Speed, Metaphor, and the Postmodern Road Novel:
Stephen Wright's Going Native and Others
Dedicated to the memory of Stanley Elkin
The road as a trope of exploration and mobility has always been
a constant in the narrative productions of a country whose highways
and byways bear a liminal relation to loss, progress, and the
death of innocence. From the wanderings of Leatherstocking and
Ishmael along forest and sea roads, to the frantic and parodic
journey of Sailor and Lula to Big Tuna, Texas, or the violent
peregrinations of Oliver Stone's "natural born killers,"
the road has served as a "figure of figures," a metaphor
for metonymy, for the contingency of relations between agency,
means, event, and end in all of these stories about drifters on
the road. The road, in other words, is a metaphor for its own
"road-ness"; it figures the sheer drift of identity
and language in a narrativizing of the complex relation between
the velocity with which contiguous circumstances are processed
and the perceived depth of temporality as the system of delays
between the initiation of desire and its satisfaction. Under
the aegis of the "postmodern condition," I will be suggesting
here, the road becomes a means of immediacy and conveyance that
signifies the dominance of, in Baudrillard's sense, reality as
simulacrum, especially when we regard a simulacrum as collapsing
the distance between desire simulated and desire's ends. In almost
any road narrative, the road leads to death, but it is the series
of events that take place along the way--and the very seriality
of those events--that counts. It's how you get there, and in the
postmodern road narratives that I shall be discussing, both the
"how" and the "there" are the unstable, indeterminate
elements in a fractal equation that relates being to death in
terms of velocity, futurity, and the disintegration of time.
A highly selective sampling of contemporary road narratives might
include Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow (at least that large
section of the novel devoted to Slothrop's wanderings through
"the Zone"), Acker's Don Quixote, Elkin's The
Franchiser, Hawkes's Second Skin, Gifford's Wild
at Heart: The Story of Sailor and Lula (and David Lynch's
film of the same title based on Gifford's novel), Stone's Natural
Born Killers, and Stephen Wright's remarkable Going Native
which I will discuss in detail. Different as these works are,
they share the quality of being picaresque satires that ridicule
the notion of an homogenous social realm and the humanistically-conceived,
unitary individuals dwelling therein; at the same time, perhaps
as a manifestation of the inherent conservativism of satire, these
narratives betray anxieties about the loss of that world and the
bourgeois fantasies that found it, and that turn into nightmares
on the road. The postmodern racheting-up of the contradiction
in these narratives that move between celebration of the fragmenting
of identity in the social matrix and mourning over its loss occurs
at the level of a hyper-reflexivity. For example, in Lynch's
Wild at Heart, Sailor and Lula's wild ride through the
American South in which various breakdowns of and assaults upon
identity are portrayed is accompanied by the over-the-top visual
subtext of The Wizard of Oz: for Lynch, it is not even
a matter of "guess which movie I'm quoting from" (a
favorite device employed by other postmodern directors such as
the Coen Brothers, Tim Burton, and Robert Altman) as it is of
hitting the viewer over the head with the fact that his road narrative
is deconstructing the former one, that the bourgeois narrative
of domesticity, adventure, and retreat and the identity that inhabits
it is thoroughly shattered. Yet that narrative also survives
in Wild at Heart in the form of a haunting, a visual shadowing
(we see the faded image of the witch riding her broom as Sailor
and Lula drive along the interstate), an originary simulation
behind the simulation that imagistically recalls the stable world
that has been lost and depicts the current narrative, as it were,
speeding past it.
Similarly, in Natural Born Killers, Stone chooses to portray
the postmodern killer spree in terms of sheer velocity. The film
is a pastiche of cuts, angles and images that are inflicted upon
the viewer at an increasing rate of speed such that, by the time
we reach the end, we are convinced of Stone's forced, paranoid
point: that postmodern identity (the identity of the film's protagonists)
is, in fact, an Oliver Stone movie, a seemingly chaotic but, in
fact, highly contrived assemblage of images composed by some mystified
director named "Culture" with a capital "C,"
or "History" with a capital "H." Yet Stone's
film, too, as much as it reflexively indulges in the delirious
construction of identity as rhizomic assemblage, also yearns for
an older narrative--that of Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde,
who were romantically portrayed as outlaws seeking domestic bliss
but lacking the means to achieve it short of going out on the
road and robbing banks. The frantic pace of Stone's film is haunted
by, and recalls by contrast, the slow motion lyricism of Penn's
film manifested most fully in the infamous prolonged death scene:
the comparable ratios of these films, I am suggesting, are analogous
to the represented explosion of unitary identity in one and its
instantiation in the other. Underlying the fragmentation and
speed of Natural Born Killers is the counter-desire (perhaps
revealed most clearly in the blatant, hyper-reflexive directorial
manipulation of images observable everywhere in this film) for
an originary and unitary real that stands as the dissimulated
source of the current scenario.
