Sarang's latest effort, The Coleridge Proof, is a slim volume, but its density of ideas and Baroque style give it a much bigger impact than its page count would suggest. Drawing inspiration from sources as varied as Calista's Into the World (which I reviewed in these pages) and Francis Spufford's Red Plenty, and owing more than a little to Sarang's previous work Bletchley Park (which I also reviewed), The Coleridge Proof explores the overlap between abstract ideas and personal interests, policymaking and the war of ideas.
The novel opens as Anabel Coleridge, a political philosopher guest lecturing at the University of Chicago, achieves the holy grail of left wing scholarship: a formal proof refuting neoliberalism. In the opening pages of the book, Coleridge alternates between carefully checking her work, covering page after page with careful, neatly written notation, and strolling through Hyde Park, her mind on fire with the astounding implications of her proof. Of course she understands that capitalism is not going to go away without a fight, but her proof of its incoherence will remove any last vestige of intellectual justification, and slowly but surely the new socialist order will take shape. Of course Coleridge also stands to become famous, a towering figure in academia, a God on Twitter.
The turning point comes when Coleridge, almost finished writing up her proof for publication, idly works out a few of its logical implications. She is brought up short when she realizes that her proof not only refutes capitalism, it also proves that walkable urbanism lacks any rational justification. Coleridge desperately works through the proof again and again, but the stubborn fact remains. She cannot launch her attack on capitalism without exploding walkable urbanism as well.
Once she has resigned herself to the harsh truth, Coleridge confronts her unpalatable options. She could, of course, publish the proof without making any mention of its implications for urban policy. For some period of time, she would reap all the rewards for her accomplishment without any price being paid. It is even possible that the destruction of any intellectual case for walkable urbanism would go unnoticed for years, decades... maybe forever.
But the difficulty is that Coleridge's proof is certain to inspire a deluge of derivative academic work—the proof will be the basis for thousands of papers mining it for new ideas. It would be foolhardy to think that its implied refutation of urbanism will go unnoticed, especially when so much money is riding on it. And while Coleridge despises neoliberalism and longs to sound its death knell, she loves cities almost as much, and would hate to give up her carless lifestyle, enabled by the very mass transit and dense zoning that her work has the power to destroy. But is her reluctance to publish simply an expression of her own privilege? Doesn't integrity require her to publish her ideas even at great personal cost? (Though she tries to be high-minded about all of this, among other things Coleridge can't ignore the huge and vocal urbanist presence on Twitter—if she publishes the proof, then so much for her dreams of widespread Twitter acclaim!)
In desperate need of advice, Coleridge turns to an online forum for academics working in political philosophy. Obviously she can't reveal the full extent of her dilemma, but she lays it out in abstract form. Alas, even this general description is enough to pique the interest of Charles Laval, a veteran lobbyist for the car industry. In his youth, Laval was working toward an irrefutable refutation of urbanism with a brilliant Vietnamese philosopher, Dr. Phan, when the war interrupted their collaboration. Laval made it out of Saigon on a helicopter; Phan didn't. Without Phan's help, Laval was unable to complete their work, and he eventually quit philosophy for a career on K Street.
Now, decades later, Laval notices a few seemingly innocuous details in Coleridge's forum posts that suggest that she has stumbled on the same argument that preoccupied Laval and Phan so many years before. Of course, Laval is now in a position to mobilize vast resources in service of his clients' interests, and, perhaps haunted by his failure to get his friend out of Saigon, he sets in motion a plan that ultimately brings The Coleridge Proof to its stunning denouement.
It is not my place to spoil the ending of the book, so I will simply note that I wish more novels were as convincing as The Coleridge Proof in describing the ways in which academic work and personal foibles interact. We may like to think that grand ideas exist on some elevated, airless plane, far above our petty concerns and personal feuds. But in real life they are all a jumble, and it is only when we confront this truth about our ideas that we can evaluate them in their true light.
Monday, June 19, 2017
Saturday, June 3, 2017
Calista's Flameout
Calista's latest effort, Flameout, is a sharp send-up of the surveillance state, as well as a pessimistic exploration of morality and personal responsibility. Flameout is buoyant and entertaining, but it carries a hard cynical edge that was missing from Calista's earlier satires.
As the story starts, a government agent, Brian O'Malley, is trying to hack into a personal computer used by Julie Fleishman, a minor politician in the opposition party. O'Malley is good at his job, but he has begun to question the morality of the surveillance. As his supervisors push him for results, he squirms, trying to find some way to avoid complicity. But he is saddled with student debt, and if he leaves his job the government will do its best to tarnish him in the eyes of potential employers. There appears to be no way out. O'Malley sinks into depression, unable to take pleasure in anything, and starts drinking heavily. Even his favorite hobby, homebrewing, ceases to offer any escape for him, and simply becomes an excuse for more drinking.
But O'Malley's darkest moment also proves to be his salvation. He finally breaks into Fleishman's computer, where he finds nothing more embarrassing than a few racy (but non-pornographic) pictures and a few unflattering emails. But more importantly, he also finds Fleishman's beer recipes (she, too, is an avid homebrewer). O'Malley brews a tart wit beer using one of the recipes, and it is delicious. In fact it is by far the best beer that O'Malley has brewed. Suddenly he sees a way out! He surreptitiously fixes the security flaws on Fleishman's computer, pretends to his bosses that he was unable to penetrate it, quits his job, and opens a brewpub. Fleishman's amazing recipes make it an instant success, and it soon grows into one of the largest and most beloved craft breweries in the country.
