Next Exit: An Interrogation of Blind Spaces in Contemporary Literature
The narrative template for most dystopian novels is easy to model:
1. Characters exist within an oppressive power structure.
2. Characters attempt to challenge and defy this regime
3. Characters find peace in the recreation of meaning in unknown and unlikely places.
Growing up, I was raised on the pillars of the classic texts: The Hunger Games, Divergent and The Maze Runner. A holy trinity of post-apocalyptic landscapes that, in their own way, highlight the necessity of escapism. Our protagonists, against seemingly impossible odds, manage to circumvent, undermine and bypass the suffocating forces at play and are only truly liberated when they can exist in accordance with their own terms. The different simulations: the maze, the games, and the factions are equally representative of systems and structures which stunt individual personal development.
These subtle allegories spoon-fed to young minds nourish skepticism and target passivity. During our most formative years, literature of this nature rewards agency as the quality which paces action. Very often it is also this same level of autonomy which halts the gripping, tumbling events of a story and cues the reader to get acquainted with the back cover. The depiction of the utopia, the place in which the characters can operate on their own wavelength outside the world of the text, often acts as this bridge between action and resolution. Protagonists make the decision to choose the unknown, the remote, the geographically unrendered in order to select happiness. By enacting their agency, characters make the conscious decision to remove themselves from the story itself in order to find some resemblance of salvation.
Moving beyond young adult fiction, Maurice by E.M Forster, a romance set against the backdrop of Cambridge University is coloured by the higher strata of ivory tower academia. It is no mistake that the titular character Maurice is dismissed from the college as he simply cannot comply with the routine nor the sexual status quo at play. This is further emphasised when he consummates his feelings for fellow student, Clive, in the country- a place that is more natural than Cambridge and the supposed ‘civility’ it perpetuates could ever be. Personal development occurs on the geographic fringes, the blind spaces of the text as Forster comments on the harmful nature of standardisation produced by educational institutions. It is clear that the author felt strongly about the power of instilled beliefs as Maurice too was published posthumously and outside the parameters of Forster’s lifetime.
In 1984, by George Orwell, the ‘Golden Country’ acts as a binary to everything which encompasses the protagonist, Winston's, worldview. In Part Two of the novel, Winston and his love interest, Julia, seek refuge in the vastness of nature and away from the panoptic nightmare of daily living. Out in the open air, Julia and Winston test their compatibility outside of the many filters in which they are regularly exposed. These descriptions of utopia, the ‘stream at the edge of the field’ or ‘the pools below the willow trees’ are mundane for the reader. This segment pales in comparison to some of the more graphic and surreal scenes which take place throughout the remainder of the novel. However, it could be argued that a utopia, a true utopia, would be boring. And, from the perspective of Winston, we, the onlookers, assume the role of Big Brother by wishing to condemn him to confinement for the purpose of our own entertainment. In another retelling, in a happier re-imagining, the characters would escape to the ‘Golden Country’ and live in this blind spot of surveillance, beyond the scope of the narrator’s happily ever after.
Frankenstein is a gothic novel by Mary Shelley which bores a blind spot of a protagonist and immerses them in the known. Frankenstein's monster, despite his otherness, materialises as the most virtuous character in the novel. Personally, the trials and tribulations of Victor Frankenstein are seldom resonant despite these severe bouts of hysteria presented by Shelley. The mad scientist does not acknowledge, confront or parent his creation. Instead, the actions of the creature answer the intrusive unethical question that has sprung up in all of us; how would a child be socialised if they were reared strictly by the wild? Unlike the other texts previously discussed, this illusion which Shelley presents is the social fabric of reality itself. Frankenstein's monster is a freak of nature, he actualises out of sight and yet, it is because of this that he finds resolve. The creature never asked to be born but he departs from the pages on his own terms, taking ownership of his autonomy for the first time. It is never really known what happens to the character as any action occurs beyond the lens of the narrator. I can't help but feel that this is still deliberate and acts to remind the reader that integral decisions don't always abide by reason, they aren't always spelt out for us and we might not even witness them in passing.
There are countless examples, across multiple genres, that transmit the transformative power of the periphery. I would encourage readers to read the spaces in between the lines, to take notice of the events which are omitted for the purpose of reflection. Why is it, that positive change often occurs outside of conventional structures and what does this tell us about life in the 21st century? In the grand literary tradition, novels can convey meaning in the manipulation of location. In the virtual realm where everyone is gathered in the homogenous venues of social media platforms and follower counts, we are told explicitly what we will perceive. This is in stark contrast to the legacy of pioneering literary voices who implore us to always search elsewhere. More often than not, truth runs against the grain. It is found in unlikely and isolated places, expecting you to come looking for it instead of the other way around.
