Sometimes I wonder how we all got here.

To a state in the world where the very air we breathe is toxic. I pull my mask back up over my mouth and push on through the abandoned aisles of the local convenience store. Any more than a few moments in this air without a mask, and my lungs will collapse.

Since the Third World War, sickness has been running rampant throughout countries. For a while, it seemed like we may have been able to flatten the curve of those infected and stop the spread. But the sickness just worsened and spread further throughout the Earth. The air became contaminated, and those who didn’t wear some form of filtration fell ill and died in large numbers.

Now here we are. A few stragglers among dilapidated cities, struggling to find enough necessities to survive.

I rummage through the near-empty shelves in hopes of finding something to eat that isn’t from the forest and that I must skin alive to cook. My prayers are answered as I pull out a can of bready noodles in indistinguishable red sauce. But I can’t eat it here. If I inhale any more poison, I may not make it back to base camp.

So instead of digging into it ravenously, like I want to, I shove the can into my satchel and begin skirting my way back towards the front door. I blink away the dark spots flitting across my vision as I fail to breathe in enough suitable oxygen and grip the door handle to keep from falling.

The feeling of suffocating fades after a few moments, and I am back on my way. I cross the street, glancing up at the abandoned buildings with a nostalgic tug on my heart. Everything is so different now. It’s crazy to think that nothing will ever be the same after this. It hasn’t been for nearly four years, anyway, so I don’t know why I’m complaining.

Maybe because I’m about ready to give up entirely. The world isn’t what it used to be, and I see no signs of anything getting any better, so why try?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that weigh so heavily on me, and turn to soak in the remaining shafts of sunlight falling through the clouds.

That night, in my plywood lean-to with plastic sheets draped overhead, I light a candle and pull the can of noodles out of my leather satchel.

I mumble a prayer under my breath and then crack open the lid, grimacing as the smell seeps through my cotton mask and into my nose. Being careful not to cut my fingers on the edge of the metal can, I snatch a scoop of noodles from inside and carefully slip my mask down just long enough to toss the food into my mouth and then yank it back up. The noodles are cold and slimy as I swallow, and my mask quickly fills with hot air as I try to breathe and chew at the same time.

I repeat the process until the can is empty, and I promptly dunk it in the tub of dirty water sitting outside of my lean-to shelter. I reread the same novel I’ve had since society collapsed: Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. I’m almost able to speak French from reading it so many times, and by the time I finish two chapters, my stomach is cramping so bad I must lie down.

Maybe it was stupid to eat something from a dented can that expired two years ago.

I toss and turn for the rest of the night, stopping only to vomit into the dead bushes behind my camp multiple times. By morning, my head is throbbing, and my face is blotchy. I wander down to the river and swish some brown water in my mouth in an attempt to get the bitter taste of old food out.

It doesn’t work, and I smell the rancid odour within my mask for the rest of the day until I find some wild strawberries and devour them.

It isn’t until the next night that I realise the sickness I’m feeling must not be from the canned noodles at all.

It’s the sickness in the air. I took my mask off more than usual that day anyways, and I must have wandered closer to a heavily infected area. My head swims as I make the realization, and I decide to head for the next town over. I’ve heard rumors of small communities within the remains of old towns or farms. Maybe they would let me in.

And maybe one of them can help me get rid of the sickness.

I am going to leave today. I have lived here for the past six months, and I was all alone for the three years before that, so I don’t know how to feel about going out in search of other people that I don’t want to see. I’d have a higher risk of getting contaminated with others around anyways, and as these thoughts fly through my head, I start to think that maybe I should just call the whole thing off right now.

But I won’t, no matter how much my hands are shaking or how fast my heart is beating. Because I can’t go on like this. I need to be free. I need a fresh start. And this is the only way I know how to get that.

I focus myself as I walk by listing off all the symptoms of the airborne sickness one by one. Weak muscles, swollen joints, red face, dry mouth, loss of voice, brittle fingernail-

My thoughts drop away suddenly as I hear a shriek come from the sky. A kettle of hawks rushes up and out of the dying trees towering above me, swooping in a huge arch, only to dip and dive to the North.

Almost as if they want me to follow them.

I shake my head. Now I’m just making things up. A group of hawks isn’t going to be communicating to me while I search for a group of survivors.

I want desperately to rip the cloth from my face, to take a deep breath like I haven’t gotten to in years, but then my mind fills with the horror stories I was told of the sickness taking unassuming people who wouldn’t wear masks, conspiracy theorists that believed there was no sickness at all. There were ones that coughed up blood or suffocated to death, others that just collapsed and died on the spot, and still others that experienced such debilitating nerve pain that they didn’t even want to live anymore.

These thoughts are the only things keeping my twitching fingers from my mask, and calmly at my sides. The only things keeping me breathing.

The sun begins setting seemingly seconds later, and I hurry to set up a makeshift tent beneath a dead tree and start a fire nearby. The crunching sounds that echo constantly throughout the night keep me awake and tense, unable to think about anything besides the horror that may lie past the orange glow of the fire.

When morning finally comes, I’m shocked by two things. First, that I managed to fall asleep at all during the subtle chorus of bugs and dancing shadows that raged through the night. And second, that it seems my mask fell off at some point during my slumber. For a short moment, I revel in the feeling of cool air against my lips as I blink my eyes open. Then the panic sets in as I realise why I am feeling anything at all. I shoot up from my cramped position beneath the tattered cloth tent held up by mouldy wooden rods and begin scrambling to find my mask. With one hand rummaging among the dead, decaying leaves below me, and the other clamped against my mouth and nose, I search for it in a panicked frenzy.

Finally, there, I see the crusted, dirt-smeared rag in front of me and grab it, pulling the loops up and over my ears to hold it in place. I take huge gulps of dank air as soon as it’s back on my face and try to force my racing pulse to slow.

I’m going far too slow if I want to arrive in any survivor camp before the sickness takes me. It may be too late already. I pull on my mismatched, tight leather shoes and kick at the embers of my fire until all traces of me are long gone. Then I set out once more to find safety.

I say one more prayer under my breath, that I will find a camp before I’m gone forever. No more than a smudge in the world’s dark, sick history.

By the next evening, my feet are throbbing like I walked a mile with nails in my shoes and my eyes are watering like Niagara Falls. Which ironically, was bombed in the war, and is now no more than a pile of rubble in a pit of stagnant water.

I collapse on top of a hill overlooking a darkened field that stretches out for almost three miles. In the quickly dimming evening, I can’t see anything but a small speck that I assume is a bonfire.

My throat feels raw, and I imagine myself passing away quietly as I sleep. Or waking up in a mad panic and trying to claw at the air while my lungs disintegrate.

I blink away the mental image and decide to push on. I can go one more night without sleep if it means I can find a cure.

