Disaffected Afflictions: Tracing Paranoia to the Postmodern Culture

Chris Campanioni L-SAW 2006

Paranoia: a fear, an obsession, a symptom of our postmodern condition. The roots of paranoia can be traced to the individual's reliance on the finite, the palpable, the concrete. Michiko Kakutani's notion that conspiracy theories are "reassuring" because they offer "pat, systematic answers" ( "The Age of Conspiracism," pg. 47, Newsweek) and demonstrate that "life is not random" is certainly not unfounded. Kakutani is correct in this regard; conspiracy theory is the new religion, giving people a means to explain the inexplicable in a logical (often convoluted and unrealistic) method in the same way that ancient civilizations conceived gods to describe elements of nature. Today, this ethos of conspiracy is repackaged back to us by the media, spanning television shows, films, and various games that have made paranoia a staple of our culture as an ever-increasing number of solutions are created for events, historical or otherwise, once shrouded in obscurity. With the advent of conspiracy theory comes the elimination of the mysteriousness, and this mysteriousness, this unknown, as we well know, is precisely what makes something that can offer up an explanation so comforting. Here, the link of paranoia to the postmodern condition is undeniable; the postmodern individual is alienated, inaccessible, and in dire need of a comfort zone; he or she needs not merely to feel alive, they need to prove it somehow. Paranoia is a means to this end.

Perhaps no figure exemplifies this alienation via society better than Bob Fletcher, a man whose "averageness" extends even to his name. The face of the paranoid condition can be distinguished in the shabby features and easily excited personality of Fletcher, a conspiracist for over twenty years and an ardent member and spokesperson for the Militia of Montana - a group whose proverbial bible is called "The Blue Book," a veritable trip through shadow government documentations, international cover-ups, and political assassinations. In essence, "The Blue Book" is little more than a three-ring binder filled with what Militia leader Randy Trochmann deems as "further evidence of conspiracy" ( "The Road to Paranoia," pg. 61, New Yorker).

Though various other incarnations of the paranoid condition have always been termed as irrational (among other things), unless eventually validated at the end, this type of "fusion paranoia" (a rejection of the bipolar model of "left" and "right" views in favor of uniting in opposition against a broad conspirator) expressed by Fletcher is portrayed as a reasonable or natural response to societal conditions. Bob Fletcher as described by author Michael Kelly, is "a stranger of a strange land" ( "The Road to Paranoia," pg. 62. New Yorker). Instead of being an anomaly, a crackpot, a crazy person, Fletcher is described to be a victim of his society, or rather the conditions of that society.

Fletcher's paranoia ranges from the personal; his former life as an owner of a puppet company that went awry by the "government" and two attempted "assassinations" on his life, to the universal; the Iran-Contra affair and the Waco tragedy. In his own words, he is in the middle of everything. This correlates with the defining characteristic of a paranoid individual: the belief that you are at the center of the world; that the sun revolves around you, not the Earth. Fletcher's need for a historical identity in a culture that has forgotten him is heartfelt at times and hilarious in others, "The story of my whole life, the amazing story of how I came to be involved in all this. It's an amazing goddamn freaking story, I'm not bullshitting you. I haven't even finished my autobiography - it's seven hundred and fifty-eight pages, or something like that, long already - and already I been asked by the Disney people about it" ( "The Road to Paranoia," pg. 62, New Yorker).

Fletcher is a man suffering from the postmodern conditions of his world. This has produced his longing for an identity amidst past failures (the lament in his words when talking of his past puppet business that was bound to make "millions" is certainly palpable, as is his separation from his wife, who couldn't deal with his "importance" in investigating these shadow governments) and he has found that identity in the Militia of Montana, which, he admits he was drawn to because of the warmth and comfort he felt when first visiting. Even the group's acronym, MOM, is emblematic of Fletcher's need for maternal sympathies that seem to have escaped him all his life. Fletcher seems like a man willing to do anything to be made visible; he refers to himself in the third person (a fact that author Michael Kelly humorously notes), creates a verb with his name as the subject ( "Fletcherized"), and goes as far as to say that "there probably isn't a single major thing that has happened in the last ten years that I haven't been right in the middle of" ( "The Road to Paranoia," pg. 62, New Yorker).

Paul Auster is an author very much aware of the symptoms of our postmodern culture. He sets his stories in New York City: the big apple, the city that never sleeps, the most celebrated metropolis in the world, and also, the loneliest. It is no surprise that Auster decides to set his "New York Trilogy" in Manhattan; it is in fact the ideal setting for a book about the duality of the human condition, its paradoxes and the serious problems that lie therein. Being at once a vanguard of social attractions and opportunities and the most forlorn place in America, New York City provides the perfect backdrop for Daniel Quinn, protagonist of "City of Glass," an author with nothing left in life but the characters he creates.