I have been dwelling on one thread of postmodern road narratives--the
contradiction to be seen in them between the fragmentation of
identity and the mourning, through recollection, of its loss--because
this strand is symptomatic of the larger cultural paradox revealed
in these narratives and brilliantly charted in Wright's Going
Native. Fredric Jameson describes this paradox in The
Seeds of Time as
the equivalence between an unparalleled rate of change on all
the levels of social life and an unparalleled standardization
of everything--feelings with consumer goods, language along with
built space--that would seem incompatible with just such mutability.
It is a paradox that can still be conceptualized, but in inverse
ratios: that of modularity, for example, where intensified change
is enabled by standardization itself, where prefabricated models,
everywhere from the media to a henceforth standardized private
life, from commodified nature to uniformity of equipment, allow
miraculous rebuildings to succeed each other at will, as in fractal
video. The module would then constitute a new form of the object
. . . in an informational universe: that Kantian point in which
raw material is suddenly organized by categories into an appropriate
unit. (15-16).
Keeping in mind Zizek's claim that postmodern identity is
"the form of subjectivity that corresponds to late
capitalism" (Tarrying With the Negative 216),
Jameson's understanding of the glaring cultural paradox of our
time--increasing standardization; increasing fragmentation, dislocation
and mutability--has crucial implications for viewing the rhetorical
formations of identity in contemporary narrative as symptomatic
of the postmodern condition at large. The mode of production that
Jameson terms "modular" is consonant, in terms of the
paradox it embodies, with the contradictory representations of
identity to be found in the postmodern road narratives I have
listed, as well as in the conveyance of the road itself as it
exists in these narratives. For the road is always the figure
of multiplicity and possibility: a point of departure; an escape
from the everyday, "the unparalleled standardization of everything";
only one of many routes for the "unparalleled rate of change."
And yet, narratively speaking, the road taken, however circuitous
or labyrinthine, is always the only one, the circumstantial road
the nomad travels to encounter whatever fate or accident awaits
in time. The contradiction of the road as route of multiplicity
and route of singularity; the contradiction of the "modular"
as embodiment of "intensified change" and prefabrication
or simulation; the contradiction of identity as fragmented and
globalized: these circumstances are mapped out in postmodern
narratives of the road where the contiguous relation forged between
events signifies the postmodern condition of being in time and
space.
Before turning to Stephen Wright's negotiation of these contraries
in Going Native, I want to refer briefly to a salient passage
from Elkin's The Franchiser in which the travelling salesman,
Ben Flesh, tells us what he sees on the road:
"Listen . . . I drive the road. I go up and down it. I
stay in motels and watch the local eyewitness news at ten. Murders
are done, town councils don't know what to do about porno flicks,
everywhere the cops have blue flu, farmers nose-dive from threshers,
supply and demand don't work the way they used to, and even our
President's at a loss and his advisers divided. The left hand
don't know what the right hand is doing and only the weather report
touches us all. The time and the temperature. What we have
left for community. Only that. The barometer adjusted to sea
level, the heat wave, the drought, the cold front stalled over
Wisconsin, today's low and it's the record. And the fuss
that's made! My God, the fuss that's made and only because it's
what the local eyewitness news thinks holds us together. Some
view of us it has, pals. As if we lived the wind under the same
umbrella. I see this. City after city and state after state.
. . . We should take over the stations and put out the real news.
For everyone murdered a million unscathed, for every fallen farmer
so many upright. We would put it out. Bulletin: Prisoners use
sugar in their coffee! Do you see the sweet significance. We
argue the death penalty and even convicts eat dessert. . . .The
state's bark is always worse than its bite, brothers, and goodness
is living in the pores of the System, and Convenience . . . Nobody,
nobody, nobody ever had it so good. Take heed. A franchiser
tells you."
