CONSPIRACY THEORY, METANARRATIVE SUBVERSION, AND PSYCHOLOGICAL

GROWTH IN ’S CRYING OF LOT 49 AND DOUGLAS COUPLAND’S

GENERATION AND GENERATION A

A thesis submitted

to Kent State University in partial

fulfillment of the requirements for the

degree of Master of Arts

by

Thomas P. Meyer

May 2016

© Copyright

All reserved

Except for previously published materials Thesis written by

Thomas P. Meyer

B.A., Kent State University, 2013

M.A., Kent State University, 2016

Approved by

Tammy Clewell, Ph.D.______, Advisor

Robert Trogdon, Ph.D.______, Chair, Department of English

James L. Blank, Ph.D.______, Dean, College of Arts and Sciences TABLE OF CONTENTS………………………………………………………………………...iii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS………………………………………………………………………iv

CHAPTERS

I. Introduction: From the Tin Foil to Legitimate Psychological and Societal

Understandings: Theory Re-examined ...... …………………..1

II. and Incredulity Toward Metanarratives in The Crying of Lot

49 ……………………………………………………………………………………...... 11

Postmodern Subjectivity: Entropy, Uncertainty, and the Possibilities for Self-

Realization……………….……………………………………………....20

Liberating the Imprisoned Maiden–Weaver ……..….……………..……………26

III. Metanarratives and Metanarration: Rediscovering Lost Capacities of

through Conspiracy Theory and Storytelling from Generation X to

Generation A…………………………………………………………………….40

Storytelling, Metanarration, and Transcendence in Generation X ……………….48

From Literary Metanarration to Conspiracy Theory: Sojourn as Catalyst for

Psychological Growth ………………………………………………...…52

From Generations X to A: Conspiracy Theory as of Conspiracy

Against Storytelling Itself ...……………………………………………..59

Works Cited…………………………………………………………………………………...…75

iii

Acknowledgements

In the available and space I have for this acknowledgements page, I cannot express my gratitude enough to my thesis advisor, Tammy Clewell. I have enrolled in Tammy’s classes twice before, once during my undergraduate , and again in my current pursuits. I have her to thank for introducing me to in my undergraduate education. Her British and Irish Literature course was consistently intriguing, and her discussion of Joseph Conrad’s

Heart of Darkness and Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart resulted in me producing one the first academic that I was truly proud of. I turned Achebe’s criticisms of Conrad back at him, arguing that that his “Image of Africa” misinterprets Conrad’s portrayal of the native characters, and that Things Fall Apart provides not a more balanced portrayal of humanity, but rather an unbalanced one in the opposite direction. I thank her as well for allowing me to give my graduate seminar presentation on The Crying of Lot 49, a I could not wait to read and discuss.

This thesis would never have come to fruition without Tammy’s incredibly helpful guidance and enlightening notes on my work. Furthermore, I must also make a point to sincerely thank her for her immeasurable patience with me throughout this past semester. The drafting and submitting processes were rarely smooth, for my own part, and her prompt and understanding responses enabled me to complete and now present this thesis.

I thank my other thesis committee members, Kevin Floyd and Babacar M’Baye, not only for agreeing to appear on my committee, but for the excellent I have had in their classes over the past several years. Kevin’s Literary Criticism class provided me with a consistent academic challenge and sharpened my understanding of literary theory. This class has been a tremendous influence on my academic career, and in it I produced the writing sample that

iv helped get me into graduate school, a paper charmingly subtitled “The Faulkerian Character-

Setting Inversion.” I cannot leave his course out of an acknowledgements page, as it introduced me to my favorite author: . Our class discussion of

Lolita is among my clearest of undergraduate education; I will never forget Kevin writing “VIVIAN DARKBLOOM” on the white board, pausing, and then underneath, writing

“VLADIMIR NABOKOV” to the chorus of a collectively baffled and amazed undergraduate class. Babacar has been a tremendous academic influence, as well, with his classes forming a solid basis for my understanding of the subversive potential of cultural , a key explored in this thesis. He also has my thanks for his African American Literature graduate seminar; I recall seeing Jean Toomer’s Cane on an early copy of his reading list, and when I mentioned, simply in passing, that I was sad to see it missing on his updated syllabus, he revised it and decided to include the novel on the final version. I was and am greatly appreciative of this gesture, and that class led to a paper in which I produced what I believe to be one of my most professional academic arguments to date, claiming that Toomer’s character Becky is a pharmakos, a literary scapegoat for her community’s .

Dr. Don-John Dugas has my gratitude as well, for his Research Methods course was an incredibly helpful introduction to graduate level education, and his guidance on my seminar paper helped me to eventually produce an analysis of Douglas Coupland’s Generation X and

Generation A; in some respects, that paper formed the foundation for this thesis’ final chapter.

I would additionally like to thank Edward Dauterich, whose classes provided the literary foundation for my academic career in higher education, and who agreed to direct my individual investigation of postmodernism. This investigation introduced me to both Thomas Pynchon and

Douglas Coupland, two of the most important authors in my studies, and not coincidentally the

v authors on whom this thesis focuses. My individual investigation culminated with a seminar paper on the cognitive mapping of time-space in the ever-challenging Gravity’s Rainbow. His

Senior Seminar on Sinclair Lewis also brought together for me two new literary influences:

Lewis himself, and Alan Moore. I compared the stratification of fear in each author’s portrayal of fascist society, and will revisit this topic later this semester in my class.

I thank fellow paranoiac and Graduate Ace Kenton Butcher and his consistently sharp academic insights; after a presentation on Generation A, it was Kenton that first pointed out to me that “Solon,” the novel’s fictional psycho-pharmaceutical drug, shares its name with an ancient Greek statesman. Kenton was also kind enough to lend his copy of Plutarch’s Lives of the

Noble Greeks, which I use in the final section of this thesis. As Kenton lent me this book two years ago, and my thesis is complete, perhaps I will finally return it to him.

Finally, I offer thanks to my , without whom my experiences in higher education could never have happened. Their consistent support through a stressful semester has helped to keep me stable and productive. I owe my Mom and Dad many phone calls and visits as a result of my general absenteeism at home because of the this thesis, but am happy to say that I am pleased with the result, and am now able to visit much more often.

vi

Introduction: From Tin Foil to Legitimate Psychological and Societal Understandings:

Conspiracy Theory Re-examined

This thesis began as an attempt to chart and analyze the proliferation of conspiracy theory within postmodern English literature, stemming from my dual interest in literature of this period and my fascination with real-life conspiracy theories. In this resultant study, I examine conspiracy theory as a mode of literary interpretation of these three western texts: The Crying of

Lot 49, by Thomas Pynchon, and Generation X and Generation A, by Douglas Coupland.

Conspiracy theory, as I am treating it, is the held by one or more characters that there is a clandestine or surreptitious cadre of individuals, often but not necessarily within government, who illicitly influence political or as a way to further their own motives or those of the ruling body employing them. I do not treat conspiracy theory in these texts as either the inherently delusional machinations of paranoid individuals, nor as the logical answer to questions regarding the problems within the societies of respective texts. The “,” as conspiracy theorists and debunkers both agree, is rarely straightforward. The original proposal for this thesis also included an analysis of The X-Files, Chris Carter’s television series. Although issues of timeframe prevented me from fully exploring the series in this project, I feel it is necessary to include some pertinent analysis of it in this introduction, as it was the most popular

American television series of the 1990’s and its plot was largely driven by conspiracy theory.

The allure of conspiracy theory to me was not born of my own suspicions; I do not consider myself a conspiracy theorist, yet the concept of an unseen, organizing body standing behind society’s curtain seemed to me a logical response to a confusing, media-driven world. And yet, in this same world, the very term “conspiracy theory” is often met with dismissal or rejected for its absurdity. Indeed, many conspiracy theories are ridiculous. However, as I will demonstrate,

1 conspiracy theory is a fruitful avenue of pursuit for any scholar concerned with an individual’s psychological state and sense of amidst a rapidly changing postmodern world.

The impetus for undertaking this project was due in no small part to my confusion regarding conspiracy theory’s near-universal dismissal in real life. Because my aim is partly to prove this dismissal unjust, I will first examine what I believe to be a major cause of it. The postmodern world is extensively influenced by media and its representation of popular , both textually and visually; one of the most widespread and influential images that characterize popular notions of conspiracy theory is the “tin foil hat.”

The image of a nervous individual wearing a makeshift hat fashioned out of tin foil is a common motif in American twentieth-century popular culture. The assumption made of this individual is usually that of a distrusting paranoiac, a person fearing that somehow, “they” are

“out to get him.” When hearing someone expound on the possibilities of a sinister body controlling wide-scale events, a commonplace response is to reference a “tin foil hat.” The cultural assumption is that a conspiracy theorist that some unseen and surreptitious group, perhaps even the government, has designs to read the conspiracy theorist’s mind, steal his thoughts, or any number of other telepathic atrocities. The hat, then, is thought to “block” this process from occurring, and protect the wearer’s mind from insidious forces. This cultural joke is so widespread that it actually prompted scientists at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to publish “On the Effectiveness of Aluminium Foil Helmets: An Empirical Study,” a sardonic but legitimately executed experiment concluding, ironically enough, that the hats “amplify frequency bands that coincide with those allocated to the US government between 1.2 Ghz and 1.4 Ghz.”

(Rahimi, et al 5). Although the tin foil hat has no practical merit, its cultural significance is undeniable.

2

The image of a tin foil hat used for neural protection first appeared in English literature in the short story “The Tissue-Culture King,” published by the evolutionary biologist and eugenicist in 1927. The brother of the more famous dystopian writer

Aldous Huxley, Julian’s story featured Hascombe, a scientist who becomes lost in a jungle nation and finds himself captured by the natives. Bartering to stay alive, the scientist resolved to learn about this group’s , and,

by the aid of his and his scientific skill, exalt the details of these rites, the

expression of those superstitions, the whole physical side of their religiosity, on to a new

level which should to them appear truly miraculous. He next applied himself diligently to

a study of their religion and found that it was built round various main motifs. Of these,

the central one was the belief in the divinity and tremendous importance of the Priest-

King… Hascombe reflected on these . Tissue culture; experimental embryology;

endocrine treatment; artificial parthenogenesis. He laughed and said to himself: "Well, at

least I can try, and it ought to be amusing.” (Huxley 146)

The scientist convinces the Priest-King to allow him to culture his flesh from a sample so that the populace can him even from inside their own homes. The inadvertent result of this experiment provides the king with a telepathic hold on the populace, forming an omniscient

“superconsciousness,” and the only protection from it comes from Hascombe’s discovery that

“metal was relatively impervious to the telepathic effect, and had prepared for ourselves a sort of tin pulpit, behind which we could stand while conducting experiments. This, combined with of metal foil, enormously reduced the effects on ourselves” (152). Thus, the of conspiracy resistance was born.

3

The tin foil hat is something of a ubiquitous and disparaging trope in the realm of popular

understandings of conspiracy theory. Not only does it near-

universally symbolize the conspiracy theorist, but the hat and

all references to it also function as a warning or indicator not to

take the wearer seriously, for he is merely an illogical Bart Simpson, The Simpsons (1999) paranoid. For the most part, the tin foil hat surfaces throughout the twentieth century derisively

as a demeaning, though frequently amusing joke. Television and cinema are usually no kinder to

the tin foil hat-wearer, either. Some prominent examples of this characterization include the

works of Matt Groening, the most influential cartoonist and television animator of the 1990’s.

Groening’s The Simpsons and Futurama make liberal use of the image. In an episode titled

“Brother’s Little Helper,” Bart Simpson becomes overly

paranoid after diagnosed with ADHD and prescribed

“Focusyn,” and ultimately dons an entire metallic suit when he

Abigail Breslin, Joaquin Phoenix, Rory becomes convinced that he is being spied on by Major League Culkin, Signs (2006) Baseball. In Futurama, Fry encounters a society of homeless people living literally underground,

who wear tin foil hats to combat the villain they call “The Dark One,” an enemy with telepathic

powers much in the same vein of Huxely’s Priest-King. Humorously, Fry lacks a natural “delta

brainwave,” also studied as a determinant of quotient, and is thus immune to the

. The implication, of course, is that wearing a tin foil hat is akin to stupidity. Many

characters in M. Night Shayamalan’s Signs wear the hats as a feeble response to an

extraterrestrial invasion, and are predictably treated with ridicule.

4

Popular culture does not always entirely dismiss the tin foil hat-wearer, however. Some writers of contemporary popular fiction, such as Stephen King, Stuart Slade, and Eoin Colfer occasionally portray characters donning these hats devoid of any irony, and with genuine effects. The

Daily Show’s John Oliver satirically wore one of the hats in a segment titled “Good News, You’re

John Oliver, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart (2013) Not Paranoid,” in which he discusses one of the biggest government leaks in U.S. when Edward Snowden revealed the of the

NSA’s wide-scale surveillance of American citizens’ cellular phone usage and internet traffic.

Although the hat still appears as a prop for the purposes of , Oliver uses this image in a subtle, though critically relevant way. After discarding it, Oliver relates the story to his viewers, revealing that in this monumental case, there is a genuine conspiracy afoot, and comically concludes, “I bet the Amish are feeling pretty [expletive] smug right now” (The Daily Show with

Jon Stewart). This same sentiment is clearly extended to the tin foil hat-wearer, as well.

Satire is not American popular culture’s only arena to allow for the hat-wearers’ partial legitimization, however. The most popular television show of the 1990’s was The X-Files, whose very premise centers around conspiracy theory and its legitimacy. A quirky trio of characters in the series, Langley, Byers, and Frohike, known collectively as “The Lone Gunmen,” act as comedic relief, frequently spouting conspiracy theories whose seemingly absurd scope rivals even those of the series’ notoriously distrusting protagonist, . These characters resemble the stereotypical tin foil hat-wearers; Frohike is disheveled and unshaven, Langley sports long hair and wears rock band t-shirts, and Byers is socially awkward, overly serious, and generally overdressed. Frohike and Langley also wear thick-rimmed, heavy-prescription

5 eyeglasses. The viewer’s introduction to these men seems to indicate, initially, that they and their conspiracy theories are not to be taken seriously. In an eponymous -off series, the trio investigates a deceased paranoid man, whose daughter tells them, “Personally, I think you're as nuts as he was,” before leading them to the man’s personal effects. After Frohike asks about the man’s documents, she declares, “His files, his grocery receipts, his giant ball of tin foil. Knock yourselves out” (The Lone Gunmen). These men are frequently subject to questions of their sanity, and the ball of tin foil is in clear reference to the dead man’s , of which the woman also accuses them. In The X-Files, the tin foil hat references are even more significant.

After receiving from Susanne, a whistleblowing scientist working for the government, the Gunmen can conclude their investigation of one of their conspiracy theories.