But the hope that was so palpable three days ago is waning, and I’d rather jump off this hill than take another step. I feel that my journey, my very life itself, is coming to a close, and even my eyes don’t want to stay open to see the next sunrise.

I know if I don’t get down to that community now, I’m going to die. So, I push myself up off the ground, letting my satchel slip from my shoulder and come to rest in the cold grass beneath me. I drag my feet forward, the uneven terrain drawing sharp gasps and cries of pain from me as my legs weaken.

My lungs are beginning to make a high-pitched wheezing sound each time I inhale, and my eyes feel like a thousand pounds of pressure are behind them. The sickness has its hooks in me, and I can’t see any way out now. Even my muttered prayers are too painful to croak out.

It looks like this is the end, for me. All this way, all these years: For nothing. There is no cure, there is no rest, and there are no survivors. These words spiral in my head over and over again as I make my way down the hill and closer to what looks like an arched gate.

No one will be there to greet me, no one will be able to cure me. I take shallow, bitter smelling breaths through my dirty mask as I limp closer to what seemed like a good idea so long ago.

I finally come to a halt at the abandoned gate, falling heavily on my knees, my palms raking across the dirt path below me. I can almost taste the blood in my mouth as my vision fades. All I want is to breathe.

I open my eyes to find two people above me, arms crossed, heads tilted down, sharing whispers. They don’t notice me until I move, and I notice why I feel terror pounding through my veins at an insane rate.

They aren’t wearing masks.

My hand flies up to my uncovered mouth with a gasp. The two people stare at me, eyes wide, and one leans forward, hands outstretched innocently.

“I need a mask,” I say, my hand muffling my panicked words. The woman behind the first tries to hide a smirk, and the other shoots her a stern look.

She turns back to me with a gentle smile.

“You’re alright, now,” she says. I shake my head, sure that I’m inhaling the sickness every second that I sit here.

“No, please-” I start, ready to begin rambling like mad, when she stops me.

“Listen,” she snaps. “The sickness is gone.” For a moment, the world falls away. She nods and continues. “It ended almost three years ago. It just…died out.” She punctuates her sentence with a shrug, and I blink away nervous tears, hand still clasped against my face.

“No, no,” I mumble, shaking my head. “That’s not- I’m infected, I’ve been sick for three days…” The woman shakes her head.

“We did tests with the equipment we have, and you’re perfectly fine,” she assures me. “Could it have been… Have you ever heard of the placebo effect?” I shake my head again, and I’m sure that by now, I look like a plastic bobble head figure. The woman sighs.

“It’s not that- I know I was sick-” I stammer, struggling to breathe past my hand. The woman seems fed up with my rambling and the other intervenes.

“We have a community here,” she explains. “We have livestock, and homes, and gardens where we harvest our own food. It’s amazing.” She blinks a few times. “And there is no more sickness.”

My heart lifts as I picture the possibilities. No more masks and dirty water. I can breathe and sing and laugh and be free. For the first time in years.

But what if it doesn’t last? I can’t go back to hopelessness after being offered a one-way ticket to freedom and family.

As if she read my mind, the woman adds, “If you don’t try, how will you ever know if anything is safe?”

It’s my turn to shrug, and I plead with my eyes for her to give me a mask. They retreat outside the spacious tent, leaving me on a small, padded cot. One of them stops before pushing out the tent flap and says over her shoulder, “Come outside when you’re ready to embrace the revival of our society.” Then she’s gone, and I’m all alone again. I hear laughter and cries of joy outside the tent, and I wonder if it’s true. If the sickness really is gone.

I stand up, keeping my mouth covered for now. But the woman was right, I’m perfectly fine. My legs feel strong, and my eyes are clear. Even my chest feels light.

I push my way out into the light and am shocked to see the beauty of a recovering community. So shocked that my hand falls away from my mouth and I take a deep breath. Everything is bright, and alive. No death sullies the image of greenery and joy before me.

I’ve found it, this beautiful place where I can start over and feel alive once more. I feel brand new, now that I’ve found what I needed so desperately.

A breath of fresh air. My revival.

The hater, my son the hater – enraged by his latest drug of choice – stood on his stepstool in the town square and yelled at us. His topic today was the same as yesterday’s; the words didn’t matter. He hated.

I made the same mistake I made so many times before. I caught his eye. I engaged him and tried to reason with him. I applied logic to emotion with just as much success as quoting the constitution to a swarm of angry bees. Finally, I walked away, humiliated once again by unreason and sorrow. I was aware of nothing but my failure and his hatred, and all day I let myself feel reduced by that encounter.

A new morning came to interrupt my despair. Once again, I walked to the town square. Once again, I tried to reason with unreasoning anger. Once again, I failed. And so it went. Day after day, it went on.

One day, I was stopped by a stranger who asked me the way to the town square. He had heard, he said, of the madman and felt it would be entertaining to watch his antics.

“Why?” I asked him. “Why would you listen to the hatred? Why listen to him standing there on his stool, yelling at us all? Do you think it funny?”

The man sniffed, then spoke clearly and precisely.

“No, not the hater. I mean to watch the madman. The one who argues with the hater. The one who fails every day, but does the same thing the next day, without fail.”

Finally, I saw what I had become, what I could not see while engaged in insanity with the hater. I saw the madman.

That day I did not engage the hater. I did not try to help him. That day I engaged myself on my own behalf so that I would find the life I had lost and my own steps in the eternal dance, not his. That day, I left my son to his madness so that I could address my own. Where before I had never approached the locals, I began conversations with older men and women who tarried in the afternoons, sitting at the sides of the square then in shade and drinking their strong coffees, playing endless games of chance with faded cards and marked dice. I willingly lost small monies to them and bought coffees, and eventually learned of their lives and kin.

Later, many days later, my son again carried his stool to the market square and stood upon it. As he began his tirade, I slipped into my seat at the coffee shop. The old man, the easterner who makes the coffee, brought me a pot and mug and my daily biscuit. Friends came over and we shared silence. I had changed this year, since I stopped trying to change my son, and I gained friends. They were there all along, but I did not see them until I gave myself permission to see something other than him.

There was no use trying to talk until the shouting was done. My son was punctual as any clock, if more obnoxious.

But just then, after only a few minutes, and as I sat there in comforting presence of my friends, the shouting stopped. From one word to the next, it just stopped and the hater stepped down from his stool and began to walk away. He hesitated and looked my way, and my heart thudded but there was nothing more, just a look.

I called for more coffee and my friends and I began to chat about the day ahead, our duties, and what we’d heard of the wider world. I was sad, but I had found some measure of peace since I stopped my own mad attempts to change my son. He was what he was, as was I, and I felt free to live again. It was a gift I had given myself.

