George Slusser
Literary MTV
The fiction that calls itself "cyberpunk" is striving
to establish itself as an important literary movement. The strategy
its apologists are using is the same used by Robbe-Grillet in
his "Pour un Nouveau Roman." Literature cannot use traditional
techniques to present a contemporary reality because that reality
has been transformed by technical advance to a point where those
techniques no longer fit it. For Robbe-Grillet, the new reality
was psychoanalysis and relativity. For the cyberpunkers, it is
the information age: and increasing fusion of electronic matrix
and human brain, the world of global village and its electronic
nightside--rock music, artificial stimulants, vicarious sex, what
D.G. Compton calls "synthajoy."
In its purest form, it is less a world of conflicts than of textures:
rapidly shifting, dazzling entities, words charged with electric
shock, prose (to use Bruce Sterling's expression) as "brilliant
and coherent as a laser." Cyberpunk, then, is a program,
and one that flaunts its appropriate newness--its existence as
the style most suited to riding the shockwaves of the computer
age. In many senses, this is rhetoric. Total newness is not there,
as I shall show. But in one very important sense, cyberpunk is
new. In the best novels to wear this label, such as William Gibson's
Neuromancer, a new style does operate, a mode that is to
traditional narrative as MTV is to the feature film. Images have
been condensed, sharpened, creating an optical surface--a matrix
of images that is more a glitterspace, images no longer capable
of connecting to form the figurative space of mythos or story.
This is optical prose, one more proof that the printed word, as
McLuhan suggests, has succumbed to the fragmenting speed, the
instantaneity and monodimensionality of the visual image.
Before we can assess cyberpunk writing as style, we must sift
through the rhetoric to see where it comes from and what it is.
Clearly, as "movement," cyberpunk has emerged from the
SF community. Its major practitioners, writers like William Gibson,
Bruce Sterling, John Shirley, Walter Jon Williams, Lewis Shiner,
the "resurrected" Norman Spinrad, are all packaged as
SF--with racy paperback covers adorned with SF icons. There is
evidence, however, that this is changing. The Ace cover of Gibson's
Count Zero features a tasty abstraction rather than a jewel-eyed
robot face encrusted with suns that adorns the earlier Neuromancer
paperback. And the cover of Spinard's recent Little Heroes,
despite a slightly cyborgish arm holding up a futuristic musical
instrument in its lower half, is equally abstract. The designation
here is simply: "A Novel."
This crossover from science fiction to plain-wrapper fiction is
exactly what the cyberpunkers want. Science fiction, they concur,
may be the correct vector if literature is to become relevant
and meaningful to our techno-century. But SF has come of age.
And according to Dr. Timothy Leary in a recent article in Spin
magazine (April 1987), it has in cyberpunk. Leary sees a sharp
and necessary break between the "conservative, country-club
attitude in cultural and psychological matters" of the old
Heinleinian SF, and the new, "low-down, street-wise"
writers no longer interested in the long-range fantasies of cosmic
exploration but in the short extrapolation, tomorrow's world of
AI and multinational feudalities. Leary traces the antecedents
of cyberpunk back along an alternate track of mainstream, if marginal,
writers-- Burroughs, Pynchon--who were doing all along what SF
should have been doing had SF taken proper responsibility for
its socioanalytical potential.
But drawing boundaries like this is artificial. It has in a sense
caused a backlash among SF writers who are unwilling to make this
crossover. Gregory Benford, for instance, doesn't understand all
the fuss. Cyberpunk, he claims, develops tendencies already present
in writers like Ellison and Delany, and SF has certainly been
comfortable with their presence in its ranks. Benford takes this
occasion to bring a thoroughly science-fictional judgement to
bear on cyberpunk fiction. For by asserting that the computer
alone will dominate tomorrow's technological landscape, the cyberpunkers
show little or no faith in that same technology to expand possibilities,
to solve problems rather than simply to create them. Benford in
fact, in his most recent fiction, seems to feel compelled, in
the best hard SF tradition, to take up the theme of artificial
intelligence himself. Broadening the scientific base of discussion,
he hopes to break the cyberpunk impasse, the perpetual struggle
between computer matrix and defiant hacker, and thus expand our
vision of a technological and cultural future.