Susanne’s information leads them to a warehouse containing asthma inhalers filled with a paranoia-inducing gas, and the trio then encounters “X,” a codenamed government operative who oversees the destruction of the evidence. X threatens and intimidates the three, acting as if he were about to shoot them, before revealing his gun was empty. He mutters, “Behave yourselves,” and begins walking away. Before he disappears, Langley shouts after him, “It's all true what Susanne said about you people, isn't it? About John F. Kennedy? Dallas?,” and X suggestively responds, “I heard it was a lone gunman” (The X-Files). The trio is then arrested by the police for trespassing and placed in jail. When Mulder arrives to corroborate their claims, the police detective looks at them and says,

Apparently Agent Mulder came to and verified your warehouse story, or at least what

little he seems to recall of it. Three cheers for the FBI, you guys are free to go. Come on,

let's go. Here's a tip, aluminum foil makes a lovely hat and it blocks out the government's

mind control rays. Keep you guys out of trouble. (The X-Files)

6

The tin foil hat reemerges again as an insult, this time from a dismissive and mocking police detective. Of course, the viewer knows that the Lone Gunmen’s conspiracy theory about the gas was entirely founded and demonstrably true, and the detective’s final line clearly parallels X’s sinister order, “behave yourselves” (The X-Files). The union of the tin foil hat mockery with the command to stay in line illustrates the series’ position on this long-reproduced image: immediately laughing off a tin foil hat can obscure the truth, and this mocking benefits nobody more than the potential conspirator himself. The X-Files does not entirely refrain from poking fun at the conspiracy theorist, but ultimately allows him redemption; the tin foil hat-wearer gets the final laugh when the episode concludes with Mulder’s and the viewer’s acceptance of the trio’s proven conspiracy theories.

The examined henceforth do not deal explicitly with tin foil hats. They do, however, offer telling examples of the social reactions and responses of conspiracy theorist characters and other members of their respective societies. In the following chapters, I will chart and analyze literary manifestations of conspiracy theory. These novels will help to offer an understanding of conspiracy theory on a personal and societal level. The primary texts, with publication dates ranging from 1966 (pre-Watergate) to 2009 (post-9/11) demonstrate the of conspiracy theory’s prevalence within society and complexity within fiction. Rather than simply providing a sweeping overview of its various fictive implications, I instead show that it functions in specific ways.

The conspiracy theories within each text will be considered in their own fictive contexts as well as in the texts’ broader cultural climate at the time of their respective publications. This is to say that, for example, it would be foolish to hold the likelihood of “truth” of Oedipa Maas’ conspiracy theories regarding the Trystero as represented in Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 in

7 the same manner as that of Dag’s conspiracy theory that unifies the American Dream with the military industrial complex, as portrayed in Coupland's Generation X. The former maintains a degree of ambiguity and the latter becomes impossible to prove outright. Conspiracy theory is treated sometimes as a prevalent theme, and other becomes or replaces the actual fictive narrative itself. As such, an exploration of conspiracy theory’s effects on characters psychologically, as well as its influence on societies culturally, is a fruitful avenue of pursuit.

Sandra Baringer’s Metanarrative of Suspicion in Late Twentieth Century America offers a psychoanalytic platform with which to examine individual characters, especially in cases where the character is considered a paranoiac by other characters or even themselves. Oedipa Maas’ obsession with determining the of the Trystero demonstrates a paranoia that Baringer observes as akin to the Kleinian notion of “paranoia as the universal state of mind of early infancy” (102). Baringer points out, rightly, that such thought processes are also a response to trauma, and are useful in a personal, psychological sense. As I later demonstrate when fully exploring Oedipa’s traumas and responses, this infantile paranoia influences the development of her conspiracy theory, which in turn ultimately frees her from the restrictions of the unresolved memories of those traumas.

Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 features the most overtly plot-oriented conspiracy of the three novels; this form lends itself to an analysis of the conspiracy theorists themselves in terms of psychological development. As the plot slowly unveils details of the Trystero, characters change, and this is due in no small part to their changing understanding of the shady organization. Given her position as executrix of a deceased former lover’s will, it is Oedipa

Maas’ responsibility to track down and chart the man’s various holdings and assets. In this capacity, Oedipa becomes a detective, realizing that her lover’s seems more deeply

8 connected to the Trystero with each clue she unearths. This exploration leads her throughout subcultures and countercultures of 1960’s California, and these experiences combine in specific ways to shape her character throughout the novel. By the end, the reader finally beholds an Oedipa far removed from the woman cooking lasagna for her husband on the novel’s first page.

In Conspiracy Theories: Secrets and Power in American Culture, Mark Fenster provides an effective counterbalance to some of Baringer’s points by critiquing Richard Hofstadter’s influential “Paranoid in American Politics,” published in 1964. Fenster argues that a predominantly politically focused to analyze conspiracy theory inherently excludes an effective understanding of the relationship between conspiracy theory and its cultural impact on the “populist underpinnings of American politics” (Fenster 24). This analysis is especially fruitful when considering the five main characters--the “B5’s”-- of Generation A, who operate and theorize largely within their own group, and hail from multiple countries around the world.

The conspiracy theory in question is one mostly divorced from politics, and is instead predicated on the international enterprise of a pharmaceutical company. Fenster’s willingness to extend his approach to include general attitudes of suspicion that people hold toward American politics is crucial to understanding the B5s’ place within and understanding of the sinister plot, as they were not politically inclined people before the events of the text, nor are they in any way associated with American politics.

Pynchon and Coupland each reveal a pathway to greater understanding of individuals and societies alike. Similar to many of the aforementioned popular culture references, they can use conspiracy theorists as fodder for the mainstream culture’s amusement, and indeed they find no small deal of humor in the subject. Closer inspection reveals, however, that each of these prolific

9 postmodernists understand that conspiracy theory not only reflects the stuff of paranoid loners, misanthropes or isolationists, but also holds the potential to function as a legitimate response of reasonable people to perceived unreasonable situations.

10

Conspiracy Theory and the Incredulity toward Metanarratives in The Crying of Lot 49

Thomas Pynchon is probably the most thoroughly and fundamentally postmodern author of the twentieth century, and The Crying of Lot 49 is among the most prototypical and concentrated exercises in postmodern paranoia that fiction has to offer. Perhaps no other author could encapsulate this paranoia as perfectly as Pynchon, whose novels are frequently centered on the paranoia of their protagonists as they try to navigate endless mazes of information, contradiction, hearsay, and the occasional strategic sprinkling of scientific to further muddy the possibility of truth. As the search for answers and truth is almost always the central goal of the protagonists, paranoia represents the very inability to be certain and the subsequent fear of that uncertainty; paranoia becomes their seemingly inevitable state of mind. With its layering of uncertainties, meandering searches for truth, and constant doubt of the very nature of this objective truth, the novel is the perfect artifact of cultural paranoia and conspiracy theory in

1960’s America.

As paranoia mounts within a character’s mind, it is often accompanied by a helpless sense of confusion. In an effort to circumvent this confusion, characters often try make sense of their of the surrounding powers that be. To this end, characters seek to develop unifying to organize these suspicions; these narratives take the form of conspiracy theories. Although these conspiracy theories are often forced and fallacious, in literature and , it is a mistake to assume that all of them are. Conspiracy theory in The Crying of Lot 49 is treated sometimes as a prevalent theme, and other times becomes or replaces the actual fictive narrative itself. As such, an exploration of conspiracy theory’s effects on characters psychologically, as well as its influence on societies culturally, is a fruitful avenue of pursuit. In order to provide a lucid interpretation of this uncertainty, my approach to The Crying of Lot 49

11 will be twofold. Specifically, I will first investigate Pynchon’s treatment of conspiracy theory as a cultural metanarrative grounded in social mistrust of government and , as represented in the novel by the mysterious Trystero, a secret and very old postal system that harkens back centuries, and I will then examine the conspiracy theorist herself, Oedipa Mass, on a psychological level, focusing primarily on themes of paranoia and helplessness.

To approach twentieth-century conspiracy literature, important figures need first be introduced, like Richard Hofstadter, whose “Paranoid Style in American Politics” has influenced discussion of conspiracy theory since its publication, and Jean-Francois Lyotard, whose The

Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge famously introduced the master narrative, or

“metanarrative,” to the postmodern discourse in 1979. Hofstadter’s essay was published 1964, predating Jean-Francois Lyotard’s work by fifteen years. Yet, in discussing his criteria of “the paranoid style,” Hofstadter identifies what Lyotard would later term “metanarratives.” Hofstadter clarifies the necessary stylistic elements, stating,

The central image is that of a vast and sinister conspiracy, a gigantic and yet subtle

machinery of influence in motion to undermine and destroy a way of life…The

distinguishing thing about the paranoid style is not that its exponents see or

plots here and there in history, but that they regard a "vast" or "gigantic" conspiracy as

the motive force in historical events. History is a conspiracy. (Hofstadter 29)

Hofstadter's definition of conspiracy theories as "the motive force in historical events" identifies what Lyotard would later define as metanarratives, those totalizing accounts that claim to understand past, present, and developments of history. For Lyotard, however, postmodernism is characterized by what he calls "incredulity toward metanarratives," that is, the

12 or downright disbelief in any totalizing narratives that seek to encompass other narratives and define any sort of objective, universal truth. , , and the linearity of history are among the examples of metanarratives he points to. This description suggests that, though the “truth” of the conspiracy theory of the Trystero in The Crying of Lot 49 may be somewhere between indeterminate and unlikely, the insights gained from pursuing it provides a more informative conclusion regarding conspiracy theories’ significance than any answer at the auction at the end of the novel ever could. This is to say that, regardless of whether or not

Oedipa, or the reader for that , discovers a final answer to the nature of the Trystero, analyzing both the cognitive and literal journey she undertakes to this end unearths several important cultural and psychological . The means, not necessarily the ends, point to the most important elements of the conspiracy theory. Lot 49 epitomizes this metanarrative incredulity, and goes further in this engagement: Pynchon strategically aligns metanarrative and conspiracy theory, and then demonstrates that by exploring conspiracy theories seriously, rather than dismissing them simply as the stuff of tin foil hat-wearing paranoiacs, we can learn much about postmodern society’s understanding of their culture as an ostensibly endless network of subjectivity.

Oedipa, in her role as conspiracy theorist, embodies both Hofstadter’s conception of the nineteenth-century paranoiac, and the perceiver of Lyotard’s metanarrative. Hofstadter’s model actually prefigures Lyotard’s famous declarations regarding metanarratives, and his basic outline of the archaic nineteenth-century conspiracy theorist turns out to be far more descriptive of

Pynchon’s and contemporary conspiracy theorists alike than his twentieth-century model. He distinguishes his nineteenth-century prototype from its twentieth-century counterpart largely by its conception of the villain within the conspiracy theory itself. Whereas twentieth-

13 century paranoiac stylists knew their enemy by name and recognized his face, their nineteenth- century predecessors were suspicious more generally of the possibilities of the unseen organization. As he elaborates,

the contemporary literature of the paranoid style is by the same token richer and more

circumstantial in personal description and personal invective. For the vaguely delineated

villains of the anti-Masons, for the obscure and disguised Jesuit agents, the little-known

papal delegates of the anti-Catholics, for the shadowy international bankers of the

monetary conspiracies, we may now substitute eminent public figures like Presidents

Roosevelt, Truman, and Eisenhower (24).

Although Oedipa frequently identifies figures loosely associated with the Trystero conspiracy, it largely remains a faceless entity of unknown and potentially terrifying influence. Pynchon's representation of the nameless and largely unidentified masterminds of conspiracy resembles

Hofstadter's account of conspiracy theory in nineteenth century. Hofstadter’s nineteenth-century model is significant in that it hearkens back to what he characterizes as helpless conspiracy theorists of a century earlier, without the benefit of contemporary technology. In addition, Hofstadter’s claim that the conspiracy theorists of the mid-twentieth century who knew their enemy is entirely reversed by Oedipa. Uncertainty of the conspiracy theory’s puppet- master’s identity is precisely what makes her paranoia feasible. In this regard, Hofstadter’s nineteenth-century model is in fact more sophisticated and relevant than his twentieth-century model. Oedipa is stuck in her perception of the Trystero and her pursuit of the truth of a metanarrative, without the ability to place a face on the novel’s representation of Trystero, a supposedly centuries-old underground postal system. Lyotard classifies metanarrative as a

14 totalizing framework or of history or experiences, and claims dominion over all other narratives within.

Of course, Oedipa cannot be certain of the of the Trystero, but the existence of the metanarrative of the Trystero is undeniable; many characters believe it is real and that it controls many historical events behind the cultural forefront, and the best Oedipa can do is follow the trail of insignias. Even though the novel withholds any clear answer regarding the actual existence of the Trystero, the story of it, and the pervasiveness of this story’s influence over the events of the plot and motivations of its characters qualify it as a totalizing metanarrative. This is to say that even if it is merely a construct of characters’ imaginations, the existence of the of the Trystero is undeniable. On a similar note, this also speaks to the fact that the Trystero is a postal system, itself representing a dual-threat-conspiracy: by of its age and resilience to various attempts to destroy it, as well as its successful and effective use of an ostensibly antiquated postal system, it is symbolically withstanding “the test of time” and thereby triumphing over popular understandings of history, narratives in and of themselves. The

Trystero, then, comes to represent a metanarrative independent from prior assumptions of historical truth, and thereby embodying Pynchon’s take on the death of the metanarrative and the aesthetic of literary narratives. The metanarrative of Trystero, in all its uncertainty, carries with it the very manifestations of doubt and suspicion that characterize postmodernism in general, and likewise the insistence of various conspiracy theories’ validity.

Sandra Baringer calls Pynchon’s exploration of paranoiac politics “his life’s work,” and

Scott Sanders agrees, stating that Pynchon’s novels “confront us with every degree of paranoia from the private to the cosmic, [and offer us a] thoroughgoing example within literature of the mentality Hofstadter has identified in politics, a mentality which assumes ‘the existence of a

15 vast, insidious, preternaturally effective international conspiratorial network designed to perpetrate acts of the most fiendish character’” (Baringer 13, Sanders 178). Hofstadter is situated prominently within the conversation of conspiracy theory in politics and literature, and his influential “Paranoid Style in American Politics” often serves as a critical starting-point for academic discussion of myriad paranoiac narratives. As such, I will cite Hofstadter’s “paranoid style” here forth partly as a basis for analyzing Pynchon’s characters. As Hofstadter notes early and clarifies often, he does not use the phrase to describe patients or lunatics in clinical terms. It is particularly interesting that Hofstadter makes a point to distinguish his from any sort of clinical diagnosis and, instead, favors rhetorical analysis of expression of paranoia; he includes in his definition of the paranoid style “the use of paranoid modes of expression by more or less normal people, [which] makes the phenomenon significant,” and notes that “it is, above all, a way of seeing the world and expressing oneself” (4). This may not be quite contradictory, but it does speak to the power of the metanarrative among its practitioners. Hofstadter implicitly grants that, although the paranoid style refers primarily to a mode of expression, expression can alter one’s . Of course, expression is not simply the one-way transfer of meaning from the mind to the hand or tongue. We know that meaning is reciprocal, and created in part by the very act of its expression. However, when dealing with paranoiac politics, this reciprocal process seems intensified by the very nature of the expression itself. This is to say that the politico- cultural paranoia of a conspiracy theorist can often be a self-perpetuating phenomenon.