After weeks, perhaps months, change began. The hater, having finished his spew, picked up his stool and walked through the square to where I sat. This had happened several times before, and each time I had motioned for my friends to leave. Each time, as they left, the hater turned about and left as well. Each time, I sat alone and cherished my action, my refusal to engage.

I resented his approach. I had come to cherish these mornings with my friends. These were women known as wise within the community and men whose words were heeded. That they had chosen to sit with me, the madman and father of the hater, had astonished me at first. Yet, I could see their calm acceptance and patient tolerance had gone a long way toward reducing the anger most townsfolk felt toward my son and myself. Truth to tell, it had done so for me as well, and I had come to look forward to those mornings as my safe harbor. And now the hater, my son the hater and addict, threatened that as well.

I had enough. That morning I did not ask my friends to leave, and they stayed and watched in calm surmise as the hater approached. As he placed his stool down by us and sat upon it, the wise around me smiled calmly at the hater, then turned their gaze upon me. I felt flushed with anger, near to bursting. I felt that my very survival had been challenged and I rose to spew forth my own hate at this violation of my sanctuary. Then, one of the women spoke, but to the hater, ignoring me and my righteous indignation.

“Welcome, young man. We’ve been waiting for you. Have a seat.”

One of the others, an older man, then turned to me where I stood, fists clenched and shaking with rage and fear.

“You are welcome to stay, of course, as long as you can be calm. We’ve spent many mornings here preparing a safe harbor. All are welcome.”

And having heard what they were telling me, and understanding my own true nature, I took my stool and walked to the center of the square and placed myself where I belonged.

We have taken turns, my son and I, in the market square. One day soon, I hope to have the courage my son demonstrated, to turn away from the madness and to take a seat at the table of sanity. My son waits there for me, in the presence of the wise, in the shadow of the divine, in safe harbor.

The morning had withheld its sunlight and left only a gray hue to open its doors when the man turned aside to his wife facing him, her Cantu-scented curls waving in his face. The sunlight compliments her already perfect face even though the gray brings gloom to others, but not him. The sounds of breakfast cooking brew an ambience that acts as lenses onto her beauty while her eyes secure her innocence. The appreciation of sunlight comes natural for those who don’t have it, but alternatives are the only option with no availability. As a result, he finds the sunlight captured in her beauty while her eyes take the picture.

“Want some eggs,” she asks, her words softly layered.

“With syrup please,” he replies as his words stick to his mouth.

Her response echoes through the whole house, her laughter bounces off the walls. Her eyes close when she laughs and he wonders what she sees. The sight she sees contains an expression of her love with him at the center of her photograph. In the meanwhile, a whole dictionary was consumed in the process of describing what she feels towards what she sees.

The day passes them by in a swirl of heartfelt emotions. A haze of old music lingers in the house as she takes two steps back while he takes two steps forward.

She asks, “Where did the day go?”                                                                                      

“With you in my arms,” he responds.

“Ha-Ha-Ha,” she says sarcastically.

Her laugh gets softer and softer as he feels the heat escape her body. Her eyes flash red not with pain but with a warning. “Low Battery! Charge Now!” but a recharge isn’t possible, at least not in an electrical sense. With this he holds her memory tightly, tighter than the grip of death itself. He carries her soul in his heart as he steps to the cellar. Her brown hair now twisted with curls, rooted in the insecurities of others. The door creaks open to deliver a gust of contempt for death and a sense of resurrection. Human sized tubes litter the wall. The same face stares back at him at least a dozen times, providing twelve instances of relief. A transaction is made with his heart and mind, and one of the tubes opens. He feels elated but the air still chills around him, and an aura steps out followed by a hand reaching for him.

The morning withholds its sunlight and leaves only the gray to open its doors when the man turns aside to his wife facing him, her strawberry scented hair waving in his face.

Radon is one of the noble gases in the periodic table. It is the heaviest, naturally occurring one among them. Due to its size, it is the most likely to establish compounds with other elements, compared to the other noble gases. However, its radioactivity easily breaks the bonds that are established between Radon and other elements. Thus, Radon has very few known compounds.

Radon forms in the radioactive decay chain of Uranium, which then forms Thorium, then Radium, and finally Radon. Radon condenses to form a solid that glows with yellow light due to its radioactivity. The half-life of Radon changes depending on the isotope at hand, but the longest half-life detected is around 92 hours.

Radon naturally occurs underground, and does not dissolve much in water or other liquids there. When it leaks above surface in the form of gas, it tends to accumulate in the not-well-ventilated parts of the houses, e.g. basements. Exposure to Radon gas is linked with cancer, and so it is considered as a health hazard. On the other side, the hot springs that contain trace amounts of Radon gas are used rarely to cure heart disease.

The following is an allegorical story in the form of a letter about how Radon develops in nature.

I am the only survivor from a quadruplet. One of my sisters survived only 108 minutes after birth. The death of the second one followed about half hour later. I spent my childhood with my only remaining sister. Our mother was not there either, because she had died while giving birth to us.

As we were growing into our adolescence, we shared many secrets with my sister, be them adventurous or romantic. She was a sister, a close friend, and sometimes a mom. When she died in her flourishing age, I not only lost my third sister but also lost a mom for the second time.

Since then, without bothering myself whether they are friend or foe, I let people approach me. I show affinity to them so much so that I am considered as the most sociable noble. When they start enjoying the beauties displayed on me, I am stressed by my need of privacy and security. And, I easily push everyone away by intimidating them with the very beauties they were attracted to.

So, life has been a bottomless solitude for me… Yes, being alone is part of being noble, and I need my privacy in my ivory tower. But I’d rather not have impenetrable walls between me and people.

What a discrepancy! I have a habit of intimidating people to push them away, but I am complaining from an endless solitude at the same time… Why am I like this? It feels as if there is an unknown person in me, over which I have no control, who is doing things using my body. Should I cry for help: I am stolen!

I thought about this a lot. Was it a psychological inheritance I received from the family? You know that my mother died when giving birth to me and that my sisters followed her. My grandmother also died when giving birth to my mother, and my grand-grandmother died when giving birth to my grandmother. I don’t know if it is this strangeness that makes me instinctively seek solitude, so much so that my husband could not stand me. I told him that our relationship could only survive in the polar cold places, and he said he can stay cold but not in a place where there is no one else. Eventually, our marriage ended, after which I realized that I was pregnant.

But life goes on, you know, whether you are a noble who pathetically seeks solitude, or if your mother died when giving birth to you, or if you are a pregnant mom left to herself… “The great gears of life turn with irresistible momentum. You either keep pace with it, or get smashed in it.” That’s what my mother said in her letter to me. And that letter is all I have of her. Though, however much I would like her to be with me, and share my joys of success and sorrows of failure. Maybe she would reveal precious life lessons to me, or whisper her secrets into my ear. Maybe she would reprimand me sometimes… Not a single moment lived with her, not even a smack… I wished that this not be the lot of my baby, but how?