The passage reveals Elkin's characteristic concern with systems
of all kinds--discursive, metereological, political--and his love
for the endless monologues and conversation that, by virtue of
their noisy excess, talk us through and around systems. Here,
stumping for specificity within the entropy of systems--what exists
in its "pores"--Flesh posits against standardization,
"as if we lived the wind under the same umbrella," a
mode of perception, a form of "taking heed." Wright's
version of this narrative resistance to the system is a form of
particularization which serves to disturb the surface of the image
and interrupt the endless flow of simulated representations that
inundate the "Viewer"; this rhetorical jamming device
thus troubles the paradox of modularity Jameson describes. What
energizes the narratives I have mentioned is the contradictory
desire of postmodern identity for fragmentation and wholeness,
mutability and stability--the latter set expressed as a yearning
for the lost narrative of unitary identity that haunts the text.
In his writing, Wright frames this contradiction--this desire--under
the terms of what might be called a mortal visuality, an apperception
of the temporality of all viewers and representations.
Going Native, Wright's third novel, is arranged as a modular
narrative. The tonality of Going Native is, perhaps, best
captured--not at all hyperbolically--by Robert Coover, who describes
the novel in a blurb as "a sensational prime time novel .
. . Imagine a pornographic twilight zone of beebee-eyed serial
killers, drug-stunned pants-dropping road-warriors and 'marauding
armies of mental vampies,' a nightmarish country of unparalleled
savagery, where there is no longer any membrane between screen
and life and the monster image feed is inexhaustible." From
one perspective, the novel is a series of seemingly unconnected
vignettes of life along the road whose only commonality is the
surprise guest appearance of the protean Wylie (yes, like the
Coyote) who suddenly walks out of his own middle-class existence
as father, husband, and resident of the aptly named Wakefield
Estates, steals a green Ford Galaxie, and takes off for parts
unknown. On a road trip in which Wyle will be transformed from
businessman to mass murderer, he will have chance encounters with
a sequence of characters whose backgrounds have been filled in
for the reader before the fateful moment when Wyle's path crosses
theirs, including a suburban couple into drugs and kinky sex,
a hitchhiker who occasionally robs and murders his benefactors,
a desert motel owner's runaway daughter and her heavy metal boyfriend,
a voyeur who makes pornographic movies unbeknownst to the "amateur"
participants, a woman who sells jewelry and serves as a witness
at a Las Vegas wedding chapel, and a California couple who work
in the film industry, just returned from an adventurous journey
through the jungles of Borneo. What links these disparate narrative
modules (each cast as the rendition of a separate "world
within a world" in which the ordinary becomes exotic, and
the exotic ordinary) is the figure of Wylie, operating under the
pseudonym of Tom Hanna (his name echoing the cartoon team of Hanna-Barbera).
Wylie acts, variously, as the insertion of fate, or accident,
or mere contingency into the lives of these characters: he steals
the Galaxie from the crack-benumbed Mister CD; he gives the hitchiker
a ride; he assists the motel owner's daughter in her getaway;
he murders the voyeur pornographer, who makes the mistake of attempting
to photograph Wylie and a friend; he robs the jewelry saleswoman
while getting married at the wedding chapel; he murders the film
industry couple and their friends in their California home. Wylie
thus serves as a connective narrative device--both on the road
and an embodiment of it as a totalizing metaphor that forges the
linkages between a disparate and fragmented American "reality";
more precisely, as a figure who is both the agent of fate and
the bringer of chaos--as the nomadic signifier joining these scattered
stories--he serves as a point of suture between the imaginary and
social orders, between desire and narrative.
