(I TALK ABOUT TRUMP IN THIS POST) Modern Postmodernism

This post isn't strictly about Libra, more about this course in general (but it'll tie back to Libra eventually probably somehow.)

This class has helped me sum up a lot of frustrations and questions I'd had for a while now. In middle school, I argued a lot (Surprise, surprise!) on a wide variety of topics with a pretty limited variety of people, namely other little petulant nerds. We would go back on forth on points of moral arbitration and logical fallacies. But a constant point of irritation for any party in our countless arguments was when we tried to cite a statistical trend or a research study. Both parties often ended up finding something to support their argument, which left everyone at an impasse. Or, on the occasion that only one party found supporting evidence, the opposing party would immediately toss it away as bad research. In either case, the arguments reached a point where the whole pretense of anything along the lines of a debate was lost. We just began talking past each other, making points that were just not processed to the rest of us.

The nature of this argument might sound familiar to anyone who's kept up with the news ever. For the past few years, it seems like we've been seeing more and more of this type of argument and on a much larger scale than a couple of middle schoolers arguing with each other. There are very few avenues in which both sides of the political aisle come together to have genuine discussions with each other. The "talking past each other" nature of their argument originates from a similar source as the middle school arguments, which is that neither party has an agreed upon standard of evidence. Every week we have a new Benghazi, Obama's birth certificate, Newtown conspiracy, topics of discussion in which prominent figures from either side of the aisle simply fail to agree on what qualifies as valid evidence. 

The massive stream of information presented by the Internet Age ends up becoming counterproductive. With so many potential information sources all equalized by the platform, it becomes even harder to decipher the true "factual" nature of events.

When we read that reading in the red packet just prior to starting Libra, it said something about the Kennedy assassination being the first time that we saw an event become so disputed. To me, and I feel like to a lot of us, that idea seems unimaginable. Like I said earlier, we have a Benghazi every other week. It seems like, despite the troves of information possessed by Nicholas Branch, we still have no idea what happened that day. Or, perhaps, because of the troves of information we possess, we have no idea what happened.

(Now, as you probably know if you've ever heard me open my mouth, I don't personally see this as a "both sides of the argument" type deal. At the end of the day, one must choose a standard of evidence and I think the standard of evidence used by the left is pretty reliable (i.e. climate scientists, health care economists, nonpartisan government agencies.) That won't be relevant to the points I'm making here, because in this post I'm going to genuinely consider the idea of postmodernism from the right as well since it makes for a compelling argument, but I just want to make it clear where I'm coming from.)

This aspect of postmodernism was fleshed out succinctly for me, oddly enough, by the below scene from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Mac presents interesting take on postmodernism we haven't really considered yet. Though Doctorow, Butler, Vonnegut, and Reed are all subversive, they all appear to be somewhat left-leaning. (Doctorow, Butler, and Reed explicitly so, but Vonnegut can easily be made to fit left-leaning narratives.) Liberals and progressives can use the idea of postmodernism to rightfully debunk the nature of "facts" that have been largely chosen and constructed by a Western imperialist agenda. But the same logic can be similarly applied to debunk the mainstream liberal media (science included) and support religion.

And although I don't agree with the type of people Mac's character is caricaturizing, taking a postmodern view helps me better understand where they're coming from. How do we truly know what's fact and what's fiction?

Echoes of Younger Brother in Lee Harvey Oswald

So, being the hyper-race-focused social justice warrior that I am, I took note of the few characters of color that appear in the novel. Not to take note of how many there were but rather to analyze what role they might play and therefore how DeLillo (or Oswald) might view the issue of race in the context of Oswald's broader arc towards becoming Kennedy's (supposed) assassin. (Also, I'm specifically looking at Lee's arc since I want to see what race reveals about him as a character.)