I thought of Prophet Abraham’s wife, Hagar. Alarmed by her baby’s cries, she had rushed between two distant hills in search of finding some people to come for help. God had replied to her efforts by creating a spring in the middle of the desert, just near her, and guiding travelers there.

Following Hagar’s example, I tried taking refuge near people so that my baby would not be in a lonely world. In order not to disturb them, I chose their least used places. But people cast me out of there, lest I contract some illness. I tried fancy yellow dresses to make myself look friendly. But, instead of becoming friends, they put me in glass chambers. I tried to help people with some of their diseases, but except a few, they shunned me since I was too risky to be adopted into medical practice.

Oh my God, despite all my efforts, my baby was going to come into a solitary world like her mom’s. I knew I was going to be alone when giving birth, and so was my baby. There was a sour smile on my face every time I thought of her…

But maybe… Maybe one day, God would guide travelers here, and she could join them, and prosper wherever she ends up with. Maybe she would have a stable family, and become the mother of many. And I hope, even in her well-established state then, she could still keep her lineage at heart, from our grandest grandmother all the way down to her mother: Uranium, Thorium, Radium, and, me, Radon.

What could I do to make sure that my daughter holds on to her past? Could I write a letter, just like my mother left to me? Maybe that was a good option, since I inherited from my mother all the letters left from mother to daughter starting with the grandma Uranium. Yes, I could abide by the tradition of letters, and tell my daughter how much I loved her even before I could hold her in my arms. I could tell her that she had appeared in my dark night like a bright star, although she was yet in my womb. Maybe this way, she could feel at ease when with people, unlike her mother. She could make real friends and be happy with them, even if I won’t see her once.

Yes, I won’t see you, sweetie. It is what the doctors told while giving me your glad tidings: that I had cancer, and that my body would not sustain a birth. I had to choose between carrying you and a life without you. I chose to live with you, my precious, even if that meant the end of my life when yours bloomed. When you are going to be reading this letter, I’ll be watching you with your aunts. Shine and make us smile with your beauty.

Love,
Your mom Radon

Law and literature

The relationship between law and literature is ages old. If we go back to the origins of law, among the ancient Greeks it was aligned with rhetoric, speaking and writing. Rhetoric was originally intended to present arguments in court. As law became more professional, it was closed off from this. Thus, law and literature have taken different ways, literature being more and more concerned with the expression of human emotions and feelings, while law became increasingly concerned with the maintenance of social order.

Nexus between law and literature

Law and literature are closely interrelated. One of the sources of law is “legal fiction.” Legal fiction, that is, fictio juris means “any assumption which conceals or tends to conceal the fact that the rule of law [has] undergone any alteration, its letter remaining unchanged but its operation being modified” (Islam, 2002). By means of a legal fiction, a child can be adopted from one family into another. In the eye of the law a limited company is given a personality which is distinct from that of its members. Case law is based on a fiction that while enacting a particular rule of law, the legislature had a particular intention. Fiction also played an important role as a source of law in ancient times. There was a rule of procedure in Rome by which a non-Roman was allowed to make a false allegation that he was a Roman citizen and thereby a praetor urbanus was able to try his case. The fiction of citizenship was adopted merely for the purpose of extending the Roman law to the non-Romans. All were under the same “lex gentium.” In England the Court of Exchequer took jurisdiction over civil cases by means of a legal fiction that the plaintiff was the debtor of the king. These fictions were adopted by the courts as devices to add to the jurisdiction of the courts. The old Roman law was laid down in the Twelve Tables, and additions to it were made by Responsa Prudentium-the judgements of the men learned in law. The teachings of the most highly qualified of various nations are still considered as a source of international law.

Fictions stand in the way of the codification of law. A property may be in the actual possession of X, but at the same time may be in the constructive possession of Y, the owner. No trust may have been created, but law may presume the same. By fiction, a Hindu child in the womb becomes entitled to family property.

Legal fiction and legal presumption, however, are not the same. Legal fiction is a source of law while legal presumption is a rule of law. One fact is recognized by law as sufficient proof of another. A notification in the official gazette is presumed by law to have been duly signed by the person by whom it is purported to have been signed. These few examples are perhaps enough for us to understand that law can be regarded as literature.

In this context, we can very relevantly talk about the Holy Qur’an which gives the impression of a perfect piece of exposition on one hand and a storehouse of law on the other. The Qur’an may sound astonishingly literary in terms of content and style, and at the time of its revelation poetry and oratory skills were the most outstanding forms of art in Mecca. Having heard the Qur’an’s enchanting verses, the best poets of the time tore apart their poems for they thought they could not challenge it. But as the Qur’an is the word of God, ascribing literary characteristics to the Holy Scripture is to devalue it. Nevertheless, various powerful forms of expression are found in the Qur’an to convey the message of Islam. The chapters and verses of the Qur’an maintain phonetic and thematic structures so that people can recall the message of the text. The narrative style of the innumerable events, particularly their dramatic presentation, have continued to amaze the scholars throughout the centuries. Sells says, “The values presented in the very early Meccan revelations are repeated throughout the hymnic suras. There is a sense of directness, of intimacy, as if the hearer were being asked repeatedly a simple question: what will be of value at the end of a human life?” (Sells, 1999). But these very verses are basically the laws meant to be for the whole humanity. Coupled with the Prophet’s practice the Qur’an as a main body of Islamic religious law undoubtedly covers almost all the aspects of human life ranging from family, sexuality, hygiene, social issues, business, economics, to politics both national and international. Thus the ultimate law comes in the form of a perfect exposition.

The impact of literature on law is far reaching with regard to teaching, legal writing, statutory interpretations and duly submission of petitions before the bench. Many authors have tried to show the human condition and the law’s effect on it through their literary works from a neutral point of view. The fictional situations presented in literature, they assert, can tell a great deal about political and social situations, and the individuals that often find themselves before the court. Ronald Dworkin in his article, “Law as Interpretation” stated, “I propose that we can improve our understanding of law by comparing legal interpretation with interpretation in other fields of knowledge, particularly literature” (Dworkin, 1982).

Intermingling of law and literature as reflected in the works of some great authors

Some popular as well as critically acclaimed literary works by prominent writers like Shakespeare, Kafka, Dickens, Camus, have dealt with the theme of law. Almost every careful reader would know that these writers were influenced by the legal system of their own time and were aware of its impact both the personal and social level. It would be wrong to think that they took law as the subject matter of their novel or play just to tell an interesting story. In fact, through skilful plot development their views about the then legal system are expressed. What is most interesting here is that they were influenced by the law and have definitely influenced the law as well.

The Stranger or The Outsider is a novel by Albert Camus where the virtues of truth confront the deceits and corruptions of law. We also come to know about the justice system of the time and existing loopholes as the trial for the murder of an Arab proceeds. Furthermore, the novel addresses the issue of the inevitable conflict between defective legal proceedings and a man’s individual way of thinking.

