A Novel Elysium by Evan Crichton Anderson a PROJECT Submitted To
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A Novel Elysium by Evan Crichton Anderson A PROJECT submitted to Oregon State University University Honors College in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Honors Baccalaureate of Arts in English (Honors Associate) Presented May 27, 2014 Commencement June 2014 1 AN ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS OF Evan Crichton Anderson for the degree of Honors Baccalaureate of Arts in English presented on May 27, 2014 . Title: A Novel Elysium . Abstract approved: ______________________________________________ Steven Kunert As a metafictional work of science fiction literature, A Novel Elysium explores the timelessness of both the human mind and its literary surroundings, comparing the self-awareness of its characters to the sometimes tragic or empowering metaphysical realizations of human beings. Within this framework, any concrete place or time is unimportant; temporal and physical locations are created by the relations of the characters to their world and also by the relations of the readers to this text. The subjects are art, intention, pleasure, perception, and existence, and each character comes to know these or become undone by them at the conclusion of A Novel Elysium , just as the reader comes to realize they are being directly addressed, rather than shown an unrelated fictional tale. Drawing on the full imaginative and mnemonic powers of its characters, the work abounds with references both to other literary classics and to itself, creating a semi-circular dialectic about the perceived relationships between past, present, future, and fictional and non-fictional reality. Key Words: literature, metafiction, science-fiction, metaphysics, writing Corresponding e-mail address: [email protected] 2 ©Copyright by Evan Crichton Anderson May 27, 2014 All Rights Reserved 3 A Novel Elysium by Evan Crichton Anderson A PROJECT submitted to Oregon State University University Honors College in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Honors Baccalaureate of Arts in English (Honors Associate) Presented May 27, 2014 Commencement June 2014 4 Honors Baccalaureate of Arts in English project of Evan Crichton Anderson presented on May 27, 2014. APPROVED: Mentor, representing English Committee Member, representing English Committee Member, representing English and Creative Writing Director, School of Writing, Literature, and Film Dean, University Honors College I understand that my project will become part of the permanent collection of Oregon State University, University Honors College. My signature below authorizes release of my project to any reader upon request. Evan Crichton Anderson, Author 5 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank Steven Kunert, Peter Betjemann, and Keith Scribner for aiding and influencing this creative project as well as The School of Writing, Literature, and Film Oregon State University 6 A Novel Elysium E. C. Anderson 7 I The hundred-emerald chandelier hung high-slung from the marble domed ceiling, softly casting fine green light throughout the cavernous entry hall. Two slowly snaking white stone stairways wound around the oval walls to spill their final steps on either side of where a young artist was waiting, as he had been told, with his hands and wild intentions clasped impatiently behind his back. Several servants had already taken his meager collection of luggage—he was assured he would want for naught—to unknown portions of the house, and he had been notified that Mr. Obren was “presently concluding a small matter of personal finance, but afterwards was dear ly hoping to show him about the estate, himself.” And so he waited, the soles of his shoes sprouting roots in the rock. Tall triangular panes of crystal were cut into the ceiling. Sun shone through them and onto the suspended stones, dropping razorlike gems of light which twinkled on the floor. The artist watched the colors mingle as the chandelier spun slowly round. A prison of prisms, he mused to himself. So this shall be my sentence. My crime? He found it difficult to reason out precisely why he had accepted the patronage of “Energy Emperor” Phineas Obren, though he knew it had little to do with the man’s personality. That much had been clear upon their first meeting, two weeks ago, nine hundred feet below where he now stood. “I expected an artist to have more vision,” Obren had said after the first refusal. He remembered that. More vision. Obren had casually twirled his ashplant high in his hands, examining its silver hawk head while delivering the lines, oblivious to the indignation beginning to bubble like poorly peeling paint. In actuality he remembered the majority of their first encounter quite clearly. It was hard to forget. The events and