Hofstadter later supports this assertion of reciprocity, declaring “style has to do with the way in which are believed and advocated” (my italics, 5). Pynchon also demonstrates this concept, as Oedipa’s paranoia mounts the more she discusses the nature of the Trystero, which reflects in her speech and her actions. Likewise, in his magnum opus, Gravity’s Rainbow, a

16 concordance of the words “Them” and “They,” conspicuously capitalized, appear with greater frequency as his protagonist, Tyrone Slothrop, and another major character, Pirate Prentice, learn more about the conspiracy surrounding Rocket 00000. “Them” and “They,” representing sinister architects of the various perceived conspiracies, become more present the more information characters learn, which is analogous on a formal level of mounting paranoia and the need to imagine a human conspirator or group of conspirators. Pynchon should perhaps be considered not only the master of the paranoid style, but the master of fictive paranoia altogether insofar as he demonstrates paranoia so effectively on the levels of characters’ psychology and language as well as his exploration of paranoia’s cultural ubiquity throughout his novels’ plots.

In The Crying of Lot 49, beginning on the level of plot, Pynchon establishes his paranoid undertaking by setting Oedipa Maas on a seemingly wild goose chase and putitng her at the center of a cyclonic metanarrative. The existence and supposed omnipresence of the Trystero is

Pynchon’s metanarrative within the plot, and Oedipa is made to navigate this metanarrative in her role as an executrix of an old lover’s will. She quickly becomes an amateur detective, however, and in this capacity The Crying of Lot 49 is able to immerse its reader in Oedipa’s quest on the fictive level at the same time as engaging with Pynchon in the prototypical twentieth-century practice of authoring and analyzing metanarratives and conspiracy theories.

Pynchon’s novel is at once an exemplary artifact of twentieth-century psycho-cultural paranoia, with its protagonist’s descent into uncertainty, and, in true postmodern fashion, a formal prototype documenting the various pitfalls of subscription to metanarratives. The interplay between these layers, fictive and formal, is indicative of the novel’s treatment of conspiracy theory as a whole: the situation of narratives within narratives and --equally important—

17 narratives upon narratives will always introduce new information, which will in turn always introduce more uncertainty.

Although much critical has been spent wrestling with the question of Trystero’s reality, I believe that the novel makes the case that this question is not the most pertinent. Oedipa uncovers endless layers to the story of Trystero, but it is this very act of searching, not the answers yielded, that reveals the nature of this mysterious organization. Pynchon takes steps strategically to make his readers feel the same paranoia of metanarratives as Oedipa. By transferring this paranoiac mentality, Pynchon positions the reader to the helplessness of a conspiracy theorist and then demonstrates the cultural significance of taking conspiracy theories seriously by showing Oedipa’s, and thus the reader’s, sense of awareness and enlightenment to be found through their exploration. Through her search, Oedipa learns all about the enigmatic Trystero, a clandestine countercultural network, one whose very existence is called into question. This is the perfect symbol for the postmodern world and the novel as a whole; the search for meaning takes place on a meandering track of misinformation and unverified claims, and each clue leads its searcher further into what the novel will describe as the entropy of culture, and the recesses of uncertainty. By situating Oedipa as the middlewoman, or more accurately, the mailcarrier, Pynchon puts his reader in the position to receive already fragmented and distorted information. Oedipa’s episode with John Nestafis, a Berkley physicist specializing in machinery, further positions her in her quest with the reader in the search for meaning in the novel.

Through investigating Trystero, Oedipa comes to represent an informational go-between for the reader and the novel itself. Coupled with Oedipa’s recurring question to herself – “Shall I project a world?” – Pynchon’s reader comes to see Trystero as representative of the potential for

18 informational entropy, a concept demonstrating that the more information a receiver accrues, the more potential for uncertainty forms within the system. I draw an important distinction between thermodynamic entropy and informational entropy. Both are highly relevant to Crying, but here I refer to the former, with respect to informational theory. As Oedipa learns from John Nefastis,

"There were two distinct kinds of this entropy. One having to do with heat-engines, the other to do with communication” (Pynchon 84). Oedipa learns of the Maxwell’s Demon, a hypothesized machine capable of violating the second of thermodynamics and decreasing entropy in a closed container. The Nefastis Machine contains such a Demon, but can only function when used by a “sensitive.” Oedipa then attempts to determine if she is one of these mythical “sensitives,” people who could theoretically communicate with the physically anomalous phenomenon. Under the direction of Nefastis, Oedipa stares at an immobile picture and, despite thinking she saw some sort of movement initially, determines she lacks any such . The novel grants no evidence that these “sensitives” are actually real, and thus no evidence that the Nestafis Machine works and defies the of thermodynamics. Of course, Oedipa tries to “sense” anyway.

Likewise, a reader reads on, hoping to uncover answers to the Trystero dilemma somewhere along the way. This paradoxical state of affairs is indicative of the novel’s treatment of information as a whole. Oedipa continuously unearths information and about the

Trystero, in effect simultaneously clarifying and clouding the reader’s understanding of the network. By positioning scientific fact as both a clue and an element that causes confusion,

Pynchon uses the plot element of thermodynamic entropy as a variable in the theoretical equation of information entropy, with Oedipa acting as the go-between or informational delivery mechanism for textual world and reader. Thus, her increasingly paranoid state is reflective of the

19 world she inhabits as a character, and her status as the novel’s protagonist naturally causes the reader to at least partly begin to question his own world he brings to the text while reading.

Mathematician Claude Shannon borrowed the concept of thermodynamic entropy to create his model of information transmission in his influential paper, “A Mathematical Theory of

Communication,” published in 1948. Shannon uses entropy to define and quantify unknown variables in a given communication system, or, as Zoubin Ghahramani helpfully explains, “In information theory, entropy measures the amount of uncertainty of an unknown or random quantity” (Ghahramani 1-2). As I have previously stated, I believe placing emphasis on the search for meaning itself is a more productive avenue of inquiry. Therefore, an analysis of informational entropy is useful for analyzing the novel and its treatment of conspiracy theory.

Postmodern Subjectivity: Entropy, Uncertainty, and the Possibilities for Self-Realization

The concept of informational entropy is also paramount to a psychological understanding of Oedipa in her Trystero investigation; the more she learns, the more confused and uncertain she becomes. As she operates within the role of detective, her ultimate goal is to explain the nature of the Trystero, its relationship to Pierce Inverarity, and its various ties to other characters and events within the novel. In this sense, Oedipa acts as a metanarrative participant: she seeks to illustrate the grand, overarching narrative to connect and explain all related questions and unify all informational loose ends. Oedipa’s dedication to this mission, despite its extreme improbability of success, illustrates the reciprocal nature of engagement with the paranoid style.

As readers follows with her as protagonist, we have no choice but to accompany her on this endeavor. Pynchon does this deliberately, no doubt, but it is his inclusion of thermodynamic

20 entropy within the plot –and the scientific theory as information within its counterpart system of information theory—that makes the novel so perfectly postmodern and unsure of itself.

Entropy’s thematic ubiquity within the novel further indicates this emphasis on the search itself. As Oedipa accumulates more information about the Trystero, her conclusions become less and less certain. Pynchon obviously withholds any perfect resolution, and instead suggests that truth to be found is not a strictly defined answer, but actually the clouded lack of answers. In Pynchon’s entropic view of metanarrative, only the potential for uncertainty can be certain. This is not to say that Pynchon’s entropic view is itself a metanarrative, because his only implicit claim is that a totalizing narrative is inherently impossible, and an open-ended concept like certainty-of-uncertainty should not be considered a framework for narratives. It can only undermine potential frameworks. For Pynchon, entropy becomes metanarrative’s natural theoretical predator, its antithesis; entropy is the anti-narrative. As the anti-narrative, entropy can obviously be used to undermine and debunk conspiracy theory. However, it can more productively be used to deconstruct conspiracy theory in its various manifestations, and then to examine its effects in different contexts, ranging from the political to the psychological.

This “certainty-of-uncertainty” is the underlying motivation for Oedipa’s resilience, and ultimately, the catalyst for her growth by the novel’s conclusion. Oedipa’s psychological state throughout the novel is determined largely by the status quo of her knowledge of the Trystero; however, her of viewing a painting with Pierce Inverarity frames this psychological reading. Oedipa recalls her time in Mexico with Inverarity, when together they viewed

“Bordando el Manto Terrestre,” by Remedios Varo, which depicts a group of maidens in a tower weaving a tapestry under the supervision of a guard. Pynchon’s strategy in using the painting is twofold. He foregrounds it in the narrative to begin to align Oedipa with the reader on a

21 psychological level, and he simultaneously elucidates Oedipa’s relationship with Inverarity. To achieve this first feat, Pynchon employs a technique of psychological metalepsis. Metalepsis– a term brought to narrative theory by Gérard Genette – means “any intrusion by the extradiegetic narrator or narratee into the diegetic universe (or by diegetic characters into a metadiegetic universe, etc.) or the inverse” (Genette 234–35). In terms of narratology, diegesis refers to the most obvious of the story’s plot-level events, and the narrator of Lot 49 is considered extradiegetic (colloquially known as the “third-person limited-omniscient”) narrator, as he or she is not a character in the story itself. Metanarrative, in this instance, describes the narrative within the narrative – the story of the Trystero as it affects the plot, or primary narrative, of Lot 49.

Metadiegesis characterizes the arena in and the events about which this metanarrative is related.

The title of the novel itself may refer to the diegetic, fictive, plot-level events and their narration or, “crying,” by the extradiegetic narrator. The metadiegetic universe becomes the middle ground between the fictive world and the real world, occupied by the immersed reader. In other words,

Pynchon accomplishes this metalepsis masterfully. Jonathon M. Kincade offers a helpful perspective on Pynchon’s move:

The presence of the tapestry signals that there is something possible to contain such a

tapestry that is constitutive of the world, literally signaled by the negative space within

the painting that the tapestry occupies. The void represents the Real; the world, as it can

only be known through the tapestry, fills such a void ultimately relegating the void to a

place that is unknowable. (Kincade 7)

This painting’s presence in the novel renders it as a portal between the reality within the text and the potential, unknowable one without. Kincade continues,

22

it is important to note that the ‘frail girls’ in the painting are closed off, sequestered in

their tower away from the Real, interacting only with the tapestry itself, weaving it and

its contents—both the tapestry itself and that which it contains are the Symbolic. (7)

Oedipa witnesses this crossover and is subsequently brought to , tears through which she views the rest of the world. There seems to be a clever Pynchonian of homonyms at work here, as well, with “tears” obviously referring to her own “crying,” but also “tears” –or rips—of ontological boundaries. This is the crucial moment in the novel when Oedipa is crowned as

Pynchon’s mailcarrier. She delivers information in the only truly reliable way she can: as her psychological self. The novel, then, places Oedipa as the nexus for its reality-traversal, triggered by the portal of the painting and her introduction to it by way of Inverarity. This move by

Pynchon effectively grounds the reader in Oedipa’s psyche, allowing the reader to share in her psychological growth as she pieces together clues surrounding the conspiracy theory.

Understanding that Inverarity essentially sends Oedipa on this journey suggests that it may be that he in fact represents the watchful guard at the center of the painting, supervising the weaving girls’ creation of this portal.

When viewing this painting with Inverarity, Oedipa imagines,

23

All the other buildings and creatures, all the waves, ships and forests of the earth were

contained in this tapestry, and the

tapestry was the world. Oedipa,

perverse, had stood in front of the

painting and cried. No one had noticed;

she wore dark green bubble shades. For

a moment she’d wondered if the seals

around her sockets were tight enough to

go on and simply fill up the entire lens

I. “Bordando el Manto Terrestre.” Remedios Varo, 1961 space and never dry. She could …

forever see the world refracted through … those tears. (11)

This is the most prominent and vividly described of Oedipa’s memories involving Inverarity, and as he and his will are the impetus for the action of the plot, many critics have naturally looked to this scene as a key to interpretation of the novel. As Kristen L. Matthews notes,

At the center of the painting is a guard of sorts who watches the weaving women while

reading a book. Similarly, much scholarship sees Lot 49 as a creation not unlike the

tapestry—a world woven by Pynchon that leaves open no space. It is a total and complete

world and a world apart. (Matthews 90)

Taking this interpretation further, we can understand Oedipa as weaver and the guard as narrator, overseeing and directing her . In this reading, Oedipa is weaving her journey, while under from a dominant masculine figure. This figure could represent Pynchon himself, but there is little else in the text to suggest that Pynchon, as author, has any other meta-

24 reflexive position in the novel. More likely is that the guard is acting as a stand-in for Pierce

Inverarity. The novel implies the possibility that Inverarity wrote his will in such a way as to lead

Oedipa on a wild-goose chase, as an elaborate practical joke. The fact that Oedipa initially views this painting in his presence seems far from happenstance. There is a deeper psychological afoot, here. Inverarity, even in death, becomes the patriarchal male overseer and puppet-master of Oedipa’s quest, thus potentially removing her agency. However, Inverarity’s influence over her agency is multi-faceted. As Satish Gupta notes,

Oedipa thinks of herself as a Rapunzel – like a character, encapsulated in a tower. While

Inverarity was alive she had remained safe in her tower, knowing that the price she paid

was ‘an absence of an intensity’ (CL, 20) about life, a lack of surprise. (Gupta 139-140)

Oedipa, in this reading, is subject to the whims of a patriarchal system prior to the events of the plot, a woman confined to the weavers’ tower of a listless and a sort of wife-prisoner.

Gupta continues,

At points and moments she had been aware of the narrowness of her prison; she knew she

had settled for such a life because of ‘gut fear’(CL, 21) that outside the tower was only

void, only death, or what would pass for it – meanings that would destroy the limited

sense she had made of life. Inverarity’s will force(d) her out of the tower and into the

void, to face whatever nameless and malignant had held her prisoner. (140)

Inverarity, then, would not be the guard, but rather an unseen liberator, freeing one of the maiden weavers from her captivity in the tower. However, Oedipa never truly discovers the truth of the

Trystero, and thus never executes Inverarity’s will. Gupta also points out that “Pierce’s legacy was America” and that, as a real-estate mogul, his “holdings … [are] an America whose dreams

25 have been bankrupted by [Pierce’s] industrial sameness,” suggesting Oedipa’s undertaking is far more politically charged than it would seem at first glance. Gupta goes on, arguing that “the pioneering of American has given way to Yoyodyne, of which Pierce is a

‘founding father’” (Gupta 139). Oedipa does not succeed in her original task, and her presence at the auction demonstrates that she has not fully broken free of the patriarchal whims of her former lover; the attentive guard watches on. Thus, Pierce Inverarity is both the oppressive guard and the faceless liberator. Oedipa is, at all times, somehow subject to the will of a man no longer alive. As the auction approaches, Oedipa sits, “in some kind of dignity, with the Angel of Death, or only death and the daily, tedious preparations for it. Another mode of meaning beyond the obvious, or none. Either Oedipa in the orbiting of true paranoia, or a real Tristero” (150).

However, despite her lack of true freedom from Inverarity’s shadow, she does exhibit an undeniable psychological progression and growth throughout the novel. By Crying’s conclusion, the reader beholds an Oedipa that is embattled and reduced, but primed for rebirth, “with the courage you find you have when there is more to lose” entering alone into “a cold lobby of gleaming redwood floorboards” and then standing “in a patch of sun, among brilliant rising and falling points of dust,” before “settl(ing back), to await the crying of lot 49” (151-52).

