CHARACTERIZATIONS of TRAUMA in LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY SCIENCE FICTION by Dylan Owsiany a Thesis Submitted to the Faculty Of

CHARACTERIZATIONS OF TRAUMA IN LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

SCIENCE FICTION

Dylan Owsiany

A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of

Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts & Letters

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Arts

Florida Atlantic University

Boca Raton, FL

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This thesis would have been impossible without the guidance and encouragement of several wonderful people.

First and foremost, I would like to thank Dr. McGuirk, Dr. Martin, and Dr. Barrios for their tremendous help and patience in writing this. Their classes, feedback, and support over the years have greatly influenced the direction of this thesis, and they were instrumental in helping me find confidence in my academic voice. A big thank you to

Tiffany Frost as well for keeping me on the right track and shedding away any lingering doubts and fears that this would never come to fruition.

Additionally, a huge thank you—and lots of love—to my parents, Carol Salterella and Matthew Owsiany, whose own struggles with PTSD have proven, time and again, their strength and courage.

Lastly, I would never have made it this far without the love and dedication of my partner, PJ Brancaleone. He has been my grounding force for so many years, and with his undying help and commitment I have learned to cope with my own PTSD. Words can never express how grateful I am that you are in my life or how much I love you.

iv ABSTRACT

Author: Dylan Owsiany

Title: CHARACTERIZATIONS OF TRAUMA IN LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY SCIENCE FICTION Institution: Florida Atlantic University

Thesis Advisor: Dr. Carol McGuirk

Degree: Master of Arts

Year: 2019

The prevalence and impact of trauma has been mischaracterized and misinterpreted throughout time, and this has undoubtedly affected the health and treatment of countless people throughout history. Considering this, some authors impacted by firsthand or cultural traumas before and/or during World War II and the Cold War era, went on to write works of science fiction that handled heavy and taboo characterizations of traumatic stress.

Looking back at these short stories and novels with a modern clinical perspective of the impacts of trauma, one can see how these characterizations turned out to be strikingly accurate, or, at the very least, closer to truth than perspectives and hypotheses of their era.

Two short stories, “Thunder and Roses” by Theodore Sturgeon and “Scanners Live in Vain” by Cordwainer Smith, and two novels, The Man in the High Castle by Philip K.

Dick and Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, will be examined.

DEDICATION

This thesis is dedicated to all those who struggled with PTSD or anxiety disorders to their end. As such, I would like to honor my great uncle, Otilio (Teddy) Rosa Jr., who, like countless who served in World War II, bravely fought human atrocity at the expense of his mental health and lived a tragically short life because of it. Your sacrifice has not been forgotten.

Likewise, I would like to extend this dedication to all those who live with or are still learning to cope with PTSD and anxiety disorders. Life can—and will—get better.

CHARACTERIZATIONS OF TRAUMA IN TWENTIETH CENTURY

SCIENCE FICTION

INTRODUCTION: THE EMERGENCE OF TRAUMA STUDIES

AND SCIENCE FICTION ...... 1

The Popularization of Science Fiction and Fantasy ...... 2

Science Fiction as an Outlet ...... 5

In Summary ...... 6

UNDERSTANDING TRAUMATIC STRESS AND PTSD ...... 8

Variations in Traumatic Stress ...... 9

Comorbidity and CSR ...... 11

Important Reactions to Trauma ...... 12

EARLY CLINICAL PERCEPTIONS OF TRAUMA ...... 15

“CRACKING UP”: REACTIONS TO SUSTAINED TRAUMA

IN “THUNDER AND ROSES”...... 18

GOING “UNDER-THE-WIRE”: TRAUMA AND TRANSFORMATION

IN “SCANNERS LIVE IN VAIN”...... 27

“THOUGHTS IN ROTS”: JULIANA’S UNDERLYING TRAUMA

IN THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE ...... 38

“COMING UNSTUCK”: DEFAMILIARIZING COMBAT-RELATED TRAUMA

IN SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE ...... 55

CONCLUSION: THE IMPORTANCE OF LOOKING BACK ...... 69

vii

REFERENCES ...... 71

viii

INTRODUCTION: THE EMERGENCE OF TRAUMA STUDIES

AND SCIENCE FICTION

The prevalence and impact of trauma has been mischaracterized and misinterpreted

throughout time until the past several decades, and this has no doubt affected the health

and treatment of countless people throughout history. For example, according to the U.S.

Department of Veteran Affairs, 7 to 8% of those living in the U.S. will have Post-Traumatic

Stress Disorder (or PTSD) at some point in their life (2018). This percentage may continue

to grow considering the rate of mass shootings and acts of terrorism, as well as the

polarizing political landscape that continues to broil over into our everyday lives.

Historically, the subject of trauma was a taboo and neglected topic. Clinical—and

especially experimental—studies dating back before World War II are scarce, and we only start seeing a growing interest in the topic of what was known back then as “shell shock” after soldiers began returning from the war different and, in a way, absent. Drafted friends and loved ones alike would return home to their relieved families only to withdraw and isolate themselves with vain attempts at bottling up and shielding others from the horrors they experienced and dutifully carried with them. This trend only worsened by the end of the Vietnam war, when many young veterans came back addicted to drugs and alcohol and suffering from reoccurring or unyielding bouts of depressive and/or manic behaviors,

lashing out at others or becoming lost in the memories that they strove hard to push down

and forget.

Following the end of World War II and near the start of the Vietnam war, the

international peace movement of the 1960s began popularizing the shift in awareness of

the atrocities of war by standing up for those not only on the frontlines but those fighting

in their own homeland. By promoting love and brotherhood for everyone, peace

revolutionaries helped in wiping away previous taboos and fostered the beginning of new

dialogues that helped to normalize the act of questioning our government and encouraging

empathy and healing for those afflicted by war. After Vietnam, the stories of those soldiers who returned changed and haunted by what they experienced were widely popularized in films such as Full Metal Jacket (1987) and songs such as Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the

USA” (1984).

Thanks to the growing awareness of the effects of traumatic stress and major advances in technology and healthcare, the study and practice of identifying and treating what is now known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder became a major medical concern.

Over time, the study and treatment of traumatic stress and PTSD has become progressively normalized to the point now that it has since moved away from its originally strict association with veterans to first responders and, now finally, civilians alike. Today, the subject of trauma has a much larger prevalence in American culture itself. Those who experience trauma have many more resources and modes of support to turn to than they ever did decades ago.

The Popularization of Science Fiction and Fantasy

Concurrently, a major shift in popular culture has been the growing appreciation and popularization of works of science fiction and fantasy. While there have been notable

series throughout the years that have gained mass popularity even with their genre-heavy

worlds, especially Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, recent internationally-acclaimed series such as Game of Thrones and The Avengers have greatly normalized and mainstreamed the originally “nerdy” factor associated with enjoying and immersing oneself in fantastical, speculative worlds. Now, more than ever, genre literatures that were once overlooked or geared toward more niche audiences have larger cultural relevance, and as such there is still much to be gained from promoting and analyzing works of these genres once vastly ignored and underappreciated.

That being said, there is a considerable difference in how approachable certain genre literatures are to mass audiences, especially when comparing works of science fiction to fantasy. Whereas both science fiction and modern fantasy literature have various subgenres that have been slowly growing in popularity since the rise of pulp comics and the popularization of modern authorial legends, there are several major differences in genre conventions and developmental histories between the two. For example, science fiction is a relatively new genre, having seen its start arguably around the time of the Industrial

Revolution. Some scholars argue that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein can be considered one of the first modern science-fiction novels, as its dealings with anatomy and scientific experimentation serve as the foundation for the plot’s events, including the monster’s resurrection and its eventual demise. In contrast, fantasy literature has its roots in events as recent as Romanticism and as far back as Greco-Roman mythology, and it has been influenced by many cultures throughout its expansive lifetime, including Nordic, Greek,

Roman, British, and so on.

Furthermore, when reading and analyzing science-fiction literature, we must keep in mind that its brief lifetime has been influenced greatly by significant external events due to its ties to science and technology. Whereas fantasy literature has slowly evolved over thousands of years, science fiction has undergone rapid evolution, consistent with our major advancements in technology over the past century and especially the past five to six decades. This means that we must also take into consideration any technology made in

contribution to war efforts during World War II and the Cold War. One of the most

significant influences we see on science fiction literature around the mid-twentieth century is the invention and deployment of the first atom bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

These events, and the nuclear arms race itself, were major subjects for such authors as

Theodore Sturgeon, Cordwainer Smith, and Philip K. Dick, who worked to capture the

tension and uncertainty of these events.

Lastly, due to its rapid evolution and discourse-promoting stories and settings,

science fiction became a safe place to discuss things that were, at the time, taboo and, in

some ways, practically extraterrestrial. Because the settings of science-fiction stories are

easily extrapolated to places and times far removed from reality, and because the primary

readership was already limited to those open to and entertained by the ideas of these

faraway places, authors were able to discuss and fictionalize more complex personal

struggles through their characters. It is evident that, for example, The Moon is a Harsh

Mistress (1966) by Robert A. Heinlein and The Left Hand of Darkness (1969) by Ursula

K. Le Guin, significantly contributed to cementing major characteristics in the genre’s

canon, including existentialism, social/political commentary, dystopian worlds,

extrapolated technology, and its various dialogues on war, gender, race, and other

important social issues. The genre itself also allows for new perspectives, approaches, and variations on the major historical events that influenced them, creating unique avenues for authors to extrapolate with; for instance, what could have happened if the Axis powers won

World War II; what might nuclear fallout in America look like; and how might war change with the implementation of future technology?

Science Fiction as an Outlet

Typically, those affected by trauma may find outlets to work through as a way of coping, though the manner of outlet is generally influenced by many factors, including socioeconomic background, the manner of trauma, and personal interests and hobbies. As

such, there is a noticeable connection between certain twentieth century science-fiction writers, including Kurt Vonnegut and Philip K. Dick, both of whom faced notably traumatic situations during their lifetimes and went on to create work where traumatic stress and its effects took center stage. While these writers are not the only ones who have

found catharsis through writing—many older literary classics deal with similarly heavy

subjects such as war and loss—they successfully brought these topics into science fiction.

For many scholars, science fiction from the end of World War II to the end of the

Cold War era is a rich and culturally significant vein in the twentieth century literary canon.

The mix of international war wounds, global tension, and the world-ending potential of

atomic armaments permeated into arguably every aspect of daily life. Soon, such topics

entered film and other media, and they even became the basis and inspiration for critically

acclaimed science-fiction films and series such as Blade Runner, the Star Wars saga, and

more. Cyndy Hendershot observes that the “tension between the apparent novelty of

nuclear weapons” and the ahistorical proclaimed new era for mankind following their

creation (while mythologized frequently in science fiction films and classics from the

1950’s) “constitutes a paranoiac response to the cultural trauma caused by the reality and

threat of nuclear destruction” which is to be found “reflected in both fictional and non- fictional works” (74).

Coincidentally, this is not the first time that popular science fiction dealt with topics of global significance, as the genre has been used to tell world-shattering, reflective tales from its inception. Going back nearer to the genre’s birth, H. G. Wells tackled the circular, barbaric nature of imperialism in The War of the Worlds, a staple in the science fiction canon. Bed Paudyal argues that “Wells’s narratorial self is split between the ethical imperative that aligns itself with humanity … and the social-Darwinist imperative holding tenaciously onto the imperialistic/colonialist interest,” as “we read the Martian invasion … as the return, to the colonizer, of the trauma inflicted on the colonized other” (103). The characterizations of the cultural trauma dealt upon the invaded, and the individualized terror that the protagonist experiences, serves to create “a spectacle of terror” that, in taking centerstage, works to invoke the sublime in readers, making them experience, in a matter of speaking, the full suspense and horror present in the text (106-109). Clearly, science fiction is—and has always been—a highly effective vehicle to deliver social and political commentary as well as novel ways of thinking about the world around us.

In Summary

Science fiction has, over the years, fostered important dialogues and representations that have been ahead of their time. The extrapolated universes of science fiction allow

authors to create meaningful settings, characters, and situations that reflect on significant

historical or personal events. Consequently, many science-fiction authors of the latter half of the twentieth century, a period so riddled with conflict and loss, potentially used the worlds of science fiction as their canvas to safely discuss and share heavy personal struggles. These narratives could ultimately house fictionalized accounts of the fears, external pressures, and traumatic stress the authors themselves dealt with or had secondary experience with.

To better understand how significant these characterizations of trauma are in the following selected works, we will first discuss trauma and detail its complexity along with important, relevant reactions of experiencing traumatic stress. After, we will briefly examine Abram Kardiner’s The Traumatic Neuroses of War, an early book examining the effects of trauma on soldiers in World War I, originally published near the end of the second World War to help researchers and practitioners study, diagnose, and treat soldiers and veterans. Neuroses, a significant piece in early trauma studies, captures the mindsets and stories of both soldiers and doctors in World War I, showing that trauma has always been a complicated yet important subject while discussing hypotheses on the causes of and reactions to traumatic stress near the release dates of our selected works. Finally, we will

dive into the selected science fiction literature, spending time before each story to explain

the background of each author. The authors will include a story or novel by Theodore

Sturgeon, Cordwainer Smith, Philip K. Dick, and Kurt Vonnegut that clearly addresses

traumatic stress. In the unnerving world of late twentieth century science fiction, war and

loss take precedence, and the fate of the world rests in the hands of the brave, scarred few.