It seems relevant to the time period to discuss questions of race. The Civil Rights Movement was just picking up steam, we had troops stationed in various Asian countries creating xenophobic tensions, and, as Libra discusses, we're not exactly on the best terms with Cuba. Not to mention that Kennedy was seen by many to be a champion of civil rights, integration, and racial equality (though we can debate to what extent that was actually true.)

The first time we see any mention of race in Lee's half of the book is when he's bullied for sitting with the black people in the back of the bus. However, before you get any ideas about Oswald's noble intentions, DeLillo makes sure to note that it's not clear whether Oswald did it out of principle or ignorance    Already that gives an odd feeling to the reader. If he had done it out of principle, we would likely respect and admire that, and perceive it as a quality befitting of a budding revolutionary like the one he fancies himself to be. If he had done it out of ignorance, one might merely chuckle at how he stumbled onto a social issue. But the real cause, just wanting to piss people off? That's stupid. Irritatingly stupid. He simply uses the nearest and most convenient situation to advance his narrative as a Real Edgy Boy, paying no mind to the black people as people, specifically people subject to an inhumane system.

Oswald's next interaction with a person of color isn't until his adventures in Japan, where he comes across Konno. I'm not gonna lie, the depiction of Konno made me somewhat uncomfortable. Some parts were charming and nice, seeing Oswald having a friend that he can talk to communism about and feel comfortable with. But Konno plays an age-old classic among older Asian men in Western literature: The Mr. Miyagi, the sage, beard-stroking, fascinating Asian man meant to educate our coming-of-age Western protagonist on the ways of his exotic Oriental world so that the protagonist might discover himself. Not a person in his own right, Konno is instead reduced to his usefulness to Oswald. Again, we see a person of color being used as a mere vehicle for Oswald's ultimate "more important" character arc, with little of his own personality. Oswald even says that he never actually feels like he's talking to a person when he's talking to Konno, that Konno just acts as something he can feed all his thoughts into.

(Also supplementing this dehumanization of Konno is the weird exoticization and sexualization of East Asianness, as some sort of freaky universe to go wild in for a night or two, as if the people in it are utterly alien.)

Oswald's next interaction with a person of color (and his first antagonistic one) is his fight with Rodriguez. (It should be noted that it's not explicitly stated that Rodriguez isn't white, but for my purposes, I'm gonna assume he is.) Like the black people on the bus and Konno before him, Rodriguez acts as a plot vehicle, the only distinction being that this time he's working against Oswald instead of for him.  Oswald sees Rodriguez as a symbolic villain, a way to advance his cause for his "rights" despite the extremely petty nature of the argument he instigates.

The first time Oswald encounters a person of color that isn't a plot vehicle is his cellmate Bobby Dupard in the brig. He expects Dupard to function much in the same way as Konno, even saying that he wishes "for an experienced perspective, for the knowledge of some grizzled figure with kind and tired eyes, a counselor, wise to the game." Again, he wishes for a person of color to guide him and advance his own narrative arc. But Dupard, who is justifiably mostly concerned with his own survival, lacks the capability to give a shit about Oswald. And so Oswald, who has come to expect Dumbledorean figures out of men of color, isn't sure what to make of Dupard. The first person of color that works for themselves instead of for Oswald confuses Oswald since he's so used to having them serve his arc.

All of this is reminiscent of Younger Brother from Doctorow's Ragtime, who I would argue similarly saw people like Coalhouse, Emma Goldman, Evelyn, and Mexican revolutionaries as mere narrative vehicles for his story, completely disposing of their humanity.  And it makes sense that Oswald's narrative would parallel Younger Brother's. One of our major complaints about Younger Brother (or one of mine anyway) was that he never really gave a shit about the causes he participates in, he just wants to belong to something bigger than himself. Someone focused only on belonging will ultimately care little for the struggles of the people he claims to fight for as a communist, only temporarily allying with them so that he can "grow" as a person.