Franz Kafka’s The Trial is another novel where the author exposes how law is abused and made to bring enormous suffering to a man’s life. The main character, Josef K., awakens one morning and, for reasons never revealed, is arrested and subjected to the judicial process for an unspecified crime. Some crucial questions of judicial proceedings like a backlog of cases, arresting on suspicion and detaining a person for an uncertain period, absence of proper investigation, and absence of the right to self-defence are brought to our attention.

Shakespeare’s works contain a remarkable quantity of law terms and they are used very accurately. The use of legal jargon in Hamlet is particularly impressive. But it is The Merchant of Venice, a controversial tale of a Jewish moneylender, that examines themes of justice and the bias of legal systems.

Dickens’ popular novel Bleak House is particularly known for the novelist’s blunt attack on the flaws of the British judiciary system. Dickens’ experience of working as a law clerk in London came in handy in unearthing and depicting the law’s flaws so vividly. The plot concerns a long-running legal battle that takes place between two parties claiming the inheritance of a large property, a battle which in the end costs both parties dearly. Many believe that Dickens’s harsh portrayal of the lengthy Chancery system made way for the reforms that took place in the 1870s.

Benefits of intermingling of law and literature

The intermingling of law and literature produces certain benefits for both the subjects. First, literature is exceptionally capable of probing human psychology and conditions through text. This capacity can be combined with the legal framework which regulates human actions in real life and truly pave the way for a democratic judiciary which is a prerequisite for establishing a just and moral society. Second, literature is considered to be a carrier of human will and freedom of expression. This characteristic can be positively incorporated into the judicial system to facilitate more humane legal decisions. Third, literature helps us understand the text’s role in defining human experience as used in legal rhetoric. Fourth, by applying literary methods in legal writing, laws can be more readily interpreted and legal decisions can be conveyed more effectively. Fifth, reading and writing literature helps improve clarity of expression which is a must for everybody involved in the legal profession. Moreover, every citizen of a society should also acquire this clarity to enable them to defend themselves in the legal arena. Next, special cases can be accommodated through the application of literary standards to legal documents and thus despotism can be reduced to a great extent. In this regard some proponents of the admixture of law and literature argue that this looks back to and restores the image of the lawyer as a person of letters possessing a broad liberal education and being well versed in languages, rhetoric and literature, who views law as an aspect of the humanities and the public life, not a science or a business. Lastly, one of the skills literature teaches lawyers is the power of the imagination so that lawyers learn to place themselves in the shoes of the client, the opponent, the witnesses, the judge, and the jury in order to anticipate reactions to their pleadings, presentation of evidence, arguments, and settlement proposals.

However, one need not think that only law will benefit from this intermingling; rather, it is advantageous for literature as well. The law has immensely enlarged the area and scope for literature already. The law enriches itself every day and this ever widening sphere of law can be a great source for literature. Until now most literature in which law plays a major role has concerned criminal law, ignoring the many disputes over inheritance, contracts, divorce and real property. These very issues can be presented with more legal focus in literature if the writers are interested in knowing a bit more about law and the legal system. In this context we do very well remember the nineteenth-century British novels which are rich sources of thinking about law and lawyers and offer insight into the legal heritage, mainly because the novelists Charles Dickens, George Eliot, Anthony Trollope and others participated in the debate about the best way to implement legal reform. In this regard more scope will be created to consider human feelings, emotions, and the environment where a person is raised. Then theories of punishment-as there are different theories available, like reformative, punitive, deterrent, expiation, preventive, and so on-should be analysed thoroughly. This is where literature can open up windows of thought for the reformers.

In fact, law is not at all a stagnant subject, rather it has undergone huge changes over the ages and literature can very well claim to be the greatest contributor. Different writers in different ages have made the lawmakers think about the loopholes of the prevailing laws through their writings. This is how new interpretations of different laws have come about, and thus the loopholes have been exposed. Similarly, writers have provided us with new ideas about how to define crime and punishment under different circumstances and helped clarify law. Likewise, the discretionary power of the judges and its effects on the justice system can be viewed in a broader literary perspective. In this context the effort of Lord Denning, the greatest law-making judge of the century is worth mentioning. Lord Denning showed his willingness to override precedent to do what he saw as justice and foreshadowed the move towards moulding the law to suit changing times and circumstances.

The definition of an offence can be scrutinised even more critically if it is seen through literature. Taking lessons from literature, life can be improved, which can substantially help the law-enforcement agencies to maintain order in society with ease and comfort. Social and communal conflicts are commonplace in every country and they are well-depicted in literature; law can borrow these materials to deal with them. Literature also helps to find ways of dealing with psychological problems which are quite common in human life and have certain effects on the whole of society. Again literature tells us how to look at these sensitive issues and therefore may help the law manage them in a more delicate way. As edification is one of the objectives of literature, the blending of law and literature ultimately helps the moral development of anybody concerned with the law. Since literature critiques lawyers and the overall legal system, this intermingling will certainly widen the scope for criticising the different shortcomings of the legal system, such as delays in trial proceedings, imprisonment without trial, torture on remand or interrogation, lack of sincerity in investigation, corruption, and so on, and will no doubt help to find ways to curb them.

Recently, in the global perspective, law has expanded its sphere and in the process problems like eviction, mass killing, war crimes, arbitrary power, and illegal occupation by foreign armies have come to the fore. All these issues are the themes of many literary works by different writers, which can assist legal experts to find ways to think about and deal with them. Literature also helps in building a better society by illustrating the consequences of committing crimes and the dreadful conditions of a criminal life.

To conclude, the intermingling of literature and law can give us hope of having a legal system touched by humanity. It may help writers to produce literature with more experience of life and society. At the same time, we need not forget that law is a part of our culture, not a mere technical study and it has a lot to offer to literature as well. As literature is a storehouse of alternative visions of law and society, the more literature comes into the thoughts of a lawyer or a law student, the better is the chance of law in a society paying due regard to human values and emotions, a quality which many people believe law seriously lacks. Likewise, literature should be more concerned with the everyday problems of life and a true reflection of society in the broad view. The times demand that writers do not just project a series of imaginary pictures playing in their minds, and law can truly help literature meet this demand.

Ahamuduzzaman is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Law, ASA University, Bangladesh. Sharif Rakib Hasan is a Lecturer at the Department of English at the same university.