Here, though, the story sours. Fleishman's career does not go as well as O'Malley's—after losing a close election, she leaves politics to open a brewery. The problem is that her beers are seen as unoriginal knockoffs of O'Malley's best-selling beers—in fact they are basically identical. Fleishman endures the ridicule of beer reviewers and the scorn of beer drinkers. She is forced to rely on her retired parents for money to keep the brewery afloat, and she feels like a failure.
All of this would be more tolerable if O'Malley felt some responsibility for Fleishman's predicament. But he feels no guilt. Worse, he sees his actions as heroic, having shielded her from surveillance. Of course he ignores that his surveillance has also ruined her life. Here we are forced to consider what the real cost of surveillance is. Would Fleishman have been happier if the government had seen her pictures and emails, but her recipes had been ignored? Is it the act of surveillance or its real-world consequences that should concern us?
But the deeper questions are moral ones. Calista cuts into them with a deft, almost surgical touch, and yet for the reader the result is like being mauled with a hammer. Are humans driven to cast themselves as heroes no matter what the truth is? Are they self-justifying to the point of absurdity? It is hard not to answer those questions in the affirmative, and it is a bleak picture that emerges. After all, if a wrongdoer is forever shielded from recognizing the wrong, then how can true justice ever be done?
As the story ends, Calista has set O'Malley and Fleishman on a collision course. O'Malley is scheduled to appear at a beer festival to give a talk on recipe design. Fleishman will be at the same festival, pouring a new beer that she hopes will redeem her reputation and save her brewery. But first, she attends O'Malley's talk, where she recognizes his recipe... and here the book closes with the fuse lit, but the fireworks unexploded. It is for us to imagine the likely confrontation, and for us to argue about whether O'Malley can redeem himself, whether humans are capable of transcending their petty self-righteousness, whether, after all is said and done, there is any hope for us.
As the story starts, a government agent, Brian O'Malley, is trying to hack into a personal computer used by Julie Fleishman, a minor politician in the opposition party. O'Malley is good at his job, but he has begun to question the morality of the surveillance. As his supervisors push him for results, he squirms, trying to find some way to avoid complicity. But he is saddled with student debt, and if he leaves his job the government will do its best to tarnish him in the eyes of potential employers. There appears to be no way out. O'Malley sinks into depression, unable to take pleasure in anything, and starts drinking heavily. Even his favorite hobby, homebrewing, ceases to offer any escape for him, and simply becomes an excuse for more drinking.
But O'Malley's darkest moment also proves to be his salvation. He finally breaks into Fleishman's computer, where he finds nothing more embarrassing than a few racy (but non-pornographic) pictures and a few unflattering emails. But more importantly, he also finds Fleishman's beer recipes (she, too, is an avid homebrewer). O'Malley brews a tart wit beer using one of the recipes, and it is delicious. In fact it is by far the best beer that O'Malley has brewed. Suddenly he sees a way out! He surreptitiously fixes the security flaws on Fleishman's computer, pretends to his bosses that he was unable to penetrate it, quits his job, and opens a brewpub. Fleishman's amazing recipes make it an instant success, and it soon grows into one of the largest and most beloved craft breweries in the country.
Here, though, the story sours. Fleishman's career does not go as well as O'Malley's—after losing a close election, she leaves politics to open a brewery. The problem is that her beers are seen as unoriginal knockoffs of O'Malley's best-selling beers—in fact they are basically identical. Fleishman endures the ridicule of beer reviewers and the scorn of beer drinkers. She is forced to rely on her retired parents for money to keep the brewery afloat, and she feels like a failure.
All of this would be more tolerable if O'Malley felt some responsibility for Fleishman's predicament. But he feels no guilt. Worse, he sees his actions as heroic, having shielded her from surveillance. Of course he ignores that his surveillance has also ruined her life. Here we are forced to consider what the real cost of surveillance is. Would Fleishman have been happier if the government had seen her pictures and emails, but her recipes had been ignored? Is it the act of surveillance or its real-world consequences that should concern us?
But the deeper questions are moral ones. Calista cuts into them with a deft, almost surgical touch, and yet for the reader the result is like being mauled with a hammer. Are humans driven to cast themselves as heroes no matter what the truth is? Are they self-justifying to the point of absurdity? It is hard not to answer those questions in the affirmative, and it is a bleak picture that emerges. After all, if a wrongdoer is forever shielded from recognizing the wrong, then how can true justice ever be done?
As the story ends, Calista has set O'Malley and Fleishman on a collision course. O'Malley is scheduled to appear at a beer festival to give a talk on recipe design. Fleishman will be at the same festival, pouring a new beer that she hopes will redeem her reputation and save her brewery. But first, she attends O'Malley's talk, where she recognizes his recipe... and here the book closes with the fuse lit, but the fireworks unexploded. It is for us to imagine the likely confrontation, and for us to argue about whether O'Malley can redeem himself, whether humans are capable of transcending their petty self-righteousness, whether, after all is said and done, there is any hope for us.
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