Reliance on Oppressive Structures in Kindred

One of the main things I took away from Ms. Rodems' Gender Studies class was the idea that power and privilege in one group is inhrently reliant on the usbjugation and oppression of another group. For example, the allocation of resources to a wealthier, whiter school district is inherently reliant on the devaluation and underfunding of poorer school districts with a greater black population. Therefore, in order to get rid of those existing oppressive power structures, it is not enough to empower the oppressed population - one must also work to remove privlege and discomfort the existing privileged population in order to achieve any form of equality (tax the 1%!).

Reliance on oppressive structures is a theme that's explored pretty in-depth throughout the course of Kindred. Butler plays with the idea of reliance on oppressive structures by having Dana's very existence hinge on keeping her crazy, abusive, slave-owning ancestor alive and well. In order for her to survive, she must become complicit in the various horrors perpetrated by Rufus and his family, bearing witness to a host of abusive behaviors while doing nothing, since it may harm her own well-being.

However, Butler is taking a different angle than the one I mentioned earlier. Dana is reliant on oppressive power structures and stands to gain from them during her time travel, to the point that the one time she makes a concerted effort to break from them, she literally loses an arm. However, at the same time, Dana herself is a victim of the oppression, which raises a question I had never thought of. To what extent are the lives of oppressed reliant on their oppressors and what implications does it have? It's obvious that those in power would stand to gain something from an oppressive structure, but is it possible that the oppressed are somehow reliant on the same structure as well?)

(It is worth noting, however, that Butler could still be exploring the reliance of privilege on oppressive structures. Since Dana is an educated middle class woman, Butler could be trying to point out that her white ancestry is what enabled her to reach this place of privilege. However, that's not the option I'll be exploring.)

In terms of oppressed groups being reliant on their oppressors, the first example that comes to mind is culture. Now, I'm obviously not saying that Western civilization brought culture to brown and black people (since I'm neither a fifty-year-old white man from the 1800s nor a neo-nazi on a Reddit forum), far from it. Instead, what I am suggesting is that integral parts of the cultures of colonized and enslaved peoples come about as a result of their horrific interactions with their oppressors.

For an example, look at Indonesian culture. Indonesia has often been a beacon for democratic rebellion, priding itself on  However, the origins of that push for democracy arose out of their subjugation by the Netherlands. One of the country's most central values would not have been possible if they had not been colonized. Indonesia is also a heavily Muslim country and prides itself on that as well. However, the spread of Islam throughout the archipelago frankly would not have been possible without the trade network developed and maintained by their Dutch rulers. And yet, just to add another contradiction to the mix, Islam itself was often used as a symbol of rebellion against Western colonialism in the 20th century.

Another example, and one more relevant to Kindred, is Black American culture. Jazz evolved from slave hymns. A vast majority of black Americans follow Christianity, which was introduced to African slaves as a way to . The culture, though not inherently evil on its own, originates and is therefore somewhat reliant on the oppressor.

Butler could be suggesting that, no matter how much you may try to separate yourself from a horrifying and oppressive power structure, you will never truly be able to. You try to succeed and escape poverty, you have to play the rich man's capitalist system. You turn to religion to escape that system, but that very religion was introduced to you by your oppressor. You embrace only your race, your culture, and yet it's the white man that decides that your race is a thing at all. No matter how much we may despise these systems they are a part of us, like an arm we can't bear to lose.

All the Good Men Are Dead

In a book with bland, lifeless, passive, and straight-up unlikable characters, I think my favorite is Edgar Derby. Which is odd, considering he plays the most minuscule of roles in Slaughterhouse-Five. As far as we can tell, he has no significant bearing on Billy's state of mind, character arc, or the narrative at-large. He flits in and out of the picture, making brief inconsequential cameos whenever Vonnegut sees fit.

And yet, despite Derby's obscurity, I don't think I'm alone in admiring Derby and I think Vonnegut did this intentionally. Derby is a good man. Just on paper, he looks like a wholesome, everyday American - a teacher and a family man. And in person, his wholesomeness still holds. We see him volunteer to assist pathetic Billy Pilgrim when they arrive at the British camp, he assumes leadership of the American troops when no one else does, and he gives a rousing speech about American values and our unbreakable alliance with the Russian peoples (a sentiment our current President shares with him.)