Pynchon quite clearly attempts to portray her as forward looking, if not necessarily triumphant.

This is all caused, and made possible, by Pierce Inverarity, whose machinations prompted this growth by training her, albeit indirectly, onto the trail of the Trystero.

Liberating the Imprisoned Maiden-Weaver

I have suggested that Oedipa comes into contact with conspiracy (Trystero), but this contact does not lead her to blindly accept it as true. What it does lead her to do is to question and challenge those myriad truths she has inherited from the past and from her culture, thus

26 freeing her from the stranglehold of dominant meanings. In what follows I discuss the ways in which Oedipa’s experiences mapping out the Trystero’s cultural influence lead to her psychological liberation. One recurring theme that seems to emerge around the characters she encounters and the information she accumulates is cyclicality. The form this thematic cyclicality takes is manifold, but all of its instances guide Oedipa throughout her journey and strongly influence her psychological growth. Sandra Baringer argues that

those who perceive Pynchon’s novels as somewhat infantile are in a sense correct.

Paranoia is the universal state of mind of early infancy. But psychic regression has long

been understood as a response to trauma, and such regression can be productive. Where a

real enemy exists, the thought processes of paranoia can be a useful, if not strictly logical,

response. (120)

Oedipa’s paranoid undertaking of charting the Trystero’s activities can thus be recognized psycho-symbolically as a regression in response to prior traumas in her life, ranging from her tumultuous relationship with Pierce to her subjection as a housewife in a dull marriage to Mucho.

This psychic regression, in the form of conspiracy theory, leads ultimately to her rebirth.

By setting Oedipa’s quest as he did, Pierce Inverarity acts as catalyst for the novel’s treatment of conspiracy theory. Lot 49 does not endorse conspiracy theory as an end-all, nor does it damn it as another in a long line of inherently untrustworthy metanarratives. Rather, conspiracy theory becomes, for Oedipa and for the reader, a way of understanding a system of communication. Conspiracy theory and the pursuit of its possible truth lead Oedipa throughout various manifestations of culture within San Narcisso, in effect providing helpful cues for psychological betterment.

27

After receiving the letter informing her of the death of Pierce Inverarity, Oedipa’s first stop on her forthcoming journey is at the office of Roseman, her . This scene contains an early apparent instance of paranoia within the novel, but the first occurs the night before.

Pynchon sets the tone of paranoia by framing Oedipa’s visit with Roseman in reference to her previous night. Oedipa discusses her task of executing the will with her legally and financially incompetent husband, who declares “I’m not capable,” and Oedipa follows his advice to see the lawyer in the morning (7). Pynchon’s paranoia-framing begins, “So next morning that’s what she did, went and saw Roseman,” but four lines later the narrator notes that “She’d been up most of the night, after another three-in-the-morning phone call…[from] Dr. Hilarius, but it sounded like

Pierce doing a Gestapo officer” (7). This characterization of the phone call is doubly significant; it is the first instance of Oedipa’s recognition, however minor and seemingly trivial, of Pierce-as- puppet-master, and the use of “Gestapo officer,” aside from referring to Dr. Hilarius’s German accent, also recalls a sense of persecution, fear, and paranoia, and foreshadows a later revelation about Hilarius’s past. Later in the novel, Oedipa discovers that he is involved in an armed standoff with police, and she attempts to talk him out of it. He responds,

Do you think anyone can protect me from these fanatics? They walk through walls. They

replicate: you flee them, turn a corner, and there they are, coming for you again…Your

Israeli has access to every known…I can't guarantee the safety of the 'police.'

You couldn't guarantee where they'd take me if I surrendered, could you. (110)

Hilarius’ conspiracy theory about Israeli operatives seeking vengeance on him is totally unfounded, and completely illogical. Pynchon is not an indiscriminant proponent of conspiracy theory, and does allow for the ridiculous ones to be voiced. This does indicate the need for discretion, however, because Oedipa knows, at this point, that the LSD-peddling Hilarius is

28 nonsensical. The standoff scene also provides a counterpoint to the original phone call, as well.

Oedipa’s suspicions of Hilarius are at least somewhat confirmed: she rebuffed his pleas for her to participate in his experiment due to some fear of nefarious, conspiratorial intentions, and finally discovers that he was in fact a Nazi doctor when he mentions that he “did [his] internship” at

Buchenwald (111). Hilarius becomes Oedipa’s first brush with real paranoia; although he inadvertently causes her to question Pierce’s death, he is also representing paranoia in and of himself.

Oedipa’s phone conversation with Hilarius characterizes him as an overbearing psychotherapist with suspicious motivations, with his middle-of-the-night greeting beginning with, “I didn’t wake you, did I, you sound so frightened. How are the pills, not working?” (7). If not paranoia, Oedipa does indicate mistrust, informing Hilarius that she is not taking them because she does not know what they are. Hilarius asks if she feels threatened by them, and goes on to continue asking her to participate in a psychological mass-experiment. When she declines, pointing to “half a million others to choose from,” he responds “We want you” (8). Oedipa’s reaction to this response is the first hint of real paranoia brewing within her. Immediately after

Hilarius declares this, Pynchon follows,

Hanging over her bed she now beheld the well-known portrait of Uncle that appears in

front of all our post offices, his eyes gleaming unhealthily, his sunken yellow cheeks

most violently rouged, his finger pointing between her eyes. I want you. She never asked

Dr. Hilarius why, being afraid he might answer. (8)

The portrait, of course, refers to James Montgomery Flagg’s famous WWI recruitment poster from 1917, featuring Uncle Sam pointing directly at the perceiver, and captioned with “I Want

29

You.” Equating Dr. Hilarius with a recruiting Uncle Sam is a crafty move on Pynchon’s part, and the symbolism it invokes is dense. The former Nazi, who awakens a fearful Oedipa in the middle of the night to attempt to involve her in a large-scale experiment for the purposes of science, is now being compared by Oedipa, at least somewhat consciously, to the personification of

America. The fact that she first thought the phone call was from “Pierce doing a Gestapo officer” also points to the later revelation that “Pierce’s legacy was America,” and suggests at least some minor parallels between American culture and that of Nazi Germany. Rather than seeing

America’s personification as stately, tough, or dignified, Oedipa notes the unhealthy gleam in his eyes, his “sunken yellow cheeks,” and that his finger points “between her eyes.” Oedipa’s perception of Uncle Sam in such a frightening and uncomfortable light underscores a deep- seated fear of authority, one that manifests itself in various forms throughout the novel, and actually aids her in the formulation of conspiracy theory.

Perhaps the most important aspect of Oedipa’s view of the Uncle Sam picture is found not in in the description of the figure itself, but in the other places she has seen it: “in front of all our post offices” (8). Oedipa journey’s throughout the San Narciso underground in search of the

Trystero, following the W.A.S.T.E. symbol , is an indicator that an establishment bearing it is part of the Trystero postal network. Of course, she has not learned of the Trystero by this point in the story, but the fact that the novel begins to position the symbol of America in opposition to

W.A.S.T.E. symbol, this early in the narrative, is significant in that it suggests not only that that

Oedipa exhibits discomfort seeing Uncle Sam prior to any mention of the Trystero or appearance of its symbol, but also that her first recorded thoughts of the postal system, a system of communication, is accompanied by some sense of paranoia and uncertainty. Furthermore, the association of Uncle Sam with these uncomfortable thoughts is akin to the aligning of America’s

30 primary communicative system with an authoritarian psychological experiment. Fifty pages before it is even mentioned, Pynchon is subtly suggesting that the Trystero, as a subversive network in relation to the U.S. postal system, is actually not a sinister force in the novel. Instead, conspiracy theory, as embodied by the Trystero, is a logical, helpful response to faulty, totalizing metanarratives, such as America’s perfection and international infallibility. Conspiracy theory is an attempt to create an organizing amid clouded networks of competing narratives.

Oedipa’s sleepless night, due to the ominous, paranoia-inducing phone call from Hilarius, colors her conversation with Roseman the following day. As Oedipa tries to fall asleep the previous night, she recalls an unusual facial expression Hilarius claimed could cure hysterical blindness, and as “Oedipa’s Uncle Sam hallucination faded, it was this Fu Manchu face that came dissolving in to replace it for what was left of the hours before dawn. It put her in hardly any shape to see Roseman” (9). Like Hilarius later on in the novel, Roseman is also gripped by paranoia, as he “had also spent a sleepless night, brooding over the Perry Mason television program the evening before” (9). Roseman, though a minor character, is but another paranoid figure on the novel. Hilarius represents Oedipa’s experience with psychology, Roseman with the legal system. When Oedipa walks into Roseman’s office, she catches him quickly hiding “The

Profession v. Perry Mason, a Not-so-hypothetical Indictment,” a response which he explains was because Oedipa “‘might have been one of Perry Mason’s spies.’ After thinking a moment, he added, ‘Ha Ha’” (9). This is, of course, merely a comedic exchange with a relatively minor character, but it does illustrate the pervasiveness of paranoia within Pynchon’s America, as he shows representatives of both psychology and the legal system as conspiracy theorists.

When first arriving at Echo Courts, the motel, Oedipa meets Miles, the manager. Miles brags about being a member of a new band called The Paranoids, and attempts and fails to

31 seduce her. When Miles surmises that Oedipa hates him, she replies, “You are paranoid” (17).

The Paranoids, like Roseman, are minor characters, but play an important supplementary role in

Oedipa’s journey. Aside from their songs changing progressively throughout the novel in response to changing circumstances, they are also a straightforward metaphor employed by

Pynchon: Oedipa is constantly followed by paranoia.

Oedipa’s psychological growth, as empowered by Pierce’s will and ultimately the conspiracy theory of the Trystero, begins with her affair with Metzger, Pierce’s lawyer. This affair is important to consider against the backdrop of Oedipa’s unfulfilling marriage. Mucho

Maas is described as an overly sensitive former used car salesmen who became a radio DJ, and

“believed too much in the lot, [and] not at all in the station” (6). Mucho’s lack of professional success is unsurprising, considering the story he tells Oedipa upon returning home from work, which involved him responding to his boss’s complaints about his allegedly flirting with teenage girls over the airwaves, by muttering and fleeing. Oedipa’s recollection of viewing the painting with Pierce also suggests that she married Mucho partially in response to a feeling of helplessness. Unlike Mucho, Metzger is suave and mysterious, and he appeals to Oedipa, despite his also seeming less trustworthy. When first meeting Metzger at the hotel, Oedipa “looked around him for reflectors, microphones, camera cabling, but there was only himself and a debonair bottle of French Beaujolais” (17). Finding nothing to justify her suspicion, she lets him into her room. Conscious of the fact that “she looked good” for her charming guest, she soon asks him if he and Pierce were close, to which Metzger replies, somewhat dismissively, “No. I drew up his will” (18). When a film comes on the television that Metzger convincingly claims to have starred in as a child actor, Oedipa wonders if he fabricated the whole story, or if he “bribed the engineer over at the local station to run this, it’s all part of a plot, an elaborate, ,

32 plot” (20). Although the scope is small, this is the first instance in the novel of Oedipa actually forming her own conspiracy theory, and it occurs as she is being seduced. When Metzger slips up and asks Oedipa a question about her trip to Mexico with Pierce, she sharply questions how he knew of the trip at all, and “she grew more anti-Metzer” as he poured her drink. Metzger quickly replies that he did Pierce’s taxes, though this is contrary to his earlier statement that he only drew up the will. Oedipa can tell that he is not being honest, but she ignores it, and eventually begins an affair with him.

Just as Pierce’s will leads Oedipa to Metzger, Metzger leads her to Mike Fallopian and the Peter Pinguid Society, a radical right-wing group. This group is the first example of any explicitly right-wing leaning figures in the novel; this society’s appearance in the novel serves two purposes. First, the Peter Pinguid Society represents an overtly contrarian faction in

American culture. Oedipa, to this point, has encountered cultural representatives from law, psychotherapy, and music, and the radical organization represents another portion of the cultural collage that Oedipa’s uncovers in her journey. The second important aspect of the society is its connection Hofstadter’s conception of contemporary conspiracy theory. Although Hofstadter’s model of the conspiracy theorist always leans to the far political right, Mike Fallopian and the

Peter Pinguid Society, along with former Nazi Dr. Hilarius, are among the few paranoid figures in the novel that are explicitly characterized in such a way. Hofstadter notes that they feel

“dispossessed,” and that they think “America has been taken away from them and their kind

…[and] the old competitive has been gradually undermined by socialist and communist schemes” (23). The Peter Pinguid Society actually lampoons Hofstadter’s model.

Hofstadter points to the far right as conspiracy theorists; a prominent late-twentieth-century far- right group in this vein would be the John Birch Society, whom Fallopian both parodies and

33 disparages. Fallopian refers to members of the John Birch Society as “our more left-leaning friends,” and mentions that they think in binaries, or “good guys and bad guys” (36).

The Peter Pinguid Society is also related to the novel’s theme of communication. Oedipa witnesses a suspicious late night “inter-office mail run,” and later encounters the W.A.S.T.E. symbol for the first time on the bathroom wall (37). Of the mail run, Fallopian admits that

Oedipa and Metzger “weren’t supposed to see that” (37). When Metzger points out that

“delivering mail is a government monopoly [and Fallopian] would be opposed to that,” the ensuing conversation reveals the latter’s conspiracy theories surrounding the history of private mail delivery in America. This scene marks Oedipa’s first real encounter with the Trystero conspiracy theory, though she does not yet know its name. Her journey, which has now led her to the first traces of this underground postal network, was prompted with the receipt of a letter. The night before she left for Roseman’s, she associates a disturbing Uncle Sam with post offices, and now she witnesses a paranoid far-right society subversively utilizing Yoyodyne’s inter-office system of postal communication. Oedipa is getting connected to all these parties and is gradually being groomed into a conspiracy theorist herself, simply by attempting to faithfully execute a will.

Oedipa and Metzger continue to work together for the time being, and this continued partnership leads to further cultural for her. After they leave the Peter Pinguid

Society, they decide to spend the day at one of Pierce’s holdings, Fangoso Lagoons, and pick up

Metzger’s lawyer friend, Manny Di Presso. Again, The Paranoids follow close behind.

Simultaneously, Di Presso is also being followed by his client, who wants to borrow money.

Oedipa and one lawyer, here, are chased by paranoia, and the other lawyer is haunted by greed.

More important, though, is the information Di Presso relates to Oedipa. Di Presso’s client, Tony

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Jaguar, is owed money from Pierce’s estate for a deal involving human bones. Jaguar supplied

Pierce with bones, which Pierce used to make cigarette filters. The cigarette filters represent something apart from, but not entirely unrelated to, conspiracy theory: the recycling of people. In the context of Oedipa’s relationships, this concept is critical to consider, as cyclicality funcitons doubly: it prompts her undertaking of rebirth while simultaneously symbolizing it.