UNDERSTANDING TRAUMATIC STRESS AND PTSD

Traumatic stress is a complex and highly subjective topic, for to neatly assume what is and what is not traumatic would be to disregard its variance. As every person is unique, no one is completely certain to handle stress in the same way. Considering that we are continuously expanding our understandings, the frequency with which trauma occurs, and its short and long-term effects, to define it too strictly would mean to limit its scope.

Instead, I would like to propose a more fluid interpretation that is apropos with the literary texts: the characters themselves are to be interpreted as dealing with traumatic stress by their behaviors and reactions. Trauma is seen as an element a character portrays.

This also extends to our inability to wholly empathize and completely channel the authors and their creative decisions, as to perfectly do so would require us to live, feel, and think exactly as they have, experiencing what they have all gone through. Trauma, for my purposes, then, is any negative or harmful event that produces an evident, lasting impression on those who experience it or have some form of connection to it.

While the topics of traumatic stress and PTSD will always be intertwined, given that PTSD is an anxiety disorder resulting from experiencing traumatic stress, there is a major difference between how we handle what may or may not be based in trauma in the selected readings and what may or may not be perceived to be symptomatic of PTSD. I do not attempt to diagnose any of the authors or characters we will be discussing, as diagnosing by proxy is not helpful. PTSD enters the analysis when it is introduced in the

works themselves or a component of outside literary analysis, or when it is an officially documented element of an author’s background.

Variations in Traumatic Stress

So how does experiencing traumatic stress impact people? The impacts and reactions can vary, and while there are certainly common reactions that can occur between survivors, these may likely vary depending on the nature of the trauma. According to

Trauma-Informed Care in Behavioral Health Services, a textbook from the Substance

Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) of the U.S. Department of

Health and Human Services, trauma can be categorized as either being “naturally-caused” or “human-caused”; naturally-caused trauma includes hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, and so on, while human-caused trauma can be distinguished to include both “accidental” trauma, which include failures in technology and transportation, and “intentional” acts, which include terrorism, sexual assault and abuse, and warfare (34-35). This distinction is important, as “traumas perceived as intentionally harmful often make the event more traumatic for people and communities,” and it is later explained that “[p]olitical terror and war are likely to have lasting consequences for survivors,” matters that will be pertinent to my readings of postwar science-fiction writers (43).

Additionally, the text goes on to explain the differences between various types of trauma and the variables that determine trauma’s impact, and in doing so focuses frequently on servicepeople: “Military personnel are likely to experience numerous stressors associated with trauma. Service members who have repeatedly deployed to a war zone are at a greater risk for traumatic stress reactions … other military personnel who provide

support services are also at risk for traumatic stress and secondary trauma” (39). This connection is important as three of the four narratives that will be examined— “Thunder and Roses,” “Scanners Live in Vain,” and Slaughterhouse-Five—feature a protagonist that is in the service in some form. Military service members are also more likely to be exposed to “repeated” or “sustained” trauma. Repeated trauma is described as “a series of traumas happening to the same person over time” (46). Someone who experiences repeated traumas in the service could be experiencing any manner of stressful and traumatizing events, among them taking part in intense combat situations, the loss of friends, and witnessing casualties or the aftermath of firefights, bombings, and other acts of atrocity.

Sustained traumas, however, are “repeated traumas” that “tend to wear down resilience and the ability to adapt” (46). Some situations that could potentially produce sustained traumas include living in long-term abusive, negligent, or hostile environments/households, and sustaining excessive bodily harm. Because sustained trauma is perpetuated consistently over a period of time, servicepeople deployed overseas to active military zones, especially those in active target zones or politically unstable regions, may be more likely to live in continuously stressful and/or dangerous environments and thus are at higher risk. While both repeated and sustained trauma create more difficulties for the trauma survivors, as “[p]eople who have encountered multiple and longer doses of trauma are at the greater risk for developing traumatic stress” (47), sustained trauma is even worse, as such “experiences tend to wear down resilience and the ability to adapt,” and

“[i]ndividuals in chronically stressful, traumatizing environments are particularly susceptible to traumatic stress reactions, substance use, and mental disorders” (46).

To tie this all back together, we know that trauma inflicted by other people is

generally the most impactful type to be sustained, and that prolonged exposure to traumatic

environments, especially those affected by war and violence, will likely lead to the most damaging and longstanding traumatic stress. Thus, civilians, first responders, and military personnel subjected to war and war-torn environments are some of the most likely survivors to be impacted by long-term bodily or psychological harm. Considering the sensitivity and susceptibility of servicepeople—or people living in times of war have—to

major anxiety or traumatic stress, these variables may have affected our authors at some

points, as will be discussed in more detail.

Comorbidity and CSR

Traumatic stress is comorbid with other disorders. As SAMHSA explains, “Most

survivors exhibit immediate reactions, yet these typically resolve without severe long-term

consequences.… Most recover with time, show minimal distress, and function effectively

across major life areas and developmental stages” (61). These immediate reactions can

include short-term physical, cognitive, behavioral, and existential changes. However,

delayed reactions may also occur, which involve alike or similar reactions occurring after

the initial shock subsides or later in the healing process. Both immediate and delayed

reactions may include different forms of anxiety, sleep problems, numbness,

hypersensitivity, and much more, all of them being significant life-altering changes in the

present moment, especially in combination with one another (62-63).

Additionally, those survivors who have specifically been in or around combat may

develop what is called a “Combat Stress Reaction,” or “an acute anxiety reaction occurring

during or shortly after participating in military conflicts and wars as well as other

operations within the war zone” (75). While CSR is not a formal diagnosis, it is meant to

differentiate traumatic stress attributed to combat in order to “call attention to the unique experiences of combat-related stress as well as to decrease the shame that can be associated with seeking behavioral health services for PTSD” (76). Such differentiation is a necessary and important step towards normalizing awareness for the effects of trauma and combating the originally taboo nature of PTSD and shell shock. It is also important to note that some lesser reactions from CSR include “tension, hypervigilance, sleep problems, anger, and difficulty concentrating,” and that “if left untreated, CSR can lead to PTSD.”

Important Reactions to Trauma

Lastly, let us discuss several important symptoms of traumatic stress, the first of which being substance abuse. Addiction is a common but highly dangerous reaction of traumatic stress, especially with combat-related trauma, and it played a major role in the

controversy surrounding the Vietnam war and the growing awareness for PTSD during the

1970s and 1980s when a significant proportion of veterans returned with some form of

substance abuse. According to SAMHSA, “Use of substances can vary based on a variety

of factors, including which trauma symptoms are most prominent for an individual and the

individual’s access to particular substances”; it is further explained that “[s]ubstance use

and abuse in trauma survivors can be a way to self-medicate and thereby avoid or displace

difficult emotions associated with traumatic experiences” (73). Considering that the

symptoms of CSR revolve around an inability to disconnect from previous combat

experiences, it seems clear that alcohol and other drugs can be used to push down the

suffering left from enduring those events.

The second major reaction of experiencing combat-related trauma is somatization,

or “a focus on bodily symptoms or dysfunctions to express emotional distress” (64). That

is to say, denial and suppression of any emotional distress or mental illness may lead to

headaches, various body aches, and other potential physical pains. While we can be hopeful

that symptoms of somatization might not be as prevalent with survivors anymore due to

raised awareness for traumatic stress, it is still very much a concern regarding “people from

certain ethnic and cultural backgrounds” who “may initially or solely present emotional

distress via physical ailments or concerns” (64). It is important to note that somatization

was originally a major variable of research on shell shock, not only due to

misunderstandings regarding the nature of trauma but also because of cultural expectations

that soldiers suppress any mental duress from experienced out of combat.

Finally, combat-related trauma can trigger flashbacks and reenactments. These two are frequent signs of trauma and have a special history in the public eye, especially in television shows and movies. For example, flashbacks and reenactments serve as the catalyst for the central conflict in David Morrell’s 1972 novel, First Blood, and in its later famous 1982 film adaptation, Rambo. Survivors of major traumatic stress and combat- related trauma may, when triggered, mentally return to the place of their trauma. A survivor undergoing a flashback will suffer from anxiety and panic attacks, while a survivor undergoing a reenactment will reenact the trauma, suffer duress, and have difficulties with various cognitive functions, not including the physical harm they and others around them might endure. Such reactions are an unfortunate part of experiencing traumatic stress or

combat-related trauma, but continued awareness of the impacts of trauma and promoted outreach can help curve them.

EARLY CLINICAL PERCEPTIONS OF TRAUMA

An aid to understanding earlier twentieth century clinical perspectives, and one of the most significant works to be published on combat-related trauma—and traumatic reactions in general—from the era, is The Traumatic Neuroses of War by Abram Kardiner.

First published in 1941, Neuroses of War offers one of the best historical perspectives on an earlier era’s diagnosing and treatment of combat-related trauma. Kardiner, a field medic, describes in great detail the varying degrees and wide-ranging symptoms of these traumatic neuroses that he treats in World War I, including epileptic seizures, anxiety, manic behavior, paralysis, and more, discussing and diagnosing both the patients he saved and those he could not.

Kardiner’s research, medical work, and concern for the traumatized was unquestionably revolutionary for his time when suppression and denial were the most socially accepted methods of dealing with trauma. As Kardiner explains in his foreword,

“Until the war of 1914-1918 this neurosis received but little attention.… Moreover, the neurosis usually carried the name of the provoking agent, like lightning neurosis, railroad spine, shell shock, etc.” (Kardiner v). Though this insight is important in of itself, what is more significant is in how Kardiner highlights war’s damage not just for the soldiers and combatants but for the civilians and survivors affected by widespread death and destruction:

This current war has again brought to the foreground the problem of the neuroses

incidental to it. This time, however, the problem is much more urgent because,

owing to the widespread aerial bombardment of urban centers, the traumatic

neurosis is now no longer likely to be confined to combatants. In fact the traumatic

neurosis bids well to be one of the commonest neurotic disturbances in the world.

It is difficult to predict the nature and scope of the medical and social problems that

this new aspect will create, but there can be no doubt that these problems, both

psychiatric and social, will be of prime importance. (v)

Kardiner lists some of the popular competing hypotheses of the time. Rather than the

symptoms of traumatic stress stemming from the traumatic situation themselves, the

potential causes of symptoms of traumatic stress were broken down between organic and

psychological matters. For example, a popular hypothesis after World War I was that

soldiers affected by traumatic stress had received tiny contusions in the brain caused by concussions. For the psychological hypotheses, many of the popular ones were rooted in

Freudian concepts, usually involving one’s ego and coping mechanisms such as

sublimation and regression. One such hypothesis stated that everyone has a wartime ego

and a peacetime ego, and, when placed in direct conflict, a soldier may be unable to

reconcile the two, making them lash out or regress in years towards a more juvenile state.

In contrast, Kardiner found that certain aspects of these different hypotheses have

truth to them and began uniting certain ideas of each system. For instance, Kardiner

believed that every patient has a single cause of origin for their traumatic stress, whether it

be psychological or organic in nature. Rather than working in umbrella terms or

methodologies, Kardiner emphasized the importance of individual testing and observation

to treat unwanted behaviors. Kardiner also believed the timing of the intervention is

important, as symptoms of traumatic stress can evolve depending on how long it has been

since the event without treatment. For example, certain behaviors may be “acute,” or what

we call “immediate effects” today, and these may develop into other disorders, such as

schizophrenia or epilepsy.

Regardless of accuracy, Kardiner’s hypotheses and treatments are remarkable

considering they come straight from the beginning of the 20th century. Additionally, the

consolidation of previously separate disciplines or hypotheses is one that is fundamental in

clinical and experimental psychology today, such as the importance of receiving both

therapy and prescription drugs, if necessary, or the tailoring of each patient’s treatment

plan based on their own needs, including the use of various therapeutic techniques such as

group therapy, art therapy, psychoanalysis, mindfulness meditation, and more. Yet

Kardiner is certainly a forerunner in early trauma studies, and even though his treatments

did work for some patients, millions upon millions of lives were affected by World War II,

with a vast majority of those impacted untreated and left to fend for themselves.

The need for connection, representation, and validation was—and still is—

extremely important for survivors of traumatic stress, and without the internet and modern

technology of our day and age, many veterans and civilians alike were, metaphorically

speaking, left in the dark. This, ultimately, was what drew people into the world of science

fiction, to the stories that we will be analyzing here. What was at stake for these writers

was not just readership and royalties; it was the need to express something real, complex, and, more than likely, personal.