It is only in the final pages of "City of Glass" that Quinn comes to terms with his social and emotional detachment from society, though throughout the story, the reader is made well aware of the dangerous lengths of his disease. "Baudelaire: Il me semble que je serais toujours bien la ou je ne suis pas. In other words: It seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not. Or, more bluntly: Wherever I am not is the place where I am myself. Or else, taking the bull by the horns: Anywhere out of the world" (pg. 132). Charles Baudelaire, 19^th century French poet and literary critic, is largely viewed as an artist who appealed to modern civilization. His words here are significant because they match Quinn's thoughts and the plight of the twentieth century, an era that Baudelaire seemed to forecast in his grim, dark verse. At this point in the novel, Quinn finally admits his inner conflict (and that which other members of society also share, privately or otherwise): Alienation. Quinn is certain that he "will always be happy in the place" where he is not; literally, nowhere. This is precisely what leads to Quinn's frequent attempts to detach his mind or spirit from his body during his daily walks, becoming an omniscient observer of a forlorn city (much like the role William Blake adopts in respects to London in his renowned "Songs of Innocence and of Experience"). By contrast, wherever Quinn is not, is the place where he is himself. This means Quinn is only himself when he is alone, detached from society, and moreover, out of his body. Literally, "out of the world," the material world. Only when Quinn leaves this world can he enter the astral plane, another dimension so to speak, where his thoughts wander free and aimlessly. Quinn feels so lost amid the grime and filth and shallowness of his culture that he can only be comfortable by leaving them all behind, by literally getting out of their "world." Of course, he can't do this physically and it is only with great mental concentration facilitated by his afternoon walks that he can accomplish an escape akin to nirvana, which, like the ideals his culture prescribes to, is only ephemeral. Auster's descriptions of the city itself are representative of this breakdown of a culture. "Perhaps one day they would drift further into dinginess, lapsing into gray, or even brown, like some piece of aging fruit. A white wall becomes a yellow wall becomes a grey wall, he said to himself. The pain becomes exhausted, the city encroaches with its soot, the plaster crumbles within. Changes, then more changes still." (pg. 124-125). Clearly, no good changes. The "they" here corresponds with "the walls" in the prior sentence, but at the same time, it's not difficult to also imagine "they" as humanity and its "dinginess" as the human condition. No bright spots lie in the future as this consumer culture evolves into a larger, more grotesque (and more dominating, celebrated) monster. Somewhere along the way, humanity has changed so much that it barely can be recognized from its original conception, "A white wall becomes a yellow wall becomes a grey wall..." The human body (the plaster) is crumbling from within, (italics added) at the core of our souls, which are bare and hollow, devoid of positive content. These "changes" will continue "still" so long as we continue living in (and worshipping) these superfluous ideals where religion is replaced with commercialism, industry, material embellishments and of course, the "paranoid religion" of faith and doubt.

Quinn's eventual breakdown is remarkable not merely for how quick he falls, but also for the depths that he falls to. "Remarkable as it seems, no one ever noticed Quinn. It was as though he had melted into the walls of the city" (pg. 139). This marks Quinn's total and complete fall into the abyss of insanity. Ironically, however, there is nothing extraordinary regarding Quinn's condition. Simply put, Quinn was always just a part of "the city." A small, broken cogwheel in the greater machine. No one ever noticed Quinn; he had no friends and the acquaintances he did acquire were spoken to with the same droll, monotonous and repetitive conversation every single day. Is it not safe to say that in the modern world, in the culture that we have decided for ourselves, the greatest fear of anyone is not to be criticized or ridiculed, but to not be anything at all? To be ignored, to be forgotten? Certainly, Fletcher would agree. Quinn is one such victim, and has been for some time, yet it is only through his insanity at the culmination of the novel (and the great lengths he goes to ensure total vigilance of the Stillman's apartment) that the reader can finally recognize it. In some ways, his complete and utter insanity is only the logical progression of the prior detachment he has experienced over the last few years, much like the way Bob Fletcher is seen as a victim of society, not its social deviant. In a way, Auster is warning his readers of the serious repercussions that will inevitably result from this human detachment and isolation that seems to be so prevalent in a culture bent on globalization, the irony of course being that globalization brings the world together, at least for pecuniary reasons.

The second story in Auster's "New York Trilogy," "Ghosts," deals with similar issues through subtler means. Almost every character is named after a color, which serves not merely to initially confuse the reader or attract their attention, but more importantly, to link the reflexive, subjective nature of colors with the inhabitants of the postmodern world. Blue is a private eye assigned to study the everyday actions of Black. Though Blue thinks he is in control of the case he has been assigned, he soon begins to have doubts about his own autonomy, eventually taking over the story (literally, the story that Black is writing in his study, which may in fact be the story we are reading) and completing it as he kills Black. Black needs Blue to write his story, but at the same time, Blue needs Black as a way of proving his existence; simply put, without Black, there wouldn't be a need for Blue. The same is true for the colors themselves. They are secondary traits, dependent on the visual senses of others, stagnant and unreliable since different people see different things. Colors aren't concrete; they can't be measured or proven. In isolation, nothing exists. People, like colors, become figurative "ghosts," since no one can see them. Paranoia ensures this comfort of being alive; now you're important because someone else is watching you, you are the object of some intense scrutiny and suddenly, you're not very invisible at all. Paranoia is not so much a disease as it is a symptom, a viable conduit to shaping identity and character for the hundreds of disaffected men and women, victims if you will, of our postmodern culture; this age of anxiety.