In which the Orange Monk looks back over the First Part of M. Verne’s novel before pushing onward into the Second, and in which bets are taken in a pugilistic bout betwixt Dr. Faustus and Sir Francis Bacon
Captain’s blog 032910
I haven’t checked in with the narrative in a little while. While this is partly due to a surge in work activity over the past few weeks, the truth is that my enthusiasm for 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is at an ebb-tide.
The main problem, as I see it, is two-fold:
- a lack of any discernible plot, and thus any purposeful forward motion. Aronnax frequently describes Captain Nemo’s course as aimless or whimsical, and the narrative suffers consequently.
- in the void left by plot, we have instead tedious taxonomies, and litanies of sea-life. Often, the book reads more like a thinly-disguised Houghton-Mifflin marine biology textbook, than like the adventure-lit I crave.
There are moments of excitement, such as a scene in which Aronnax, Conseil and Ned Land spend a day on Gueboroar Island, off of Papua New Guinea. They run into cannibals (classic), and things shake down here pretty much the way they do in the Disney film version, much to my surprise.
All too often, though, the reading experience more closely resembled the following passage, sampled from early in Part II of the novel:
From the daily notes kept by Mr. Conseil, I also retrieve certain fish from the genus Tetradon peculiar to those waters: some southern puffers with red backs and white chests that can be identified by their three longitudinal rows of filaments; and some jugfish, seven inches long and decked out in the most vivid colors. And then some specimens of other genera: some blowfish resembling a dark brown egg, with white bands and no tail; some globefish, genuine porcupines of the sea, supplied with stings and able to inflate themselves until they form a pincushion bristling with darts; sea horses common to all the oceans; some flying dragonfish with long muzzles and highly distended pectoral fins shaped like wings, which enable them, if not to fly, at least to spring into the air; some spatula-shaped paddlefish with tails covered with many scaly rings; snipefish with long jaws, excellent fish 25 centimeters long, glittering with pleasant colors; some livid dragonets with wrinkled heads; myriads of jumping blennies, with black stripes and and long pectoral fins, gliding over the surface of the sea with prodigious speed; delicious sailfish that can hoist their fins and use them like sails to catch a favorable current; splendid nursery fish over which Nature has showered yellow, azure, silver, and gold; some yellow mackerel with wings made of filaments; bullheads forever mud-spattered and able to make hissing sounds; sea robins whose livers are believed to be poisonous; some ladyfish that can flutter their movable eyelids; finally, some archerfish with long tubular snouts, genuine flycatchers of the sea, armed with a rifle unforeseen by either Remington or Chassepot: it can kill insects by shooting them with a simple drop of water.”
I assume you skimmed that paragraph, and I can’t blame you. I almost decided against transcribing the whole thing, except I just had to share how large a paragraph it was, talking about nothing but species of fish. And guess what? There’s another paragraph just like this one after it.
I’m not much of a science-fiction reader, but as I immerse myself in Verne’s novel, I’m finding out that he is often cited as the grandfather of “hard” science-fiction. (By contrast, his British contemporary, H.G. Wells, is credited with “soft” science-fiction.) “Hard” science-fiction is “characterized by an emphasis on scientific or technical detail, or on scientific accuracy, or on both” (according to Wikipedia). The classification is meant to also reference the “hard” and “soft” sciences, or natural and social sciences. In either case, this description suits Jules Verne perfectly. Arthur C. Clarke is supposedly a great admirer of Verne’s, and a carrier of the hard SF torch lit by him, and that’s probably why I’ve ready a lot more Bradbury than Clarke.