“CRACKING UP”: REACTIONS TO SUSTAINED TRAUMA

IN “THUNDER AND ROSES”

Theodore Sturgeon (1918-1985) was a notable science fiction and fantasy author from the 1940s to mid-1980s, and he is recognized for publishing a large number of short story collections. “Thunder and Roses” (1946) is a significant story dealing with several taboo and shocking characterizations of trauma for its time period, and one that “may recall

Sturgeon’s consulting work for the Navy late in the war” (Evans et al. 190). “Thunder” follows the final hours of Sergeant Pete Mawser, one of the last survivors following the nuclear destruction of the United States, as he grapples with his rage to punish those who sentenced the entire country—and potentially the rest of the world due to the resulting radiation—to die. Pete, upon discovering a way to strike back at those who doomed him, is forced to make a grueling decision: retaliate but condemn any potential future for life on

Earth or swallow his anger and leave a chance for life to exist again someday.

As imaginable, the threat of the encroaching deadly radiation, as well as the loss of hundreds of millions of fellow Americans, leaves Pete and the remaining survivors heavily traumatized and unstable. Pete and those around him have various prolonged reactions that resemble combat-related trauma and mass trauma. Considering this, the story is remarkable for tackling these topics and characterizations, especially considering that this was well before the time such matters were openly discussed; nor were the cognitive and psychological effects of trauma on people, especially from human-intended and combat- related trauma, as fully understood as they are today.

“Thunder and Roses” begins by thrusting readers straight into the irradiated chaos

of the last living vestige of America following a massive nuclear bombardment: an isolated

experimental army base where, unbeknownst to anyone, the fate of the world is to be

determined. When we are first introduced to Pete, who is returning to the base’s barracks,

he comes under fire by an unstable soldier who “got tired of having nothing to fight and

nowhere to run to,” a feeling common at the base (Evans 191). Pete is asked by a female

soldier of the Women’s Army Corps what is happening, and Pete reminds her of the recent destruction of the United States, of which they “were struck from the east and from the west” (199), and how the disastrous levels of radiation leftover threatens all life. However,

Pete suddenly realizes that the soldier is no longer paying attention; “She didn’t know.

She’d forgotten. There was nowhere to escape to, and she’d escape inside herself” (191).

Pete stops himself from pulling her further back to reality with his world-shattering news, but he notices that “she wasn’t listening. She was still looking at him. Her eyes were not quite straight. One held his, but the other was slightly shifted and seemed to be looking at his temples” (191). When he finally turns to leave, he notices that she “did not turn her head, but kept looking up at where he had been, smiling a little” (192).

Here, Sturgeon has seemingly characterized dissociation, a coping mechanism symptomatic of traumatic stress. Dissociation, as explained by SAMHSA, is “a mental process that severs connections among a person’s thoughts, memories, feelings, actions, and/or sense of identity” in order to “distance the experience from the individual,” and this may occur “during severe stress or trauma as a protective element whereby the individual incurs distortion of time, space, and identity” (69). While dissociation is a major, complex symptom of traumatic stress, one that is much better understood and receiving the full

attention it deserves today, it is a symptom that, as explained before, has been known and

characterized differently for many years prior to this story. Similar to “shell shock,” another

notable term coined before we had a proper clinical definition for dissociation, the WAC

is likened to having the “thousand-yard stare,” the blank, distant expressions of those who

have “checked out.” At first, the soldier seems to be aware on some level, though

apparently suffering from some distortion of her memory. Not only is she unable to recall

the major, destructive events leading up to this moment in time, but she seems to be

confused about who she is. It is only when Pete begins reminding her of recent events when

she fully, visibly disconnects from the present, like a switch flipping off. She has just been

in the middle of an active shooting, an obviously traumatic event in of itself—without even

considering that this likely was not her first—but she soon after hears Pete’s recounting of

America’s destruction and their inevitable deaths. This seems to serve as the final nail in

the coffin, as the soldier seems to lose herself beyond this point, smiling and staring blankly

ahead with no sense of awareness for anything around her, nor any life behind her hollow

eyes. This poor soldier has apparently “cracked,” as Pete and his fellow soldiers have

dubbed it, just like the shooter minutes earlier (Evans 191-192).

Unfortunately, all the remaining survivors must take precautions from cracking up

because everyone is susceptible to it. For example, it is deemed necessary that everyone

remain active around the base and people taken off desk jobs or similar tasks because “[t]en desk men would crack up for every one on a jeep” (191). Likewise, the base they are confined to has many deadly objects and weapons that could be used on their selves and others. In the next scene, willpower alone can secure their environments from tempting, deadly objects in order to prevent self-harm. Pete finds his friend, Sonny Weisefreund, in

the barracks showers, and Sonny informs Pete that the famous singer, Starr Anthim, has just arrived at the base by helicopter and that she has decided to perform for everyone later tonight. Baffled that Starr made it to the base but excited to see her sing, Pete decides to take a shower himself. As he focuses on the sensations of the shower which he realizes he will soon never experience again, Pete remembers that the radiation will kill him slower

than other threats, such as the razor Sonny left out. Pete then has a sudden realization:

He did not think of such things because he was morbid, after all! It was the very

familiarity of things that brought death-thoughts. It was either “I shall never do this

again” or “This is one of the last times I shall do this.” You might devote yourself

completely to doing things in different ways, he thought madly.… But you had to

breathe. Your heart had to beat. You’d sweat and you’d shiver, the same as always.

You couldn’t get away from that. When those things happened, they would remind

you. Your heart wouldn’t beat out its wunklunk, wunklunk [anymore]. It would go

one-less, one-less, until it yelled and yammered in your ears and you had to make

it stop. And your breath would go on, same as before. You could sidle through this

door, back through the next one and the one after that … but your breath would

keep on sliding in and out of your nostrils like a razor going through whiskers,

making a sound like a razor being stropped. (193-194)

Soon after, Sonny comes in, picks up the razor, and begins staring at it. Pete asks him what he is doing, and Sonny, returning to the present, decides that he wants to get rid of it, stating

“I like safety razors” (194). Pete and Sonny then discuss how best to dispose of it, considering that breaking it would just leave to “[s]harp little pieces. Hollow-ground fragments,” and Pete suggests that they could completely dispose of it by melting it in one

of the ovens in the research lab on base. Pete and Sonny then head to the lab and melt the

razor down in an oven, eliminating the threat.

As evident, Pete and Sonny, like the other survivors, struggle with self-harm and

suicidal ideation, two major symptoms of severe traumatic stress. As explained by

SAMHSA, “Often, self-harm is an attempt to cope with emotional or physical distress that seems overwhelming or to cope with a profound sense of dissociation or being trapped, helpless, and damaged” (70). This perfectly connects with the text, as the survivors are

handling an overwhelming amount of stress being left trapped and helpless at the base, and,

by this point, dissociation has already been present in the story. Additionally, as one could

presume from the earlier discussion on types of trauma, “Self-harm tends to occur in most

people who have experienced repeated trauma” (71).

As Pete and Sonny explore the lab, Pete notices a loose section in one of the walls

and discovers a hidden compartment and console. Pete explains that much of what the

researchers did was kept classified, and the two notice that the hidden door is rigged to a

Geiger counter on the wall. They soon leave, wondering what it was they had discovered,

and they return to the barracks to wait for Starr’s performance.

Later that night, everyone except Pete, Sonny, and a corporal named Bonze head

off to the mess-hall to watch Starr’s performance, which is being transmitted from the

base’s radio station nearby, while the three stay behind to watch it in the barracks. The

broadcast starts, and Starr greets everyone and begins singing a song that, upon hearing,

angers Pete for reminding him of life before the blasts. Starr explains that this song is one

that “comes from the part of men and women that is mankind—the part that has in it no

greed, no hate, no fear”; a song “about joyousness and strength” (Evans 198). After she

finishes, Starr addresses her audience, sensing the shared rage that everyone at the base has

towards their attackers and themselves; she becomes upset and attempts to reason with everyone’s humanity:

We must not strike back.… That would sterilize the planet so that not a microbe,

not a blade of grass could escape, and nothing new could grow. We would reduce

the earth to a bald thing, dead and deadly.… Remember the song? That is humanity.

That’s in all humans.… Let us die with the knowledge that we have done the one

noble thing left to us. The spark of humanity can still live and grow on this planet.

It will be blown and drenched, shaken and all but extinguished, but it will live if

that song is a true one.… And even if this is the end of humankind, we dare not take

away the chances some other life form might have to succeed where we failed.…

In the name of justice, if we must condemn and destroy ourselves, let us not

condemn all life along with us! (200-201)

Starr says goodnight to her audience, and Pete and Sonny are left feeling resentful at having

been told to let go of their hatred, the only emotion that seems to fuel anyone at the base

anymore. Suddenly, upon sensing something is wrong with Bonze, they realize Bonze

committed suicide at the start of the broadcast, an end that Sonny feels he “can’t blame him

much” for (201). Bonze, like the soldier at the beginning of the novel, could suffer no longer, and he chose to die watching a living relic from before; lingering beauty in a dying world.

Pete soon finds himself wandering over to the radio station to meet Starr, and after she informs him that she has nowhere left to spread “this particular message” to, Pete informs her that he’s found the device that she must be referring to, the one he infers to as

being the way of striking back at their executioners, and accusingly asks her, “Who are you

working for?” (203). Starr informs him that she works for no one beyond the future of

humanity, that every major figure in the government is dead, and, as far as she knows, the

base is the last vestige of a city left in the country. She also explains that the device Pete

found are master firing keys for the launch sites around the country—which house an

estimated six hundred and forty more nuclear weapons—and that she has been going from

base to base to locate and dismantle them while spreading her message of peace. Starr and

her pilot, Feldman, who succumbed to radiation poisoning while landing at the base, had

dismantled all but one console which was thought lost; the same one Pete found. She also

shares some of the horrific things she witnessed and experienced while traveling through

the blast-torn, radiation-filled American wasteland and afterwards breaks down crying.

Pete, walking off to reflect, realizes that the beauty which Starr speaks of is so apparent in

her and observes that:

No planet, no universe, is greater to a man than his own ego, his own observing

self. These hands were the hands of all history, and like the hands of all men, they

could by their small acts make human history or end it. Whether this power of hands

was that of a billion hands, or whether it came to a focus in these two—this was

suddenly unimportant to the eternities which now enfolded him. (206)

He realizes that the fate of human history and life on Earth comes down to his hands and

the decision laid before him. He returns and informs Starr of his decision to not use the

device and to keep it a secret. Starr, relieved but feeling weak and unable to stand, is carried off by Pete.

Once Pete finds a quiet place to bring Starr to, he realizes that she is bleeding

profusely, the blood leaking straight from her pores. Starr wakes and reveals that she was

too close to one of the early blasts and suffered severe radiation burns which she covers in makeup. She asks Pete not to leave her as she lays dying, and she then reminisces to him

about her life, growing up, and when she began singing as a child. Pete briefly dozes off,

and upon waking he is startled by Starr grabbing him, who says, “I just wanted to tell you,

darling. Let me go first and get everything ready for you. It’s going to be wonderful. I’ll

fix you a special tossed salad. I’ll make you a steamed chocolate pudding and keep it hot

for you” (208). Whether this is delirium talking, Starr having a vivid flashback, or her

telling Pete that she will see him soon in whatever comes after death, is left unanswered,

but Pete calms her, lays her back down, and upon waking realizes that she has died.

Pete, covered in blood, stumbles back to the barracks, to the shock and concern of

Sonny, and turns on the tape of Starr’s broadcast that he received from her. Pete,

dissociating heavily, “fought upward out of a vast, green-lit place full of flickering cold fires. Starr was calling him. Something was punching him, too. He fought it weakly, trying to hear what she was saying. But someone else was jabbering too loud for him to hear”

(208). Sonny wakes him up shortly after and explains that he figured out Starr’s motive in coming to the base and that he has realized the device they found are remote firing keys

for the nation’s nuclear arsenal. After Pete drowsily informs Sonny of Starr’s passing,

Sonny becomes determined to avenge her and rushes to the device. Sonny accidentally crashes into the playback device, and Starr’s performance begins to skip, repeating the line,

“You gave me your heart” (209). Realizing that his promise to Starr is in jeopardy, Pete leaves to catch up to Sonny. In the end, Pete finds Sonny attempting to work the device,

and is forced to take action to keep Starr’s dying wish alive: Pete bludgeons Sonny’s head

in with a wrench, destroys the machine, and, remorseful yet relieved, waits for the end to

come.

