Today, Worldbinding is part of the Bloody Valentine Blog Hop. Blog hops allow various bloggers to write about similar topics and then link amongst themselves. You can hop to the other participants’ blogs at the end of this post.
Will They or Won’t They?
One of my biggest pet peeves in fiction — both on screen and on the page — is when romantic tension as a subplot begins to undermine and subvert the main plot.
That’s not to say that characters shouldn’t have relationships. But Valentine’s Day is the perfect time to admit I’m sick of the artificial sappiness!
“Will they or won’t they?” is one of the oldest plots there is, but my specific beef with it is when it starts as a subplot, then goes on to dominate and destroy the story. There’s a time and place for romance as the main plot… that’s what the romance genre is for!
The perfect example is the TV show Castle. Season One started out well enough for a CSI clone, with a new twist on the also-classic whodunnit plot. Like all long-running TV series, it had its problems, but a covered up conspiracy and other plot arcs added complexity to regular crime de jour episodes.
But as it went on, the plot became less about mystery and more about romance. The romantic tension built to a crescendo, until it completely eclipsed the main plot. In short, Castle was no longer a crime/mystery show. It became a romance. Why did they do this? Was it fan service?
When you pick up a book, you know what genre it is, whether thriller, romance, science fiction, etc. You probably also know its subgenre: a techno-thriller, a paranormal romance, an alternate history.
But when you begin reading, you may not be aware that the book contains graphic scenes of rape and torture.
Before we examine rape and torture in literature, let me first say: Good fiction does tend to make us uncomfortable. It takes us out of our comfort zones and makes us think. Science fiction and fantasy in particular make us consider the big “What If?” questions.
The Swarm roller coaster by Aspex Design / Dean Thorpe | Flickr
We imagine what it’s like to live in the 1700s, to be the unfairly ostracized member of the family, to be the first human to encounter aliens, to experience life as an immortal, to be the most powerful… and the most powerless.
How does fiction do this? By putting us on the front seat of the roller coaster — with viewpoint characters. Through fiction we live a thousand vicarious lives.
Literary scholars and readers alike have remarked on how glorious the act of reading is, that we can experience all these things from the comfort of an armchair.
But a book is not a static object. It’s a dynamic world, alive within us. So what happens if that world is a dystopia, or if the land is torn apart through magic, or if the viewpoint character, who is the surrogate for the reader, is killed?
My Preferred Genres
Before I go on, I should mention that my preferences fall heavily in the speculative fiction genre. I’ll read books and watch movies in just about any subgenre in science fiction and fantasy.
But I don’t like horror. And I may watch a romantic comedy, but it’s rare that I’ll edge into reading romance, even if it could be considered SF or fantasy, i.e. paranormal romance. I also haven’t found much urban fantasy I’ve enjoyed. And literary fiction is 100% dead to me.
Why don’t I read those genres? The easiest answer is that I don’t like the way they make me feel.
Horror fills me revulsion or terror… and my paranoid imagination is well-oiled already, thanks. Romance feels manipulative, and if reading is truly a collaboration between the writer and the reader, then romance is way too intimate for my tastes. Literary fiction never seems to take me anywhere interesting…
I hope that gives some context to the rest of this post.
I’ve most recently readThe Windup Girl, so we’ll start there. We don’t meet the windup girl until Chapter 3, which is where we also first see her raped — from her viewpoint. It’s made clear that this is nothing new, the patrons don’t consider her a human, and her humiliation is nothing more than entertainment.
Now, plenty of books try to introduce the violence of the world early so that you know what you’re getting yourself into later on. It acts as a signpost. Turn back now if you can’t handle this, it reads.
Daughter of the Blood starts out with a horrible act of torture in Chapter 1, in which the leader of a slave revolt is locked up and helpless as rats eat into his privates.
Son of Avonar starts out bleak and continues to grind the reader into depression all the way through to the inevitable torture scene in the middle of the book. And yet you get the sense there’s something else going on here, something that will make the unrelenting ominous nature of the book worthwhile.
But other books are not kind enough to warn their readers of the impending violence.
In Lord Foul’s Bane, Thomas Covenant is transported to a different world where he is no longer a leper. Certainly there is suffering in the first chapters of the book, but in Chapter 7 Covenant abruptly rapes a young virgin girl who has treated him with nothing but kindness, acting as his guide. (Not that there would have been any justification regardless, but in contrast with her virtue, the rape is deeply disturbing.)
Many readers stop at that point and never get around to reading the rest of the Convenant series. I did too. Why would I want to read a series in which the main character is a rapist? That’s taking the definition of anti-hero a little too far. The main character is supposed to be someone we’re interested in watching, and although he doesn’t have to be sympathetic, it’s hard to care what happens to him if you have no respect for his character any longer.
Why the Graphic Violence?
Generally, rape and torture in fiction serves to further the plot or show character development. For instance, in The Windup Girl, Emiko is reshaped by the daily humiliation she is forced to suffer. She overcomes the programming written into her very being as a windup — her DNA — and slaughters a roomful of men.
However, I would argue it wasn’t necessary for the reader to have to see an additional scene of debasement before her transformation. The rape is again described in horrifying detail, leaving me feeling dirty just for touching the book.
What really bothers me, though, is when there doesn’t seem to be a purpose to the violent act. The best example I can think of this is in The Warded/Painted Man. The viewpoint character watches his female traveling companion being accosted by highwaymen. He knows what they are about to do but is helpless to stop it. They knock him unconscious, and when he wakes up, he sees the results.
So although I appreciated not having to witness the girl’s humiliation in that scene, it didn’t seem to serve much of a purpose in the larger scale of things. Instead, it distanced me from the book, because (if I recall correctly) it’s only a day or two later that the girl beds down the the warded man. Unrealistic, if she’d just been violently raped a few days before.
The Effect on the Reader
(The debate has raged on about whether violence in books, movies, and video games desensitizes people to violence, or makes them more aggressive. So enough has been said on that topic. I’m more interested in how it affects a reader’s enjoyment of the book.)
Plenty of readers, literary critics, and authors alike have reflected on why we read and how it affects us as people. Through reading, we vicariously learn about others’ experiences, even if those experiences are fictional.
Fiction gives us a chance to imagine how scenarios could turn out in the playgrounds of our minds. This may be one reason why other types of graphic violence (in a battle scene, for instance), don’t disturb me at all.
Studies have also shown that reading causes us to take the experiences in the books into ourselves, which is why violence in fiction can be so disturbing. When the reader and writer have jointly shaped the world, a disturbingly graphic scene can make the reader feel like screaming, “How could you do this to me?”
As in Lord Foul’s Bane, a graphic scene sometimes knocks me completely out of the story, making me feel angry at the author for planting those thoughts in my head. The reader falls back into the real world, and the story is shattered.
So I would also say graphic rape and torture also tend to make me less likely to seek out books by that author again. Although I loved the world of The Warded Man, I’m on the fence about reading The Desert Spear. I’m a little leery of Paolo Bacigalupi’s work right now as well.
On the other hand, if the payoff is big enough, I may read the rest of a series, as in the case of The Son of Avonar.
Have you ever stopped reading a book because a scene was too graphic? Did you pick up other books by that author again? What kinds of scenes are “deal-breakers” for you?
In college, I wrote a story called “Sweet Dreams” about a girl who meets her clone. My science fiction and fantasy writing instructor’s major critique: It didn’t seem very futuristic. Other than cloning technology, I hadn’t extrapolated how other technologies might change in the future.
A lack of extrapolation isn’t always a problem, of course. In experimental or didactic sci-fi, a realistic future isn’t as important since the themes and ideas in the story are the point.