Infinite Zombies

The helluva ride we are about to take in The Part About Fate is into the netherworld of Santa Teresa. We are going to leave poolside where Pelletier tried to noodle out what was happening there by studying the newspaper with his Spanish dictionary at his side. We are leaving Amalfitano, who only senses the miasmal atmosphere of the place and experiences premonitions and then attends cocktail parties with academics.

But first we encounter this series of episodes in Fate’s work life after his mothers death and before Mexico even enters his mind. What to make of these vignettes that have been discussed so perceptively elsewhere here?

These vignettes appear to me to be within the long tradition of absurdist literature. If one is more frustrated, perhaps even angry, than entertained by The American Dream by Edward Albee or Waiting for Godot, then certainly one is going to derive no entertainment from these introductory vignettes. We are in the world of Camus’ The Stranger and Kafka’s The Metamorphosis or The Trial. I am not the first to have mentioned The Stranger hereabouts, but I cannot find that earlier reference in order to give credit. If one does not enjoy these things, if one is more frustrated than entertained, that does not necessarily make one less sophisticated or artsy than the next person.

At the risk of putting too fine a point on it, nothing makes sense here. Nothing.

Certainly, Fate himself is not making sense of much. I was struck by two things. First, is his imperfect perception of things. After his mother’s funeral:

At the end, two of them came up to him and spoke words he didn’t understand, words of consolation or rebuke.

Second is his fragmentary perception of things, particularly these television programs and movies and cartoons. He perceives only fragmentary and fleeting images in these things. I believe this to be important because the centerpiece of The Part About Fate is a fragment of a film, a snuff film, and we as readers must infer the nature of the thing from an imperfectly perceived fragment.

Are not imperfect perceptions and fragmentary images part of the very nature of our own human existence? We seldom hear people perfectly and understand. We do not have a narrator in our heads on a day to day basis explaining things to us and then wrapping everything up in a ribbon with a neat, logical conclusion.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Of course, I must say something about Barry Seaman. I myself am not sure that we should make too much of the Bobby Seale connection. One who does that embarks on a fruitless attempt to make sense of something that is not intended to make sense.

We are about to go on a trip in this part, as I mentioned at the beginning. Seaman’s “lectures” remind me very much of Father Mapple’s sermon at the beginning of Moby Dick before the voyage is undertaken there. However, there is no getting around the fact that Seaman’s lectures are absurd. My picture of him much more resembles George Foreman with his motivational lectures and his George Forman Grill than Bobby Seale. They are masterfully done in the sense that at times he starts to make sense. It is not gibberish. But just when he starts to make sense, he veers off into some bizarre digression. And I do mean bizarre.

There is humor here, too. Upon the instant of their first meeting:

“I need to use the bathroom,” said Fate.
“Jesus,” said Seman.

The lectures are amusing for me to say the least. Seaman’s favorite book is not simply A Digest of the Complete Works of Voltaire. It is An Abridged Digest of the Complete Works of Voltaire. Perhaps he should have opted for the full digest.

Seaman’s lectures are an absurdist exhortation before we sail off into the world of the streets and clubs of Santa Teresa, a world that does not make sense. And who are we going with? A black man with issues who cannot speak Spanish.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Speaking of humor:

In not very good English the girl answered that she liked to have fun. Life is short, she said, and then she was quiet, looking back and forth between Fate and Chucho Flores, as if reflecting on what she’d said.
“Rosita is a little bit of a philosopher, too,” said Charly Cruz.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

All criticism is ultimately a nightmare, he thought as he washed his face in the apartment where his mother’s body no longer was.

Perhaps, but we need to try anyway.