“Thunder and Roses” is a remarkable story, one that H. Bruce Franklin observes is

a “direct answer” to the “premise of nuclear deterrence,” which, ironically enough, “is more immediately relevant today, when nuclear overkill raises the specter of global ecocide” (171). Its early portrayal of major traumatic stress and subsequent reactions is significant in of itself, but its ability to capture the tension of the Cold War as early as 1946 and depict a nightmarish scenario of the catastrophic capabilities of nuclear weapons helps make it the powerful, lasting tale it is. By using Pete Mawser as “a surrogate for the reader,” the man with whose hands lies the fate of the world, we can more effectively feel the inescapable dread and pressures Sturgeon so strikingly creates. This is why Franklin argues that this story “should be required reading for any person who cares about human survival”

(170-171). Ultimately, the beauty of “Thunder and Roses” is not just how it evokes the feelings and questions rampant during the Cold War era; it also lies in its ability to capture the sensitivities of the human psyche and the hardships of war.

GOING “UNDER-THE-WIRE”: TRAUMA AND TRANSFORMATION

IN “SCANNERS LIVE IN VAIN”

“Scanners Live in Vain” (1950) is the first published short story of Cordwainer

Smith, the penname of Paul Linebarger (1913-1966), who was an important yet unusual figure in World War II and Cold War-era science fiction. “Scanners” tells the story of

Martel, a Scanner who, like Pete Mawser, is forced to make a difficult choice, one that will ultimately change the future of his brotherhood and all of mankind forever. The Scanners

are humans who have undergone extensive, transformative surgery, stripped of nerves, and

made to inhabit a “haberman,” or cyborg, body, in order to perform various functions to

properly navigate in the “Up-and-Out,” or space. Scanners are the only people who can

properly fly spaceships in the Up-and-Out due to their psychic ability to withstand the

“Great Pain of Space,” the metaphorical name for the insurmountable physical and mental

pressures originating from the emptiness and loneliness of space. Scanners must maintain

ship stability and look out for the cryogenically frozen crew members and passengers, and

thus they perform a vital but unbearably lonely job for the good of humanity.

Unfortunately, to hit every significant and potentially influential event in

Linebarger’s lifetime would be impossible, if not because there is a surprising amount

unknown about his life and actions during World War II, then because it would likely take volumes to dissect. Linebarger was born into a difficult and unique family setting; though

he was born in the U.S., he grew up, for many years, in China, as his father had close ties

with Sun Yat-sen, the founder of the Republic of China (Smith vii). Due to safety concerns,

Linebarger spent most of his childhood moving from boarding school to boarding school.

Though he later taught at Harvard and eventually became a Professor in the Department of

Asiatic Politics at a John Hopkins affiliate based in Washington, he spent several years

abroad helping with the war effort in World War II. This operative work in World War II

is central to analyzing “Scanners,” as Linebarger was instrumental in the implementation and execution of a new and important war tactic: psychological warfare.

Linebarger is recognized for his involvement in the creation of the Office of War

Information and the Operation Planning and Intelligence Board. Additionally, he helped train and “organize the Army’s first psychological warfare section” (“Paul Myron Anthony

Linebarger” 2005). He later spent several years in China during World War II working with American soldiers and allies to peacefully deter opposing forces. Afterwards, upon

his return to the U.S., he continued working with and consulting for the government and

CIA, writing Psychological Warfare, the earliest textbook on the subject. He also became

the self-proclaimed “visitor to small wars,” working on location in various parts of the

world for the CIA and other government bodies (Smith viii).

It is quite possible that Linebarger’s experiences in the war and interests in

psychology influenced the creation of his short stories and even the overarching lore for

his surreal literary universe, including “Scanners Live in Vain.” As explained by John J.

Pierce in his introduction to The Rediscovery of Man, “There are … all kinds of details

about the life of Paul M. A. Linebarger, his family and friends, that bear on his work”

(Smith x). Smith’s use of his personal life in his stories is highly important in better

understanding him and his intentions in writing his work, as Linebarger was known for

being a highly secretive person. For instance, as explained by Genevieve Linebarger,

Smith’s second wife, the story “’Alpha Ralpha Boulevard’ was his last cry for his first

wife,” Margaret, who is portrayed as Virginia in the story: “The physical description of her

[Virginia] is definitely Margaret” (qtd. in Elms 218). Alan C. Elms also notes that “the narrator in Alpha Ralpha Boulevard is also named Paul,” and it “is the only story in all of

Cordwainer Smith’s fiction where a first-person narrator is also the central character”

(Elms 218). Likewise, in a blog post by Smith’s daughter, Rosana Hart, she recalls the accident early in his life that left Smith permanently blind in one eye and partially in the other, and explains that, with his life already being different from other children, this injury

“added to his sense of being different, and likely was the beginning of the theme of pain and suffering that ran through his life and writing” (Hart 2008). Similarly, other smaller yet important inspirations can be found in his work. For example, several of Linebarger’s pet cats serve as protagonists in his stories. Another example more closely linked to our analysis are the “manshonyaggers” found in Smith’s lore and stories, old machines that hunt people not of German ancestry, which are clearly tied to German Nazis in World War

II.

Given Smith’s track record of writing through real-world associations and experiences, the characterizations of trauma and its associated reactions in his stories may have also stemmed or been inspired by similar connections. Considering this, “Scanners

Live in Vain” hosts several major scenes that involve heavy characterization of drug abuse and flashbacks, and the struggles that Martel and other Scanners endure over their sacrificial transformation take center stage. Scanners, then, serve as allegorical representations of servicepeople or those in similar situations. Not only are these volunteer space cadets and navigators honored by the people they protect and serve back home, but

they also go through extreme trials and dangers to protect civilians, otherwise known as

Others. They commandeer vehicles and weapons that are considerably dangerous to someone without the proper training, and they make sacrifices for the apparent good of society, even having to leave behind or sacrifice other crewmembers if it means saving others.

“Scanners” begins abruptly in the middle of an argument between Martel and his

wife, Luĉi. Martel is angry towards Luĉi because she is worried about his habitual yet desperate need to “cranch,” a dangerous, electrically stimulating drug that briefly allows

Scanners to feel as if they were fully human again. Because Scanners lack all senses except sight, and because they inhabit the clunky and cold haberman bodies, Martel being a

Scanner has unintentionally led to several major strains on his marriage, leading both

Martel and Luĉi to feel guilty for one another. Cranching, or going “Under-the-Wire,” allows Scanners to, as Martel describes, “get out of this horrible prison in my own head …

To be a man again … To feel again” (Smith 65). With the cranching wire, Martel and other

Scanners may finally experience smell, touch, pleasure, and other senses. This allows

Scanners to not feel so literally dead both inside and outside, a description which Martel

personally characterizes when discussing his need to cranch with Luĉi: “We’re dead, I tell

you. We’ve got to be dead to do our work. How can anybody go to the Up-and-Out? Can

you dream what raw space is?” (65).

Absent death, the biggest sacrifice a Scanner makes is their transformation from

human to haberman body. Luĉi perfectly captures this theme of honor and sacrifice as she

attempts to cheer up Martel: “You are the bravest of the brave, the most skillful of the

skilled. All Mankind owes most honor to the Scanner … They are the most honored of

Mankind” (69). Clearly, the exchange from human to scanner body represents the physical

and mental transformations that soldiers and servicepeople experience when they go into

service. In order to protect their sensitive and vulnerable minds and bodies, Martel and his

fellow Scanners must become encased in a metallic shell in which they’ll live in for the

rest of their lives. This shell suggests the social barriers that soldiers might and will likely

build to keep their mind and body intact when experiencing traumatic stress or combat-

related trauma. This transformation creates a pervasive and inescapable numbness, one that

may drive Scanners to use dangerous measures to feel again, specifically cranching.

Though cranching is technically a dangerous and addictive activity, it is nonetheless seen as a pastime that scanners should use—and practically need to use—in order to get by, another bodily sacrifice they must make in order to live and serve.

While Sturgeon raises potential questions of traumatic stress and combat-related trauma in “Thunder and Roses,” Smith places his initial focus on one of the most common and destructive adverse effects indicative of major traumatic stress: addiction. The act of cranching is parallel to the use of drugs and alcohol to cope with traumatic stress or combat- related trauma, working primarily as a coping mechanism to push the boundaries of the physical and metaphysical constraints of Scanners. In a broader sense, as with alcohol or other drugs, this not only allows the Scanners to feel again but also to temporarily forget their past experiences and trauma. However, like real-world drug use, Martel and the

Scanners are not the only ones impacted by it. The use of cranching brings nothing but

grief to Luĉi, who feels uncomfortable and guilty over enabling and assisting Martel. Soon

after their argument, when Martel finally convinces Luĉi to help put him Under-the-Wire,

Martel scans his wife “and saw nothing in her posture but grief which would have escaped

the eye of anyone but a Scanner” (66). Clearly, Martel and the other Scanners are not the only ones with hidden grief. As with Martel and the Scanners not speaking of their missions or the horrors they have witnessed and endured, Luĉi, and surely other Scanner partners, feel helpless and unable to better comfort or broach the subject of such matters.

Even in the very beginning of the story, it is clear that Martel feels conflicted about having become a Scanner. While he knows that he is serving all humanity, he cannot shake the physical and emotional distance being a Scanner has created between him and Luĉi.

This regret is especially apparent when he questions Luĉi after her protest over his desire to cranch, asking, “Do you think I wanted you to marry a Scanner? Didn’t I tell you we’re almost as low as the habermans?” (65). Here, it is obvious that due to his sacrifices and his physical transformation, Martel is emotionally damaged. Martel seems to no longer value his sacrifices and transformation, deeply regretting putting himself and Luĉi through all the trials they have had to endure as a couple. He compares himself and other Scanners to

“habermans,” criminals and heretics who undergo the same transformation Scanners do without any of the associated honor or sacrifice. While Scanners are technically habermans, as they are placed inside a haberman body, they are given shore-leave, become inducted into the Scanner Confraternity, and are allowed to cranch; habermans, meanwhile, are only wakened when deemed necessary and disconnected after they have completed their duty.

Additionally, though his organs and vital components are still alive, Martel extends his physical condition into his self-concept and identity, seeing himself only as an unrecognizable shell of what he used to be.

After waking from Under-the-Wire, Luĉi treats Martel to a new “smell” recording, a type of disk similar to vinyl records that produces specific aromas. Luĉi puts on lamb

chops, which seems familiar to Martel. Reacting to the “queer, frightening, exciting smell,”

Martel’s “mouth watered. His pulse beat a little faster” (68). Upon realizing that the smell is actually a form of cooked meat, Martel is immediately triggered and experiences what seems to be a panic attack. Martel perceives that “his boxes had swung over toward Alarm, some to Danger,” and he soon “fights over the roar of his own mind, forcing his body into excess excitement.” Martel cannot stop this reaction now that he is open and vulnerable to the senses of a non-haberman body, and he soon experiences a flashback:

He knew what had hit him. Amid the roar of his own pulse, he knew. In the

nightmare of the Up-and-Out, that smell had forced its way through to him, while

their ship burned off Venus and the habermans fought the collapsing metal with

their bare hands. He had scanned them all: all were in Danger. Chestboxes went up

to Overload and dropped to Dead all around him as he moved from man to man,

shoving the drifting corpses out of his way as he fought to scan each man in turn,

to clamp vises on unnoticed broken legs, to snap the Sleeping Valve on men whose

instruments showed that they were hopelessly near Overload. With men trying to

work and cursing him for a Scanner while he, professional zeal aroused, fought to

do his job and keep them alive in the Great Pain of Space, he had smelled that smell.

It had fought its way along his rebuilt nerves, past the Haberman cuts, past all the

safeguards of physical and mental discipline. In the wildest hour of tragedy, he had

smelled aloud. He remembered it was like a bad cranching, connected with the fury

and nightmare all around him. He had even stopped his work to scan himself,

fearful that the First Effect might come, breaking past all haberman cuts and ruining

him with the Pain of Space. But he had come through. His own instruments stayed

and stayed at Danger, without nearing Overload. He had done his job and won a

commendation for it. He had even forgotten the burning ship. All except the smell.

And here the smell was all over again—the smell of meat-with-fire. (68-69)

This is a remarkable characterization of a flashback. While flashbacks are and were one of the most widely known reactions to major traumatic stress—and especially combat- related stress—during World War II, it was, at the time, still a problem that people serving were expected to just push through. Martel’s flashback is accompanied by an increased pulse rate and an inability to check and control his emotions, a total lack of control that alarms him. He attempts to recall whether such reactions were normal when he was a human, wondering, “Had he always been subject to the rush of emotions from his mind to his body, from his body back to his mind, confounding him so that he couldn’t scan? But he hadn’t been a Scanner then” (68). This doubt seems to be rooted in Martel’s difficulty reconnecting back to the days before he was a Scanner; he has been numb and encased in his shell for so long that he cannot recall what it is like to be human.