Metzger seems, to Oedipa, to represent a great deal of things that Mucho does not. Apart from simply being more charming, Metzger appears to be a figure capable of transcending the binary limitations of narratives surrounding his career; to, in effect, recycle himself. Metzger claims,

our …in this extended capacity for convolution. A lawyer in a courtroom, in

front of any jury, becomes an actor, right?... Me, I'm a former actor who became a

lawyer. [Manny Di Presso] in this pilot plays me, an actor become a lawyer reverting

periodically to being an actor. The film is in an air-conditioned vault at one of the

Hollywood studios, light can't fatigue it, it can be repeated endlessly. (21-22)

On at least a subconscious level, this psychological ability to recycle his self holds an appeal for

Oedipa, even if Metzger ultimately turns out to be a . At this point, however, Oedipa finds this cyclicality desirable likely due to its stark contrast with Mucho’s perpetual psychic stagnation. Mucho was unable to reconcile life as a used car salesman because

he could still never accept the way each owner, each shadow, filed in only to exchange a

dented, malfunctioning version of himself for another, just as futureless, automotive

projection of somebody else's life. As if it were the most natural thing. To Mucho it was

horrible. Endless, convoluted incest. (5)

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Mucho’s inability to cope with the cyclical of the goods he sells suggests he is likewise unable to cope with the idea of change and the progress of culture. Oedipa’s affair, in retrospect, seems inevitable, as she wonders

whatever it was about the lot that had stayed so alarmingly with him for going on five

years. Five years. You comfort them when they wake pouring sweat or crying out in the

language of bad dreams, yes, you hold them, they calm down, one day they lose it: she

knew that. (6)

This inability to progress is evidenced as well in his implied pedophilic tendencies and his retreat into an LSD haze enabled by Dr. Hilarius. His sexual desires remain transfixed on young teenage girls, and because Mucho lacks the same shrewd suspicion Oedipa has, he decides to participate in the mad doctor’s experiment, going insane in the process.

Pierce, as Oedipa’s former lover, is presented in the novel as quite different from Mucho in specific regard to his acceptance of cyclicality. This cyclicality, interestingly enough, is presented always in economic terms. Although Mucho cannot tolerate the consumer-driven recycling of former selves in the used car market, Pierce has no problem understanding and capitalizing on it, by literally recycling the bones of the dead to make filters for cigarettes, which likely expedite the process of death in and of themselves. Oedipa learns of this knavish deal as part of her quest to resolve the Trystero mystery, itself a seemingly shady operation. Even though conspiracy theory is criticized as totalizing and faulty, due to its insistence on causal relationships and ubiquitous connections, Pynchon takes great care to show that many of these connections can, in fact, be real. If Oedipa dismissed conspiracy theory as completely nonsensical, she never could have made these discoveries.

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Metzger, like Mucho, is also ultimately revealed to be a pedophile. As Oedipa accumulates more information about the Trystero, the two become more distant, a trait further aligning him with Mucho, as evidenced when “Metzger did not seem desperate at her going” to

Berkeley to visit Nefastis (81). Oedipa makes to visit him rather than Driblette after drinking dandelion wine with Genghis Cohen. Oedipa, unlike Mucho and Metzger, begins to understand a larger cyclical narrative at play. Cohen muses that, as the wine ferments, the dandelions remembered blooming. Oedipa does not respond, but thinks

No… As if their home cemetery in some way still did exist, in a land where you could

somehow walk, and not need the East San Nar-ciso Freeway, and bones still could rest in

, nourishing ghosts of dandelions, no one to plow them up. As if the dead really do

persist, even in a bottle of wine. (79)

The theme of death recycled within again appears, but in this case, it demonstrates growth on Oedipa’s part. Unlike her husband, at of the novel, who was unable to sell used cars, Oedipa can recognize the narrative at play and step outside of it. Metzger does not offer a specific for his disappearance, rather, he simply fades away in the narrative. The only times Metzger’s name is mentioned in the novel’s second half are when Oedipa tells Mucho that she is no longer having the affair, and when Oedipa learns that he has eloped with the teenaged girlfriend of a member of The Paranoids. Oedipa’s pursuit of the truth through conspiracy theory uproots and undoes these old cyclical narratives and allows her to transcend her societal limitations in the process. In essence, conspiracy theory ultimately becomes the psychological escape route for the maiden in her tower.

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Oedipa does not become completely consumed by her pursuit of the narrative, but the people around her do. Late in the novel, she thinks to herself,

They are stripping from me…one by one, my men. My shrink, pursued by Israelis, has

gone mad; my husband, on LSD, gropes like a child further and further into the rooms

and endless rooms of the elaborate candy house of himself and away, hopelessly away,

from what has passed, I was hoping forever, for ; my one extra-marital fella has

eloped with a depraved 15-year-old; my best guide back to the Trystero has taken a

Brody. Where am I? (126)

Oedipa’s question is partly representative of her clinging on to the remnants of her old psychological self, expressing despair at the loss of her men. However, the act of asking this question also indicates a character who questions the societal status quo, and by asking “Where am I” rather than “Who am I,” Oedipa demonstrates the act of mapping the individual subject in the postmodern world. Ultimately, this question ceases to matter to her, because by the end of the novel, the eager protagonist looks forward to uncovering the mystery-bidders identity with a renewed sense of agency in her previously restrictive world. Oedipa’s pursuit of the Trystero throughout the novel allows her to experience a wide breadth of and ideas that she would otherwise never have known about, and conspiracy theory acts as this driving force.

The novel’s title is also of utmost importance to its interpretation, and key to the all- important concept of conspiracy theory as mode, not solution. It is not simply a description of the culmination of the novel’s plot, or content. The textual universe is the middle ground between the fictive world and the real world, occupied by the immersed reader. The title comes to encapsulate the entire act of producing text and conveying information within an increasingly

38 clouded network of communication. The “crying of Lot 49” refers to two ever-present themes in the novel. The more blatant of these two is the auctioning-off of the world’s truth and meaning to the highest bidder in attendance. The secondary and more inclusive meaning comes from the lens with which the protagonist views the auction, and else in the novel’s reality: through her eyes’ “tears,” or the “tears” between fiction and truth, information and reality, and communicator and communicatee. Conspiracy theory is a logical attempt to make sense of something that may ultimately prove unknowable, but the search itself allows the searcher to map knowledge in ways previously thought foolish, and thus learn. Oedipa’s descent into, but future ascent out of, entropy results from her developing the ability to reconcile her status as

Pynchon’s participant in the metanarrative of the Trystero conspiracy theory.

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Metanarratives and Metanarration: Rediscovering Lost Capacities of Perception through

Conspiracy Theory and Storytelling from Generation X to Generation A

In Pynchon’s fictive world, characters use conspiracy theory to combat the paranoia that societal power structures propagate; in Douglas Coupland’s, conspiracy theory acts as a grounding and clarifying act in response to a system that the characters believe obfuscates their mental abilities to perceive both their own present and immediate time and space and the time and space of the dominant culture. This ability, or frequent lack thereof, is the primary requisite for negotiating the characters’ respective senses of identity and individuality in Coupland’s postmodern world. Coupland illustrates societies in which the dominant culture’s narratives overpower characters’ capacity to perceive these distinctions; this overpowering then functions directly as a hostile takeover of a person’s sense of self. To counter these distorting narratives,

Coupland’s characters engage in oral storytelling. These stories are not always conspiracy theories, but often are, and are all the more effective in these cases. As I will demonstrate, storytelling and conspiracy theorizing directly enable the capacity for characters to perceive the spatio-temporal distinctions among these varied levels of narrative and thus grant self-awareness within a clouded narrative system.

As I mentioned in the previous chapter, Lyotard’s view of metanarrative is that of a grand, totalizing narrative that attempts to offer a comprehensive explanation of the human experience, and often functions to legitimize the commonly held socio-political beliefs in society that maintain said power. In literature, however, metanarration operates quite differently. In

“Discourse Deixis Redefined,” Andrea Macrae explores much of the previous research on the subject, and offers a composite definition of literary metanarration as “passages within a narrative that comment on narrative composition” (Macrae 120). If societal metanarratives are

40 the overarching, and surreptitious systemic frameworks hypothesized by Lyotard, then how do they fit in with the metanarrational schemas of literature, and furthermore, how can these complicated relationships be understood in light of conspiracy theory? These terms are connected not merely by linguistic similarities, and yet, little published criticism exists concerning the relationship between the two of metanarrative in the context of literary conspiracy theory. In this loud, postmodern age of suspicion, informational distortion, and spatio-temporal obfuscation, any attempts to understand the world around us should be armed with the clearest and most inclusive apparatuses for analysis. Henceforth, I use the term “literary metanarrative” in reference to fictive storytelling by a character as part of the novel’s plot; these stories are literally narratives within narratives. When these literary metanarratives take the form of conspiracy theories, they can subvert the ultimately harmful dominant narratives that prevent the characters from psychological growth and actualization. By exchanging oral stories devoid of corruption by the totalizing societal metanarratives, the characters are ultimately able to undermine these dominant powers’ influence over them.

I will demonstrate the importance of the relationship between these literary metanarrative concepts by examining Coupland’s Generation X and Generation A. These novels deal, by way of their many “metanarrators,” with metanarratives, and conspiracy-theory-as-storytelling plays an indispensable and distinct role in both novels. Generation X is a documents the characters’ dissatisfaction with the present, due mostly myriad past expectations; this has created the confusing world they inhabit. These characters seek to resist the influence of the idealized past as defined by their society’s dominant culture, while Generation A’s narrators prove, initially, to be far less conscientious, and are concerned only with their immediate space and time. As the novel progresses and they begin to engage in storytelling and ultimately conspiracy theorizing,

41 however, they begin to focus on the problem of the future. They demonstrate awareness of the conspiracy’s designs by describing how nearly an entire population of people take an anti- anxiety drug that works by blocking all future-oriented thoughts. The novel’s denouement culminates in a spectacular display of the potential social impact of well-designed conspiracy theory. Published in 1991 and 2009, respectively, these novels offer a logical frame for the nearly two-decade period that saw the rise of the internet and the media’s scope of influence expand to previously unseen reaches. Through my exploration of the relationship between metanarratives and metanarration, I will show how Coupland’s portrayal of storytelling changes over perhaps the most spatio-temporally tumultuous period of history since the advent of in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Unlike Crying of Lot 49, the plot of Generation X is not driven by a singular, dominant conspiracy theory, but rather an interspersing of smaller, loosely linked conspiracy theories.

These conspiracy theories arise in response primarily to a few background narratives that the characters perceive as a nefarious force in society; the most prominent of these is the societally sanctioned requisite to pursue the American Dream to achieve . I will first analyze the nature of literary metanarration in the novel, irrespective of conspiracy theory, and then demonstrate how this mode of metanarration supplements and strengthens conspiracy theory. By first applying narrative theory to Generation X, I will show that metanarration allows literary characters to identify, resist, and overcome the invisible and near-omnipresent narratives in their modern-day society by means of oral storytelling and its effects on both the tellers’ and the listeners’ capacity to perceive pertinent distinctions of time and space as related to narratives.

Conspiracy theory, then, arises later, out of a natural response to these dominant narratives’ obfuscations. This process naturally promotes a greater level of agency and leads to moral and

42 psychological growth. Although Generation X shows Coupland concerned less with conspiracy theory than storytelling in general, conspiracy theory still specifically influences the character

Dag in profound ways, and alters his development as a character considerably. The many steps of this process are related back to the reader through multiple narrators; this strategy employed by Generation X is a twofold one, executed separately but realized collectively through the novel’s form and content. I will apply a similar theoretical system to Generation A to examine how Coupland’s portrayal of society changes eighteen years later. I conclude that storytelling allows for and sharpens the ability to fantasize about or realize things beyond the subject’s immediate space and time. The implication of this finding suggests that conspiracy theorizing and storytelling may likewise help people to recognize harmful metanarratives in reality.

Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture gave a voice to a subculture of desensitized people, who willfully resign from participation in mainstream culture and all its accompanying narratives in favor of their own oral stories. Andy, Dag, and Claire, withdrawn into their small community of bungalows in Palm Springs, attempt to live safely removed from the overpowering sentiments and expectations left over from generations past. These people recognize society’s faulty, totalizing narratives for what they are, and seek seclusion in the desert. The irony of their situation, as Andrew Tate points out, is that this sanctuary “is replete with shopping malls and cosmetic surgery clinics” (Tate 125). Even in an attempt to escape socio-historical narratives, the trio engages in one: “the long-standing European-American : the journey west by a group hoping to find sanctuary” (125). Perpetually surrounded by narratives, they can only conceive of one possible way to forge their identities, or individual. They do little besides tell each other stories. The novel makes this storytelling-as- escape motif quite clear from its outset, and continually stresses its importance to the characters.

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Claire justifies this sentiment in the first chapter, professing, “Either our lives become stories, or there’s just no way to get through them.” The novel’s primary narrator, Andy, immediately reflects, “We know this is why the three of us left our lives behind us and came to the desert – to tell stories and make our own lives worthwhile tales in the process” (Coupland 8). The notion of a character making his or her own life into a worthwhile tale is recurring, and this is of utmost importance to Generation X’s use of metanarration.

Through storytelling, people’s imaginations allow them to visit new . Here, I use the word “reality” with great care. Although this journey is made possible by imagination, the realm to which a teller or listener travels is no less real than the ostensibly objective reality from which they depart. Andy’s perception of life in Generation X is that of an overall reality that seems eerie and cynical, but which ultimately proves to be quite believable, even as a subjective distortion. He never confuses “objective” reality with that of his or others’ stories, but his narration implicitly and convincingly argues that such a distinction is unnecessary – “objective” reality, or, life fully beyond the metanarrative influence of the American Dream, even in a relatively isolated space, is an impossibility, at least to discuss. The American Dream and its far- reaching impact on the dominant American culture of the 1990’s is seemingly infinite. The novel’s multiple satirical glosses indicate and mirror the omnipresence of the media-driven society’s ramifications on an individual’s thought processes. Rather than attempt to simply uproot this influence, as the characters’ move to Palm Springs seems to symbolize, Andy and his friends realize that the best they can for is to temper the credence given to totalizing narratives, and to recognize them for what they are. Andy understands that life is a story amidst stories, and contains its own stories. All stories affect personal experience, whether operating in layers above or within it. A character’s only chance to realize this, and therefore approach some

44 level of agency and resultant identity, is to engage in metanarration. Implicit in this notion is that a person should likewise engage in some form of oral storytelling.

Outside of the three main characters, there is a notable lack of agency and humanity in the novel’s supporting cast. This distinction is certainly by design, as the supporting characters in the novel serve as foils to the more thoughtful, productive, and ultimately human main characters. Andy, Dag, and Claire rarely partake in any rich or stimulating conversation with other characters unless it involves storytelling. Andy initially characterizes Claire’s romantic interest, Tobias, as a superficial puppet of societal metanarratives. Andy continues this scathing characterization, claiming Tobias is ignorant, narcissistic, and overly consumeristic. These traits run contrary to all the novel’s main, favorably described characters. Andy muses,

He has one of those bankish money jobs…He affects a tedious corporate killspeak…He

knows all the variations and nuances of tassel loafers…Not surprisingly, he’s a control

freak and considers himself informed. He makes jokes about paving Alaska and nuking

Iran. To borrow a phrase from a popular song, he’s loyal to the Bank of America. He’s

thrown something away and he’s mean. (80)

In this novel, characters are often simply not treated as real or human unless they are telling a story. When first meeting Claire’s friend, Elvissa, the mean-spirited Tobias reaches into his media-gleaned sense of and mutters that she looks like a “Vegas housewife on chemotherapy” (89). Tobias can only recite cliches and express thoughts that his acceptance of dominant consumer culture and the it breeds allows. He has simply become robotic, devoid of all creativity and accompanying humanity.