It's not just the presence of benevolent actions that makes Derby my favorite, though. What's also significant is the absence of any shitty actions. Derby simply doesn't do anything that would explicitly make me hate him. In any other novel, that might be a pathetically low bar, but in Slaughterhouse-Five, a story with such characters as the bloodthirsty and idiotic Roland weary and a protagonist who cares about nothing and no one, Derby is basically eligible for sainthood.

It makes sense then, in this grand anti-war narrative, that Derby should be treated the way he is by the powers-that-be (that is, Vonnegut.) Despite what we may think of the Second World War and, indeed, American war in general, the battlefield is no place for a good man like Derby. His belief in American ideals, admirable career as a teacher, charming nuclear family to return home to, and all-around good nature, are horribly unbecoming of a military man. And thus, Vonnegut proceeds to take an enormous dump on him. His acts of kindness are received with no gratitude, his rousing speech about American-Russian brotherhood is met with an awkward silence, and, of course, he's shot for holding a teacup after surviving a firestorm that took tens of thousands of lives.

(It's not just that he's shot for holding a teacup, which is already an anticlimactic death in the midst of the Second World War, his death is also anticlimactic within the novel's own pacing. We know from the very beginning that Derby is going to receive this awful death. So we expect (or at least I did) a lengthy description of the event we've heard so much about. Instead, we get, "Somewhere in there the poor old high school teacher, Edgar Derby, was caught with a teapot he had taken from the catacombs. He was arrested for plundering. He was tried and shot." It's actually an anticlimax that parallels the bombing of Dresden itself, which is almost skimmed over in the midst of a memory (not time travel) after having been built up to for the entire novel.)

But then, the question should be raised, why not make Derby the protagonist? We seemed to have come to the general consensus that Vonnegut's intention is to blur the lines of morality and deromanticize the nature of war and destroy the idea that it's some awesome and heroic adventure. So then why not portray the futility of the hero?

One reason might be that protagonizing Derby (definitely not a word) would still be romanticizing war to an extent. Derby's trials and tribulations could be seen as a form of martyrdom. It might send the message that although war itself is gross, it creates heroes. Portraying any type of hero in war fails to reflect that Vonnegut and his companions, in the words of Mary O'Hare, "were just babies." Not heroes. Not martyrs. Not soldiers. Not Derby. Therefore, it would make sense for Vonnegut to avoid putting emphasis on him.

However, Vonnegut doesn't straight up deny the existence of people like Derby. He very well could. If Derby were gone, all that would be left are shitheads and it seems like Vonnegut views humanity as an enormous collection of shitheads, a common sentiment among anti-war narratives. But he includes Derby, showing that he believes in the existence of non-shitheads (otherwise known as good people.)  So maybe Vonnegut isn't that concerned with moral relativism. Perhaps he's concerned about Derby, and how he's affected him. Perhaps Vonnegut feels guilty about Derby's death.

Vonnegut is constantly mentioning "Poor ol' Edgar Derby." Though his appearances are quiet, they are frequent, with Derby appearing in nearly every 1944 passage. And even when he's not onscreen, his name pops up here and there, with Vonnegut casually name-dropping the man who was shot for stealing a teacup.

Although it's mentioned in a nonchalant manner, we've learned time and time again with Vonnegut that nonchalance isn't to be trusted. We've learned that, if anything, the most deeply troubling aspects of the war, are described with extreme informality. So Vonnegut glosses over Derby's death, likely one of the most horrifying events. But his guilt leaves us a clue, the constant repetition of Derby's name. It's almost like the memory of Derby is ringing around in Pilgrim's (or Vonnegut's head, unable to shake the fact that he, a dull optometrist got to live, while a good man like Derby died.