Additionally, the fact that Martel even experienced sensory perception without cranching is significant in itself. Everything readers have been told about Scanners and their inability to sense would not be able to explain how Martel, “[i]n the wildest hour of tragedy” (69), had smelled cooking meat. It is alluded to and possible that, given the stressful and overloading nature of the event, Martel’s brain merely filled in the blanks for him, creating a psychosomatic phantom smell of burning flesh as a reaction to the death and destruction surrounding him. Regardless, this was clearly an extremely traumatic situation for Martel, one so powerful and moving that he experienced something he should not have been able to. This ultimately left him in fear that he was losing his mind,

referencing the “First Effect,” or the first sign a Scanner is succumbing to the long-term psychological effects of the Great Pain of Space. Furthermore, there may be some real- world connection. The smell of burning (human) flesh has been described in many war films and books, especially those relating to World War II, when mass graves at both concentration and death camps were used to cremate millions. During the last several months of the war, when relief was sent to release POW’s in the camps, many Nazis were tasked with killing and burning the remaining prisoners before evacuating the camps to evade allied troops. The fact that Martel smells burning bodies resonated with recent history.

Luĉi and Martel begin fighting again after Martel’s surprising reaction to the smell, with Martel despairing about his time in the Up-and-Out when he could “feel the Pain-of-

Space beating against every part” of him (70). Soon, Martel receives a message from

Vomact, the Senior Scanner, who calls him back to active duty due to an emergency, cutting his shore-leave early. He immediately departs and soon arrives at the Scanner meeting, where all of his fellow Scanners take quick notice of his being cranched due to it being uncustomary and taboo. He briefly visits with fellow Scanner and friend, Parizianski, and soon after finds another friend, Chang, who Martel notices projects his voice with clarity and passes as human-sounding. Martel questions Chang about this, being that

Scanners generally use their own version of sign-language and are mute unless speaking with Others. Chang explains that he used mirrors and soundtracks: “My father insisted on it. He said, ‘You may be proud of being a Scanner. I am sorry you are not a Man. Conceal your defects.’ So I tried. I wanted to tell the old boy about the Up-and-Out, and what we did there, but it did not matter” (74). Clearly, the transformation from human to haberman

body, regardless of social merits, can be socially stigmatized, mirroring the same expectations held over many returning from World War II and the Vietnam war.

Soon, Martel and the Scanners learn why they have been summoned: a man named

Adam Stone has apparently perfected a way for humans to travel, work, and stay awake— without experiencing the Great Pain of Space—in the Up-and-Out. Vomact and other

Scanners view this as a threat to their Confraternity, the sacrifices they and previous

Scanners have made, and the power they maintain as being agents of the Instrumentality of Mankind, the intergalactic governing force of all humanity. Vomact and others believe that Stone, being a threat to the stability of the Instrumentality, must be killed, while others, including Martel and his friends, disagree and see the benefit of there no longer being a reason to need Scanners or habermans. Martel, feeling more emotion than other Scanners due to being cranched, envisions a future where men no longer had to be transformed and made non-human for space travel to exist, a future where he could try to live out the rest of his days trying to be as human as possible, going Under-the-Wire as much as he can and focusing on his relationship with Luĉi.

A vote is held, and the majority votes to eliminate Stone, which makes Martel break custom and storm the rostrum. He demands a recount when all Scanners are present, including the ones currently in the Up-and-Out. Another vote is made, but the results are the same: Adam Stone is sentenced to die. Vomact sends Parizianski to assassinate Stone, and Martel follows shortly behind, hoping to warn Stone in time and stop his killing. Martel heads down to Chief Downport, the major city where Stone lives, and disguises himself as a human. He is able to pass through the border, thanks to being cranched, and makes his way to Stone’s residence. In the end, Martel is able to confirm Stone’s method exists and

works, successfully save Stone from Parizianski, who is killed in the process, and, after passing out, awakens to find that Stone has reversed his transformation and that he is now fully human. All of the remaining Scanners are to be returned to normality, and they are to be the first fully human space pilots in history.

Ultimately, “Scanners” excels in effectively characterizing traumatic stress and its effects on Martel by serving as the driving force for the narrative. Carol McGuirk compares the struggles of Martel with that of a veteran, a connection that speaks not just for Martel:

“Martel, like a returning soldier haunted by battle flashbacks, undergoes a painful transition from a wartime ethos of honor and duty to a peacetime ethos of domestic partnership”

(170). Likewise, the dissonance that Martel feels about his body and mind, and the conflicting nature of the life he lives, has significant impact on him and his later decisions in the story. McGuirk observes that Martel is “drawn to two identities”; while his “mind, will, and prior conditioning” “draw him to the fellowship of” the “space-faring

‘Scanners,’” another side of him draws him “into a marriage with Luĉi,” made possible

“only by his abuse of the dangerous ‘cranching wire’” (170). In order to keep his already- troubled marriage together, Martel feels compelled to use the cranch to give Luĉi some semblance of being human, a façade that continues to haunt him and draw him into using the cranch again and again. Ironically, it is this same drive to use the wire and be more humanlike for Luĉi that compels Martel to save Stone, actualizing Smith’s theme in which

“heroism … is possible despite prior conditioning” (167), and, in the end, helping change the future of mankind forever.

“THOUGHTS IN ROTS”: JULIANA’S UNDERLYING TRAUMA

IN THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE

The Man in the High Castle (1962), written by the highly influential Philip K. Dick

(1928-1982), author of Ubik and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, is not only a fascinating alternate-reality World War II novel; it contains arguably the most complex yet compelling character we will cover: Juliana Frink. Like many affected by war in the 20th century, Juliana is merely a civilian living in a tense, changing world, though, in this one, the Allies lost to the Axis powers and the U.S. is occupied by Germany in the east coast and Japan in the west. While Pete Mawser and Scanner Martel had clear, unnerving reasons to be traumatized, something that surely many veterans could and can continue to connect with, it is rare to find civilian characters before this time openly express and struggle with the tension and complexities of the world around them. Though Juliana, highly underestimated, is likened by the people around her as troubled and doltish, her actions and reactions to the stressful events she suffers through point to something deeper. As Juliana’s story develops and we watch her struggle with major trust issues, an apparent fear of men, and other reactions indicative of previous traumatic stress, her character arc leads to a climactic nervous breakdown that, even given the events leading up to it, seems shockingly manic, confusing, and disturbing.

Philip K. Dick is another author who, like Smith, is known to have had a challenging life, one specifically riddled with mental health troubles, addiction, and

unhealthy relationships. Born in 1928, Dick suffered his first major loss only a few months after his birth with the death of his infant twin sister, Jane (Aliprandini 1). At the age of two, Dick’s parents divorced, and his mother, Dorothy, assumed custody, though this led to more problems as he had a “difficult relationship with her,” and Dick began suffering from “asthma, vertigo, and agoraphobia” (1). Sadly, Dick’s “psychological problems led to intensive treatment during the 1940’s, when he was diagnosed as a potential schizophrenic” (1).

Dick’s mental health issues followed him throughout his life, though it was between the 1960s and 1970s Dick had a notably “chaotic period” in his lifetime (Aliprandini 2).

During this period, Dick “suffered several nervous breakdowns, acute paranoia, drug abuse and hospitalization” (2). Dick’s work became “much darker and focused on the dangers rather than the positive possibilities of the future,” and “in order to maintain his writing pace … he started using amphetamines and … did not sleep for a period of three years”

(2).

Dick’s mental health and troubled life has been the point of study for many literary critics, as such subjects seem to raise the question of how they, in any way, could have influenced his work. For example, Gregg Rickman in “What is this Sickness?” discusses how the themes in Dick’s novels We Can Build You (1972) and Do Androids Dream of

Electric Sheep? (1968) seem to connect with Dick’s mental health difficulties, arguing that these may serve as a way of venting and working out his own identity and psychological issues (Umland 1995). Although Dick was diagnosed—and thus identified—as being schizophrenic, which, as Rickman observes, seems to contribute to the behaviors and experiences his characters live through in We Can Build You and Do Androids Dream,

Rickman also discusses the possibility, as others have suggested, that Dick was actually suffering from other possible disorders, Dissociative Identity Disorder and PTSD being especially likely (146). While we will probably never know for certain, these disorders could have just as well impacted his life and writing.

In The Man in the High Castle, Juliana Frink is a judo instructor who recently moved to Canon City, Colorado, one of the freer, unorganized territories in the Japanese- controlled west coast, after divorcing her ex-husband, Frank Frink. In her first scene, she is walking towards her gym’s showers, having just finished teaching her judo sessions for the day. Here, we are given our first of many internal dialogues that point to some form of instability in Juliana. As Juliana is taking in her surroundings, watching Nazi rocket ships flying overhead and diesel trucks go by on the highway, she is reminded of an acquaintance named Diesel and his suicide, jumping overboard off a cruise ship. Juliana laments, considering the possibility herself: “Maybe I ought to do that. But here there was no ocean”; instead, she contemplates other options, and recalls what her reasons would be for committing suicide: “A pin stuck through one’s shirt front, and good-bye Frink. The girl who need not fear marauding homeless from the desert. Walks upright in consciousness of many pinched-nerve possibilities in grizzled salivating adversary. Death instead by, say, sniffing car exhaust in highway town, perhaps through long hollow straw” (Dick 31).

While it is not explicitly stated what happened to Juliana for her to be having these thoughts, as she seems to be experiencing borderline suicidal preoccupation, we do know she has a fear of “marauding homeless” and is apparently anxious about all the possible terrible things that could happen to her, so much so that they never seem to leave her.

However, during her climactic breakdown later in the story, Juliana refers to an apparently

traumatic event that happened to her on the west coast regarding a “purse snatcher” and

“various night prowlers” (224) that may connect back to this scene. This possibility is slightly supported by Frank, who, later in the novel, says to himself: “I know how she gets around nightfall. When it gets cold and dark and everybody’s sitting around the living room. She was never made for a solitary life” (142). Could Juliana have been attacked while roaming around late at night?

Additionally, it is evident that being in control of her death, experiencing an arguably more peaceful suicide rather than finding some prolonged one at the hands of others, is Juliana’s fantasy. This in of itself is highly concerning and revealing, especially considering that it is unveiled within the first page we meet her. It is evident that whatever traumatic event(s) that could have befell her has been following her for a while now.

However, like Juliana’s wandering, this information is, oddly enough, potentially supported by Frank’s later internal dialogue. Frank, feeling jealous and bitter at being unable to move on from Juliana, thinks to himself:

I know she’s living with some guy … Sleeping with him. As if she was his wife. I

know Juliana. She couldn’t survive any other way … Maybe the guy’s a real nice

guy. Some shy student she picked up.… I hope to hell she’s not with some older

guy. That’s what I couldn’t stand. Some experienced mean guy with a toothpick

sticking out of the side of his mouth, pushing her around. He felt himself begin to

breathe heavily. Image of some beefy hairy guy stepping down hard on Juliana,

making her life miserable … I know she’d finally wind up killing herself, he

thought. It’s in the cards for her, if she doesn’t find the right man—and that means

a really gentle, sensitive, kindly student type who would be able to appreciate all

those thoughts she has. I was too rough for her, he thought. And I’m not so bad;

there are a hell of a lot of guys worse than me.… She deserved more. (142-143)

Frank’s reasoning, regardless of his cruelty and underlying misogyny, is deeply disturbing.

He suggests that without the perfect partner, a male pillar for Juliana to stabilize herself with, she will never truly be safe from herself. Ironically, the exact situation Frank worries about happens when Juliana meets Joe Cinnadella, a “tough-guy” Nazi assassin disguised as a truck driver who, unbeknownst to Juliana, strives to use her to kill famous author

Hawthorne Abendsen due to the growing popularity and controversy of his banned book,

The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. This, however, comes from the same person who establishes this unflattering description of Juliana in the first major passage we learn about her:

But above and beyond everything else, he had originally been drawn by her

screwball expression; for no reason, Juliana greeted strangers with a portentous,

nudnik, Mona Lisa smile that hung them up between responses, whether to say

hello or not. And she was so attractive that more often than not they did say hello,

whereupon Juliana glided by. At first, he had thought it was just plain bad eyesight,

but finally he had decided that it revealed a deep-dyed otherwise concealed

stupidity at her core. And so finally her borderline flicker of greeting to strangers

had annoyed him, as had her plantlike, silent, I’m-on-a-mysterious-errand way of

coming and going. But even then, toward the end, when they had been fighting so

much, he still never saw her as anything but a direct, literal invention of God’s,

dropped into his life for reason he would never know. And on that account—a sort

of religious intuition or faith about her—he could not get over having lost her. (13)

Obviously, Juliana is an odd, enigmatic character, though painting such a picture of her seems unfair and seething with malintent, especially considering we see no real evidence of a mental or intellectual deficiency in Juliana beyond her difficulties handling her anxiety. It is quite possible that she may have had some other underlying problems before meeting Frank that led to this observation, or that her relationship with Frank, who as he put it earlier was “too rough for her” (143), contributed to or worsened such struggles. This is seemingly evidenced by Juliana who, after arguing with Joe later in the novel, thinks to herself, “he is shrewd; I’ll bet he’s right in his analysis of me—I have a neurotic fear of the masculine. Frank knew it, too. That’s why he and I broke up; that’s why I still feel this anxiety now, this mistrust” (Dick 148).

