Wow, what a weird, whirlwind weekend. First I sat down to read Freud's article on the Uncanny. He explains at length, through pages of dictionary definitions, that the German word for Uncanny ("Unheimlich") is supposedly synonymous, in some ways, with its opposite ("Heimlich")... which really just makes me think of the Heimlich maneuver. But the point of the article was to point out that the uncanny in literature really comes from that which was previously known (either from the history of mankind or from infancy) and has since been repressed. For example: It's not weird at all when, as children, we play with dolls and pretend that they are alive. Who else are you going to have tea-parties with, if not Barbie, Baby Newborn, and Mr. Bear? But as adults, after we understand fully that stuffed animals and human-like toys are NOT animate, the idea or inclination of their animacy becomes uncanny, and it freaks us out.
Talking tow-trucks, telepathy, and trippy-ness take totally tame territory from time to time: Anything impossible in our own reality might be possible, even expected, in an alternate reality. This is why, depending no the context of the plot, the uncanny and its opposite can be one in the same. In fairy-tales, we assume that certain things are going to happen that we would not expect from a novel that portrays what we interpret as "real life." For instance: If a tree reprimands Dorothy for picking its apples as she walks down down the yellow-brick road, it may be surprising, but not uncanny because of the fantastical context. On the other hand, if a tree says a polite hello to John Doe as he walks through Central Park, that's effed up, and our rational minds are forced to explain the action: Do we believe that trees can talk? That John has a special ability to communicate with trees? That he is insane? We don't know, and the possibility of irrational explanations makes this uncanny.
Finally, Fry focuses on further Freudian Forays into Fiction. We look at the novel as a story with a beginning, middle, and end. But if the beginning gives you a problem, and the end gives you a solution (or resolution), then why do we need the middle? We all like a page-turner, which usually results from lots of problems and suspense and worry. Why do we like that? Freud says that we all seek our own pleasure, and that “the aim of all life is death” --- that’s why we dig close calls and narrow escapes in fiction, and why trauma patients always come back to their traumatic experiences, at least from what I understand --- Because we want to become masters of death, and therefore relish the rehearsal of artfully avoiding it until the right time comes. I don’t know if I understand that whole idea, but I think I can get behind it…
Maybe mankind is masochistic, making the middle more morbid? That’s what I’m getting from Freud and Brooks in this chapter. This is what moves the plot of the story: the desire to Master death, which follows Freud’s pleasure principle: The delay of death, our conquering of death-defying or just plain scary situations, supposedly brings us pleasure. This is why we have plot, and why novels tend to be of a certain length and only give so much suspense: enough, but not too much. Am I getting this?
...Creepy concepts combined with the craziness of collective consciousness are quite curious to consider. It's uncanny!
Talking tow-trucks, telepathy, and trippy-ness take totally tame territory from time to time: Anything impossible in our own reality might be possible, even expected, in an alternate reality. This is why, depending no the context of the plot, the uncanny and its opposite can be one in the same. In fairy-tales, we assume that certain things are going to happen that we would not expect from a novel that portrays what we interpret as "real life." For instance: If a tree reprimands Dorothy for picking its apples as she walks down down the yellow-brick road, it may be surprising, but not uncanny because of the fantastical context. On the other hand, if a tree says a polite hello to John Doe as he walks through Central Park, that's effed up, and our rational minds are forced to explain the action: Do we believe that trees can talk? That John has a special ability to communicate with trees? That he is insane? We don't know, and the possibility of irrational explanations makes this uncanny.
Finally, Fry focuses on further Freudian Forays into Fiction. We look at the novel as a story with a beginning, middle, and end. But if the beginning gives you a problem, and the end gives you a solution (or resolution), then why do we need the middle? We all like a page-turner, which usually results from lots of problems and suspense and worry. Why do we like that? Freud says that we all seek our own pleasure, and that “the aim of all life is death” --- that’s why we dig close calls and narrow escapes in fiction, and why trauma patients always come back to their traumatic experiences, at least from what I understand --- Because we want to become masters of death, and therefore relish the rehearsal of artfully avoiding it until the right time comes. I don’t know if I understand that whole idea, but I think I can get behind it…
Maybe mankind is masochistic, making the middle more morbid? That’s what I’m getting from Freud and Brooks in this chapter. This is what moves the plot of the story: the desire to Master death, which follows Freud’s pleasure principle: The delay of death, our conquering of death-defying or just plain scary situations, supposedly brings us pleasure. This is why we have plot, and why novels tend to be of a certain length and only give so much suspense: enough, but not too much. Am I getting this?
...Creepy concepts combined with the craziness of collective consciousness are quite curious to consider. It's uncanny!