References

• Brooks, Peter and Gewirtz, Paul. Law’s Stories: Narrative and Rhetoric in the Law, London: Yale University Press, 1996.
• Campbell, John. Shakespeare’s Legal Acquirements, London: Kissinger, 2001.
• Camus, Albert. The Stranger, USA: Tandem Library, 1999.
• Dickens, Charles. Bleak House, London: Yale University Press, 2000.
• Dien, Mawil, Izzi. Islamic Law: From Historical Foundations to Contemporary Practice, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2004
• Dworkin, Ronald, M. “Law as Interpretation,” Critical Inquiry, 1982, Vol. 9, No. 1. p. 179.
• Islam, Mahmudul. Constitutional Law of Bangladesh, Dhaka: Mullick Brothers. Second edition, 2002, pp. 58–60.
• Minda, Gary. “Law and Literature at Century’s End,” Cardozo Studies in Law and Literature, 1997, Vol. 9 No.2, pp. 245–258.
• Kafka, Franz. The Trial, Munich: Kurt Wolff Verlag, 1925
• Sells, Michael. Approaching the Qur’an, USA: White Cloud Press, 1999.
• Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. USA: Dover Publications, 1992
• –. The Merchant of Venice, USA: Penguin Group, 1998. 

This notion, in fact, could hold true for any work of fiction. It is an interesting question then why fiction has been used in literature for thousands of years, given that the message it indirectly contains in its text will be understood by only a small number of people. Would it not be a more rational method for the authors to simply relate the message they would like to give without adding people, events, and all those tedious details of fiction? Apart from making a philosophical point, there is yet another reason for writing fiction; the understandable urge for mortal humans to try to remember how some significant events unfolded in their lives. Through stories and poetry we are able to listen to episodes, fictional or semi-fictional, of people’s lives. However, the same question arises: If for example, the author writes to prevent the following generations from forgetting a crucial battle, then why are they not content with simply giving the actual locations and components of the army, the strategies employed, the weather, etc.? Rather, the author embellishes the story and characters through which we follow the incident. This article attempts to answer this question and concludes that as there is a psychological element in human learning, fiction has the potential of describing ideas that are not possible to relate by any other means.

First, we need to make a definition of the two different categories of knowledge: transferable and nontransferable knowledge. Transferable knowledge is the type that can be easily explained or taught to another person and which will be widely accepted if understood by the listener. For example, multiplying 2 by 2 is easy and transferable; how to use a computer is less easy, but still transferable; the theory of relativity is extremely hard, but it is still transferable. Nontransferable knowledge, on the other hand, contains elements of human cognition and feelings, and it is possible that it can never be transferred to another person fully. A mother’s love to her child is only transferable to a certain extent: However well it can be defined and in whatever detail its feelings can be explained, it can never be felt by anybody other than a mother. Knowledge of the beauty of a childhood memory can never be transferred to anyone else, not at least to the extent which the person who experienced the memory is aware of it.

Obviously, these categories are not as clear-cut as one would like to imagine; in fact, we can easily accept that there is no knowledge that is totally transferable or nontransferable. When we describe a journey that we have made, the names of the streets are transferable, but at the same time there may be quite subtle, unconscious things that these names remind us of, things that are nontransferable. The type of tree and its color are transferable, but the idea of the magnificence of the tree that elevated our belief in God is not, even though the imaging event is the same. However, all knowledge in this world can be understood as being a mixture of transferable and nontransferable elements.

It is one of the great tragedies of humanity that we carry an incredible amount of knowledge that cannot be transferred to anybody else in our lives. We can never make another person understand why we believe, why we love, how we feel. Even when we try to put these things into words, we fail miserably. If we try to explain our reasons, we even fail to explain them to ourselves. You have probably experienced such a moment: Upon trying to express the reasons for your faith, love, or feelings, you become aware that these were not the real reasons, you understand that it was not these reasons that were the cause of everything. It was an experience in time and space. You are what you are only because you have experienced your past. At this point, let us leave the layman in awe or ignorance, and let us turn to the artist.

The fiction writer or artist in general, consciously or not, has the only tool in the world that can be used to transfer nontransferable knowledge. This unique tool uses the simple idea of constructing a past for some people in the reader’s mind. Generally, a fiction work has one intended protagonist and events shape around this character. As a result, we learn a great deal of the experience that the protagonist has gone through. We have discussed above how the only real way to acquire nontransferable knowledge in the first place is by living through experiences. These experiences have molded us into what we have become. By reading fiction, by reading about the experiences of the protagonist, by relating to them, we start to feel like them. By reading the complex descriptions of how they felt and what they did, and what happened to the protagonist, we almost become them. In the end, the process has succeeded: for a certain span of time; we have felt the way the writer wanted us to. This process is bound to change our viewpoint since we have now had different experiences than before.

Another power of fiction is that it does not try to persuade you. We do not like to be persuaded and when someone tries to do so, we get defensive. Reading an ethics book that tells you to do this and that is one of the worst reading experiences. However, when you read a good work of fiction where the protagonist lives what resembles a real life and behaves well to people, in many aspects, and is liked by others, then you will feel as if you also want to be like him. I wonder if there was anybody who has not decided to be a better person after reading “The Idiot.” We learn from his letters that it was Dostoevsky’s intention to relay the above message to us when he wrote “The Idiot.” In this way, another example of nontransferable knowledge (i.e., that being good to others is a good thing) has been transferred to the reader; in fact, I cannot imagine any other way of doing this.

It is very interesting to observe how some great minds that normally do not use fiction resort to it at times when their message becomes more belief-like, more cognition-related: i.e., more nontransferable. None of Nietzsche’s books are fiction except for “Thus Spoke Zarathustra.” But again, all his other books criticize the Christian religion, posing alternative explanations for morality and interpreting Greek Philosophy. Zarathustra was a different type of book: Nietzsche knew that it had an element of belief, that it was not an analytical flow of ideas; it introduced two still controversial components of his philosophy: Eternal recurrence and the Superman. Nietzsche well knew that he would be able to transfer these ideas to his readers via fiction, as the reader would feel and live and walk with Zarathustra, and approve of his strength and relate to him, and maybe accept him.

Said Nursi, when he was writing “Ayet-ul Kubra” (The Supreme Sign) knew that if he used fiction, i.e. if he caused us to walk with the explorer in the story and find evidence of the Unity of God, then we would be able to relate to him and accept his findings. He knew that the dictation of this evidence in a didactic manner would not be as effective; belief has a psychological element. Hume, when writing “Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion” knew fiction was the best way to show the contradictions of the medieval Christian philosophical belief in God, because he knew that disbelief has a psychological element and that it can be transferred in its extent only via fiction.

Obviously, not all fiction works have a conscious intended message, but it is easy to see that every good work of fiction will have some evolving influence on the reader’s mind. In fact, leaping one step ahead, I want to suggest that abstract fiction (in particular, poetry) has an even deeper potential to transfer “more nontransferable” knowledge. The Modern and Post-Modern eras have given us fiction that speaks of our inner fears and our deepest secrets. These are ideas that even the authors cannot explain explicitly, however, by supplying a rich medium they are somehow able to remind us of these things; they are able to transfer some knowledge that is essentially non-transferable.