Though it is still unclear what could have led to her anxiety and trust issues before

Frank and Juliana broke up, considering we are never really given a comprehensive timeline or even dates to any of the apparent traumatic events that she refers to, there is one line that comes from this very passage that may have serious implications regarding

Juliana’s past. After arguing with Joe, Juliana begins doubting much of what Joe says about his past, which, as we see later, is a common occurrence throughout their short but intense relationship. She contemplates whether Joe might actually just be “insane,” to which she thinks, “Ironic … I may actually do what I’ve pretended many times to have done: use my judo in self-defense. To save my—virginity? My life, she thought” (148). Could Juliana have been assaulted earlier in her life, creating this distrust and “neurotic fear of men”

(148)? The reactions Juliana exhibits resulting from the traumatic stress she endured was evidently a major reason for Frank and Juliana’s split, and this would have even further

complicated the matter in Juliana’s head, creating even more distrust and, ultimately, inflicting more wounds to let sit and fester.

Regardless, the last important detail of Juliana we glean from Frank comes from him consulting the I Ching, which is used as a fortune-telling instrument in the novel. When

Frank asks, “Will I ever see Juliana again,” the fortune Frank receives is “The maiden is powerful / One should not marry such a maiden” (12-13). If, in a hypothetical situation, the I Ching is providing actual fortunes, and if the I Ching would be inherently unbiased due to it having some external, supernatural force behind it, then this description of Juliana may be the most accurate: that she is particularly strong, and therefore dangerous, due to her instability and/or judo training. This might also hint not just at her physical prowess but her mental fortitude. Considering Juliana’s evidently troubled past, it is arguable that

Juliana is managing well for someone who never received the proper help to better cope with—or work through—her anxiety and distrust. Though she of course has clear difficulties managing certain issues, she is surviving well enough, even having sought out self-defense training to overcome these fears, especially for someone who, as far as her ex- husband believes, would have committed suicide by now.

Returning to where we left off with Juliana, a student of hers named Miss Davis exits the outdoor shower she is standing near and strikes up a conversation with her. Miss

Davis, unprompted, asks Juliana, “Did they hurt you much.… The Japs. Before you learned to defend yourself” (31). Juliana opens up to Miss Davis, stating “It was dreadful … You never know what they’re going to do … They hide their real thoughts” (32). After expressing her fears regarding Japanese expansion towards Colorado and the freer states,

Juliana is asked by Miss Davis, “What—did they make you do?”; in response, Juliana states

“Everything” (32).

What exactly happened to Juliana and the Japanese during her time in California is left, like the “marauding homeless,” “night prowler,” and “virginity” lines from earlier, open to interpretation. However, her response “everything” is enough indication that the event or events, if they occurred, were nonetheless traumatic and that she clearly does not like discussing it/them. Miss Davis’s curiosity and concern for Juliana seems to stem from the fact that living in this new America, especially as a woman, is considerably dangerous.

Having potentially already been assaulted and both culturally and individually been stripped of the power to fight back, this is likely what Juliana and the other women she teaches find important in the self-defense training they have received. Or, to cover all potential bases, perhaps Juliana, considering her struggles, is making this up as she goes along, though it does not seem likely considering all the prior evidence. Regardless of the fact, it is likely that some event(s) did take place that led to her seeking out self-defense training.

Shortly after, Juliana meets Joe at a local diner and, for the first time, shows readers her strange analytic tendencies. Joe, after getting into a disagreement with the diner owner, asks her if she knows a good motel in the area, and Juliana begins studying him:

Watching him … It’s idealism that makes him that bitter. Asking too much out of

life. Always moving on, restless and griped. I’m the same way; I couldn’t stay on

the West Coast and eventually I won’t be able to stand it here.… He and I could

because of his skin and me because of my dark hair.… This guy—Joe whatever—

hasn’t even got the right expression on his face; he should have that cold but

somehow enthusiastic look, as if he believed in nothing and yet somehow had

absolute faith. Yes, that’s how they are. They’re not idealists like Joe and me …

Closer to him, now, she saw that he was not as young as she had thought. Hard to

tell; the intensity all around him disturbed her judgment.… There’s something

special about this man … He breathes—death. (Dick 36-37)

This intense reading of Joe occurs after a brief exchange with no real connection established nor any pleasant conversation yet had. Juliana’s pattern of analyzing and likely overthinking occurs frequently throughout the novel, and though we never get confirmation as to its origins, it is possible that this could be the result from previous traumatic stress, serving as a survival tactic to better read people around her. Though Juliana’s thoughts might often come off as irrational and sometimes seemingly nonsensical to the reader, her analytical tendencies likely serve to keep her safe, though it seems nothing she saw in Joe could prepare her for what she would later face.

The next morning, Juliana returns home from errands to find Joe still asleep on her bed. Having overslept, Joe has missed his truck’s departure and is now stuck in town.

Unsure of how to feel, Juliana is cautious of his intentions, wondering to herself, “did he intend to miss it?” highlighting her suspicious nature (81). After Juliana wakes Joe and makes him breakfast, he introduces her to The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. After Joe becomes defensive and angry with Juliana following their heated discussion of the book, Juliana begins doubting the validity of Joe’s background and war stories, realizing “Something terrible is happening … Coming out of him. And I seem to be helping it” (Dick 93). Though this serves as foreshadowing for their later deadly confrontation, it is remarkable that

Juliana is even able to pick up on his malignant nature, especially considering the reader is given little detail to support this conclusion. This, however, may also be evidence that

Juliana, whether due to past trauma or some other undefined reason, assumes the absolute worst in people, especially men. Though Juliana is still unsure of Joe’s true nature, she seems drawn in by him, unable to escape his closing grasp on her. Since her divorce from

Frank, Juliana has been deprived of physical and emotional connection, and Joe, even with his potential hidden darkness, becomes a channel for her to experience these once more.

Soon after, Joe becomes somewhat forward with her, asking, “You’re scared of men. Right?” to which Juliana replies “I don’t know” (93). This is the first time chronologically that a character openly draws this conclusion, making Joe a potential match for Juliana’s analytic behavior. Though we certainly see Juliana’s hesitancy through her inner thoughts, Juliana does her best to cover this up around others. Yet Joe promises to be good to Juliana, stating, “I’ll be specially considerate … You’ll lose your jitters; I can relax you and improve you, in not very much time, either. You’ve just had bad luck” (93-94).

Juliana, thus, may unknowingly, and possibly subconsciously, be opening up and revealing her fears to Joe in ways she does not mean to or has not in however long. The “jitters” likely refer to her nervous and cautious nature around Joe and potentially other men, though, in being characterized this way, Joe may likely be referring to physical symptoms that Juliana may be exhibiting.

The next time we cut to Juliana, she is feeling glum after having difficulties connecting with Joe. Regardless of her fears of opening up and becoming vulnerable to

Joe, Juliana wants to connect with him. While she wants Joe to stay around and lie with her in bed, taking in each other’s company and getting to know each other better, Joe seems

to only have time for Juliana when the intent or outcome is sexual in nature. Though she has been deprived of affection for a while before Joe came into the picture, Juliana is still grasping for straws, showcasing Joe’s previous false promises and their overall unhealthy relationship.

After Joe expresses his observations of Juliana to her, being that she is “[g]roaning.

Always downcast” with “worry, fear and suspicion, about me and everything else in the world,“ Joe offers to drive them out of the city to get away for a bit, stating, “We’ll both get some nice clothes … Enjoy ourselves, maybe for the first time in our lives. Keep you from cracking up” (Dick 145). Obviously, this is a crack at Juliana’s expense, though it speaks to her clear difficulties grounding herself around him and other men. This also foreshadows Juliana’s eventual nervous breakdown as it echoes the same usage of

“cracking up” in “Thunder and Roses.” This, however, may be a direct result of his cold, insensitive attitude and behavior towards her. Juliana, unfortunately, has poor luck—and potentially a habit—of finding herself around manipulative, abusive men, and her desire to open up and connect with Joe may be an indication that she wants to move forward and learn to trust again. Unfortunately for Juliana, her relationship with Joe and the trip is all part of his assassination plot, as Juliana fits “a certain type of dark, libidinous girl” that

Abendsen finds attractive. Joe plans on having Juliana present when he drives to

Abendsen’s estate to lower his guard and kill him easier.

Getting ready to head out on the trip, Juliana has more internal dialogue that further showcases her anxiety and unhealthy self-value. After responding to a question Joe asks her, Juliana thinks to herself, “Still a little scared of you … So scared I can’t even say it, tell you about it” (Dick 146). This difficulty voicing her concerns and insecurities shows

up again when reading into Joe’s sudden high spirits: “You’re in a strange mood …

Restless and brooding, until you decide to move on; then you become hopped up. Do you really want me? You can ditch me, leave me here; it’s happened before. I would ditch you

… if I were going on” (Dick 147). Could Juliana’s anxiety and trust issues be the reason she must always be on the move, having been ditched before and, subsequently, leaving others behind when she feels she is getting too close? Further evidence of prior negative and/or abusive relationships comes to light when, as Joe and Juliana are traveling to

Denver, she thinks, “I want the good time you promised me … I don’t want to be cheated;

I’ve been cheated too much in my life before, by too many people” (172).

Finally, after Joe and Juliana arrive in Denver and spend the afternoon shopping,

Joe becomes antsy and begins rushing Juliana to get ready. He reveals to her that they need to leave tonight to visit the estate of Hawthorne Abendsen. Juliana, torn because she wants to stay and enjoy herself with Joe in Denver, realizes there is something more going on behind the scenes, and begins to have a breakdown:

Tears began to surge up into her eyes, and she found herself doubling up her fists,

with the thumbs inside, as she had done as a child; she felt her jaw wobble, and

when she spoke her voice could hardly be heard. ‘I don’t want to go and see him

tonight; I’m not going. I don’t want to at all, even tomorrow. I just want to see the

sights here. Like you promised me.’ And as she spoke, the dread once more

reappeared and settled on her chest, the peculiar blind panic that had scarcely gone

away, even in the brightest of moments with him. It rose to the top and commanded

her; she felt it quivering in her face, shining out so that he could easily take note of

it. (218)

In this moment, Juliana feels powerless, reverting to a childlike state and feeling the full force of her unyielding anxiety. This sort of helplessness and fear is something she has evidently experienced before, possibly throughout her travels and even in whatever traumatic incident(s) occurred in her past.

Additionally, the characterizations and description of her feelings and panic towards the end, especially when the anxiety begins rising and “commands” her, seems to be the beginning of a fight-or-flight reaction. A fight-or-flight reaction occurs when someone is faced with immediate danger or extreme stress, and it provokes a sudden, instinctual response; one might run towards the danger to fight, or, as is more likely, to run away from the danger. Juliana, at first, seems stricken with panic, giving her pause, which is a common reaction to sudden intense stress, but directly after she remembers her training, gets ready to defend herself, and prepares to attack Joe. After Joe commands her to change into her new dress, attempting to intimidate her by saying, “Put on the dress or I’ll kill you,” Juliana begins to giggle out of nerves. Joe states, “I know you maybe can throw me,” to which Juliana retorts, “Not throw you … Maim you permanently. I actually can.… Don’t try to force me. I’m scared of you and I’ll try.… I’ll try to get you so bad, if you come at me” (219).

Following these threats, the next few pages take on a unique style, as everything, due to the stress and adrenaline Juliana is experiencing, is erratic and fast-paced. Important events happen in single-to-few word sentences, and Juliana’s thoughts are often manic and scattered. Juliana’s actions tend to be confusing, as she goes back and forth from pure panic to following Joe’s orders, her focus and concentration lost in the process. Juliana obviously wants and needs to leave and decompress, but Joe’s insistence only further confuses and

panics her. She wants nothing more but to lay down and leave the present situation, and her inability to only escalates the crisis. After coming to the realization that Joe is a Nazi

SD agent sent to assassinate Abendsen, Juliana has further difficulty composing herself, feeling helpless and unable to stand up or even keep her mind from drifting off away from the moment at hand.

Joe, in attempting to stabilize her, forgets her threats and rushes over to pick her up off the floor, asking, “What’s the matter? You act like you’re sick?” to which Juliana replies “I’m dying” (222). Juliana is clearly having a major panic attack, though Joe attempts to brush this off lightly, pleading with her, “It’s just an anxiety attack. Don’t you have them all the time?” Joe’s bluntness with Juliana only causes her to sink deeper into stupor, as she realizes Joe was the type of man she feared he would turn out to be. Juliana somehow manages to make it to the bathroom, though she comes back to reality taking a shower fully clothed and uncontrollably sobbing.

Once Juliana eventually leaves the bathroom, soaked and a little more clear-headed,

Joe offers her sedatives, though this act only makes the situation worse. Juliana begins having even more disturbing, erratic thoughts, as she seems to believe that Joe wants to poison and kill her. Juliana accepts the pills from Joe even though she believes they will

“rot my lower body,” an end she seems eager to embrace (223). This imagery of rot and degradation is arguably more attributable to her current mental state and mind, which seems to be melting by the second. After she leaves the hotel room completely naked and speaking gibberish, Joe tells her, “You’re mentally ill … you’re very sick. We can’t go,” to which Juliana thinks, “Reflection from his brain, caught my thoughts in rots” (Dick 224).

