities. They are confident of themselves, and this translates into better work performance and a greater capacity for living life. On the contrary, people who are obese, and especially the morbidly obese, often find it difficult to assimilate into the larger society. As it becomes clear that social acceptance is hard to get, these people withdraw further and further into themselves, spinning a cocoon in which they can hide away from the world and its critical eye.
In a way, they relate to Kafka and his preoccupation with bodily changes in the “Metamorphosis”. The act of imagination liberates one from reality, allowing one to see oneself in a whole new dimension with an entirely different perspective. While Kafka’s act of recreating an alien body produces an alienating effect which is disconcerting and even repulsive, it is this same act that frees him from the (human) body he so detests. With the body of the vermin, Kafka is given a new set of body mechanism to play with – six legs, a flat and grotesque head, and a hard shell – a mechanism that is set apart from the old one, and from which endless possibilities can be generated from. Seeing the world from the vermin’s eyes, Kafka is liberated, at least temporarily, from his limited range of bodily movements; he is given himself a multiplicity from which strange but exciting new ways of bodily movements can be conjured and explored. And the best thing about this imagined body: the fact that it is make-believe gives the conjurer a sense of assurance; should things go out of hand there is always the reality to fall back on.
And this is the way in which writers seek to free themselves from the bonds of society, and the harsh realities of life. Rather than close your eyes to the pains and sufferings in and around you, why not put on a pair of technicolour lens, and see life in colours you have never dreamed possible before. It keeps you sane and alive, at least for a while.
And that, to me, is how Kafka viewed his task of writing. Although he might have been too critical of the world around him, he would always wear the technicolour lens when it came to his work. And this gave his writing a singular appeal; there is this strangeness which is disturbing and yet funny at the same time. To read Kafka, one must have a capacity for imagination and the unimaginable. To read him too seriously would kill the humour that he painstakingly planted inside his stories, his characters. To truly appreciate Kafka, one needs to recall the child that is in all of us.
And yet, Kafka was never really liberated from the thoughts of his – undesired – body. Perhaps he would not have died when he did had he grew to love his body. Being too critical and determined, he never saw his body as anything else other than an impediment to his literary vocation. He never realised that he could love his body for the way it was. And that he ought to have done just that. Had he gain enlightenment before he expired, we may have gotten more than a vermin; we may have gotten a butterfly.
Today’s societal and cultural definitions of the “ideal body” are powerful notions which influence the way we live. They have driven many of us to seek professional help to alter our bodies. A little firmer here, a little larger there. Fat people want to get slim; slim people want to stay slim. Because we refuse to wear particular markers that are associated with particular bodies, the only way out is to redefine these markers. In a world where how we look has a direct correlation with how we are treated and perceived by others, body altering seems like an anomalous fashion trend: one that will never go out of fashion.
Slim is fashionable. At least for now, at least in Singapore. Slim people are generally more readily accepted into social groups and communities. They are confident of themselves, and this translates into better work performance and a greater capacity for living life. On the contrary, people who are obese, and especially the morbidly obese, often find it difficult to assimilate into the larger society. As it becomes clear that social acceptance is hard to get, these people withdraw further and further into themselves, spinning a cocoon in which they can hide away from the world and its critical eye.
In a way, they relate to Kafka and his preoccupation with bodily changes in the “Metamorphosis”. The act of imagination liberates one from reality, allowing one to see oneself in a whole new dimension with an entirely different perspective. While Kafka’s act of recreating an alien body produces an alienating effect which is disconcerting and even repulsive, it is this same act that frees him from the (human) body he so detests. With the body of the vermin, Kafka is given a new set of body mechanism to play with – six legs, a flat and grotesque head, and a hard shell – a mechanism that is set apart from the old one, and from which endless possibilities can be generated from. Seeing the world from the vermin’s eyes, Kafka is liberated, at least temporarily, from his limited range of bodily movements; he is given himself a multiplicity from which strange but exciting new ways of bodily movements can be conjured and explored. And the best thing about this imagined body: the fact that it is make-believe gives the conjurer a sense of assurance; should things go out of hand there is always the reality to fall back on.
And this is the way in which writers seek to free themselves from the bonds of society, and the harsh realities of life. Rather than close your eyes to the pains and sufferings in and around you, why not put on a pair of technicolour lens, and see life in colours you have never dreamed possible before. It keeps you sane and alive, at least for a while.
And that, to me, is how Kafka viewed his task of writing. Although he might have been too critical of the world around him, he would always wear the technicolour lens when it came to his work. And this gave his writing a singular appeal; there is this strangeness which is disturbing and yet funny at the same time. To read Kafka, one must have a capacity for imagination and the unimaginable. To read him too seriously would kill the humour that he painstakingly planted inside his stories, his characters. To truly appreciate Kafka, one needs to recall the child that is in all of us.
