Oh now, I do like this. Let me wear my opinion on my sleeve, hold up my affection right here at the start. I am very fond of stories such as these – clever, twisted, turning, playful with the structure of a story without being tiresome in its trickery. Take everything I write with a large grain of salt because I am, it appears, congenitally disposed towards like such fictions as this.
We open with the heading “Panic”, and then:
There’s still some snow on the path. Last week, this same mountain went suddenly quiet. It was snowing. Just like in fairy tales, she had thought, slowing her pace, beautiful and sad. And so unlike today’s desolation: everything looks naked, cold, inanimate.
A woman, nature, mountains, snow. The beauty of nature. Yes, yes. Two paragraphs later, the sky explodes and the world ends.
Another section, also opening with mountains, snow, a woman. It begins calmly and then a sting at the end – a date far in the future, a reference to robots, and to humanity being dead.
Another section, another repeat. What’s happening here? On the cusp of this becoming tiresome, the woman is extracted from these scenarios, revealed to have been logged into some kind of virtual reality or Matrix-like environment.
Very good, very good. Ha ha, quite the twist you put me through there, Simonetta Olivo! The woman wants to go back into the simulation and her partner (lover?) puts her back in, though he has misgivings. Is she losing her self to the simulation? We don’t know, because we don’t spend enough time with her outside of the snowy mountainous world. That suggests that yes, she’s losing her identity.
Another section, this time titled ‘Making Universes’. The snow, again, and mountains, again, but this time written in italics. This is a shift for us, and it’s unclear what it might mean.
The world tilts, and we are taken out of the simulation to arrive not with the disgruntled man who wants his lover back with him and unhooked from the machine, but the writer herself, the creator of the text, a layer placed upon the other layers. She acknowledges that her task is to create universes, and the story ends.
There’s so much here in so few words. It’s quite astonishing, particularly given how Olivo refrains from succumbing to overblown terminology or the philosophical underpinnings of what it means to create. Instead it’s simply there, clear on the page. I become tired, sometimes, of writers who play games with structure and form also overburdening their text with the weight of the thesauruses they have purchased.
So, what does it mean to participate in a created world, and to create a world? Olivo doesn’t say, but it’s clear that the woman in the story has given up on the world she properly exists in in order to spend time in a doomed place where humanity is extinct and robots have survived. And isn’t that, in a way, what a writer does every time they sit down at their desk and conjure up people and places that never existed? Isn’t it, no matter how closely hewn to the essence of humanity, a rejection of living? Does a writer truly live in the world, or do they instead consciously separate themselves from it in order to dispassionately observe the world created by others? I would say yes, emphatically so, and would be surprised to find much resistance. Writers may not create a utopia in which to devote their intellectual and emotional talents, but they certainly attempt to reflect back to the readers their vision and understanding of the world, and in this reflection we are able to better determine who they are, too.
And we don’t need to like what we see, do we?
|Translator||Sarah Jane Webb|
|Publisher||Words Without Borders|
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