Libra: the anti-conspiracy novel

        When I started reading Libra, I was expecting it to be a conspiracy novel. In some ways, of course, it was − there was a plot, it tied in with some real-life theories surrounding the assassination (the CIA was involved, Jack Ruby was hired by the mob, etc.). However, the importance of the plot faded away as the book went on. It felt like DeLillo put in a conspiracy at the beginning because that's what readers would expect from a novel like this, but then the rest of the book went on to show how implausible/unnecessary a stereotypical crazy-conspiracy-theory-type plot would actually be. It reminded me in some ways of Win Everett's description of how the CIA worked: one group told another what their goal was, that group told another a general idea of what to do, and then the final group, detached from the original planners, carried out the actual operation. However, Kennedy's assassination is a good example of how that type of plan can be corrupted: when Win allowed the details to be worked out without his input, the whole plan quickly changed into something totally different than he originally intended. Win's description of CIA operations fits with a traditional "conspiracy" way of seeing things: even though not everyone knew every single detail, many levels of the CIA were working together. In contrast, the JFK assassination shows what happens when you take the same kind of thinking and apply it in a situation where nothing is organized and no one even pretends to have the same motives. Win's problem was that he thought too much like a CIA agent and assumed everyone else (Mackey, etc.) did too.

        In some ways, the arc of Lee's life can also be seen as an anti-conspiracy. He is obsessed with destiny and controlling forces, and they are a major idea in the book. Throughout the book, Lee keeps falling short of everything he sets out to do − being a Russian spy, being a good husband/father, assassinating Walker, going to Cuba, etc. With what we know as readers, it seems like Lee is fated to finally achieve something "great" (some sort of greatness, anyway), and his repeated failures only serve to emphasize this and give it more impact when it does happen. There are so many strange coincidences leading up to the event − Lee's job at the schoolbook depository, living in Dallas before the plotters decide to assassinate him there, etc. − that we instinctively look for a logical explanation. It feels like there should be some divine force pushing Lee to be in the right place at the right time to shoot JFK. Then all of this foreshadowing is undone in an instant when Lee misses, and Raymo's shot hits instead. If Lee's entire life isn't leading up to this moment, then what is it for? I think it would've been interesting if DeLillo had explored this some more.

First thoughts on Libra

Libra is perfect to read as the last book this semester for many reasons. Most obviously: it's the one with the chronologically latest setting (except for parts of Kindred), and the most recently published. Besides that, it feels like DeLillo is combining elements from different books we've read so far. The overall writing style is most similar to Ragtime: there are long, occasionally confusing descriptive passages that get deep into characters' heads. The point of view is third person omniscient, so we get to see events from many different perspectives. The narrator, perhaps DeLillo himself, has a slightly snarky voice at points.

 If we continue this comparison, then the character Lee is most similar to is Coalhouse Walker. If you look at them both without passing any kind of moral judgment, then they are more alike than they seem. Both Lee and Coalhouse are revolutionaries of varying degrees of success (Coalhouse more successful than Lee, of course) and believe in using extreme tactics to further their ideals. It's not really a very good comparison, because Coalhouse has seemingly more concrete reasons for his anger, and comes across as more justifiable than Lee.

In many ways, Libra reminds me even more of Slaughterhouse-Five. Maybe it's just the part of the book we're in right now, with Lee in the Navy and interacting with his army buddies (buddies? tormentors? inferior human specimens? how does Lee really see them?). Lee's character is also a little similar to Billy Pilgrim - the quiet, somewhat pathetic figure in the middle of a war who nobody quite takes seriously. However, Lee is the polar opposite of Billy in terms of passivity - he has a very definite plan for his life that he tries desperately to achieve, while Billy just sort of wanders aimlessly through everything. While Billy doesn't care about anything, Lee cares passionately about his ideals, even though his ideals often contradict themselves.

Even more notably, the structure of Libra parallels that of Slaughterhouse-Five. While it sticks to a conventional linear timeline from its characters' point of view, the plot is constantly coming unstuck in time between various points in Lee's life and the months leading up the the JFK assassination. Both novels center around one climactic event that the reader anticipates from the beginning: the assassination, Dresden. There's a sense of a countdown. In both books, there's also a character who's ostensibly looking in on the story after the fact, trying to make sense of it all: Vonnegut, Nicholas Branch. An interesting structural difference is that in Slaughterhouse-Five, the focal event takes place before most of the book, chronologically speaking, and the scattered segments of Billy's life take place (from a linear perspective) after he has experienced Dresden. However, in Libra, the main event happens at the end of Lee's life, and the scattered scenes take place as backstory.

Rufus is an entitled child

One aspect of Kindred that I find really interesting is Dana's relationship with Rufus. Rufus is a very interesting character - even as he grows up, he still seems to behave like a child in many ways. Dana tries to get him to act in a more mature manner, with limited success. 

Rufus's relationships with both Alice and Dana show a very immature attitude towards love, whether romantic or platonic. Of course, a good deal of this is related to race − Rufus has been brought up his entire life to believe that he has the right to do whatever he wants to black people like Alice and Dana. Still, Rufus doesn't seem to understand how love is supposed to work. Granted, he hasn't had many good examples − neither of his parents seem to be able to have a remotely healthy relationship with anyone − but that still doesn't excuse him for acting the way he does toward Dana and especially Alice. Rufus seems to think he can threaten them into loving him, not understanding that that's not how love works. 

Rufus reminds me of a little kid who doesn't understand why he can't get what he wants 24/7. A lot of this comes from his terror of being abandoned, since "what he wants" is usually for Dana or Alice to stay with him forever and love him. He's like a toddler who cries every time his parents leave the room, except he's a grown man with a gun. Rufus hasn't learned to see the objects of his "love" as actual people

Throughout the book, Butler tries to make the point that Rufus isn't a bad person because of some inherent part of his nature that makes him a possessive rapist. Rather, for his entire life his selfish, harmful desires have been validated by everything and everyone around him. His society tells him that as a white man in the planter class, he absolutely has the right to rape Alice or to order Dana around.