Nothing good can come of a society which celebrates a holiday called the “Day of Unanimity.” At least, that’s a logical conclusion to draw when you’re on the outside of said society looking in. Unfortunately for D-503, the narrator of Yevgeny Zamyatin’s 1920 novel We, few people are more on the inside of their society as he is. Unlike his poet friend R-13, D-503 is a mathematician by trade—and when one lives in a society where everything has been quantified, down to something as ineffable as the human soul, that suggests a rude awakening waiting to happen.
Since its publication over a century ago, Zamyatin’s novel has picked up a number of high-profile admirers—Ecco’s edition of this new translation by Bela Shayevich features reprinted writings on We by George Orwell and Ursula K. Le Guin. In a blog post from 2015, Le Guin described the setting of We as “an enclave of maximum control surrounded by a wilderness.” This is the One State, a society ruled by The Benefactor and on the verge of launching a mission into outer space on a ship, the INTEGRAL.
It’s worth mentioning here that the government of the One State is fond of communicating in all caps, which is another hint that not all is well. “SOME THOUSAND YEARS AGO, YOUR HERO ANCESTORS VICTORIOUSLY SUBJUGATED ALL OF EARTH TO THE ONE STATE,” their first dispatch reads—and goes on to hail the benefits of “MATHEMATICALLY INFALLIBLE HAPPINESS.” As for what the precursor to this society looked like, our narrator offers tantalizing details, including references to the Two Hundred Years’ War and a brief mention of “the greatest surviving classic of ancient literature”—namely, The Train Schedule.
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We
D-503 is the “Builder of the INTEGRAL,” and the novel is structured as a series of log entries as he documents his life leading up to the launch of the ship in question. Gradually, however, D-503 begins to feel out of step with the larger society around him; at one point, he compares his feelings to asking a square “to tell you about itself and its life.” He begins to become dissatisfied with his society’s system of managing sex between citizens and learns that the One State might not be as all-encompassing as he’d once believed.
Later still, D-503 observes that “[f]reedom and crime are as inextricably linked as… well, the motion of an aero and its velocity.” And throughout the book, he torments himself with the dilemma of whether to confess or embrace his heretical thoughts. The idea of someone raised to believe in absolute rationality having an emotional thaw propels the action of We forward. It’s not hard to see the impact that this book has had on an entire genre — the Orwell essay contained in this edition makes a convincing argument for We as a precursor to Brave New World, and there are other aspects of this novel that anticipate elements of narratives ranging from The Prisoner to A Canticle for Leibowitz.
Not all aspects of this book look so far-sighted, however. D-503’s descriptions of his poet friend R-13 come off as shockingly racist throughout the novel, to the point where translator Shayevich adds a footnote to comment on this element of the book. To wit: Zamyatin is likely establishing a comparison between R-13 and Alexander Pushkin—both poets of African descent—but does so in an offensive and heavy-handed manner. Shayevich’s explanation is helpful when it comes to the context in which Zamyatin was writing, but it doesn’t make the repeated physical descriptions of R-13 any less cringeworthy to read.
What stands out most sharply in this book and its new translation are D-503’s sense of self and corresponding alienation. “I see myself clearly, distinctly, consciously, astonished to be aware of myself as some ‘he’,” D-503 thinks at one point when looking at himself in the mirror. That his interactions with a woman named I-330—whom he often refers to simply as “I”—help spark his own questioning of the world around him adds another layer to his alienation. In this narrative, “I” really is someone else.
D-503’s dilemma throughout the book is both physical and existential, and the society in which he lives offers the threat of intellectual and theological torments. Much of what’s so effective about We, even now, comes from the sense of an ordinary person suddenly grappling with a truth about their world that they can barely comprehend. It’s not without its flaws, but the sense of dread that rises when reading this book in 2021 helps explain why it’s endured for so long.
We is available from Ecco.
Tobias Carroll is the managing editor of Vol.1 Brooklyn. He is the author of the short story collection Transitory (Civil Coping Mechanisms) and the novel Reel (Rare Bird Books).
I love Robin McKinley books. My favorite is the Blue Sword. I can’t remember if I’ve read the Outlaws of Sherwood or it could just be I don’t own this version. I’ll have to track it down. Given my name I’ve read or watch a lot of Robin Hood over the years. Robin McKinley does write great believable characters.
Aerin is the King’s only child but because of her questionable mother she is not his heir, her cousin is. She spends most of her childhood humiliated by her lack of magic and hiding from everybody. But after making one of those huge mistakes mentioned she adopts her father’s injured warhorse and is inspired with the ambition to become a dragon slayer – which is nowhere near as cool in Damar as it sounds. She starts using the main palace halls rather than creeping down back stairs to avoid meeting anybody, and going into town to buy things she needs for her experiments. And the people seeing her are reminded that her mother was a healer as well as a witch and the girl seems perfectly normal and charmingly unspoiled and she begins entirely unknowingly to gather supporters among the populace. Of course it all goes pear shaped but the real point is she starts taking control of her life and it improves.