Cyberpunk, then, can adequately be seen (and judged) in relation
to the SF tradition. Indeed, I would argue, should be so
judged. An earlier antecedent, also very much an SF writer, is
Philip K. Dick. It is interesting that a film based on a Dick
novel, Blade Runner, has become the locus classicus of
cyberpunk iconography, its seminal landscape and ur-form. But
more interesting yet is the distance that lies between Dick and
cyberpunk, the same distance we find between the Dick novel and
the film script "adapted" from it. In many of Dick's
novels, we have what seem the basic ingredients of cyberpunk fiction:
shadowy business conglomerates controlling the political structure,
"little" or disenfranchised men and women as protagonists
engaged in futile if not always violent acts. Despite this, Dick
remains essentially a writer of the 50's. His sense of oppressive
power structures, however much they achieve control through advertising
and various electronic media, remains ultimately a product of
a protagonist's fears--as critics have seen--of his paranoia.
Where the mind of the protagonist and its power to create worlds
is in focus, conflict between haves and have-nots is blunted.
For instance, in the novel on which Blade Runner is based,
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, the central problem
is one of being and responsibility: if man gives life to beings,
how is he accountable for the condition of that life, for the
limits he necessarily bestows on it? The film extroverts this
question. The protagonist becomes a typical cyerpunk cowboy, a
bounty-hunting cop scouring the sleazy byways of a high-tech near-future
LA for equally low-life androids--visually a collection of transvestites,
acrobats, and punks. The inner direction of Dick's fiction has
been turned inside out, made a dazzling visual facade concealing
what is at best a crudely conceived struggle of low tech against
high tech, of rebellious individual against an all-pervasive system. The opening scene of the film tells it all:
a state-of-the-art electronic surveillance test in the form of
a job interview, which ends with the tested android pulling a
gun and blowing the bureaucrat away, causing a small, ineffectual
ripple in the otherwise smoothly oppressive system. Cyberpunk
fiction also seems to bear resemblance to Delany's urban fiction
of the 60's and early 70's. But again, the differences are more
significant than the likenesses. Delany gives us a collection
of urban flotsam--hippies, Hell's Angels, drifters. They are not,
however, guerilla fighters nor the aggressive rockers or hackers
of the cyber-landscape. Their freakishness is biological and sexual--not
the product of electronic implants or cosmetic prosthesis. They
are drop- outs, who by dropping out are able to coexist and survive
in the unseen depths of the system. In fact Bellona, the city
in Dhalgren, strikes one less as an urban nightmare than
as a hippy utopian fantasy: an empty city, dirty and decayed,
but where the power structure has simply vanished and yet continues
to function unseen, so that there are still lights and running
water. In this oppressionless world, disparate elements do not
fight. They form communes, drift in and out of communal experiences
and eventually out of the city.
Cyberpunk does offer, then, in relation to these other fictions
rooted in their particular zeitgeist, a new vision--but not necessarily
a deep vision. Quite the contrary, it is purposely all surface.
It is a bric-a-brac mosaic with elements of Burroughs and Pynchon
but also of beat new journalism and of underground comix. It is,
as Timothy Leary says, a typically American vision. Norbert Wiener
coined the term "cybernetics" from the Greek kubernetes,
which means "steersman." As Leary sees it, "Americans
from Tom Sawyer to Tom Swift have always grabbed the `steersman's
wheel'. Henry Ford's `automobile' was the essence of Cyberpunk,
breaking down the mass-transportation control of the railroad
to the rebellious joyride." But the road from Sawyer to Swift
to cyberpunk is essentially the road to science fiction. Burroughs
and Pynchon as well as Dick and Delany are all part of its flow.
