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Before I head over to Potlatch for the day, I thought I'd post a few thoughts on Jules Verne's Paris in the Twentieth Century, which I finished reading last week in Victoria.
Verne wrote this novel in 1863, which was the year his first published novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon became a big hit in France. By way of reference, Journey to the Center of the Earth was published in 1864 and From the Earth to the Moon was published in 1865. Paris in the Twentieth Century wasn't published until 1994, more than a hundred years after it was written. Verne's publisher, Hetzel, rejected it as inferior to Five Weeks in a Balloon and because, "No one today will believe your prophecy." It's true that what's remarkable to the modern reader is how much of the futuristic technology in this book came true, from combustion engines to fax machines. However, these were technologies that were already being tested in this time, so to be surprised is perhaps only to reveal my historical ignorance.
However, what I found interesting about this book from a literary standpoint is that it seems to be a (perhaps slightly befuddled) step on the path from utopia to dystopia. (I may be exposing my ignorance again, because for all I know the dystopia was invented in 1793 by a Belgian writer I've never heard of. Damn those Belgians!) The technological wonders of the twentieth century are described in loving detail, but the story itself mourns the death of humanism. The protagonist, Michel, has a degree in the composition of Latin poetry that is worthless in the new scientific world. Poetry is still written, but the modern stuff has titles like Electric Harmonies, Meditations on Oxygen, and The Poetic Parallelogram. It is perhaps a sign of our degraded era that these sound more interesting than Michel's drippy romanticism.
For Michel is indeed a mid-19th century romantic who is out of place in this far flung future. Verne seems to want to satirize modern trends in culture, but he comes off as a helpless "that's not music, it's noise" style crank:
"Oh, me! I play as much of it as anybody else -- here's a piece I've just written that will appeal to today's taste; it may even have some success, if it finds a publisher."
"What are you calling it?"
"After Thilorier -- a Grand Fantasy on the Liquefaction of Carbonic Acid."
"You can't be serious!" Michel exclaimed.
"Listen and judge for yourselves," Quinsonnas replied. He sat down at the piano, or rather he flung himself at it. Under his fingers, under his hands, under his elbows, the wretched instrument produced impossible sounds; notes collided and crackled like hailstones. No melody, no rhythm! The artist had undertaken to portray the final experiment which cost Thilorier his life.
"There!" he exclaimed. "Did you hear that? Now do you understand? Are you aware of the great chemist's experiment? Have you been taken into his laboratory? Do you feel how the carbonic acid is separated out? Here we have a pressure of four hundred ninety-five atmospheres! The cylinder is turning -- watch out! watch out! The machine is going to explode! Take cover!" And with a blow of his fist capable of splintering the ivory keys, Quinsonnas reproduced the explosion. "Whew!" he said, "isn't that imitative enough -- isn't that beautiful?"
One applauds the pointed satire here, but the horror at the very possibility of exploring this vein is just a bit suspect, if not downright reactionary. Suffice it to say that there's no niche in this brave new world for a sensitive nineteenth century soul like Michel. Everything is about science, industry, accounting, and business -- capitalism, in other words -- and the poor poet can only starve helplessly amongst the heartless, artless bourgeoisie. (Not much working class in evidence, it must be noted.) Hetzel's other complaint about the manuscript is very much to the point: "Your Michel is a real goose with his verses. Can't he carry parcels and remain a poet?" Go ask Wallace Stevens!
Verne's satire doesn't have much bite, and the ineffectual, self-centered melancholy of his protagonist blocks him from a truly dystopian critique of the idea of progress. If he had spent less time worrying about the place of Victor Hugo in the future and more looking at social problems in an industrial hierarchy, he might have an actual claim to prescience. Still, the grim ending of the novel hints at dystopias to come, and Verne has to be given some credit for that. Meanwhile I have just acquired Albert Robida's The Twentieth Century, which was first published in France in 1882. We'll see if the French future looked better twenty years later.
Verne wrote this novel in 1863, which was the year his first published novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon became a big hit in France. By way of reference, Journey to the Center of the Earth was published in 1864 and From the Earth to the Moon was published in 1865. Paris in the Twentieth Century wasn't published until 1994, more than a hundred years after it was written. Verne's publisher, Hetzel, rejected it as inferior to Five Weeks in a Balloon and because, "No one today will believe your prophecy." It's true that what's remarkable to the modern reader is how much of the futuristic technology in this book came true, from combustion engines to fax machines. However, these were technologies that were already being tested in this time, so to be surprised is perhaps only to reveal my historical ignorance.
However, what I found interesting about this book from a literary standpoint is that it seems to be a (perhaps slightly befuddled) step on the path from utopia to dystopia. (I may be exposing my ignorance again, because for all I know the dystopia was invented in 1793 by a Belgian writer I've never heard of. Damn those Belgians!) The technological wonders of the twentieth century are described in loving detail, but the story itself mourns the death of humanism. The protagonist, Michel, has a degree in the composition of Latin poetry that is worthless in the new scientific world. Poetry is still written, but the modern stuff has titles like Electric Harmonies, Meditations on Oxygen, and The Poetic Parallelogram. It is perhaps a sign of our degraded era that these sound more interesting than Michel's drippy romanticism.
For Michel is indeed a mid-19th century romantic who is out of place in this far flung future. Verne seems to want to satirize modern trends in culture, but he comes off as a helpless "that's not music, it's noise" style crank:
"Oh, me! I play as much of it as anybody else -- here's a piece I've just written that will appeal to today's taste; it may even have some success, if it finds a publisher."
"What are you calling it?"
"After Thilorier -- a Grand Fantasy on the Liquefaction of Carbonic Acid."
"You can't be serious!" Michel exclaimed.
"Listen and judge for yourselves," Quinsonnas replied. He sat down at the piano, or rather he flung himself at it. Under his fingers, under his hands, under his elbows, the wretched instrument produced impossible sounds; notes collided and crackled like hailstones. No melody, no rhythm! The artist had undertaken to portray the final experiment which cost Thilorier his life.
"There!" he exclaimed. "Did you hear that? Now do you understand? Are you aware of the great chemist's experiment? Have you been taken into his laboratory? Do you feel how the carbonic acid is separated out? Here we have a pressure of four hundred ninety-five atmospheres! The cylinder is turning -- watch out! watch out! The machine is going to explode! Take cover!" And with a blow of his fist capable of splintering the ivory keys, Quinsonnas reproduced the explosion. "Whew!" he said, "isn't that imitative enough -- isn't that beautiful?"
One applauds the pointed satire here, but the horror at the very possibility of exploring this vein is just a bit suspect, if not downright reactionary. Suffice it to say that there's no niche in this brave new world for a sensitive nineteenth century soul like Michel. Everything is about science, industry, accounting, and business -- capitalism, in other words -- and the poor poet can only starve helplessly amongst the heartless, artless bourgeoisie. (Not much working class in evidence, it must be noted.) Hetzel's other complaint about the manuscript is very much to the point: "Your Michel is a real goose with his verses. Can't he carry parcels and remain a poet?" Go ask Wallace Stevens!
Verne's satire doesn't have much bite, and the ineffectual, self-centered melancholy of his protagonist blocks him from a truly dystopian critique of the idea of progress. If he had spent less time worrying about the place of Victor Hugo in the future and more looking at social problems in an industrial hierarchy, he might have an actual claim to prescience. Still, the grim ending of the novel hints at dystopias to come, and Verne has to be given some credit for that. Meanwhile I have just acquired Albert Robida's The Twentieth Century, which was first published in France in 1882. We'll see if the French future looked better twenty years later.