This format enables Wright to satirize numerous manifestations
of contemporary American life--including designer drugs, yuppies,
bondage, tv talk shows, our cultural fascination with the figure
of the serial killer, Las Vegas, the romance of the road, "nature,"
critical theory, and the forever disappearing but always reproduced
"primitive." More significantly, the modular form of
Going Native is the means for Wright to bring together
and particularize within a single, stitched narrative the contradictions
of postmodern identity. Diverse and freakish as they may appear
to be, the characters Wylie randomly encounters along the road
bear a visible, almost tiresome uniformity when it comes to matters
of the body and identity; indeed, they are, mutable and fragmented,
clichéd versions of identity under postmodernity. In Going
Native, the body and identity are conflated as decentered
sites of inscription and repositories of images. The homicidal
hitchiker, picked up by a truck driver whom he later murders,
is covered with tattoos: "No panthers or skulls, no dragons
or nudes, these tattoos offered an unexpected jungle of pure design,
spirals and knots, mazes and mandelas, interwoven and overlapped
in a deliberate thwarting of the desire for representation, this
prime example of tribal blackwork spoke to an inner, more private
eye" (81). "'What's it supposed to be,'" asks
the doomed truck driver: "The hitchhiker smiled, as if the
question were familiar, as well as the answer. 'The inside of
my head'" (81). When he is not minding the store, the desert
motel owner is writing screenplays; his current project, a science
fiction script called The Syn-Man, involves an amnesiac
alien who only begins to discover his true identity and his past
when he experiences visions caused by tasting the blood from his
own wound:
"John" begins conducting secret sessions in the bathroom,
reopening his wound, retasting the blood--a growing addiction for
imagery he cannot yet comprehend, shifting acid color and form,
shards of narrative that seem to offer a hint to the mystery of
himself. The pieces fall, eventually, into these alarming facts:
on another world in another universe there exists a civilization
of machines, or some approximation thereof, all terms being relative,
of course, since in the tricky transference from one universe
to another, understanding and substance also undergo a harrowing
metamorphosis into the physical and spiritual terms of the host
reality, comprende? For example, the apparatus of our eyes would
be totally unable to perceive "John" in his natural
state. He is the product of an artificial intelligence's fumbling
attempt at creating organic life, the embodiment in three dimensions
of a system of machines whose own origins are no longer on deposit
at the memory bank. (98)
Cyborg, simulation, pieced together out of the shards of narrative,
John appears, like the hitchhiker, to image forth his own interiority
which, itself, is a pastiche of images. Similarly, Perry, the
voyeuristic photographer of amateur pornography, awaits the completion
of his identity as a vessel to be filled or a movie to be shot:
"He had spent the majority of his years (twenty-seven of
'em so far, rings on a tree he honestly expected to be chain-sawed
for pulp before producing any decent shade) attempting with about
six meager ounces of Perry-essence to fill a ten-gallon mold of
a half-imagined figure somewhere east of Dean and north of Elvis,
but now he was simply searching for the bottom, his bottom, The
Bottom, it didn't seem to matter. The future was coming; the
herald of its gaudy carousel lights already visible out past the
barren moons of the self. He would be instructed then, presented
with the proper rule book on the game's last half. In the meantime,
he was a pervert (temporarily)" (125). In Perry, we see
the link established between these identity-constructions and
temporality, for each lives in the moment, the past erased, everything
visible on the surface, the future an eventuality that provides
what is, in fact, a permanent temporariness with some virtual
boundary and form.
The desire that undergirds these projections is put plainly by
one of the characters who, along with Perry, attends a carnivalesque
party in which the filming of a pornographic movie and satanic
rituals are combined: "'I want to be goo'" (130).
Desiring to be "goo," sheer protoplasm, identity as
"plasma," is the material equivalent to the desideratum
enunciated by Perry: "See yourself as an image, become the
image you want to see" (135). In Wright's novel, the galaxy
inhabited by subjects whose project is to become pure protean
substance, pure image, is, appropriately, the Baudrillardian "evil"
world of the simulacrum, the endless flow of images from the "inexhuastible
monster feed" whose tentacles of transmission reach to every
recess of the planet. The metaphor of the image feed--the current
of the disconnected and contiguous bytes of the real upon which
Wright's postmodern anthropophagi feast in order to nourish their
commodified identities--informs every aspect of the novel. The
desert motels, Vegas wedding chapels, malls, domestic sites, and
truck stops of Going Native offer fulsome commentary on
contemporary America's amazing capacity to cannibalize cultural
materials in the manufacture of paradoxical simulacra that standardize
diversity. But nowhere are the horrifying and hilarious contradictions
of what Wright views as a global condition more wrenchingly manifested
than in those scenes depicting a journey into the jungle, back
to the supposed primal scene of origins and the Conradian "heart
of darkness" which, it turns out, is a form of cultural hybridization
that mirrors, rather than offering an alterity to, the global
dominance of U.S. culture.