And yet, Kafka was never really liberated from the thoughts of his – undesired – body. Perhaps he would not have died when he did had he grew to love his body. Being too critical and determined, he never saw his body as anything else other than an impediment to his literary vocation. He never realised that he could love his body for the way it was. And that he ought to have done just that. Had he gain enlightenment before he expired, we may have gotten more than a vermin; we may have gotten a butterfly.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Human Perfection
I always believe that a healthy, blooming baby is the nearest one can ever get to human perfection. Those supple limbs, the effortless ways in which movements are executed. The lack of bodily pain and afflictions that will manifest and grow with age and aging. Perhaps the only individual who is able to contend with the blossoming baby is the gymnast. With years of training and conditioning, the gymnast is able to control bodily movements with a certain degree of ease and dexterity. When the gymnast moves, it is a performance executed with style. With the gymnast, the body is truly subject to the mind and its dictates. As for the rest of us: as we grow, and age, and finally degenerate, we move further and further away from perfection. Our bodies become larger, longer, stouter, more wrinkled, and more problematic. Throughout our lives, we are constantly finding ways and means to slow down and, if it were possible, impede the process of aging.
I always believe that a healthy, blooming baby is the nearest one can ever get to human perfection. Those supple limbs, the effortless ways in which movements are executed. The lack of bodily pain and afflictions that will manifest and grow with age and aging. Perhaps the only individual who is able to contend with the blossoming baby is the gymnast. With years of training and conditioning, the gymnast is able to control bodily movements with a certain degree of ease and dexterity. When the gymnast moves, it is a performance executed with style. With the gymnast, the body is truly subject to the mind and its dictates. As for the rest of us: as we grow, and age, and finally degenerate, we move further and further away from perfection. Our bodies become larger, longer, stouter, more wrinkled, and more problematic. Throughout our lives, we are constantly finding ways and means to slow down and, if it were possible, impede the process of aging.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Underneath Faber's Novel
Under the Skin is artfully crafted by Faber to provide the reader with a new perspective of what it is to be human and/or otherwise. The us/other binary is given a totally new twist by a singular subversion of the definition of "human"; instead of "us" (as in the reader, the Homo sapien), the humans have come to be associated with the "other", the "alien", while the "other" have come to assume centrality in the story. This subversion of the us/other binary creates a powerful self-consciousness in the reader while reading the novel, which allows one to gain a new appreciation of the notions of alienation and oppression.
Perhaps the idea of the novel being a call for vegetarianism stems from this subversion. Because we are conscious of being the other, we become better able to empathise with the other. In this case, we are able to associate, albeit in a bizzare way, with the livestock that we rear and consume in our normal world. There is no denying that the captive vodsels bear a sinister resemblance to the chickens/pigs/cows which are kept for the sole purpose of human consumption. Even the way the vodsels are fed - in well-partitioned spaces comfortable enough only for them to feed and fatten up - carries a powerful reminder as to the practical but hardly moral ways we keep and feed our livestocks. The deconstruction and reconstruction of the terms "food" and "consumer" is what succeed in forcing us to reassess our meat-eating habits.
In the centre of this disharmony is the protagonist Isserley. She is the hunter and harvester for her people, working hard to satisfy the cravings of the Elites with this newly found delicacy. (PG: The mere thought of the vodsels/us being served on plates and eaten for food may send shivers down some of the more sensitive ones.) Yet, the unfortunate demands of her work has made her into one of the vodsels/us. This in turn generates a kind of cannabalism in the novel - remember the moment when Isserley is offered a piece of vodsel meat from Hilis and describes it as being "so tender" - which serves again to destablise the reader.
The destabillisation is given a further development by Faber when we consider Isserley's ambiguity. Indeed, Isserley suffers from several layers of oppression. On the one hand, she is human. Yet, on the other, she is physically vodsel-like. This makes her an alien in her own community. Although Isserley looks like a vodsel and even speaks their language, she thinks and behaves differently from the rest of them. This makes her a queer female in the eyes of her many male passengers/victims. This is further juxtaposed and heightened by the lack of female characters in the story.
Isserley suffers also from gender oppression. Despite her present mutilation, Isserley was famed to have been beautiful; this impression, combined with the notion of the other (ie. vodsel) makes her something exotic and desirable, especially to the working males who are hidden underneath the farmstead and who do not see other female humans. Even Amlis concedes, at one point, that Isserley "is beautiful...in her own strange, strange way". This sexual tension is another theme that reverberates throughout the novel.
