Nick Eff (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
roadrunnertwice) wrote2006-01-19 02:43 am
roadrunnertwice) wrote2006-01-19 02:43 am
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From here to doomsday
We were shooting the proverbial shit tonight down in Portland, and the topic of Doomsday Book came up. Briefly. (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spinooti is reading my copy of To Say Nothing of the Dog.) Anyway, way after the fact (as in, in the car on the way home—l'esprit de automobile), I suddenly realized that the book wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it was.
Here's what I think was going on: My dislike for it was actually one of those genre mismatch situations. With TSNotD, it was pretty obvious from the start that it wasn't actually a time-travel book but was in fact a comedy of manners–slash–mystery novel (maybe not so much for the business with Mr. C—, but definitely the Bishop's Bird Stump situation)–slash–quirky romantic piffle. (With bulldogs.) Doomsday wasn't any of the above, so I actually went in thinking it was, indeed, a time-travel book. It's not—the entire arc of the main plot is that nothing happens, and every bit of that nothing is inconceivably horrible. Viewed as a time travel story or a mystery story, the book is completely and totally pointless.
The big revelation that hit me in the car is that Doomsday Book is actually something more like an extended rumination on the purpose of religion—and more specifically, it's ultimately about the question of whether anyone is watching when you die, and what difference it can possibly make either way.
Here's the thing. Father Roche is absolutely convinced that what's-her-name* is an angel, but not only is his faith not shaken by her inability to save or help anyone, but he doesn't seem to even expect her to do anything—when he finally dies, the last thing he ever does is desperately try to express his gratitude. Originally, I must have taken that as another symptom of the book's pointlessness, but I think I understand now. In Roche's theology, what the protagonist did is exactly what God would have sent an angel to do: to plainly and simply bear witness. Her presence did nothing less than allow the last resident of the village to die in the knowledge that someone was watching.
I think that's Willis' argument for the entire utility of God. In the end, miracles, forgiveness, and promises of an afterlife are all superfluous: God's job is to promise that when a tree falls in the woods, it does make a sound; to promise that, even if no trace of your entire existence remains, you still lived your life. God's job is to be the all-seeing eye that holds the universe together, and promises that what happens will have happened.
That's actually pretty sophisticated. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I didn't get it on the first go-round.
spinooti is reading my copy of To Say Nothing of the Dog.) Anyway, way after the fact (as in, in the car on the way home—l'esprit de automobile), I suddenly realized that the book wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it was. Here's what I think was going on: My dislike for it was actually one of those genre mismatch situations. With TSNotD, it was pretty obvious from the start that it wasn't actually a time-travel book but was in fact a comedy of manners–slash–mystery novel (maybe not so much for the business with Mr. C—, but definitely the Bishop's Bird Stump situation)–slash–quirky romantic piffle. (With bulldogs.) Doomsday wasn't any of the above, so I actually went in thinking it was, indeed, a time-travel book. It's not—the entire arc of the main plot is that nothing happens, and every bit of that nothing is inconceivably horrible. Viewed as a time travel story or a mystery story, the book is completely and totally pointless.
The big revelation that hit me in the car is that Doomsday Book is actually something more like an extended rumination on the purpose of religion—and more specifically, it's ultimately about the question of whether anyone is watching when you die, and what difference it can possibly make either way.
Here's the thing. Father Roche is absolutely convinced that what's-her-name* is an angel, but not only is his faith not shaken by her inability to save or help anyone, but he doesn't seem to even expect her to do anything—when he finally dies, the last thing he ever does is desperately try to express his gratitude. Originally, I must have taken that as another symptom of the book's pointlessness, but I think I understand now. In Roche's theology, what the protagonist did is exactly what God would have sent an angel to do: to plainly and simply bear witness. Her presence did nothing less than allow the last resident of the village to die in the knowledge that someone was watching.
I think that's Willis' argument for the entire utility of God. In the end, miracles, forgiveness, and promises of an afterlife are all superfluous: God's job is to promise that when a tree falls in the woods, it does make a sound; to promise that, even if no trace of your entire existence remains, you still lived your life. God's job is to be the all-seeing eye that holds the universe together, and promises that what happens will have happened.
That's actually pretty sophisticated. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I didn't get it on the first go-round.