Amanda and Drake, escaping careers of starring in and directing
"B" movies, enter the jungles of Borneo in search of,
as Amanda puts it, "'a place we've never been'" (215).
Amanda, in particular, dreams of transcending the nihilism and
superficiality of the image feed in undertaking a pilgrimage to
"the Buddhist shrine of Borobudur, a mammoth manmade cosmic
mountain rising dramatically from the Kedu plain on the island
of Java (the exotic names of these hallucinatory sites--Bali, Sumatra,
Maluku, Timor--the sensuous language of Occidental fantasy, of
moonlit colonialism, of contemporary high-fashion fragrances)"
(195). There, immersed in yet another simulacrum, she contemplates
mortality: "So the question posed by this shrine was persistent:
how did one break the tether of death? The prescription of the
major Eastern religions seemed to be to pretend that you were
already dead. Put crudely, death was the cessation of pretty
pictures. Learn to disengage yourself from the film . . . summon
up the courage to get up out of your seat and actually leave the
theater, and you will have slipped the bonds of mortality"
(199). Yet this alternative, Amanda and Drake soon learn, is
no longer available. In itself, it is a fantasizing of origins
before representation, before the production of "pretty pictures,"
images, and simulacra that are to be found everywhere in the jungle,
culture at the heart of nature, and nature itself a matter of
redundancy, a repository of copy and repetition.
Searching for Pa Jutoh Den, the father of a clan of native tour
guides at the end of a long journey by boat and the beginning
of an arduous trek through the jungle, Amanda and Drake find him
"in the distinctive small bungalow at the edge of the forest,
the one with the carvings on the roof, parodies of Western men
in handlebar mustaches, Santa Claus beards, big white tombstone-sized
grinning teeth" (214). This parodic reversal of the skulls
on poles that Marlow sees in The Heart of Darkness both
mocks colonialist assumptions about the jungle and its inhabitants
and offers sardonic commentary on the invasion of the West to
every part of the globe--an invasion now so familiar and complete
that contemplation of it becomes merely reflexive. And reflexivity,
parody, mimicry, Wright makes clear, are the last encrypted refuges
of an imperalism that converts everything into simulacra, images
constructed upon images: "'Never get off the boat,' replied
Drake, and, at the sound the famous fictional movie line echoing
in the relevant air of this real place, they both laughed, the
levels of self-consciousness attendant upon a contemporary journey
like this were positively Pirenesian in number and involution,
the pertinent dialogue had already been spoken, the images already
photographed, the unsullied, unscripted experience was practically
extinct, and you were left to wander at best through a maze of
distorting mirrors, unless somewhere up ahead the living coils
of this river carried one down and out of the fun house"
(210).
But as they plunge deeper into a jungle described as "mile
after absolute mile of bursting, shrieking, pullulating redundancy"
(223), rather than escaping the fun house of postmodern culture,
Amanda and Drake become increasingly trapped within it. Instead
of discovering a place they've never seen, they discover hybrids
of places and objects already seen, as if the jungle were a vast
cultural junkyard, a dumping ground for the Western imaginary.
They view their guide, Mr. Den, as an "individual . . .
of mismatched parts, dark strokes and spiky shadows with no discernible
bottoms, 'a cubist character,' pronounced Drake, a man stubbornly
unlike . . . their friends. They were good Americans after all,
they wanted to lose their entangling selves" (216). To Amanda,
the cacophony of the jungle sounds "'like a video game'"
(223). Through a kind of back projection, the scene of the sun
shining through enormous trees is imaged as "the ancestral
scene every cathedral was designed to mimic" (229). And
at the heart of the jungle in the "ancestral home" of
the "native" village, who are they first greeted by
but "a young man in a Raiders cap and a black T-shirt displaying
a jawless skull above the flaming logo BURNING SORE . . . making
his way through the crowd" (234). So involuted is this palimpsestic
apparition of the village chief's son that Amanda remarks, ironically,
"'I do believe . . . that we have entered the enchanted world
beyond irony'" (234), an expression suggesting that what
motivates the fantasy of exoticism and otherness in which Amanda
and Drake engage is the desire to escape historical ironies and
displacements. In fact, the irony and mimicry have just begun,
and in the most contorted and funny scenes of the novel, Wright
describes Amanda and Drake "going native," partaking
of the local rituals, which, among other things, include long
bouts of drunkeness, a pig hunt right out of Lord of the Flies,
the oral transmission of the movie plot of Terminator,
a mimed version of a Roadrunner cartoon, and viewings of the film,
Batman (Jack Nicholson, it turns out, has visited the village
in the past, an encounter with divinity that is commemorated in
the trio of photographs in the chief's longhouse of "President
Suharto, the standard lithograph of a thorn-crowned and teary
Jesus, and, in the elevated place of honor in between, a black
and white glossy of a smirking Jack Nicholson" [236]). At
the end of several exhausting days of such revelations, Drake
exclaims, "'I have found my movie" (245), and the couple
heads home to recreate Borneo within the walls of their suburban
L.A. home and await their encounter with fate in the form of Wylie
who, Manson-style, murders them and their friends during an ersatz
Indonesian dinner party.