While Isserley is oppressed, she also oppresses. This is especially evident in her denial of the vodsels' language to Amlis, probably in part to protect his good opinion of her. Nonetheless, this reveals another important theme in the novel - that language lies beneath any form of power struggle. A language is the tool of communication for any community. To Isserley, it is also what marks civilised beings from the barbarians - hence vodsels can never be humans because they lack, in their vocabulary, terms and concepts like "slan" and "chail". By positioning the humans' language against all other languages in his novel, Faber upsets the centrality of the vodsels/us and their/our language, and confers power onto the humans.
To use the language that we know, we need to articulate the words that belong to that particular language. The cutting of the vodsels' tongues further removes them from their humanity and power. This act is symbolic in the humans' contention for absolute power - what you cannot articulate you are unable to control. By depriving the vodsels of their speech, Faber reduces them into mere "animals" which are only able to make grunting sounds no different from the pigs and chickens in our world. The act therefore allows the humans to justify their actions and Isserley to assure Amlis that they are merely eating "animals".
At the end, Under the Skin is a novel that can be neatly summed up to be a display of Faber's remarkable ability for word-playing. The conscious subversion of the us/other binary serves as both the fundamental tension and appeal of the novel to a careful reader.
Under the Skin is artfully crafted by Faber to provide the reader with a new perspective of what it is to be human and/or otherwise. The us/other binary is given a totally new twist by a singular subversion of the definition of "human"; instead of "us" (as in the reader, the Homo sapien), the humans have come to be associated with the "other", the "alien", while the "other" have come to assume centrality in the story. This subversion of the us/other binary creates a powerful self-consciousness in the reader while reading the novel, which allows one to gain a new appreciation of the notions of alienation and oppression.
Perhaps the idea of the novel being a call for vegetarianism stems from this subversion. Because we are conscious of being the other, we become better able to empathise with the other. In this case, we are able to associate, albeit in a bizzare way, with the livestock that we rear and consume in our normal world. There is no denying that the captive vodsels bear a sinister resemblance to the chickens/pigs/cows which are kept for the sole purpose of human consumption. Even the way the vodsels are fed - in well-partitioned spaces comfortable enough only for them to feed and fatten up - carries a powerful reminder as to the practical but hardly moral ways we keep and feed our livestocks. The deconstruction and reconstruction of the terms "food" and "consumer" is what succeed in forcing us to reassess our meat-eating habits.
In the centre of this disharmony is the protagonist Isserley. She is the hunter and harvester for her people, working hard to satisfy the cravings of the Elites with this newly found delicacy. (PG: The mere thought of the vodsels/us being served on plates and eaten for food may send shivers down some of the more sensitive ones.) Yet, the unfortunate demands of her work has made her into one of the vodsels/us. This in turn generates a kind of cannabalism in the novel - remember the moment when Isserley is offered a piece of vodsel meat from Hilis and describes it as being "so tender" - which serves again to destablise the reader.
The destabillisation is given a further development by Faber when we consider Isserley's ambiguity. Indeed, Isserley suffers from several layers of oppression. On the one hand, she is human. Yet, on the other, she is physically vodsel-like. This makes her an alien in her own community. Although Isserley looks like a vodsel and even speaks their language, she thinks and behaves differently from the rest of them. This makes her a queer female in the eyes of her many male passengers/victims. This is further juxtaposed and heightened by the lack of female characters in the story.
Isserley suffers also from gender oppression. Despite her present mutilation, Isserley was famed to have been beautiful; this impression, combined with the notion of the other (ie. vodsel) makes her something exotic and desirable, especially to the working males who are hidden underneath the farmstead and who do not see other female humans. Even Amlis concedes, at one point, that Isserley "is beautiful...in her own strange, strange way". This sexual tension is another theme that reverberates throughout the novel.
While Isserley is oppressed, she also oppresses. This is especially evident in her denial of the vodsels' language to Amlis, probably in part to protect his good opinion of her. Nonetheless, this reveals another important theme in the novel - that language lies beneath any form of power struggle. A language is the tool of communication for any community. To Isserley, it is also what marks civilised beings from the barbarians - hence vodsels can never be humans because they lack, in their vocabulary, terms and concepts like "slan" and "chail". By positioning the humans' language against all other languages in his novel, Faber upsets the centrality of the vodsels/us and their/our language, and confers power onto the humans.
To use the language that we know, we need to articulate the words that belong to that particular language. The cutting of the vodsels' tongues further removes them from their humanity and power. This act is symbolic in the humans' contention for absolute power - what you cannot articulate you are unable to control. By depriving the vodsels of their speech, Faber reduces them into mere "animals" which are only able to make grunting sounds no different from the pigs and chickens in our world. The act therefore allows the humans to justify their actions and Isserley to assure Amlis that they are merely eating "animals".
At the end, Under the Skin is a novel that can be neatly summed up to be a display of Faber's remarkable ability for word-playing. The conscious subversion of the us/other binary serves as both the fundamental tension and appeal of the novel to a careful reader.