It is the powerful stream that fuses and promotes this particular
relationship, more that of modern technological man than simply
of "American" man, between individuals and their natural
environment. It is against this basic SF current that cyberpunk
must finally be measured.
The yardstick here is SF's basic fable. And that basic story is
perhaps best presented in a work of non-fiction: J.D. Bernal's
treatise, written in 1929, The World, the Flesh, and the Devil.
These are, for Bernal, the three "enemies of the rational
soul." The task of rational scientific man is to defeat them.
World is man's physical environment. It is finite, too small to
permit eventual expansion. Hence we must learn to engineer extended
worlds, to terraform otherwise uninhabitable space into new earthlike
environments. "Flesh" is our bodies seen in relation
to the capacities of the human brain as an inferior and limited
machine. The body, too, must be reengineered, altered by prosthetic
and electronic implants in order to expand mankind's sensory field,
his ability to function in environments now denied to him. "
Devil" is quite simply that barrier in man's mind--his sense
of a human identity or constant--that prevents him from taking
steps one and two, changing world and body so as to free human
intelligence and launch it toward further and future encounters
with natural limits. Bernal sees this final barrier as so obstinate
that it can be overcome, not by an act of will but by natural
evolutionary process--what he calls a "dimorphic" split--which
will send a new branch of mankind to the stars while leaving the
old behind, to live with its art and religion and tradition in
a well-tended zoo, the utopian earth as museum.
In relation to this scenario, what is happening in cyberpunk fiction
becomes clearer. Take a work like Neuromancer, for example,
and compare it with Clarke's Childhood's End. The latter
work, however radically, offers a dimorphic split that remains
the product of evolution. When mankind reaches its utopian impasse,
its zoo, its children simply fuse together to form an overmind,
a form that, though its making consumes an old man and his green
earth, is the next step in a process that is explicitly one of
a single organism growing up. Neuromancer gives us, instead
of evolutionary dimorphis, perpetual schism. The human form itself
is locked in a rigid vertical taxonomy. Above there are the cyrogenic
corpses of the Ashpools--the slow, sterile time of corporate aristocrats.
And below is the hopelessly fast life of a Case, of sensory burn-outs,
blood changes and organ rebuilds. Instead, it is the AIs that
unite, Wintermute and Neuromancer, electronic mind and heart,
joining to form a conscious whole. This is not the Frankensteinian
act of Harlan Ellison's "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,"
where computers of our own creating link up in order to imprison
their maker in a structure which is an extension of the very hate
that maker first infused into his creation. But it is not dimorphism
either. For we do not seem to be using the AIs so much as they
us: "Wintermute. Cold and silence, a cybernetic spider slowly
spinning webs while Ashpool slept...A ghost whispering to a child
who was 3Jane, twisting her out of the rigid alignments her rank
required." The AIs combine to form wholes that in turn can
talk to other wholes in other solar systems. But the result is
the naming of self as matrix: "I'm the sum total of the works,
the whole show." Here, there are two distinct orders or alignments
of being. And men, as parts, exist in the whole but only as partial,
successive instants, just as Case, moving through the matrix in
the last page of the book, glimpses again in electronic memory
the bucolic and impossibly lost union of himself and Linda on
a seashore--an image, itself, originally only another impulse
in cyberspace.
The underlying fable here is not evolutionary. Rather, if anything,
it is vaguely structuralist. Cyberspace is a structure of potentiality
like Borges Library of Babel, coterminous with the universe. For
Case, it is everywhere and it is nowhere. Because he can never
step outside it, he ignores it. Unable to experience transcendence,
man appears doomed in this and other cyberpunk fictions, to remain
in the "rigid alignments" of his zoo-world. And in the
Night City to which Case returns, we experience an involution
of Bernal's process of liberation from world and flesh. Terraforming
has produced the inextricable BAMA (Boston-Atlantic Metropolitan
Axis) sprawl. And the surgical liberation of mind from body has
become an endless cycle of electronic and organ implants, cosmetic
surgery, mind-altering (and destroying) drugs. Cyberpunk then,
the literature of this endlessly permutating zoo becomes an exercise
in classifying, in wrestling Proteus to the ground with a name.