Were Wright to stop there, Going Native would stand as
a compelling indictment of a version of late capitalist, postmodern
culture which reduces visuality to a processing of endless, contiguous
images (as seen in "channel-surfing"), identity to a
nominal pastiche of mutable forms and guises, and the road--that
conveyance of time and event--to sheer connectivity, the purveyor
of "anything can happen" and "what comes next."
Yet, as a satirist, this "liberatory" view of postmodernism
which--Wright's novel makes clear, is perfectly complicit with
the modularization of the real that Jameson describes--is one that
Wright wishes to critique, and he does so by rhetorically suggesting
that the image be opened up to scrutiny, that the tyranny of the
image be challenged. Contrary to the exoticized "escape
from pretty pictures" that plays its part in Amanda's colonial
fantasy, Wright, via the figure of Wylie, proposes a burrowing
into the image feed, a forced recognition of the singularity of
images, their status as temporal constructs, their correspondences
and linkages as well as their contiguity. This breaking down
of the flow of images signifies, for Wright, the confrontation
of identity with its own mortality, and its complicity in the
life and death of cultures--an unavoidable confrontation that immersion
into the image feed failingly seeks to escape.
Wylie brings chaos, disillusion, and death to all those he meets
along the road: he thus represents a form of estrangement that
(even though Wylie himself is moving down the road at a high rate
of speed) momentarily slows down the flux of images and allows
for, as Benjamin maintains in the "Arcades Project,"
a "dialectical overturning" or "'waking up' . .
. from the collective dream of the commodity phantasmagoria"
(Buck-Morss, 271). But, in Going Native, such recognitions
come at a price, for part of this awakening entails a recognition
of temporality and mortality, the very elements which the fantasy
of protean identity and the endless proliferation of images repress.
Moments before her death at Wylie's hands, a victim of "randomness,"
Amanda is described as fully awakened from the cultural dreamworld
of simulacra in which she has been living:
[She] was alive and anything was possible, she could see, she
could hear, she could feel the advancing numbness of fettered
hands and feet, under her the rock finality of the floor, the
urgent pressure of its absolute otherness, and she could endure
in all its strident simultaneity the madness of consciousness,
whole worlds flaring and gone like sparks in the void; the beauty,
the horror, the pasteboard categories masking the all-inclusive
something that was upon her now . . . (274)
Confronting what Zizek punningly refers to as the "Big Other,"
Amada achieves a state of reflection that entails an awareness
of "consciousness" as, at once, constituted of the flow
of images (Wright does not offer a romanticized alternative to
or version of postmodern subjectivity as anything other than this),
and at the same time, cognizant of the "urgent pressure of
absolute otherness," the actuality of the "real"
close-up, and of "finality," as boundaries that give
shape to her own agency at the point of its extinction.