A truism in writing any fiction but high fantasy is that the more bonkers it gets, the more grounded in the real world the story has to be. A reader will buy a demon in the pantry if that pantry is stocked with Pop Tarts and peanuts, and the main character has the munchies in the middle of the night. Real details makes the unreal more really and connects the reader to the character’s experience because they’ve gone looking for snacks in the dark.
The works of Tolkien are HIGH fantasy which has little to do with the real world. The authors you mention write LOW fantasy where the real world is the setting of the fantasy happenings. Do a search on Wikipedia which has a brief comparison of the two.
My favourite of all Robin McKinley’s novels is Sunshine.
I really do pretty much love all of them – she is so good at taking a Story you think you know and exerting a twist that turns it around and makes it come out the other side of the mirror.
My younger sister was given Outlaws of Sherwood when she was ten or so. She was tolerably familiar with the Robin of Sherwood legend because I was a huge Robin Hood fan – I’d read tons of retellings ancient and modern. But when she had finished reading Outlaws, she asked me “So is that how it really was? This is the real story?”
Like an asshole (well, like a very-well-read teenager talking down to my little sister, but I still feel bad about it) I told her no, no one knows the real story. But when I re-read Outlaws now, I think: lots of writers tried to find the core myth and write the real story of Robin of Sherwood, but my sister was right: this one feels real.
I’d say contrast is something Tolkien was exceptionally good at. He managed to have archetypes like Gandalf and real, believable people like Sam Gamgee in the same story and make it work.
I didn’t find McKinley’s Robin Hood characters believable. They felt too contemporary for my taste. Much was practically a 20th century leftist student.
Eowyn wouldn’t have a problem dealing with sword and reins because she’s a shield maiden and has been trained to fight on horseback. So, come to think of it was Harry, but they didn’t have time to cover that.
On the other hand Eowyn has bigger problems; her uncle and foster father is failing fast and under the thumb of a creepy adviser who’s stalking her. Her brother and cousin are galloping around trying to keep the country together while Eowyn herself is trapped at home, waiting on her Uncle and dodging Wormtongue who’s gaslighting her like mad. Then her cousin is killed, her brother is banished and she’s all alone…
6: We are trying to discuss McKinley, surely, not Tolkien?
5. I liked Much. He reminded me of another favourite Robin Hood retelling, Geoffrey Trease’s Bows Against the Barons.
3. The lack of realism is my problem in many (most) fantasy novels set in Scotland*, which McKinley has to her credit never attempted – I think Outlaws is her only novel pretty definitely neither set in some format of North America nor in Fairyland/the border countries. Her Sherwood is a real forest, one you could really get lost in.
(*Scots will understand me: if you’re going to have werewolves in Glasgow, that’s fine, but you need to know whether they support Celtic or Rangers.)
Running through them:
Books set in the border countries of Fairyland (or in Fairyland itself – yes, I’m drawing from the Tolkien essay “On Fairy Stories”)
Beauty / Rose Daughter, Deerskin, Spindle’s End, Chalice, Pegasus, and the Damar novels, are all set in border countries on Fairyland. While McKinley makes you think initially that the Homeland described in the beginning of The Blue Sword is England and Outland is India, it becomes clear as we discover we’re back in the country of The Hero and the Sword that this is not anywhere near our world.
Sunshine, Dragonhaven, and Shadows, are all set in some iteration of USian North America.
And Outlaws of Sherwood is set in England, the only one.
To me, the pegasus are definitely magical creatures – but the dragons of Dragonhaven are biologically-real.
@7, True. I guess my point was that Eowyn has some very realistic issues in her high fantasy setting.
Harry and Aerin are both misfits. Harry doesn’t fit into her quasi-Victorian Homeland and Aerin can’t seem to fit into Damar despite being the king’s daughter.
Robin McKinley has also written some short fiction that shouldn’t be ignored when discussing her work. Most of the stories are fairy tales retold really well but some are altogether original. The best ones are in the shared anthologies Fire and Water (shared with her husband Peter Dickinson). I love “Water Horse,” which has a high fantasy setting,but “A Pool in the desert” is actually a Damar story set (mostly) in modern England. (You have to read it and you will understand what I mean.) “Hellhound” is a lovely sort of ghost story, also in a modern setting. I can take or leave most of the stories by Peter Dickinson but “Phoenix” is rather interesting. And a bit bizarre. (The cover of Water, along with a few inked interior illustrations, is by Trina Schart Hyman, my favorite illustrator.)
If Robin ever writes one or more sequels to Pegasus, I will be really grateful and might forgive her for the cliffhanger.
P.S. I love the Greta Helsing books, too! Can’t wait for the next one.