A similar phenomenon occurs with Wild Bob, whose trademark catchphrase, "If you're ever in Cody, Wyoming, ask for Wild Bob!" is repeated frequently in the final pages of the novel. Wild Bob, for the brief time we knew him, was only ever concerned with finding his men. He was, just like Derby, an essentially good man. And he dies ungloriously in a boxcar, never to return to be on call in Cody, Wyoming. And that kills Pilgrim/Vonnegut - a useless piece of shit old fart, who got to live and thrive while the heroes died.

Where Do the Mu'tafikah Fall?

Alright, so after the deeply clarifying (yet somehow still bewildering) chapters that were 52 and 52, we have a more fleshed out picture of the alignments in the war between Atonism and Jes Grew. On one side, we have Jes Grew, polytheistic African tradition, Papa LaBas (for the most part), improvisation, and joy.  On the other side, we have Atonism, Western Civilization, Judeo-Christian tradition, Moses, authority, and structured "high art."

Now, since I'm unable to discuss a topic without it being directly relevant to me, I posit the question (and this was what the blog post was gonna be about before arguing with Vikram): "Where does Islam fit?"

While we were reading the former half of Mumbo Jumbo, I generally assumed Islam fell on the side of Jes Grew. Although their relationship is tense, Abdul Hamid, the only explicitly Muslim character, is generally on the side of Papa LaBas and undoubtedly opposed to Atonism. Islam has often been associated with Black Americans, with the first Muslim Americans being African slaves as well as with many black nationalists rallying around the Nation of Islam in the second half of the 20th century. The Wallflower Order spoke a lot about the Crusades and Templars, in which the Atonists would have been vehemently opposed to (and massacring) Muslims. And Islam is just generally unapproved of by what is a predominantly Christian Western Civilization, making it an ideal foe to the Atonists and ally to Jes Grew.

This becomes complicated once LaBas gives his whole spiel revealing the long-winded history of Jes Grew and Atonism. Although Moses is commonly associated with Judaism and Jesus with Christianity (both figures of Atonism), they also play major parts in the Quran as well. And LaBas doesn't appear to make great distinctions between the Abrahamic traditions himself, indicating that Islam could very well be aligned with the Atonists.

Additionally, speaking from personal experience, orthodox Islam is no less regulatory and doctrinarian than its Christian or Jewish counterpart. Abdul Hamid's character also seems to fit this idea of Islam being more aligned with Atonism as well. Abdul Hamid is a strict traditionalist, unyielding in his rigid and sexist rules.

So then, where does that leave Islam? Before you answer, let me just throw another wrench into the works. Where are the Mu'tafikah? I ask this because Reed specifically chooses to use the Quranic word for the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, despite the fact that they show up in other Abrahamic texts. Those inhabitants were crushed by God in the texts of all three Abrahamic religions for performing acts of sodomy. They're sinners. And in Reed's novel, they're specifically sinners within the Islamic religion. Therefore, it seems that, regardless of where Islam stands, the Mu'tafikah are aligned against Islam.

So let's say Islam is on the side of Atonism as LaBas' tale suggests. This would make for a pretty satisfying explanation. The Mu'tafikah would consequently be aligned by Jes Grew, against Islam, which follows from their fight against Atonism. Islam would be aligned with the similar traditions of Judaism and Christianity. A few questions still remain with the case of the Crusades and Abdul Hamid, but overall it's a pretty tight narrative.

But let's also consider the possibility that Islam is on the side of Jes Grew, as much of the book seems to suggest. Then it appears the Mu'tafikah are consequently aligned against Jes Grew. This explanation also has some weight to it considering that LaBas seems to be at odds with Berbelang. Although the Mu'tafikah are obviously not aligned with Atonism, it appears they may still be hindering Jes Grew.

This is just a thought but in that case, Reed might be aiming at the younger, more radical generation of black nationalists, claiming that they are in fact a hindrance to the larger black population. (Perhaps a criticism of the Nation of Islam as a corrupted form of the actual religion.)