This "being-before-death," in the Heidiggerian sense,
is materially renegotiated in Wright's fiction as "thought,"
or a confrontation with the particularity and molecularity of
the image--with its constructedness as an image caught in time
and bound by circumstance; rhetorically, as I have argued elsewhere,
this signifies the operations of metaphor. The aproiae of "thought"
occur rarely in Going Native, but one remarkable example
occurs when Jessie, the Vegas wedding chapel receptionist, is
compelled to think about a response to a question from her girlfriend,
"'What do you see when you look at me?'":
Well. For Jessie, an intolerably complex question. Her "knowing"
eye tended to get lost in people, in the ornate and patterned
beauty of their strata and schist, in the transparent shapes time
sculpted in the dark . . . the perpetual womb of images, the dance
of savage possibility. Beneath such scrutiny proportions were
onerous to maintain, the concept of a bounding wholeness relegated
to triviality. The examined Other slipped out of focus, a certain
ghostliness prevailed. The more you knew, the less stable the
object of knowledge. Mind haunted the world like a devouring
demon. What did she see? She saw cracks and fissures and chinks.
She saw her past rising through the crust at her feet. (162)
What occurs in this instant of "thought" constituted
as a rupture in the pattern and flow of images is a recognition
of the image itself, but not as something one can get beyond or
through, as if one could escape representation, the coursing and
discourse of images. Here, the concept of "mind" or
"thinking," which is neither more nor less cannibalistic
than mindless indulgence at the trough of the monster image feed,
suggests that the image or other, when scrutinized, serves as
a destabilizing embodiment of the absence of pure presence, or
what the fantasy of the endless image feed and infinite identity-performances
seek to instantiate. Such disorientations, for Jessie, allow
for the emergence of a suppressed historicity and encounter with
the otherness of the real ("she saw her past rising through
the crust at her feet") that frames postmodern identity as
seeking to escape an unavoidable past: the mode of its being
is the mode of this relation to the repressed of history.
As for Wylie, who represents, among other things, the fantasy
of postmodern identity as I have described it pushed to its limits,
there is only continuance, seriality. Even though, at times
for him, "despite the alluring, unflagging flow of images,
the surface tension would be broken for an instant, by an especially
obnoxious commercial, or an overripe cliché, and he would
discover himself slipping down inside himself, below decks, into
a complex of passageways of no clear design or intent," giving
rise to the recognition that "your service here, like those
who came before and those who will come after, is temporary duty
only and can be terminated arbitrarily without warning" (296),
still, he mainly succeeds in "trying hard not to think, to
remain clean by hosing himself off in the daily data stream"
(303). In his final avatar, Wylie has become the Viewer, the
passive repository of the data stream, wholly immersed in its
tide; sitting in his Galaxie, he experiences the idealized state
of being-in-simulacra: "There was no self, there was no
identity . . . there was no you. There was only the Viewer, slumped
forever in his sour seat, the bald shells of his eyes boiling
in pictures, a biblical flood of them, all saturated tones and
deep focus . . . and the hands applauding, always applauding,
palms abraded to an open fretwork of gristle and bone, the ruined
teeth fixed in a yellowy smile that will not diminish, that will
not fade, he's happy, he's being entertained" (305). And
it is here that the novel ends with Wylie, the instrument of accident
and fate, the signifier of the road, transformed into an idiotic,
yet wily receptor, his identity now consonant with and present
within the real constituted as simulacrum, the agent of mortality
wholly ignorant of his own.
As a postmodern road novel, Going Native limns the conditions
of postmodernity and of the genre that exemplifies it. It does
so by scrutinizing in the flow of images the contradiction of
an identity that seeks to replicate itself in endless variation
at the expense of history through a process of simulation--as the
redundancies of nature depicted in the novel's simulated jungles
should tell us--bound over the repetition. Yet, Wright's point
seems to be, we cannot escape the dialectical intrusions of historicity,
or as Derrida argues in Spectres of Marx, our own "hauntology,"
the return of the repressed past and the fact of our mortality;
we cannot escape these because they are sedmimented in the present
and in the representations of a desired present-ness. That Wright
locates this complex contradiction in those narratives disrupted
by Wylie who, like his cartoon counterpart, is a figure of repetition
somehow able to forget his own death while engineering a plethora
of ineffectual death traps speaks to the parodic capacities of
Going Native, a significant work of critical postmodernism
that challenges the ideologies of change, transformativity, and
visuality upon which a theoretical postmodernity is founded. Wright
thus joins the group Steven Weisenberger has termed postmodern
satirists--writers such as Pynchon, Gaddis, Acker, Elkin, and Coover,--who
take as their project the diagnosis of a highly symptomatic postmodern
culture, and who, beyond performativity, seek to uncover the radicality
of its conditions.
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