Tobias and his robotic reliance on the narratives of the dominant culture are a perfect case-study Coupland offers to demonstrate the transgressive power of storytelling, which will

45 later enable conspiracy theory to operate in its full constructive potential. When Elvissa asks him to tell a story, Tobias begins to undergo a gradual change. She asks him, “after you’re dead and buried and floating around whatever place we go to, what’s going to be your best memory of earth?…What’s your takeaway?…What one small moment that proves you’re really alive” (91).

Tobias is initially perplexed, at which point Elvissa further cements his characterization as an artificial consumerist puppet, qualifying her prompt with, “Fake yuppie experiences you had to spend money on, like whitewater rafting and elephant-rides in Thailand don’t count” (91). Andy makes a point to mention that Tobias cannot reply without first hearing an example. Claire then interjects, and goes on to tell a story about the first time she saw snow as a child with her mother.

Dag recalls the time his father first taught him about filling up his tank at a gas station, and Andy relates a memory of Sunday morning family breakfasts. In each of these stories, there is a tangible sensory response linked with the tellers’ deep, sentimental family ties. Claire remembers the sensation of a snowflake falling on her eye, Dag remembers the smell of gasoline, and Andy, the smell of bacon. These artful, genuine stories affect in Tobias the first truly human and respectable traits seen thus far. After hearing these stories, Tobias enthusiastically recalls a moment when he saw his parents begin spontaneously dancing:

I had suddenly my young parents all to myself – them and this faint music that sounded

like heaven – faraway, clear, and impossible to contact – coming from this faceless place

where it was always summer and where beautiful people were always dancing and where

it was impossible to call by telephone, even if you wanted to. Now that’s earth, to me.

(96)

Tobias, like the storytellers preceding him, also exhibits a distinct sensory response attached to his heartwarming family memory, in this case, “bolero-samba music.” The use of sensory-

46 response to color these stories functions on two levels. First, in a quite basic sense, sensory details simply improve stories for readers or listeners by providing tangible connections with the stories. The importance of the singular detail hearkens back to one of Andy’s most important of storytelling earlier in the novel. When speaking with an Alcoholics Anonymous member, the man says, “How are people ever going to help themselves if they can’t grab onto a fragment of your own horror? People want that little fragment, they need it. That little [detail] makes their own fragments less scary,” and Andy muses, “I’m still looking for a description of storytelling as vital as this” (13). Contextually, terms like “horror” and “scary” apply to the

“rock-bottom” nature of the AA confession stories, but the same basic principle can apply to heartwarming stories as well. The second level, however, illustrates an even more profound point. The story Tobias tells contrasts all his previous dialogue starkly. All of Tobias’ previous dialogue has consisted wholly of petty insults, banal pop-culture references, and empty, media- inspired platitudes. Such a romanticized, artistic recollection of a childhood memory of love seems entirely out character for Tobias at this point in the novel, and Andy even notices this anomaly immediately after hearing it, remarking, “Well, who’d have thought Tobias was capable of such thoughts? We’re going to have to do a reevaluation of the lad” (96). Tobias had always appeared, to all characters but Claire, as an obnoxious, judgmental yuppie. While telling a story, however, he becomes more, and is able to imagine an almost mystical space and time, colored with beautiful details. Though he previously insulted Elvissa, he immediately asks to hear her own story for the prompt. This suggests that his state of mind has been altered, albeit temporarily, and few would argue that this new Tobias is not a better person for it.

Tobias’ potential personal improvement through storytelling is important for the novel’s treatment of conspiracy theory because of its relationship to literary metanarration. Tobias is not

47 a conspiracy theorist like Dag, his most combative literary counterpart, but his demonstrable growth as a character by way of storytelling highlights the potential for agency to accompany and arise from metanarration. This potential also suggests that conspiracy theory, in the form of storytelling, can function doubly as an avenue for characters’ agency in the postmodern world and as a mode of literary interpretation for the reader. To further explicate this twofold functionality, I will first demonstrate the narratological power of literary metanarration and fictive storytelling in the novel.

Storytelling, Metanarration, and Transcendence in Generation X

Tobias’ story and Andy’s ensuing commentary offers an especially rich section of metanarrational interplay between the Andy and the reader. The reader sees the transformation of

Tobias, on her own, but Andy’s subtle commentary draws these effects out for examination.

Andrea Macrae graphs an effective system for explicating meaning in metanarrational constructions through the close examination of discourse deixis, a term referring to specific words whose full meaning is dependent upon the context in which they are used. Andy’s commentary on Tobias’ story is but one of many sections that may be helpfully used with her system. As I will argue in this section, Coupland uses diegetic deixis within metanarration to cloud the notion of a gap between text and reader, and in doing so, creates a fictive experience that involves the reader more deeply in the process of metanarration. The effect of this deeper involvement creates a richer reading experience, but more importantly, makes the reader feel as if he is part of the storytelling circle, both as a listener a co-commentator with Andy. Resultantly, the later implications of storytelling and conspiracy theorizing have a greater effect.

Macrae identifies five subtypes of metanarrative: metadiegetic (focusing on the development or representation of the storyworld, plot, and the act of inventing a story),

48 metanarrational (the structuring/organizing act and result, narrative techniques and conventions, and the temporal/spatial relationship between story and discourse), metacompositional

(imaginative invention of discourse and story), metatextual (textual/material nature of the novel), and metadiscursive (narrative in communicative context) (135). In Andy’s two sentences

(“Well, who’d have thought Tobias was capable of such thoughts? We’re going to have to do a reevaluation of the lad”), he manages to perform four of these five metanarrative subtypes, thereby accentuating the effects of Tobias’ story on himself and the reader.

Andy invokes Macrae’s metanarrational and metacompositional subtypes by considering

“such thoughts,” as well as Tobias’ inherent claims to authenticity. By expressing shock at

Tobias’ ability to invent such a touching story, Andy offers commentary in line with Macrae’s

“narrative techniques and conventions” and “imaginative invention of discourse and story.” In the statement, “We’re going to have to do a reevaluation of the lad,” Andy’s use of deixis like

“such” and “We’re” indicates that he is operating simultaneously as a character (interacting with others), narrator (commenting on events), and author (implying a shared responsibility in developing Tobias as a character). The combination of these roles puts Andy in a unique position to represent the novel in multiple levels of meaning. Within the storyworld, as a character, his remarks are merely reactionary to hearing a story. As narrator, they appear on the page as a direct address to the reader, and are part of Tobias’ characterization. As metanarrator, these comments remind the reader directly that she is, in fact, reading a story. Generation X’s focus on characters’ storytelling, which effectively doubles the number of narrative layers, can potentially portend something of a meta-metanarrational nightmare for a critic. However, with further analysis, Macrae’s extensive system can aid in charting the multiple layers of a narrative as complicated as Generation X. Narratological mapping such as this can allow for a more complete

49 understanding of the effects of stories told by characters in a novel, as well as the characters themselves. Andy, and by extension, the reader, and the novel itself afford Tobias an actual moment of humanity and respectability, if only a fleeting one, as the insincere character later reveals. The later revelation occurs as a result of his continued adherence to the dominant consumerist culture, which I will soon demonstrate is related specifically to the societal metanarrative legitimizing the pursuit of the American Dream, and is described by Coupland through the process of metanarration.

Andy’s metanarration also allows him to indirectly indicate to the reader his conception of his society’s harmful, dominant narrative. This involves the potentially pitfall-laden use of literary metanarrative to describe Lyotardian metanarrative; I will therefore refrain from use of the term “metanarrative,” here, for clarity’s sake. Andy describes a picnic in the desert with Dag and Claire, in a named but undeveloped neighborhood that has streets but no houses. Dag imagines that “back in, say, 1958, Buddy Hackett, Joey Bishop, and a bunch of Vegas entertainers all banded together to make a bundle on this place, but a key investor split town and the whole place just died,” and Andy relates to the reader that the windmill ranch in this ghost town generates power for a nearby town’s “detox center air conditioners and cellulite vacuums of the region’s burgeoning cosmetic surgery industry” (15). As celebrity status is often considered the most ideal outcome of the American Dream, the narrative act of superimposing celebrity fantasies and the stereotypical pitfalls of pursuing this status (drug abuse and cosmetic surgery) implies these characters’ perception of Dream: subscribing to it as one’s ultimate goal likely leads to the degradation of one’s life with drug abuse, and the loss of individuality by striving for an arbitrary, Hollywood-ascribed standard of beauty. To give this point its full power, Coupland makes use of his storytelling as both content and form, drawing attention to the layering of

50 narratives in the novel and creating a parallel between narratives in real life. Andy goes on, “we will tell our bedtime stories to each other … next to vacant lots that in alternately forked universes might still bear the gracious desert homes of Mr. William Holden and Miss Grace

Kelly” (16). This description arrives from Andy not as character-storyteller but as narrator.

Coupland then pulls the reader back one layer, when Andy says “But that’s another universe, not this universe” (my italics, 16). Andy continues,

Here, the three of us [eat lunch] on a land that is barren – the equivalent of the blank

space at the end of a chapter – and a land so empty that all objects placed on its breathing,

hot skin become objects of irony. And here … I get to watch Dag and Claire pretend they

inhabit that other, more welcoming universe (his italics, 16).

Andy engages in ironic metanarration; by likening his storyworld, or “universe,” to a blank space at the end of a chapter, he directly addresses the reader on the subject of his narration, and classifies all elements within it as ironic. This includes his Hollywood-inspired fantasy and quick withdrawal, as if to point out that Hollywood life is obviously not reality, “this” is, with “this” referring doubly to the act of storytelling by the characters and the physical novel itself.

Additionally, this passage immediately precedes the actual blank space at the end of the novel’s third chapter. By utilizing this complex method of crafting his novel, Coupland positions his reader to be all the more receptive to the significance of complexly layered storytelling, thereby expressing the critical of questioning and examining narratives of society and literature alike, including the most consequential of all instances of fictive metanarration: conspiracy theory.

51

From Literary Metanarration to Conspiracy Theory: Sojourn as Catalyst for Psychological

Growth

By molding its literary metanarration into both form and content, Generation X represents a fundamental opposition to grand narratives. The novel refuses to grant any real sense of humanity to people who refuse or are unable to tell stories or to metanarrate. Rather than simply a case of a writer privileging those who engage with stories and literature, this carries a deeper implication: we are unable to operate with any real agency so long as we are unable to tell stories and thus conceptualize things outside our immediate senses of space and time. This inability leads directly to our subservience to the totalizing, controlling narratives of our culture.

Recognizing and overcoming this limitation allows conspiracy theory to function in its utmost effective potential. With this recognition, the reader can relate to and understand Dag and his conspiracy theories much more comprehensively, and therefore appreciate the theories as legitimate, psychological, and actually profound responses to the world he inhabits.

As I have already alluded, Generation X lacks the singular, unifying conspiracy or organization to represent a societal metanarrative; Coupland offers his readers no such Trystero.

However, one concept is repeatedly hinted at as the source for all the characters’ various anxieties about their lives, and it always takes the form of expectations based on society’s glorification of the past. Though not explicitly named, this fetishizing of relatively recent history represents quite clearly America’s obsession with “The American Dream.” Incredulity to and refutation of the American Dream is a recurring theme throughout the novel, and the characters approach the long-standing metanarrative with a venomous . Dag is the biggest detractor of the American Dream, and his conspiracy theories effectively deconstruct it, at first, and ultimately dismantle and subvert it as an absurd societal myth and metanarrative. In Dag’s

52 first story, he describes his former job working in an office cubicle, or “veal-fattening pen,” and specifically recalls an argument he had with his boss, concerning the lack of ventilation and poor working conditions in the office which led to “Sick-Building Syndrome.” This story indicates the first of Dag’s grievances with the American Dream metanarrative, namely that the heartless and over-consumeristic qualities accompanying the capitalistic metanarrative naturally lead to the disenfranchisement and poor treatment of the working class. Dag positions Martin, his boss, as the personification of the American Dream’s ridiculous ephemerality, calling him a “yuppie” and

“embittered ex-hippie,” who has essentially traded in his humanity for a stake of the Dream. As this argument escalates, Dag criticizes Martin for bragging about his “million-dollar home…you won in the genetic lottery…by dint of your having been born at the right time in history,” and then accuses him and people like him of “always grabbing the best piece of cake first and then putting up a barbed-wire fence around the rest” (21). This anecdote introduces Dag’s anti- capitalistic beliefs, and in doing so, philosophically aligns him with Andy, and Martin with

Tobias; Andy later offers a similar assessment of Tobias, noting,

He embodies to me all of the people of my own generation who used all that was good in

themselves just to make money; who use their votes for short-term gain. Who ended up

blissful in the bottom-feeding jobs – marketing, land-flipping, ambulance-chasing, money

brokering. Such smugness. (81)

This mutual disdain for the American Dream further establishes it as the de facto dominant metanarrative the characters oppose, and also primes the reader for Dag’s first conspiracy theory.

Dag’s first conspiracy theory is prompted by Margaret, his coworker, asking him what he said to Martin. Dag deflects the question, instead posing another, one that reveals his opposition to the consumeristic aspect of capitalism. Dag asks, “Why work? Simply to buy more stuff?

53

That’s just not enough… What makes us deserve the ice cream and the running shoes and wool

Italian suits we have?” (23). , as Dag believes, indicates not humanity, but mindless, robotic adherence to metanarratives. This exchange leads to the novel’s first intersection of societal metanarrative with conspiracy theory. For clarity’s sake, this intersection occurs within

Dag’s fictive storytelling, or literary metanarration. Margaret claims that “the only reason we all go to work in the morning is because we’re terrified of what would happen if we stopped. ‘We’re not built for free time as a species. We think we are, but we aren’t’” (23). Margaret’s reply to

Dag’s question indicates that she subscribes to the metanarrative of the American Dream, at best, or has psychologically internalized it and its accompanying promises of personal fulfillment, at worst. Dag then offers his first conspiracy theory. Although this conspiracy theory lacks the sophistication of those of Oedipa Maas, it nonetheless illustrates a subject of a complex system of narratives coping with the sense of helplessness that accompanies this system, part and parcel.

Dag challenges, “Hey, Margaret…I bet you can’t think of one person in the entire history of the world who became famous without a whole lot of cash exchanging hands along the way” (24).

This retort is, of course, an oversimplification of fame and the American Dream, but remains a valid response to the concept. He refutes attempts to answer this challenge, such as Abraham

Lincoln and Leonardo da Vinci, but has no rebuttal when a separate eavesdropping coworker shouts out the example of Anne Frank. Though admittedly underdeveloped, this represents Dag’s first conspiracy in the novel. This constitutes conspiracy theory because Dag implies that any celebrity-to-be gained their newfound status not based on their own merits, but on the certainty of unseen puppet-masters to profit, thereby duping the public. This theory is essentially refuted, but this is part of Coupland’s design, and is significant for two primary . First, this is an early indication that Dag’s conspiracy theories are centered on the American Dream. He will

54 develop these later in the novel, but already demonstrates at least some recognition of the cause of his society’s harmful narrative. The second important aspect of this theory is that Dag voiced it long before he made the conscious effort to retreat from his society’s dominant culture, to what

Andy describes as a “life on the periphery,” and before he begins introspective storytelling (11).