Hard SF isn’t really my thing. When I look up “soft science fiction” on Wikipedia, I see a further breakdown of genre types, including planetary romance, space opera, and something called “sword and planet” (haha!). Apparently, these are more my cup of tea: I’ve heard Star Wars, of which I am a huge fan, referred to many times as a “space opera.” It’s definitely not very rigorous on the scientific details! Having uncovered this separation in science fiction, I can now say I’m looking forward to the books on my shelf by H. Rider Haggard, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Leigh Brackett — less so to The Mysterious Island, Verne’s sequel to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Still, the novel currently being examined is not without interest. Professor Aronnax and Captain Nemo are coming to gradually represent subtly differing views on science. Thanks to the editor’s notes in my edition, I’ve learned that the conflict Verne refers to is an established one, called Faustian man vs. Baconian man. Aronnax represents the Baconian view of science, namely that science should benefit the community, and is worthless unless it is being shared in the spirit of collaboration and furthering humanity. By contrast, Captain Nemo is a Faustian figure who guards his scientific findings closely, using them for his own benefit. It’s a contest between a Medieval way of thinking and an Enlightened one, and one which I find interesting. The editor’s note points out that in our current post World War II society, where scientific findings have significant ramifications on national security and even the success of major corporations over their competitors, the debate is still alive, and the Faustian approach is still a force to be reckoned with. This seems like a worthwhile discussion point, and if I have any readers passing through who have an opinion one way or the other, I’d love to hear it. Please feel free to make use of the comments, and keep the debate alive!
My gut says Faustian. My romantic side says Baconian baby.
Interesting. I must have a romantic gut, because mine says Baconian. It’s when I start rationalizing things like national security and proprietary secrets that I begin to drift toward the Faustian model…
Since Faustian Man and Baconian Man are more products of our socio-cultural idola (which distort fiction as if fact), rather than actual individuals of any historic veracity, our induction can only proceed from what is true. A true Baconian must shed such assumptive syllogistic thought (which might pretense that Faustian Man or Baconian Man exist). We then come to realize that this discourse cannot proceed within our present reality. The higher intellect that honestly follows the precepts of Bacon cannot therefore inveigle itself in such a debate. Consequently, Bacon wins and Faust can suck it.
I enjoy this comment on many levels. Unfortunately, I comprehend it on few. Why must we reject the concepts of Faustian Man and Baconian Man? No one is claiming those are two real people (Sir Francis Bacon most certainly is real, but I will concede Faust as a work of fiction). Rather, those are terms being used to describe a mode of thought. In the matter of atomic power, for example, scientists (or the governments which sponsor their work) very reasonably tend to be Faustian Men (so to speak); in matters such as cancer research or global warming, the tendency is toward the Baconian. Or do you still contend that these are useless terms to apply to matters of ethics within the scientific community?
I was just applying Baconian theory to get around actually answering your (and Verne’s) otherwise worthwhile question (Baconian methodology turns out to be limited to literalism).
Scientific progress sometimes requires the mad individual in the lab ignoring what the scientific community has to say. If all science was bound to its social significance or public interest, nothing truly outside of the proverbial box could be accomplished. If you published that you could and wanted to clone humans, society and even your peers would flip out and crush you. Equally, Faustians are universalists, in that they attempt to do all fields of science often in tandem, whereas Bacon loved over-specialization, which creates one-directional progress but limits perspective.
Meanwhile, science could die in a generation without the Baconian utopia. Such work made science into a living, continuous entity beyond the limits of an individual’s short life. With teams of specialists interacting and publishing science can be both helped but hindered depending on the openness of the community.
Note that science can turn immoral or at least amoral under both Faustian and Baconian ideals. Bacon himself supported genocidal eugenics (weeding out the lesser masses), his method needs to view morals as situational, and his scientific utopia was also pro-government, in that scientific progress like the Manhattan Project could not happen without a government that considered an A-Bomb morally justified (all of which to Bacon was relative to the society it came from).
For Verne, a product himself of the Baconian world, Faustian thinking leads to failure (much as Faust’s deal with the devil ends him). Yet Verne still idolizes the extremes that a Nemo can accomplish. Similar conflicts turn to drama for the likes Mary Shelly, Arthur C. Clarke and others who are in love with the scientific progress of Faustians but fear the moral limits.
Either way, amorality is in the eye of the beholder.
Ok, so according to A, my gut NOW says Baconian. My romantic side says Faustian baby.
…because nothing says Romance like trading your soul to the Devil in exchange for second-youthfulness!
I had no idea that this “hard and soft” sci-fi was such a thing. My world is turned upside down or is it softside hard. Dunno, but it changes the way I view sci-fi.
Also, the above comments are very entertaining. Just a bonus for an already awesome blog entry.
I love the Faust vs. Bacon image!
Do you take your sci-fi hard-boiled? Soft-boiled? Over-easy? Or Sunny-side-up?