I suppose I could just be, as Adi said, falling into Reed's trap. He sets before us this incredibly intricate narrative, supported endlessly by events that somehow seem to fit the ridiculous and clearly fictional puzzle. But it seems so real and fleshed-out that we think we can hold it up to a microscope, break it down to its barest parts, and have it all make sense. I've become the Guianese art critic - trying to make sense of it all, trying to cram it all under a single narrative, and analyzing it with an aggressively academic eye, when Reed's whole point is to not do that.

Why Does Doctorow Think He Can Write Women?

It goes without saying that a pervasive theme throughout Ragtime is donning the trappings of marginalized groups - from the elite class' poverty balls to Mother's Younger Brother's blackface. We see Evelyn trying to ingrain herself in the culture of Jewish slums, Younger Brother becoming a black (and later Mexican) revolutionary, and Jared/Daniel/Paul suggested that Houdini was a representation of blackface (though I don't buy that.)

It makes sense, then, with this extensive criticism of black-/poverty-/Jewish-face, that Doctorow himself avoids trying to portray black characters in the same way that he portrays white characters. It would follow from this criticism of blackface that he himself would not assume to understand the thought processes of a black person. Therefore, during Coalhouse's arc, Coalhouse is only ever portrayed through an objective lens, without ever diving into his mind. We similarly never go into the mind of Sarah, the only other major black character.

But if Doctorow, a white man, feels he cannot represent the mind of a black person, why does he feel he can represent the thoughts of women? Throughout the novel, he takes on the perspective of Mother, Emma, and Evelyn, presuming to know exactly what they're thinking (which might be a fair thing for Mother, being a character of his own creation, but Evelyn and Emma aren't.) If he is an avid criticism of blackface, why does he feel he can put on "womanface"?

One explanation might be that he doesn't. That perhaps he is satirizing the way in which men typically write about women - hypersexual, brutalized, and useless. It could be that his style of writing is, in its own way, a critique on the typical portrayal of women.

But that theory feels shaky to me. It's hard to articulate, but Doctorow feels excessively gratuitous in the pains he has women endure. There are points where I can't quite pinpoint the satire, where it feels no different than a misogynist reveling in the abuse of women. Particularly in the scenes of sexual abuse, like with Evelyn and Mameh, it's deeply uncomfortable. And it's not the uncomfortability of satire, where it makes you question your preconceptions - this is simply uncomfortable.

Another explanation could be that he believes the boundaries between genders aren't quite as strict as the boundaries between race, that white women and white men have much more in common with each other than white men and black men. He may perhaps be acknowledging that white women possess a great amount of privilege, even despite the patriarchy, and that that justifies his portrayal. After all, it appears that he specifically attempts to avoid portraying people from marginalized or oppressed groups, like black and poor Americans. So if he perceives Evelyn, Emma, and Mother as being more privileged members of society, it would follow that he would have no qualms about attempting to represent their thoughts.

Or perhaps it's the more obvious explanation: Simply that Doctorow's sympathy for other races does not translate to a sympathy for other genders. He treats the female characters in his book awfully, having them endure endless abuses and without the heroic redemption, he gives to characters like Coalhouse or Younger Brother. Instead, he revels in brutalizing them and cutting them down to uncomplex creatures. There is no sense that the women have any agency, they're simply enduring the storm. Not to mention that Tateh appears to be a victorious hero in the novel, despite his rampant sexism towards his wife and Emma Goldman.

Personally, that's the explanation I buy. For all of Doctorow's grand musings about narrative and American life he joins the tier of great artists who are unbearably shitty to women.