In summary, the fiction writer tricks us into believing that we have assumed a neutral position from where we can observe the events and people of the story. However, this position is not neutral: As we watch the story unfold, as more details become apparent, the characters become more real and the incidents become more lifelike. The teaching power of fiction is twofold: First, since we assume that our position is neutral, we do not take the defensive. Even if we read that the protagonist chants a new system of belief, even when we chant with him, we do not feel that we are being taught; it is just an event that happens in a story. Secondly, when we read about the experiences of the protagonist, and since we relate with him or her, we are also able to experience the same events. These are the experiences that make the protagonist what they are now. To an extent, depending on our prior predispositions and the power of the narrative, we have also by now lived these experiences. Again, to an extent, we have now changed in a way that would never have been achieved by listening to a lecture of ideas.

The argument above can readily be extended to other forms of art as well. The seventh art, cinema, is the one that most closely resembles literary fiction and it also incorporates components of other arts. Although there are some disadvantages concerning the narration of the thought process, these are compensated for by visual cues, and we again can learn things concerning human cognition that would otherwise not be able to be transferred.

Paintings are crystallized forms of visual cues and they can have the same influence. If I simply told you that this life is a bridge between birth and death and that there is a terrible lack of meaning, as well as there being a great ignorance on the part of most people of this vacuum, an ignorance which is maddening, you may well agree, but you would not experience the emotion I was trying to convey, and again an attempt to transfer nontransferable knowledge would fail miserably. But if you were to come across the painting known as “The Scream” by Edvard Munch (see picture), which even in the first instance seems frightening and repellent, you would wonder what this might mean, why is this man apparently screaming, of what is he afraid? Later you might notice the other people in the background, who are happy and walking on their way, apparently not noticing or maybe ignoring whatever the man in the foreground has been frightened by. Then, you might notice that the man is standing on a bridge. Maybe you would walk away from this picture without finding any meaning in it. However later, when the time is ready for you to understand, you will be able to perceive what the painter was trying to convey. Munch is trying to convey to us what we described above, but in a most delicate and cunning way. He used paint as a medium to tell this, because he knew that this is nontransferable knowledge and in order to convey this information, he had to use art.

Music might very well be the ultimate form of transferring nontransferable knowledge. Love, rage, sorrow, joy, and things that cannot be put into words can be expressed by music and can be immediately perceived, at least to some extent, by the listener. How else are we to understand the grief and wrath that Beethoven felt when he was slowly but certainly going deaf if it were not for his music? In his 3rd piano concerto, while submersed in the music, we feel the helplessness and anger of the great composer. Even if we did not know that Beethoven had composed this concert during the latter stages of his life, we would still share and feel his feelings. One high note on the flute can influence our feelings more than hundreds of words.

If we return to fiction, if we accept that this argument has some truth in it and that fiction is a way to convey nontransferable knowledge by making us live through experiences, then we should observe that the fiction which has the greatest influence on us is that which is rich in content; it is evocative. Such literature mimics human experiences as closely as possible, making us feel like we have experienced the same. In fact, we are aware of both these elements in good fiction.

Another point to note is that if this argument contains some truth, then one can consciously counteract fiction by choosing not to read the works of fiction known to have a view of the world that one does not want to accept. If we want to learn about communism, but not have our feelings on communism affected, we could read “Das Capital” with no fear. However, if we read some works of Gorky, if we see from inside the difficulties of the lives of the people and the hopes they have invested in the idea of equality and the ideal of communism, then we are almost bound to find ourselves transformed to approving of communism somewhat in the end.

Naturally, I am not pretending to explain the reason for the existence of art in this article. However, it seems that one of the reasons for art and fiction is to be able to relate things that concern human cognition, things that cannot be related or conveyed by any other means. These things cannot even be put into words. This is the power of fiction and art. Ironically though, to relay this idea to you I have used nonfiction. In fact, I know I would have been more convincing if I had made up a character who wanted to tell others about his ideas but could not achieve this via an analytical description. He might then decide to write a story and explain his experiences that led to his ideas. To his surprise, he might see that his ideas have been truly understood by his readers. If I had written such a meta-fiction, I know that the idea presented would be perceived more clearly and persuasively. I did not choose a work of fiction only because good fiction takes great time, work, and talent. This is the difficulty of art.

– Moive Review

Science Fiction/Fantasy and Action/Adventure

Rated R for sci-fi violence and language

Starring: Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne, Carrie-Anne Moss, Hugo Weaving, Joe Pantoliano

Directed by: The Wachowsky Brothers

Produced by: Andrew Mason and Joel Silver

Written by: Andy Wachowski and Larry Wachowski

Distributor: Warner Brothers

In the year 1999. To be more precise, people believe it is the Year 1999. In facts we are well into the middle of the twenty-first century. In addition, this is not the only reality concealed from us. The “creators” of artificial intelligence were caught unprepared while they were drunk on the extent of their accomplishments. There has been a great revolution-machine revolted against humanity and conquered life. Now we do not even have a system about whose corruptness and shortcomings we can complain. Yet we continue to work from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. in our daily shifts, eat hamburgers while watching television, and attend parties. Children are still being born, and the sun still rises and sets.

However, none of this really exists, for only the “Matrix” exists. This “Matrix” is the name of a dream from which we cannot awake. It also is a three-dimensional curtain pulled between reality and humanity. With your fork-actually your fork does not exist either-you can still feel the taste of a nonexistent slice of meat. Tiredness, disappointment, and sorrow are all possible, along with the signals they send to your brain, most of which they already own.

Unless you believe “ignorance is a virtue,” like someone who realizes the difficulty of “knowing” does after he or she has known, you would like to learn. Yet, you also realize immediately that knowing this particular truth does not exalt you. This is neither an auto-criticism nor a suggested solution, but rather a knowledge that you will not be able to relate to others with extravagant praise or mention in every meeting or social gathering.

In fact, you would prefer not to know it at all: Matrix is the name of a computer program that is animated as if it is “life.” In reality, our bodies are connected to metal basins, and cables of various sizes are plugged into us. Our life lasts only as long as (the lifetime of the “battery.” We are planted on electronic fields, harvested and fed “until we exhaust” the battery. We are walking around with large plap-ins,which provide our connection with the machine, located at the back of our heads. Only those few who were born naturally have seen the world in which real parents exist, known in the movie as “Zion,” and do not have plug-ins. Zion is the only place that the electronic barbarians cannot enter, which is why the ruthless guards of the Matrix are trying so hard to find its coordinates.

THE CHOSEN MAN

Thomas Anderson is a computer geek who works for a software company during the day and spends his nights as a computer hacker known as “Neo.” There is a truth that he has been trying to find for a long time: Is his life somehow being controlled? He is after “Morpheus,” whose name is usually uttered as if he were a terrorist. Neo feels that this man is somehow connected to his problems and can provide him some answers. Morpheus gets in touch with Neo through his assistant “Trinity.”