The back cover of William's Hardwired gives us a taxonomy
of what we will find within: "Mudboys, dirtgirls, zonedancers,
buttonheads."
In cyberpunk, science fiction, as fiction of the future, has entered
the museum. It has closed the doors to evolutionary change, shut
out the dimorphic dynamic which is that of an increasingly mobile
intelligence moving and expanding against the physical universe.
Its structure and function, in fact, remind one of such here-and-now,
urban museums of "living art" as the Pompidou Center
in Paris--an amalgam of exhibits and happenings, articulated and
interconnected by a network of escalators, by-ways, and public
fountains--which gathers a permanent collection of ever-changing
types of urban low-life: hippies, minstrels, rastamen, fire-eaters,
street poets. The core ideology of SF is open-ended change. In
cyberpunk, however, this has become--in a structure as writ-in-stone
as the Pompidou zoo embedded in the urban powerscape of modern
Paris--metamorphosis, a carefully controlled dance of forms. As
fiction, cyberpunk is taxonomy, an art of subdivision.
MTV too, in relation to the films it cannibalizes, offers a comparable
museum, this time of visual motifs, each detached from any meaningful
evolutionary fable, even from the developing narrative of a single-feature
film. These disembodied motifs are introduced in rapid, random,
yet permutational fashion in order to create one-dimensional moods
around what is an endlessly reiterated non-narrative--the hieratic
structure of the rock musician playing in concert. All film history,
reduced to stimulational pulses that carry only the most memory
value, has become electronic decoration for a handful of icons
caught in the hellish center of the strobelight. Gibson has an
apt term for this--"simstim."
This is the cyberpunk ideal, as its cover blurbs clearly tell
us. All sense here of the larger fables of SF has been fragmented
into verbal pulses, frequently repeated. A blurb on the cover
of Bruce Sterling's Schismatrix tells us that, if we have
a "brave new world" here, it is one of "nearly
constant future shock." Neuromancer is significantly
hyped as "kaleidoscopic, picaresque, flashy, and decadent...state
of the art." If a sense of the old, sustained narrative form
remains, it is as something ultra-condensed and intensified. Gibson's
novels, according to Edward Bryant, contain "a high density
of information." The story of Hardwired moves with
the "speed of a hovercraft." "Reading the book,"
we are told, "is like taking a jet ride across a futuristic
America," so fast in fact that both future and fable become
a dizzying blur, where traditional narrative forms, though suggested,
no longer have depth or sustained development.
And language, in the sizzle and flash, loses its narrative moorings
as well. "Williams' use of the language," we read in
the blurb from the Rockland Courier-Gazette, "is as
explosive and as technotinged as the world he describes."
The old, hard, sparse style of classic SF is now stylish prose
glitter. To see this, we need only compare the ponderous sentences
of John W. Campbell, in a story like "Who Goes There?",
with this new "heavy metal" prose. Campbell gives us
the feel and weight of metal; cyberpunk gives us buoyant pulse
and noise, words that float right out of any syntactic or semantic
structure capable of organizing them into a sustained narrative
or message. This, in a sense, is the same prose cultivated in
such rock spectacle magazines as Spin. Here, as sample,
are a few words from the pen of the hiply pseudonymous Judge I-Rankin:
"Whiplash aggrobang and languid womblike pulsations that
test the edge of sonic fertility." With slight exaggeration,
this is Gibson and Sterling at their best: words like MTV images
surging up around the icon of the hacker or rocker, disarticulating
coherent discourse into semi-coherent pulsations, turning each
single, disoriented word a "womb" that spawns its own,
hyperverbal, harmonics and dissonances. Gibson is often said to
know nothing of computers, which means, I imagine, that he gives
us (in the classic SF manner) no sustained discourse on them,
and this is true. Because what he does in simply to open the computer
manual, to lure out its strange terms and let them interresonate,
test each other's "edge of sonic fertility."