As he notes, he moved to the desert with Andy and Claire because his

crisis wasn’t just the failure of youth but also the failure of class and sex and the future

and I still don’t know what…My life became a series of scary incidents that simply

weren’t stringing together to make for an interesting book…So I split…Like you and

Claire. And Now I’m here.” (31).

Dag’s willful resignation from his old life leads to a greater ability to construct meaning from his new life. As such, his storytelling and his conspiracy theorizing become more productive.

As Dag’s storytelling develops and becomes more sophisticated, his conspiracy theories do as well. As a result of this development, his identification of the American Dream as a primary cause of dominant culture’s harmful narratives becomes sharper, but, of equal importance, he also becomes a stronger character. He makes an impromptu sojourn from Palm

Springs to a remote town in Nevada, and his later explanation reveals some of his signature paranoia. As his various stories throughout the novel make clear, he has a strange fixation with the end of the world, and his belief in the likelihood of an imminent nuclear strike prompts this disappearance. He learns from weather charts that Palm Springs receives little rainfall, and that its geographic location relative to , the likely target of a nuclear strike, would render it safe from nuclear fallout. After receiving a postcard from a friend in New Mexico with the picture of a daytime nuclear test, he is alarmed to realize that the size of a mushroom cloud is far smaller than he previously imagined, prompting a trip to the nearest test site, in Nevada. This

55 story offers the clearest example of paranoia directly leading to enlightenment via conspiracy theory; Dag partly quells his fears of death-by-nuclear-strike, but discovers more ammunition for his overall attack on the American Dream. On the way back to Palm Springs, he passes a shopping mall and a “yuppie housing development,” and is startled by their architectural similarities, wondering, “God, what goes through the minds of the people who live in these things—are they shopping?” and then concluding,

If people can mentally convert their houses into shopping malls, then these same people

are just as capable of mentally equating atomic bombs with regular bombs…and once

people saw the new, smaller friendlier explosions, the process would be

irreversible. (71)

Dag’s analogy seems perhaps somewhat farfetched at first, but much like Oedipa’s quest in

Crying of Lot 49, his conclusion is not the most important development, but rather his process.

This is Dag’s most important and strongest conspiracy theory. He connects the American Dream to the military-industrial complex, implying that some organizing force is desensitizing people to shopping-mall architecture in the same way that it desensitizes them to the images of nuclear explosions. This would indicate that this unseen force, presumably the government, is in cahoots with the media, due to the proliferation of mushroom-cloud imagery throughout it, as well as various marketing forces that prompt citizens to indulge their consumerist habits at shopping malls. This, of course, cannot be substantiated in the novel, but it is still a sophisticated and logical theory, based on the connections he makes with the evidence available to him.

Dag’s theory is additionally significant in that he develops it without ever mentioning concepts like “American Dream” and “military-industrial complex” by name, suggesting that these beliefs stem from observation and thought, devoid of the influence of any outside societal

56 narratives. In all his quirkiness and paranoia, Dag actually develops a logical and tangible connection between conspiracy theory and reality. As his actions and words demonstrate henceforth in the novel, he is a stronger character for it.

Dag’s sojourn and subsequent revelation regarding the American Dream leaves him as a more empathic and complete character, and he appears much happier afterwards, as well, with

Andy and Claire each even noting that his newfound happiness is bordering on “suspicious”

(73). His minor metamorphosis is genuine, however, as he later demonstrates while talking separately with Claire and Andy. When Dag learns of Elvissa’s own retreat from her everyday life to become a gardener at a nunnery, he mocks her, and remarks “It’ll never work,” and “I give her three months” (120, 121). Claire chastises him for hypocrisy, noting his sojourn and various other declarations of misanthropic retreat, and the proud paranoiac responds with the one of his few instances of humility in the entire novel, admitting, “God. You’re right…I feel like such a total dirtbag” (121). This self-deprecating reflection is significant in two distinct ways. First, it reveals a far more self-aware Dag than was introduced earlier in the novel, and his disappearance and reemergence offers the clearest reason for this growth. Secondly, this self-awareness serves as a direct contrast to Dag’s literary foil, Tobias. Through this contrast, Coupland shows that Dag is a more empathic character than the reader previously thought.

Up to this point in the plot, Coupland has offered every indication that Dag’s feelings toward Claire are entirely platonic. Dag, of course, never falls in love with Claire, nor does he become infatuated. Before, however, Dag always maintained a respectful, non-intrusive disinterest in Claire’s private life, specifically regarding her relationship with Tobias. Although he never liked Tobias, Dag mostly withholds any indication of deeper thought on the matter.

Only after his journey to and from Nevada does he express concern to Andy, and this concern

57 seems well thought-out and justified. As is Dag’s wont, he becomes suspicious, wondering aloud,

What’s he up to?...Someone with his looks could have any bimbette with a toe-separator

in California. That’s obviously his style. But then he chooses Claire, who, love her as

much as we do, chic as she may be, and much to her credit, is something of a flawed

catch by Tobias’ standards. I mean, Andy, Claire reads. You know what I’m saying….

He’s not a nice human being, Andrew, and he even drove over mountains to see her. And

pllll-eeze don’t try to tell me that somehow it’s love. (84)

Dag’s newfound level of concern appears at first to be a paranoia-inspired, thinly veiled excuse to insult Claire’s yuppie boyfriend whom he and Andy mutually despise. However, as Claire later reveals to Andy, Dag’s suspicions are both warranted and profound. When the couple break up, Claire tells Andy that Tobias said, “the only reason I liked him was for his looks,” and that

“he knows that his looks are the only thing lovable about him and so that he might as well use them” (156). Tobias’ vanity and superficiality are unsurprising, but his self-awareness is unprecedented. Claire goes on, “But the using wasn’t just one way. He said that my main attraction for him was his conviction that I knew a secret about life—some magic insight I had that gave me the strength to quit everyday existence” (156). Claire’s admission and description of her break-up prove that Dag was perceptive enough to precisely identify Tobias for what he was: an artificial, soulless , a living artifact of society’s dedication to the unrealistic and unhelpful pursuit of the American Dream. Dag achieved this perceptibility specifically because his paranoia lead him to the desert, where he created his most coherent conspiracy theory. As a direct result of his paranoia and resultant conspiracy-theory-development, Dag

58 proves to have become a better storyteller, a more empathic, caring friend, a more perceptive observer of society, and finally, a much stronger character.

From Generations X to A: Conspiracy Theory as Revelation of Conspiracy against Storytelling

Itself

Dag’s conspiracy theories are ultimately not confirmed or denied by the novel—much like Pynchon’s staunch refusal to lift the curtain on the mystery bidder—and this similarly redirects the reader to process over conclusion. This focus is an understandable one; a meta- textually rich novel such as this would only naturally point to the act of storytelling as more important than the story itself. Generation X’s tendency to create for its readers a reflective, if slightly paranoid, experience underscores the importance of storytelling and oral communication in general. Conspiracy theory may not be as omnipresent in this novel as it is in Pynchon’s, but it does similarly promote growth for a character and highlight the importance of cognitively charting the dominant narratives of society. Coupland seems to recognize the importance of conspiracy theory in the novel, but he will not show a full appreciation and exploration of its revelatory potential until the publication of its spiritual successor eighteen years later, in

Generation A. Coupland revisits the generation-wide implications of a lack of storytelling, only to find that his conception of the world in 2009 lacks the lightheartedness of Andy, Dag, and

Claire’s desert escapades. Instead, Generation A offers a darker portrayal of a semi-technocratic society in which bees are extinct, alongside meaningful interpersonal communication and storytelling on a broad scale. The description I have just provided sounds much like a futuristic dystopia novel; indeed, Coupland does point to many things about the present-day that seem

Orwellian in comparison to Generation X. However, Coupland’s effectiveness in describing modern-day society’s lack of communication is so skillfully executed that the novel does not

59 actually read like dystopian fiction at first, but rather an ecological thriller masquerading as a dark comedy. The effect of this strategy, as used in a contemporary setting, causes the reader to slowly realize that this dystopic, yet consistently realistic portrayal of society and culture is in fact eerily reminiscent of the very world she inhabits. Coupland masterfully connects the lack of storytelling in society to what appears to be the beginnings of its social downfall. Generation A achieves this revelation by way of conspiracy theory. Like Generation X, conspiracy theory is not as ubiquitous in this novel as it is in Crying of Lot 49, but its strategic place in the novel’s plot makes it equally important.

There are three major differences to consider between Generation X and A, which all directly influence the storytelling act, and minimize the subversive potential of conspiracy theory in the latter novel. The first of these is Generation A’s characters’ relationships to each other.

They are not acquainted until the second half of the novel. In the first half, they are separated by thousands of miles of space, living in different countries around the world. As such, this portion of the novel is more plot-centered than all of Generation X and contains very little in the way of metanarration. The narratorial mode is the second major departure from Generation X’s formula.

Unlike Generation X, this novel is not united by one primary narrator. Each chapter is narrated by one of the five central characters. Another primary difference is the place of storytelling: none of these characters engage in storytelling with other people until the circumstances of the plot force them to. The latter two of these differences corresponds to a changing society. When stung, each character is engaging in some form of technologically aided long-distance communique, though lacks any sort of affinity for personal, verbal communication. In much the same way as

Coupland constructs his plot, I will focus my analysis initially on storytelling and communication. The lone conspiracy theory is effective only after the characters and their stories

60 are fully borne out; likewise, its analysis will be far more effective once storytelling is fully realized.

All five of Generation A’s characters’ lives are heavily influenced by grand narratives. In their , Zack as a farmer and Harj as a telemarketer subscribe, to varying degrees of belief and loyalty, to the narrative of hard-working and the American Dream. Diana and Samantha are strongly pressured by their narratives of and religion, and Julien’s controlling narrative takes on the form of an addiction to an immensely popular online video game. He sees his time as better spent in a virtual world, and he is abrasive to others in reality.

As Andy might describe, “He’s thrown something away and he’s mean” (80).

Each of the character’s controlling narratives correspond to their role in the novel’s plot.

The inciting incident for each of them is a bee sting. As bees have been declared extinct, the situations of these five people at the time of their stings are of critical importance. There are two common denominators of all five characters’ circumstances. The first is that they are each engaged in some form of communication directly related to their controlling narratives at the time of their respective stings: Zack participates in a video chat while operating his combine tractor, Harj gives an interview regarding a website scam he innovated while working, Samantha partakes in an international GPS-centered game to escape her parents’ questioning of her faith,

Diana screams at a neighbor for abusing a dog (and is promptly excommunicated from her church), and Julien exclaims “God, I hate the real world” in response to hearing two gossiping women while playing his video game at an outdoor internet café. Each character is operating within some large narrative, and each interacts with other people. The second shared detail of the characters’ circumstances falls in line with Coupland’s speculative construction of the storyworld. All five, each for their own reasons, refrain from taking Solon, a psycho-

61 pharmaceutical drug of immense, worldwide , reminiscent of Aldous Huxely’s “soma” in Brave New World. Interestingly enough, Huxley’s World State discourages its subjects from spending time alone and pushes soma to quell any unpleasant thoughts and to instead live a mindless, communal existence. Taking Solon causes its users to relinquish all stress and anxiety related to their future, and the five characters who abstain do so in solitude. The characters’ adherence to their narratives, combined with their Solon-free lifestyles, attracts the five last bees on earth.

These five people’s characterization as outsiders is significant in another regard. Similar to Oedipa Maas, the B5’s are people who have lived and operated politically outside the system of the conspiracy they investigate. Oedipa, for example, only learns about the Trystero through various interactions with people that are already familiar with the concept. The B5’s do not learn about the conspiracy theory until the end of the novel, but they are nonetheless unique in their societies by way of their refusal of Solon, and this unique position explicitly allows them, following Harj’s lead, to uproot and identify the vast conspiracy that creates their dystopia. Harj becomes the contemporary conspiracy theorist. In stark opposition to Hofstadter and his

“paranoid style;” neither Harj nor any of the other B5’s have any interest in politics, nor are they shown to be paranoid. Hofstadter’s conception of the paranoiac conspiracy theorist was consistently one of a political right-winger, in the vein Dr. Hilarius, Mike Fallopian and the Peter

Pinguid Society, and the John Birch Society. Harj’s conspiracy theory is not a politically- oriented one, nor does he indicate any specific political leanings. Rather, his is akin to Mark

Fenster’s description of populist conspiracy theories, in nature, if not scope. As Fenster notes,

“The two approaches to conspiracy theory [traditionally used] view it as specifically political practice,” referring to Hofstadter’s paranoid style as symbolist, and the other as the left-

62 progressives (83). Fenster argues that each of these approaches fail to properly account for the populist conspiracy theorist, whose theories do not “express a political identity,” and may

“correctly or at least not inaccurately describe a political order in which power is concentrated and unaccountable” (85, 90). Harj and the B5’s, though not motivated politically, indeed uncover and describe a conspiratorial system that, as I will later discuss, houses unaccounted for and hyper-centralized political and social power. Fenster’s critique of Hofstadter is helpful to keep in mind when examining contemporary conspiracy theory, as it is now evident that the modern conspiracy theorist need not espouse any such “paranoid style” or associate their theories with any particular political movement.

This speculative temporal fear is a critical departure of theme from Generation X. Andy,

Dag, and Claire express little anxiety about their future. Dag is preoccupied with the notion of a nuclear apocalypse, but this takes the form of literary fascination as a what-if scenario, and is used in his stories. It represents a historical narrative holdover from the then-recently ended Cold

War. The titular subculture of Generation X is concerned less with narratives of the future, and more with the narratives of the past, and their bearing on the present. However, the world changed drastically in the decades following the novel’s publication.

Solon is Coupland’s speculative reification of postmodern humanity’s ever-increasing spatio-temporal distortion. As the theme of narrative develops, Generation A makes this distortion obvious, and it is all too telling that it does not read as , but a relatively believable novel set in contemporary society. Solon seems to be the inevitable result of technological encroachment upon the domain of humanity: personal communication. As the internet’s capabilities for information-transmission obliterate the boundaries of space and time,

Generation A charts the effects of these changes on people. The result is a populace that is

63 intolerably impatient at best, and at worst terrified of anything imperceptible in the here and the now. This is a fictional drug so appropriately tailored to a postmodern patient that that the imaginary result is frightening. Indeed, not even the name “Solon” is incidental. In Lives of the

Noble Greeks, Plutarch discusses Solon, a legislative innovator in modern . Considered by many to be the father of modern democracy, Solon says in an exchange with Croesus,

. The gods, O king, have given the Greeks all other in moderate degree; and so our

wisdom, too, is … not a noble and kingly wisdom; and this, observing the numerous

misfortunes that attend all conditions, forbids us to grow insolent upon our present

enjoyments … For the uncertain future has yet to come [and] to salute as happy one that

is still in the midst of life and hazard, we think as little safe and conclusive as to crown

and proclaim as victorious the wrestler that is yet in the ring. (Plutarch 103)

The drug is named for one of the most influential forerunners of democracy--oft-considered among the most cherished and heralded contemporary western life--a man who championed living one’s life in the here and now as a means to maintain happiness. Solon claims that the Greeks’ wisdom lies in their respect for and appreciation of the present, and equates concern for “the uncertain future” as a trait reserved for royalty or ingrates. The drug, then, represents the man’s distaste with future-oriented thoughts at the cost of squandering the present. About 2,610 years after the man dies, Solon takes the form of a psycho-pharmaceutical drug to counteract the ill-effects of a media prescribed information-overdose on an all too eager populace.