While Juliana has been physically threatened by Joe, it’s Joe’s bad nature and intentions that are truly driving Juliana under now.

After Juliana tries to leave again, Joe surprises and attempts to grab her. It is at this point that Juliana finally retaliates; the moment she has been training for finally comes when, without missing a beat, she slashes Joe’s throat cleanly through with a razor blade.

She then has a vivid flashback to when she lived back on the west coast, when she had to deal with the “purse snatcher” and “various night prowlers” brought up earlier, and during this frenzy she states to herself, “It is awful … they violate, I ought to know” (224). As is symptomatic of major flashbacks, Juliana deconstructs the present and finds herself back in her past trauma, back to when night crawlers and purse snatchers attacked and “violated” her. Juliana acts out in fear, and though she perceives Joe as a threat, she no longer recognizes him; she only comes back to reality when she is found standing naked and alone in the hotel hallway.

Ironically, Joe’s false promises of helping Juliana have come back to punish him.

Joe knew that Juliana had received judo training in Seattle, as she mentions this several times when referring to the troubles that led her to seeking out self-defense courses. Joe truly underestimates her, somehow thinking she would never be able to piece together who he is. Ultimately, Joe is no different from others who have sought to use Juliana, though this time her readiness for the next abuser to cross her path paid off.

In the end, Juliana is able to find Abendsen and his wife and warn them of the Nazi threat. From the very beginning, Juliana has expressed her need and eagerness to always be on the move, unable to stay in one place in case trouble comes calling. In dealing with

Joe and helping the Abendsens, Juliana arguably seems to have gained some confidence in

herself, as, when asked by Hawthorne’s wife, Caroline, where she would go next, she answers, “’I don’t know.’ The problem did not bother her. I must be a little like

[Hawthorne], she thought; I won’t let certain things worry me no matter how important they are” (273-274). Juliana may have an easier time accepting this mentality now that she knows how capable she is in defending herself and has, in a way, refaced the old threats and trauma that have haunted her throughout the novel. Though this in no way releases her from those past traumas and their influences on her, it is a major step for her in learning to live with her trauma and hopefully someday better cope with it. In the novel’s last sentence, she leaves their estate and walks away “moving bright and living” (274).

To return full circle, Juliana’s pervasive reactions to past and present trauma are fantastic examples of the level of characterization that is present in science-fiction texts.

While we can never be truly certain if Dick’s own difficulties and experiences influenced

Juliana on some level, it is important to consider the likelihood and possibility. Dick arguably did not veer away from placing himself in the story; characters in We Can Build

You and Do Androids Dream, as Rickman argues, both center around his own personal real-life struggles; similarly, Hawthorne Abendsen is in part based on himself, being a mirrored version of Dick who comes up with the High Castle’s antithesis, The Grasshopper

Lies Heavy, as well as sharing the character’s interest in “a certain type of dark, libidinous girl” as Dick’s wives could be characterized as (Umland 221). Notwithstanding, Juliana is a remarkable, complex character, one that captures the struggles of trauma in a way that makes the book more than just a cornerstone in alternate-reality historical fiction. Juliana’s struggles and character development showcase the emotional and psychological damages

that war and human brutality can cause, and her likely misunderstood and underestimated nature boosts the human factor of High Castle tenfold.

“COMING UNSTUCK”: DEFAMILIARIZING COMBAT-RELATED TRAUMA

IN SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE

Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007) was a prolific American author and World War II veteran, famous for his dark, satiric humor and anti-war attitude. Vonnegut was a well- established writer, but in Slaughterhouse-Five he drew on his experiences during and after the Allied bombing of Dresden in a new, unique way. Slaughterhouse is told in a bizarre style, throwing readers back and forth in time through the complex mind of the soldier,

Billy Pilgrim, who is, as the novel puts it, “unstuck in time” (Vonnegut 23), inexplicably and spontaneously jumping back and forth to various events and periods of his life. He cannot control where he ends up; because of this, we see much of his life through a disjointed, mind-bending perspective and timeline. Though the novel has many elements of science fiction, including time travel, alien abduction, and surreal, existential settings, atmospheres, and motifs, it is so much more than the sum of its parts. Slaughterhouse, ultimately, is the story of a man who struggles to find himself after World War II, attempting to come to terms with how his trauma has wrought him, never quite able to escape the pain and loss he’s experienced and the catastrophic death and destruction he’s witnessed.

Unfortunately, Slaughterhouse is also biographical, as Vonnegut uses his own experiences to tell the life of Billy Pilgrim. Even after the war, Billy’s life seems to skirt

Vonnegut’s, as they nearly pass each other and wind up coincidentally visiting the same

places. Billy is captured as a POW and brought into the same prisoner group as Vonnegut, where we are able to see the harsh conditions and barbaric treatment Vonnegut and those around him faced. The novel culminates in the city of Dresden, the site of the Dresden firebombing. Billy, alongside Vonnegut and a handful of others, survives and witnesses the firebombing firsthand, and this experience, though at the climax of the novel, paves the way for all of Billy’s (and Vonnegut’s) future calamities.

Even disregarding Billy’s role in steering readers through Vonnegut’s experiences,

Vonnegut himself spends a considerable amount of text throughout the novel presenting his own feelings and intentions in writing the book, whether through direct statements he makes throughout the novel, especially in the first chapter, or through his pervasive use of dark humor. Whereas “Thunder,” “Scanners,” and High Castle each have some level of unknown potential inspirations, influences, or motivations in characterizations and representations of trauma, Vonnegut is open and meta in expressing his interest and intentions in sharing with readers how the war and the firebombing changed his life permanently. This is further emphasized when Vonnegut explains that the novel received its subtitle, The Children’s Crusade, through a conversation with Mary O’Hare, the wife of a fellow veteran friend to whom he dedicated the book; he promised her that he would not glamorize the war and his and her husband’s experiences in it.

Though there is a surplus of material for analysis in Slaughterhouse-Five, I believe the book best showcases the progress of representation and normalization for real-world trauma awareness. Considering the novel was originally published in 1969, only seven years after High Castle, the book is exceptionally revealing. While “Thunder,” “Scanners,” and High Castle each cover heavy and relatively taboo topics for the time period, Vonnegut

is the only author whose narrator says that his characterizations and stories are based on his own past, which ultimately serves to make this book a cornerstone in trauma studies.

The novel begins with Vonnegut addressing the reader, explaining that most of the events of the novel actually took place, and that the book itself was a painstaking product of years of planning and many previous failed attempts at writing it. He states, “I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen” (2). Clearly, the process of writing Slaughterhouse was difficult and arduous due to how, when in the process of planning this book, Vonnegut recalls “not many words about Dresden came from my mind then—not enough of them to make a book, anyway.”

Near the end of his opening chapter, Vonnegut recalls flipping through a Bible in his motel room before his trip to Germany in 1967 and reading the story of Sodom and

Gomorrah:

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better

off without them. And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all

those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for

that, because it was so human. So she was turned to a pillar of salt.… People aren’t

supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore. I’ve finished my

war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun. This one is a failure, and

had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt. (21-22)

Here, Vonnegut places himself in the position of Lot’s wife, with the Allies serving as divine authority. Though the city of Dresden, in control of the Axis powers and serving as a powerful tactical seat, was full of Nazis who the “world was better off without,”

Vonnegut cannot help but feel horror, guilt, and a whole slew of conflicting emotions at witnessing and surviving this mass destruction due to the thousands of German civilians who lost their lives. Such difficulty processing stems from the behest of the American government and the cultural and societal expectations laid upon veterans at the time, pressure from an authority that is not to be questioned or doubted. Though his Lot’s-wife analogy is one that certainly many veterans and survivors of trauma of the time—and still now—might relate to, Vonnegut, in looking back, truly shows, like Lot’s wife, just how human his own actions and feelings were.

Additionally, Vonnegut frequently seems to express guilt in having written about and profited from his experiences in the war, especially the firebombing, though this is usually played off with sarcasm. Nowhere is this more apparent, however, than in the opening of The Franklin Library collector’s edition, in which Vonnegut states:

The Dresden atrocity, tremendously expensive and meticulously planned, was so

meaningless, finally, that only one person on the entire planet got any benefit from

it. I am that person. I wrote this book, which earned a lot of money for me in

royalties and made my reputation, such as it is. One way or another, I got two or

three dollars for every person killed. Some business I’m in. (Vonnegut 1978)

Vonnegut’s attitude likely stems from survivor’s guilt, and the massive success of

Slaughterhouse potentially further complicated the situation for him, especially considering he recalls he thought the book “would be a masterpiece or at least make me a lot of money, since the subject was so big” (Vonnegut 2).

Continuing with the story, we are properly introduced to Billy Pilgrim and his problem; he cannot help himself from jumping back and forth throughout various events

in his life. Billy, as it states, “has seen his birth and death many times … and pays random visits to all the events in between”: he “has no control over where he is going next, and the trips aren’t necessarily fun. He is in a constant state of stage fright, he says, because he never knows what part of his life he is going to have to act in next” (Vonnegut 23).

Vonnegut’s depiction of Billy’s time-traveling serves as a characterization of Billy’s primary problem since the war: dissociation.

Like Julianna in High Castle during her nervous breakdown and the female soldier in the beginning of “Thunder and Roses,” Billy visibly suffers from dissociative episodes and flashbacks which not only serve as representation of reactions to traumatic stress but push the plot forward. As it becomes clear later on, there are certain triggers for Billy’s time travel which ultimately connect to his time serving in the war and the struggles and horrors he dealt with in it. This all ends up making a significant impact on not just his stability and mental health but his personality and outlook. Billy sees the insignificance of his life and his experiences on the universe at large, and his mind often gets lost contemplating and reflecting on his and the world’s state of being.

Like many veterans, Billy finds much difficulty returning to normal life after fighting in the war. It is explained early on that Billy, in his later years, sometimes goes through extended periods of silence, suffers nervous collapses, and has difficulty socializing and being around others, even his own wife and children. Billy also suffers more tragedy long after the war when a commercial flight he is taking to Montreal crash- lands on Sugarbush Mountain in Vermont; Billy is the only survivor. Shortly after, his wife, Valencia, passes away while he is recuperating in the hospital; she suffers carbon monoxide poisoning after a car crash while rushing to the hospital to see Billy.

Sometime after Billy is released from the hospital, he drives to New York and appears on an all-night radio talk show where he discusses his coming unstuck in time and his visits with the Tralfamadorians, an ancient alien race that occasionally abducts him to their home planet, where they put him on display in a zoo-like enclosure and teach him the secrets of the universe. Barbara, Billy’s daughter, is left embarrassed after this display, though Billy tries to convince her that he is not senile but, rather, enlightened by the

Tralfamadorians’ philosophy and visits. He wants to spread the message that death is not permanent, only finite, for time is infinite, and though someone may be deceased, there is a whole lifespan leading up to one’s death that will forever be etched into the living history of the universe. He fully believes that this news will ease the hearts of anyone who has ever lost a loved one and reassure everyone who fears mortality, as death will come to everyone, even the Tralfamadorians, eventually.

After this exchange, we learn that Billy “first came unstuck in time in 1944, long before his trip to Tralfamadore,” and that the “Tralfamadorians didn’t have anything to do with his coming unstuck”; rather, “Billy first came unstuck while World War Two was in progress” (Vonnegut 30). This is our first insight as to the origin of Billy’s unfortunate problem, one that strikes him after he survives the Battle of the Bulge in December of 1944, soon after being deployed and designated a chaplain’s assistant. Billy is left wandering for several days in the frozen wilderness with a handful of survivors and soon comes under attack by a German marksman. The bullet narrowly avoids Billy, and instead of ducking into the ditch with the other survivors, “Billy stood there politely, giving the marksmen another chance. It was his addled understanding of the rules of warfare that the marksman should be given another chance” (33).

Clearly, Billy is having enormous difficulty handling combat, a result of the tremendous amount of stress he’s been put under, unable to place anything but minute value over his own life. His lack of self-worth is also further diminished by the treatment from his fellow survivor, Roland Weary, a sadistic antitank gunner who demeans and assaults Billy:

[Roland] had been saving Billy’s life for days, cursing him, kicking him, slapping

him, making him move. It was absolutely necessary that cruelty be used, because

Billy wouldn’t do anything to save himself. He was cold, hungry, embarrassed,

incompetent. He could scarcely distinguish between sleep and wakefulness now,

on the third day, found no important differences, either, between walking and

standing still. He wished everyone would leave him alone. ‘You guys go on without

me,’ he said again and again. (34)

Billy is hardly conscious or aware of his surroundings, and though he is not actively suicidal, he is very much ready to lie down and finally accept death. The trauma of the past several days has become too much for him, and his state of being is dissociated. As explained in the SAMSHA text, “Initial reactions to trauma can include exhaustion, confusion, sadness, agitation, numbness, dissociation, confusion, physical arousal, and blunted affect,” and “[i]ndicators of more severe responses include continuous distress without periods of relative calm or rest, severe dissociation symptoms, and intense intrusive recollections that continue despite a return to safety” (SAMSHA 61). Billy is apparently experiencing combat stress reactions, and though symptoms of combat-related trauma can and will vary between individuals, his reactions are more acute than his fellow soldiers, putting him further in harm’s way.