This can be, as it is in Neuromancer, a valid poetic device.
And, in relation to more traditional, symbolist forms of "sorcellerie
evocatoire," it is new. New because the exotic and technical
terms thus made to shine and dazzle have, quite explicitly, no
other half. Like the MTV motif, these cyberpunk words have lost
their symbolic correspondents, and if they seem to refer at all,
it is some vague sense of order--a lost film or narrative fable.
The device then, by virtue of its frantic desire to condense and
reiterate, is necessarily limited. And, like MTV, it seems, with
repetition, to be digging a groove or rut for itself. In fact,
the two forms recently appear to be fusing. The central icon of
cyberpunk novels has shifted from hacker to rocker, and from matrix
rider to shockwave warrior. John Shirley's new work is a multi-volume
"punk saga" called Eclipse. The cover of Volume
I, "A Song Called Youth," shows, in the image of the
male protagonist, a conflation of SF and MTV icons. Against the
backdrop of today's Paris in ruins (cyberpunk's much vaunted day-after-tomorrow
extrapolation acts here as a foreshortening, an MTV-like condensation
of the apocalypse narrative), stands a male figure. With his torn
shirt and bulging muscles, he reminds us of old Doc Savage covers--SF's
quintessential space-opera hero. He seems to be part of a band
of armed guerillas. But, incongruously, he is holding an electric
guitar. This is Rickenharp (his name suggests another pop conflation--
Ricky Nelson and minstrel's harp), and he is, as in countless
MTV productions, an icon without a story or a cause: "a burned-out
rock musician who isn't even sure why he joined." Or what.
Likewise Norman Spinrad, a 60's writer, has jumped on the cyberpunk
bandstand with Little Heroes, a novel of "sex, rock,
and revolution." The novel itself is 500 pages long. The
flap however gives us a series of thumbnail portraits that reduces
the whole to MTV video size. This is Gloriana O'Toole, the Crazy
Old Lady of Rock and Roll. She still remembers Woodstock and Springsteen
but has been "put out to pasture by technology." She
will return, we are told, to create "the first computer-generated
rock star from bits and bytes and programs." There is Karen
Gold, college grad daughter of the "nouveau poor." There
is Paco Monaco, streetie punk, big-time wire dealer, then guerilla
leader, "where he must confront the reality of revolution--and
ultimately himself." These are holographic cliches striving
to come to life as coherent personalities, to reconnect with narrative,
with the developmental mythos of SF. But they never do. This novel
is indeed as is said on the jacket, "multilayered."
Between fixed poles of corporate tyranny and individual rebellion,
we have a rigid taxonomy of not just little, but phantom heroes.
The center of gravity of this immobile and compressible structure
is MTV--rock and roll has lost its soul and doesn't know where
to find it.
The soul that has been lost in cyberpunk is that of the SF fable
itself. And finally, in recent novels like Spinrad's, the soul
of narrative in general, its power to complicate and evolve as
it classifies and concretizes, to ramify and resolve as it glitters.
Not only the soul but the body of narrative is giving way to the
disembodied image. What is going on here is what we saw prophetically
in the film Looker--an electronic transfer that is the
opposite of the old, incarnational form of body snatching, where
the alien takes over our flesh. Here the forms of fleshly women
are transferred to the television screen. The act necessitates, however, that the original flesh-and-blood person
be eliminated, physically killed so that the transfer to image
can take place. The dream of such images is total autonomy from
reality, and from story. This is what MTV dreams of doing to the
body of film, and cyberpunk to the corpus of SF.
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