Solon, then, is also the imagined result of the media culture boom occurring in between each novel’s publication. Over the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the world simultaneously and paradoxically shrank and separated. This was the era that bore witness to the

64 of the internet as western society’s most influential medium, as well as widespread cellular telephone usage. Seemingly everyone acquired a device, and every device was digitally connected. As Coupland demonstrates, the narrative that “everyone is now connected” is a falsehood of the gravest sense. The first half of Generation A charts the exploits of five unrelated people, or, the B5s as they come to be known, in an isolated world, united only by the fact that they are speaking, and not overdosing on twenty-first-century technological isolationism.

The presumed extinction of the bees plays a central role in the novel’s implications of future communication, though the seeming arbitrariness of this event is not fully explained through any of the character’s interactions with the various scientists they meet. As George Yule discusses in The Study of Language, there are six fundamental properties of human language and communication: arbitrariness, productivity, cultural transmission, reflexivity, duality, and displacement. Other species of animals may display some of these traits, but only humans display all six. Of special importance among these properties is displacement, which is among the most exclusive of the six. Humans are among the very few species known to make use of it.

Yule writes, “[With displacement,] humans can refer to past and future time … It allows language users to talk about things and events not present in the immediate environment [and even] about things and places whose existence we cannot even be sure of” (Yule 9). This ability is separate from commentary on the observed environment; most species with the capability for inter-communication have the ability to transmit information about the immediate environment.

Essentially, displacement gives people the ability to tell stories, whether true or false, for any purpose.

The extinction of the bees is directly related to the property of displacement. Aside from humans, bees are among the only other species that exhibit it. This was discovered by Karl von

65

Frisch, known at the time of his death as the world’s foremost expert on bees. Von Frisch, previously noted for discovering that bees could perceive differences in color, published “The

Dance Language and Orientation of Bees” in 1967. This publication would later earn him the

Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1973. In his field-changing work, The Dance

Language and Orientation of Bees, Von Frisch explains that bees could communicate with one another by variations in their “dances,” including the “round dance” and the “tail-wagging dance” (von Frisch 149-150). Variation in bees foraging dances reveals to their fellow hive- mates information ranging from the distance of the food source from the hive, how much time has passed since the bee witnessed the food source, and how much remaining nectar appears to be within the food source. Among the many important implications of these findings are that humans share the linguistic property of displacement with bees; foraging dances prove that bees can essentially ‘tell stories’ related to things separated by time and space. Yule concedes the point, though only partially:

We could look at bee communication as a small exception because it seems to have some

version of displacement … when a honeybee finds a source of nectar and returns to the

beehive, it can perform a complex dance routine to communicate to the other bees the

location of this nectar … but it is displacement of a very limited type. It just doesn’t have

the range of possibilities found in human language. (9)

Citing the limitations concerning only “the most recent food source,” Yule discounts the sophistication of displacement in bees (9). Here, however, Yule’s position relies on the assumption that practical, foraging-related activities are bees’ only motivation for dance communication. He therefore understates the overall complexity of bees’ displacement. Meredith

Root-Bernstein counters this in her own essay on the subject, demonstrating that bees’ use of

66 dances in communication extends beyond von Frisch’s findings and previously held assumptions. She writes,

A common misunderstanding is that if a displacement activity is functional at the level of

a discrete behaviour (i.e. the displacement behaviour is a response to an external

stimulus), it cannot also have a function at the level of the interaction between

motivational states or behavioural sequences. However … displacement activities reduce

stress [and] also respond to background stimulation … The results of the present study

provide positive evidence for a role specifically during a motivational transition.

Because bees use displacement in their communication for practical and motivational concerns, they are actually far closer to humans in communication than Yule imagines. Bees can communicate via displacement as a means for reducing stress. Similarly, I may communicate with a colleague regarding the most direct route to an important administrative building in the university. In that same conversation, however, I may just as well tell her a humorous anecdote about an encounter I had on that same route earlier in the day. Although bees’ use of displacement obviously lacks the same level of maturity as humans’, they do make use of the fundamental linguistic prerequisite for storytelling, and it is no coincidence that bees and storytelling die out simultaneously in Generation A. Society’s desire to block out its future- anxiety with pharmaceutical drugs directly cause the demise of a species. Solon blocks the ability of people to think about the future; they only think of the here and now, which removes their linguistic capability of displacement, which is key to storytelling. The byproduct of Solon production renders these same effects unto bees, who then lose their ability to function as a hive.

As is ultimately revealed in the plot, Solon was originally derived from a neuroprotein that formed in the brains of test-group participants reading Finnegan’s Wake. As the novel is

67 notorious for its narrative disruption of linear spacetime, associating it with the downfall of humanity is likely a playful literary in-joke on Coupland’s part. However, the wide-scale production of the drug is a symbolically ironic act in its own right; as humanity crafts a way to avoid worrying about its future, it directly forces an ecologically critical species to extinction, creating nothing if not a crucial reason to worry about the future, and yet the medicated populace continues to take their drugs to punctuate their lifeless conversations. Humanity is unable to save the bees, who lost their ability to function as a hive mind, partially because humanity itself is unable to effectively work together. Another important implication here is the alignment of bees with humanity by way of their shared relationship with lingual displacement, and therefore storytelling. Of course, the bee extinction acts as side-effect, and their place in the novel is not as a call for empathy. Humanity’s desire to forget the future, as influenced by technology and media-culture, is an unnatural one, and storytelling is a large part of what makes people human.

Generation A is, at its heart, not an eco-thriller, but a dystopian novel. Bees losing the ability to act as a hive mind runs parallel to people’s steadily decreasing ability to have meaningful conversations with one another. For the first half of the novel, form reflects content, and there are few examples of prominent metanarration to speak of.

The place of storytelling and metanarration within Generation A moves to the forefront at the novel’s halfway point. The B5s have been stung and are promptly collected via government helicopters to be isolated underground and tested. Months after the mysterious organization responsible for their containment (later revealed to be the manufacturer of Solon) releases them, some feel the need to contact and meet with one another. This is the one of the first instances of a strictly voluntary desire for legitimate human connection to appear in the novel. For reasons unbeknownst to them, they are again gathered by the organization’s handlers, and taken to a

68 remote island village off the coast of northwestern British Columbia. This location is not incidental, as it is home to the isolated Haida people, as well as the site of the last known active beehive. From a practical and poetic perspective, this is the ideal place for Coupland to introduce social storytelling into the novel.

Storytelling in Generation A is distinct from Generation X in two aspects. First, it is not performed for recreation and interconnection as in Generation X. Nor is its purpose akin to stress relief, like Bernstein’s of bees. It is mandated by Serge, a scientist and handler for the group. Under Serge’s direction, the B5s are sequestered in an abandoned cabin and made to sit in a circle and begin telling each other stories. This entire operation, comprising most of the second half of the novel, is all performed under the pretense that this is somehow part of a mission important for the betterment of humanity. Serge withholds nearly all pertinent details, simply sitting in a corner and taking notes while the B5s tell their stories. This entire situation is far from conducive to spontaneous creativity. The second major distinction lies in the habits of the tellers themselves. Unlike Andy, Dag, and Claire, the B5s are not accustomed to storytelling, nor is there much indicating they possess even nearly a similar degree of social competence.

Resultantly, the sheer quality of the B5s’ stories is beneath that of their counterparts in

Generation X.

The B5s initial stories are simple, often pointless, and juvenile. Julien’s first story,

“Coffinshark the Unpleasant Meets the Stadium of ,” is of particular note on this point. He introduces it by claiming it was intended as a joke. Then, he holds up his PDA, and exclaims that he “generate(d) millions of story titles using the uncountable numbers of online plot and character generators … All levels of culture, high, low, Marxist, and bourgeois” (170). This program also allows him to generate randomized literary character-sketches. Julian’s PDA

69 describes this “Coffinshark” as a “sinful male vampire” that can “turn into a jaguar” and has an

“eel-like tongue” (170). Sam replies first, recognizing that this program, effectively, is “sort of like the death of culture, isn’t it? The death of books. The death of the individual hero. The death of the individual, period” (170). Although this was not a story Julian actually created, the initial quality of the other characters’ stories suggest he may not have produced a much higher quality story anyway. Computer-generated storytelling in this society contains just as much evidence of humanity as a real human’s story. Julien’s was created from a cold, spatially immense network of wires and wireless connections However, the stories gradually become more complex, echoing the stories of Generation X in form and, most important, function.

As the B5s’ stories grow in length, meaning, and complexity, their tellers interact more and become friendlier. By discussing and commenting on each other’s stories, they become true metanarrators; their tales start to display influences from those that preceded, and they even seem to be getting to know one another in the process. Serge becomes more alert to these changes, an important plot point. Rather than natural preference for a more stimulating story, his interest seems conspicuous. Harj, the most perceptive of the B5s, begins subtly piecing together clues.

Without yet revealing it, Harj begins to form the novel’s conspiracy theory, and his forthcoming stories all begin to reveal his suspicions. In Harj’s first story, called “Nine Point Zero,” a king surveys his kingdom from the comfort of a hot-air balloon when a large earthquake decimates his kingdom, and “After fifteen minutes, there was nothing left to destroy. All the buildings were gone. All statues, all towers, all laboratories, all movie theatres [were gone]”

(184). When the king lands, he discovers that all of his kingdom’s survivors have lost the ability to read, except for him. A few people approach him, including a former high school teacher, who says, “I’m glad at least one person is able to read [to help] rebuild from scratch everything we

70 had before, back to shiny and brand new, as if none of this had ever happened!” (186). He responds by writing “The king is dead” with his finger on a dust-covered windshield. Harj’s first story details one man isolated in an entirely illiterate society, indicative of the B5’s and their lack of Solon being asked to use the stories to rebuild the world. Serge’s response to this story is not revealed, but Harj’s very first story shows similarities with the Solon conspiracy theory.

Harj’s next story is called “The Man Who Lost His Story,” and the titular character “lost the sense that his life had a beginning, a middle, and an end” (219). Harj reestablishes immediately the eerie similarity with his society, as Solon’s effects obviously blur temporal distinctions. Harj’s description of this condition, that the man “got to a point… when he realized that none of his dots connected to make a larger picture,” is remarkably similar to Dag’s reasoning for retreating from his everyday life’s adherence to the values of dominant culture, as he explains “My life had become a series of scary instances that simply weren’t stringing together to make for an interesting book” (220, 31). Harj’s second story now features a man desperate for "a story,” again similar to the B5’s, who are desperate to come up with the stories

Serge needs. Harj’s character goes to a learning annex to learn Tae Bo in the that it would

“loan his life a unique narrative edge,” but is told by a woman working there that “the hardest things in the world are being unique and having your life be a story…our modern, fame-driven culture, with its 24/7 marinade of electronic information, demands a lot from its citizens, and poses great obstacles to narrative” (219). Harj has now indicated a subtle awareness of technology and media’s relationship to the conspiracy theory, but his parallels continue. When the man returns to the learning annex, telling the woman he wants to take drastic action, she leads him to the back room. There, the man is beaten by thugs and thrown into a time machine, which Bev activates and calibrates for the thirteenth century, because, as she explains, “They’re

71 running low on people there, so every extra we send them is a big help” (224). Harj ends his story by finally revealing a shady operation based on the desire for storytelling and temporal displacement, lingual and literal.

Harj concludes the group’s storytelling session with his story, “The Liar.” This marks the revelation for storytelling in Generation A, the moment when the stories functionally go beyond even their counterparts in Generation X. Like Andy, Dag, and Claire before him, Harj’s interactions through storytelling and subsequent metanarration reveal a new narrative, in this case, a conspiracy theory: “The Liar” is a true story about Serge. Harj discovers that Serge orchestrated their first post-stinging quarantine to “place his subjects in a controlled environment for several weeks, where he and his team were able to extract bodily fluids at will,” and that their second and current isolation is but a continuation of the original tests (258). After the B5s charge and restrain a fleeing Serge, he confesses, telling them that their brains produce an extremely rare neuroprotein that increases in potency when they tell stories. This would have allowed him to continue production of Solon at low costs. Harj breaks the hold of a controlling narrative through storytelling that leads to conspiracy theory, uproots the sinister designs of a corrupt figure, and simultaneously redirects the plot of the novel and circumvents the confining nature of the mandated storytelling by Serge and the novel itself. Narrated in the past tense about the exact present, Harj’s revelatory conspiracy theory ends,

The stung people trusted the scientist completely, and were they about to find out what

he’d been up to, they’d be shocked. The gods were certainly shocked! And the gods

certainly had no idea what would happen to our scientist once the five test subjects

learned the truth about their captivity. Fortunately, one of them [Harj himself] was a

lighthearted character who most people assumed was harmless and clueless. In fact, he

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was a good observer—good at locating patterns and assembling odd facts to reveal a

larger picture. This subject was happy to be with a new family, but, like the gods, was

unsure of what would happen next. (258)

The symbolism of storytelling as displacement comes to fruition, here, as all the preceding stories the group told were both fictional and set in different places and times, and each build up to this tale. The act of storytelling literally enables Harj to perceive the powers operating around them. As a direct result of storytelling and displacement, Harj is able to surmise the conspiratorial events of the past that shaped the sinister operation in the present. He crafts the perfect conspiracy theory, proven true by Serge’s admission, and precisely identifies the sinister plot behind the novel’s overarching conflict. Harj becomes the metanarrational hero by way of conspiracy theory.

Coupland’s fascination with storytelling seems to have remained largely unchanged over the eighteen-year span between the publications of Generation X and A. Unfortunately, society’s fascination with storytelling has all but dissipated, and the resultant novel, Generation A, reads more as realistic fiction than dystopian fiction. By examining each novel through the lens of metanarration and narrative analysis, Generation A stands as depressing artifact of the Internet

Age’s tendency to distort humanity’s conceptions of space and time, thereby undermining our ability to mitigate the damage done to interpersonal communication by way of enlightened discussion and storytelling, as well as open and fair consideration of legitimate conspiracy theory. This novel represents its societal context so poignantly that it begs for further analysis from scholars of literary criticism and cultural studies. It has received conspicuously little attention thus far, but when understood as an indictment of postmodern communication, it opens many avenues for further research. Among the most potentially fruitful inquiries, I believe, is a

73 neurological examination of the relationship between grand metanarratives and interpersonal, oral storytelling, and the effects they have on a person’s imagination and capacity to perceive things outside the immediacy of their own space and time. Generation A presents us with an opportunity to, at the very least, identify the influence of master narratives in our lives. At best, we just may be able to detach ourselves from all the invisible puppet strings shooting through the air. Formerly brushed off as the juvenile musings of comically reactionary paranoids, conspiracy theory may in fact be considered an entirely valid mode of literary and cultural inquiry.

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