their qualities were completely alien to his knowledge of human interaction. The first being the thunderous three raps on the door. The second: the man and mind behind them. He had been touching up one of the winged tongues in his painting The Six Births of Matrimony when the knocks came. The magenta brush tip quivered above the canvas. Someone was upset? He set it down. Cleaning his hands with a nearby rag, he traversed the room expecting only to hear another artist’s woes of imperfection. As he first opened the door he could not say whether a lingering veil of smoke had drifted into the hallway, or if a man such as the one before him could exist beyond the ethereal realm. Mr. Obren wore a tall tailcoat the color of fog, similar trousers, a loose white ascot, and was leaning lightly on the ashplant. His graying, driftwood hair was barely blonde, combed over his crown, and trimmed short in the back. The fact that this mysterious visitor stood silently still for a brief moment after the opening of the door only gave more weight to the artist’s theory that he had accidentally stepped through some portal to a cold, shrouded coastline. A glimmer in the gray eyes and the shade was suddenly alive: “Good afternoon. Phineas Obren. Obren Energy. Might I come in?” 8 He said nothing, stunned. “Excellent.” The ashplant nudged him slightly aside. Obren swept into the studio and immediately set to fastidiously examining the physical qualities of all items within his reach. The rag on the floor was turned over by the ashplant. A half-eaten apple was plucked from position among a still life of carefully rotting fruit. He reached the easel and began inspecting the brushes. “An interesting space you have here.” “Are you sure you have the right person?” Swiveling swiftly, Obren stopped before The Six Births of Matrimony . Everything but his eyes ceased to move. “O yes.” He closed the door. “Well then, might I ask why you’re here?” Obren looked at him directly for the first time, almost concerned. “Do you like your studio?” What? “I…don’t know you.” Returning his gaze to the painting, Obren said, “You know of me.” Scoffing, he said, “It’s Obren Energy.” “We know of each other.” “We d—please don’t touch those—you do?” Obren placed the brush where it had lain undisturbed before his arrival. “I have recently taken a great interest in your work. Your Magnum Corpus is to be hung in my home.” “I wasn’t told you had bought it.” “The operation of a public gallery is not my concern. You are.” He took a second to contemplate the artist as the public. “Me.” Having to do a half-turn while sweeping the stick, Obren indicated the entirety of the painting before them. “How could you not be?” The patronization chipped his civility. “What, specifically, is your concern then?” Obren’s shoulders relaxed, his eyes lost focus of their present surroundings—he had prepared a response. “Coincidence and convenience have brought me here. The coincidence that we live in the same building intrigued me—” “You don’t live in the building.” “—and the convenience of our proximity enticed me to pay you a visit. I have seen now that your skill surpasses my expectations, and I should like to aid you in furthering those talents.” Remarkable, he thought. He seems completely unfazed by my presence, as if he’s making the speech for an invisible audience. “I am one to believe we should act on fortuitous circumstances,” he continued. “ Wu wei , if you will. And I cannot deny that this meeting was of the simplest arrangements. Likewise, I suggest something of ease and benefit to both parties.” Obren turned, facing him squarely, the ashplant a microphone balanced before him. The hawk’s head was hidden in the palms of his hands. “Live, and work in my home.” The words resounded around the room without reply. “I wonder if you understand what I am offering,” Obren said finally. A thin film of contempt was forming in his mind. “Patronage.” With a thick of his tongue, his houseguest heaved his attention back onto the painting. “Naturally, any materials you might need would be freely supplied to you, and I could not ask you to pay any living expenses—of which there are many—while a guest in my home, but it is much more than that.” Pausing, Obren bent down to inspect a lone, low-soaring tongue, its 9 tip cocked like a head, observing a featureless figure running frantically across an open bluff. He smiled. “You would become a member of the most prestigious society: individuals with unsurpassed wealth of wit, inquisitive minds, conscious philosophers. It’s the revitalization. To forsake the digital age and live wholly within the metaphysical world.” “The real only slights my work.” Obren had sighed. I expected an artist to have more vision. —Footfalls along a marble hallway. Someone was approaching. He rose from the day couch, leaving the memory throw pillows behind.