When they finally meet, Morpheus promises to show Neo “the truth,” of which even minute parts are invaluable. Now, faith is the power that reality cannot deny. Neglecting humanity’s fragile nature, men and women built the Machine and will defeat it to the extent that they can free their thoughts from it. Is Neo the awaited savior? If so, what will he promise to humanity? Unless they are killed at the instant they “awaken,” will he promise the underground breakfasts consisting of mossy oats at best? In place of a joyful but unreal world, can he promise a dark but real world?

ELECTRONIC SCIENCE FICTION

Finally, a science fiction movie that can be viewed with enjoyment and suspense, one that is graded “A” despite its shortcomings. In The Matrix, the dose of excitement, long and technical dialogues, and contrasts are properly blended. The fighting scenes, modeled after Asian action movies and modernized in a computer environment, have been transformed into a public demonstration by the aesthetic style of the Wachowsky brothers. They do not hesitate to use such scenes, for they know that even viewers who do not like such action and fighting scenes will appreciate the results. With cameras that can shoot 12,000 clips per second, with actors seemingly almost independent of gravity, these fighting scenes seem like dances conforming to the movie’s theme, rather than brutal fights.

The movie moves smoothly between prologue and awakening, development and meeting, result and struggle, and conclusion. Among the cool, black-clad men and women with sunglasses, Reeves, Fishburne, and Moss have peculiar facial expressions. But the movie itself has a power beyond its individual components. One example of this is how the camera approaches objects: In one scene, the camera is located right under the helicopter and window from which a gun is being fired. Both action areas can be seen, yet the focus is on cartridges seemingly suspended in the air and then gradually gliding to the ground

As a matter of fact, the question: “Seeing that this electronic mechanism fools man and condemns him to a virtual life, to a dream from which awakening is impossible, could not man be deceived by a better view of 1999 rather than the present one?” is answered before long. Agent Smith accidentally lets the cat out of the bag when he has cornered Morpheus: “We wished a better world for man, but man defines his essence with such misery and sorrow that these designs were rejected by human conscious in the experiments.”

The martial-art figures borrowed from Asia give the impression that this struggle to awaken humanity carries a deeper philosophy, yet only in the movie’s second half is this suspicion confirmed. But it is impossible not to notice the symbolic supports of the Bible and Greek mythology, which are layered one inside the other and pervade the movie’s life and imagery. The relationship of “Trinity” to the Bible is self-evident. Moreover, “Neo” (like his name, he also is “new”) ascends to his own “reality” under the protective wings of “Morpheus” (the Greek god of dreams), who heals the mental and physical harm caused by switching from one world to another. Trinity Morpheus, and Neo form a sacred trio who know the “truth” and partially own the mechanism to alter it. They are striving to benefit a humanity corrupted by its own faults, while at the same time being fully aware that they really do not have more than just their belief. Until he experiments with the limits of his powers to learn if he is the “Chosen One” or not, Neo continues to learn. A female soothsayer wants him to sacrifice himself. After all, is there any other savior for humanity, who became arrogant because of its accomplishments but lost the struggle against evil forces and was enslaved, other than a “Chosen One”?

A BROTHER TO LEM

I do not know how much of The Matrix is inspired by the science fiction work of Polish author Stanislaw Lem. But the theme of living in a fake world as if alive, which came to the public agenda with such books as Strangers by Day (by Vicki Malones, 1984) and movies as Dark City (written by Frank Lauria, 1998, the movie version released on February 27, 1998), or the theme of an existing dark reality contrary to the present make-believe world-in other words the theme of illusion-simulation-is not so new.

The Matrix’s story-line bears a considerable resemblance to a book written in the 1970s by Lem, who is considered to be the genius of science fiction. But rather than eulogies, Lem delicately criticizes science. He foresaw humanity’s misfortunes and degeneration years ago. He touches on the results of inventions and discoveries in his future tableaus, rather than becoming carelessly intoxicated by them, and analyzes our greed and inordinate desires via scientific diagnoses and terms. Lem fictionalizes a virtual world similar to The Matrix in his 1974 novel The Futurological Congress.

The story goes like this: After a space voyage, Ijon Tichy finds himself in an advanced twenty-first century civilization. He tries to understand the age in which he lives and what he missed while asleep in the shuttle. In this new age, people can assume any temperament they want via chemical stimulants, store in their brains any information they want to by means of drugs, torment those they hate in their virtual worlds, travel, and participate in any virtual fantasy. In this “democracy,” such serious social problems as prejudice and racial discrimination are solved by chemicals. Opportunities are endless. There are firms to decide things for you, fight your fights, even to satisfy your religious sentiments. In short, this society has an ultra-free market economy.

Ijon comes across a Professor Trottelreiner, whom he had known long ago and who was sent to sleep in a spaceship like himself. He shows Ijon more than he wants to know by giving him a bottle of fragrance to smell. The scent emitted from the bottle shows reality to Ijon. The eye-catching restaurant coated with Italian tile, and the palm trees are transformed into a coarse underground shelter. The pheasant they are eating is, in fact, a porridge that has a grayish-brown vomit-like color, because the last pheasant died 25 years ago. The palm tree is really the rubber underwear of the man living in the upper shelf, which in reality is too narrow. People inhabit an incredibly overcrowded world, and forks and knives are made of tin.

Worse than that, Ijon understands why people are always red and out of breath: There are no elevators, so people reach the ninth and tenth floors by climbing up elevator cords. The chemical empire has already started to transform them, for most people now have stained and discolored skins, longer ears, and scaly backs. All seen images and used chemicals conceal the already demolished system of the planet, on which more than 20 billion people live. The air we breathe is full of camouflage mascots, reality is hidden under layers of chemical products, and humanity is rescued superficially from the reality of poverty and misery!

The Matrix is a movie that should be seen more than once. The Wachowsky brothers took into consideration not only aesthetic styles, but also commercial worries by meeting the expectations of an average sci-fi viewer and then combining both issues on the same platform. After the Coen and Taviani brothers, it is possible to say that the Wachowsky brothers, who managed to attract interest with their previous movie Bound, have opened a respected room in the cinema for themselves with The Matrix. We can only hope that the sequels, already rumored to be coming soon, will be just as good.

The best side of the movie is the Matrix paranoia itself, which is even scary to say. The Matrix gains importance when the uncontrolled life is faced with the reality of existence, the purpose of which is almost forgotten. It gains importance by becoming the new name for alienation, enslavement, and enumeration. Everything is assigned a number, including people. Our identification and accomplishments, everything we do, is specified with statistics and numbers, which have more value than the individual in the twenty-first century.