Morgan and American Imperialism

The turn of the 20th century saw many tectonic shifts in American culture, as we've seen outlined in Doctorow's Ragtime. One that has yet to be directly addressed (as far as I know at the time of my writing this) is the advent of modern American imperialism. Though imperialism was hardly something new to the country in the 1900s (America being the bastard offspring of the British Empire and having already decimated indigenous populations) the early 1900s was where we saw America really take the world stage in terms of its scope and where it began the global expansion of its power that we know so well today. During the 1898 Spanish-American War (which was heavily glorified by contemporaries) America acquired formerly Spanish-owned Pacific territories. This set off a sequence of wars in which America began expanding its power beyond the mainland, beginning to resemble the empire we know it to be today. The imperialism was not only justified, but seen as the natural course. America was the peak of human civilization, it was their responsibility to spread their values of freedom to every corner of the brown and savage globe.

I think the same themes of American exceptionalism and imperialism can be found in Doctorow's portrayal of JP Morgan. Morgan's narrative arc across the two chapters is that of a man who has amassed so much power (having conquered the world) that he wonders what is left to do. Such was the state of 1900s America which, having finished expansion in its mainland territory, set its eyes on the Pacific and beyond. And so Morgan, similarly dissatisfied with the massive power he’s accrued, attempts to explore new territory. There is a direct parallel in that he begins traveling the world, appropriating other cultures in the age-old “white man finds himself through brown man’s world” journey. But his primary new territory is that of mysticism. Having transcended the earthly dimension, he turns to the metaphysical for new conquest, learning of myths and gods.

But it is not just this mentality of expansion that Morgan shares with American imperialism, but the impression of a divine right to this expansion, to this power. With Morgan, this divine right is quite literal, since he sees himself as a reincarnated pharaoh. When the reader comes across his descriptions of said divine right, of greatness being his destiny, the words “manifest destiny” may come to mind. Like his country, Morgan believes his exceptional nature makes him deserving of this power and of ruling over every dominion.

It is also worth noting that, in addition to the novel’s setting, Doctorow’s time period was also one that dealt heavily in imperialism. In the immediate aftermath of the Vietnam War, there was widespread criticism of America overstepping its bounds in an attempt to spread its ideals. Doctorow may have had those sentiments fresh in mind when painting his portrait of Morgan, displaying the vanity and arrogance that leads to this mentality of expansion.

But Doctorow’s imperialist portrait is not simply a discussion of amassing power, but also of power’s relation with time - whether a great empire (or entrepreneur) will stand the test of time or cave to it. Morgan is constantly aware that everything he built may one day collapse, that he, too, is mortal. After all, he has a big red reminder in the middle of his face making sure he never forgets that very fact. This is where Morgan’s obsession with Ford comes in. Ford represents a potential continuation of Morgan’s capitalism. Youthful and on the rise, if Morgan can recruit him perhaps there is a potential for his legacy to live beyond him. It is no mistake (on Doctorow’s part) that Morgan sees in his potential protegee a resemblance to Seti I, a pharaoh whose well-preserved body has managed to endure the ravages of time.   But it is also no mistake that Doctorow mentions Seti I’s son, Ramesses II, famously the subject of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias”. “Ozymandias” is about a traveler who comes across the shattered statue of a once-great king. The poem shows that even the largest empires fall victim to time. With this allusion, Doctorow suggests that Morgan will inevitably fade into oblivion. Morgan’s obsession with reincarnation similarly introduces themes of legacy, since the legends he’s perused suggest that greatness never goes away, but is constantly renewed.

With this discussion of mortality, legacy, and the relation between time and power, Doctorow posits the question: Will America last?

Will the empire inevitably cave to the pressures of time? Morgan, is, after all, a founding father of industrial America and generally an icon of the country. So is his ultimate failure in recruiting Ford and Morgan’s old age (which Doctorow emphasizes by acknowledging his out of date clothes and physical appearance) indicative of an America ready to topple?

Or will the empire continue to grow and find new avenues by which to expand its power? Does Doctorow foresee a continuation of America through reincarnation? Does he foresee Ford as the new Morgan, set to take the reins and usher in a new age of capitalism by which America can thrive? One less concerned with the extravagance and trappings of wealth (like Morgan was) and more heavily focused on efficiency and production?