After Billy and his group survive the marksman’s assault and continue wandering,

Billy stops to catch his breath under a tree. At this point, Billy’s “attention began to swing grandly through the full arc of his life, passing into death, which was violet light. There wasn’t anyone else there, or [anything]. There was just violet light—and a hum” (43). Billy begins to see his life pass before his eyes, and soon he finds himself skipping back and forth through various impacting events, including almost drowning as a child, sitting by his mother’s deathbed, and attending a championship banquet for his son’s Little League team. While the times and places Billy tends to travel to are important enough, the context and circumstances that cause the episode are equally important.

After Billy is shaken back to reality by Roland, the two are caught by a group of

Nazi foot soldiers, who take them to a holding place for POWs. While resting, Billy travels forward in time and finds himself waking up in the optometry office he opens after the war.

Billy realizes he fell asleep while helping a patient and remembers that this isn’t the first time: “It had been funny at first. Now Billy was starting to get worried about it, about his mind in general. He tried to remember how old he was, couldn’t. He tried to remember what year it was. He couldn’t remember that either” (56). The patient, concerned for Billy, states, “You’re so quiet,” and recalls to Billy, “You were talking away there—and then you got so quiet.”

In previous instances of “time travel,” Billy is brought back to a moment that he is awake and already conscious in; here, Billy is brought to a moment in which he is awaking in and is disoriented and uncertain of where he is, pointing to something in this moment, at the very least, that is deeper than being unstuck. According to the SAMSHA text:

Sleep disturbances are one of the most enduring symptoms of traumatic stress and

are a particularly common outcome of severe and prolonged trauma.… they

significantly alter physical and psychological processes, thus causing problems in

daytime functioning (e.g., fatigue, cognitive difficulty, excessive daytime

sleepiness). People with sleep disturbances have worse general health and quality

of life.… Sleep disturbances can worsen traumatic stress symptoms and interfere

with healing by impeding the brain’s ability to process and consolidate traumatic

memories. (qtd. in Trauma-Informed Care 121)

While spontaneous time travel clearly affects Billy’s mental health and functioning, and

Billy’s mental health post-war may be causing the time travel, there exists a third possibility that more closely links with trauma studies today and brings us to the main takeaway of this reading: “time traveling”-Billy relives, through flashbacks, dissociation, sleep, and daydreams, the events of the war and other traumatic incidents. Billy and

Vonnegut’s difficulties with sleep is an issue often mentioned throughout the book, and it is explained that their insomnia has driven them to do certain things in their exhausted, restless states. For instance, Vonnegut, in great detail, describes his nightly routine of getting drunk and calling random old acquaintances, while Billy is driven, in a potentially hypomanic state, to telling the night owls of New York his experiences with the

Tralfamadorians and to writing letters describing their existence to the Ilium News Leader.

In addition to sleep disturbances, there are certain triggers within the waking world, as referred to earlier, that send Billy back and forth through time. Shortly after finishing with the eye patient, Billy finds himself back in his office reading through an optometry trade magazine. As Billy is apathetically flipping through, a siren in the firehouse across

the street rings to signal midday and “scared the hell out of him,” for “he was expecting

World War Three at any time” (Vonnegut 57). Right after, “Billy closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was back in World War Two again.” Here, the arguable trigger for

Billy’s trip is the firehouse siren, which could have potentially connected to the sirens he heard as a POW in camp or outside Dresden as it was being firebombed. Either way, Billy finds himself “simultaneously on foot in Germany in 1944 and riding his Cadillac in 1967,” though shortly after he is fully back in his Cadillac in a neighborhood that “reminded him of some of the towns he had seen in the war” and passing by his old neighborhood, which

“looked like Dresden after it was fire-bombed” (59). Not only does this showcase the high saliency Billy’s memories of the war have; this better shows readers how easy it might be for Billy to be triggered and potentially sent flashbacking to the war.

This reading is one that many literary critics support, including Amanda Wicks, who argues that, for Vonnegut, “Writing about trauma through the lens of science fiction provides Vonnegut with a sense-making tool” that “offers fresh insight into the task of narrativizing trauma” (331). As explained previously, traumatic stress and PTSD was barely studied or treated before the end of the Vietnam war, and because of this many veterans returned without having any sense of what affected them. Considering this, Wicks argues that “Vonnegut’s fiction provides a valuable insight into the experience of traumatic memory before medical discourse constructed a specific language and identity with which to diagnose trauma” (330).

Additionally, Wicks observes, “Several of Vonnegut’s earlier novels attest to his desire to write about Dresden; he integrates themes or subject matters of war, apocalypse, and biography into Cat’s Cradle and Mother Night but still does not fully access the

devastation of Dresden in the way he wanted” (331). This is why Vonnegut “finally lands upon the form and subject matter of science fiction” (331). As explained by Charles

Shields, “Vonnegut ‘broaden[ed] the genre of science fiction to think about topics in an unusual way” (qtd. in Wicks 331). This, ultimately, is similar to how Sturgeon, Smith, and

Dick handled their characterizations of traumatic stress. In defamiliarizing his and Billy’s experiences using elements of science fiction, such as, for instance, time travel, Vonnegut is able “to find a language and structure to discuss the temporal breakdown and confusing interjections continually posed by traumatic memory” (335).

Another example of these defamiliarized flashbacks occurs shortly after the

Cadillac episode following Billy’s luncheon. It is explained that Billy is prone to weeping unexpectantly and that, under doctor’s orders, Billy is to get more sleep and take more naps. Once Billy arrives home after lunch, he finds that he is unable to sleep or control his weeping, and he is left wandering the house out of restlessness. As he is doing so, the doorbell “clanged hellishly,” and Billy in the blink of an eye “was still weeping, but he was back in Luxembourg again.… It was a winter wind that was bringing tears to his eyes”

(Vonnegut 63). Here, there are a couple of potential influencing triggers, as the weeping brings him back to a specific moment in the war when he was also incapable of controlling his crying, and the “hellish” ring of the doorbell, like the siren, is loud and startling, lending credence to the possibility that Billy, like many veterans, has an association with loud, startling noises and the war.

This moment also highlights another major trigger: Billy feeling cold or viewing his scarred, discolored, “blue and ivory” feet. The two stimuli seem to send Billy back to the frozen wilderness, where he felt the full effects of hypothermia and saw its full force

on the other injured and dying POW’s. Unlike the others, however, this specific trigger and association is seen playing a role in Billy’s deteriorating mental health near the end of his life after the plane crash and the death of Valencia. Barbara finds Billy in his home in the dead of winter with no boiler or heat on, “barefoot, and still in his pajamas and a bathrobe” with “bare feet … blue and ivory,” writing letters to the Ilium News Leader about the

Tralfamadorians (28). This descriptor is also used in other important memories for Billy, including on his wedding night, when Billy is sent back to the POW train after looking down at his bare feet “nestled like a spoon” with Valencia; such imagery invokes the memory of his time on the POW transport, where his feet were ivory and blue and he was

“nestled like a spoon” with a hobo (71-72).

While Vonnegut’s characterization of flashbacks and triggers are massively important and pertinent to our analysis, there remains a specific passage that has another significant connection to the struggle of other veterans after the war. Billy’s dreams and visits to Tralfamadore have connected imagery or memories, especially descriptions and settings pulled from the science-fiction novels of Billy’s favorite author, Kilgore Trout, who was, according to Vonnegut, “modeled after Theodore Sturgeon, a really swell science fiction writer” (“Interview with Vonnegut” 1996). Billy first encounters Trout’s novels when he checks himself into a veteran’s hospital three years after the end of the war. Like the other twenty-nine patients there, Billy arrives voluntarily because he is “alarmed by the outside world,” and while the doctors “agreed” that “he was going crazy,” the doctors

“didn’t think it had anything to do with the war,” an underestimation that, as discussed before, has affected countless veterans (Vonnegut 100).

It is Billy’s bedmate, Eliot Rosewater, receiving treatment for alcoholism, who introduces him to science-fiction books, allowing Billy access to a massive trunk of paperbacks he has brought to the hospital. It is explained that both Billy and Rosewater

“found life meaningless, partly because of what they had seen in war.… so they were trying to reinvent themselves and their universe. Science fiction was a big help” (Vonnegut 101).

Rosewater copes with his trauma through connecting with the imaginative, fantastical worlds of Kilgore Trout and other authors, books full of “wonderful new lies” that cover heavy, unique topics. For example, one such book by Trout, Maniacs in the Fourth

Dimension, involves “people whose mental diseases couldn’t be treated because the causes of the diseases were all in the fourth dimension, and three-dimensional Earthling doctors couldn’t see those causes at all, or even imagine them” (104). Obviously, Rosewater and

Billy easily connect, and likely empathize, with the characters of this unseen disease, as,

“When read metaphorically, the fourth dimension symbolizes the mind in that whatever trauma has occurred cannot be seen without the use of medical technology” (Wicks 335).

The scene suggests the importance of science fiction for many veterans, including

Vonnegut. As previously explained, the literary science-fiction canon post World War II and throughout the Cold War era handled difficult, taboo, yet important topics that reached the likes of Kurt Vonnegut and possibly even writers like Cordwainer Smith, Philip K.

Dick, and others. The ability for science fiction to remove the reader from the present—or this reality entirely—has helped those who have no outlet or voice, no clear understanding of what they suffer from or why they suffer, to vent or characterize their ailments, struggles, and emotions in a way that makes sense for them. This is exactly why both Billy and Eliot are drawn to the worlds of science fiction; “By reading science fiction, Billy and Eliot

understand their own histories and come closer to reintegrating the memories surrounding their traumatic experiences into memory’s overarching self-narrative” (Wicks 335).

Ultimately, Slaughterhouse-Five is swimming in fantastic characterizations of the struggles and various complex reactions of traumatic stress. Though Vonnegut sarcastically states Slaughterhouse is “a failure” because he too, like Lot’s wife, struggled with leaving behind the death and destruction that he escaped, its raw empathy and humanity makes this book a classic. In wrapping the biographical underpinnings he places in the novel in elements of science fiction, Vonnegut makes his heart and mind vulnerable for readers to experience and learn from.

As a final note, the phrase “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom always to tell the difference,” is a favorite of Billy and is repeated throughout the book. Considering Slaughterhouse’s meta living background, it’s likely that Vonnegut himself connected with this quote, whether it be for the struggles he faced during the war, like Billy, or in the nihilistic, existential sense of purpose that so perforates Billy and Vonnegut’s attitudes and existence. Regardless of its roots, its presence in the novel has a tinge of bittersweet irony, as even though Vonnegut openly expressed guilt for profiting from Slaughterhouse, its significant impact on trauma studies will forever remain incalculable. We will never truly know just how much change

Vonnegut, as well as fellow science fiction writers like Sturgeon, Smith, and Dick, had on the world of science fiction and its readers.

CONCLUSION: THE IMPORTANCE OF LOOKING BACK

In conclusion, the speculative worlds of Sturgeon, Smith, Dick, and Vonnegut capture characterizations of traumatic stress that influenced the postwar science-fiction genre, portrayals that still endure the test of time and continue to excel in representing and invoking the heavy and previously taboo subject matter that they were intended to. The complex symptoms of suppressed trauma, as well as the effects of survivor’s guilt and the inability to move past or define traumatic reactions, all are rooted in the emotions, struggles, and cultural trauma of the time. These four stories are impactful and thought- provoking as science-fiction tales, yet further attention should be given to science-fiction texts that deal in important topics such as these.

Modern medicine has immensely elevated our understanding of the impact of traumatic stress within the last few decades, and in time our current hypotheses, techniques, and treatments are bound to give way to new and better ones. This is why we should—and must continue—to return back to these stories, whose worlds and characters provide such somber yet remarkable insight into their authors and the age they lived in. The postwar science-fiction stories that come out of this era will be analyzed and studied for many years; they provide a lasting focal point for the minds of the future to look back to and learn from.

As the saying goes, hindsight is 20/20.

Looking back at the state of the world during World War II and the Cold War, it seems impossible to truly understand the emotions and paranoia felt worldwide. Though we similarly live in a turbulent and anxiety-riddled time period, we have never been more

connected to one another; we have the ability to seek out like-minded people and communities at the press of a button, and we have the capability to troubleshoot our problems or satiate our curiosity with any topic, anytime and anywhere. For those who came before us who lacked this accessibility and these connections with one another, we must continue to value these characterizations and keep these connections to our living history, and the progress we have made together, alive.

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