the Great War. She was also an artist, but Tony was wary of her, even though she seemed to gravitate towards Tony. She was an actress. She enjoyed taking on roles, memorizing dialogue, and performing. She claimed humans were innate story tellers. Tony was moved by her performance; he felt something like purification, but Hands thought it was a waste of time. “That’s not anything for me,” he said. But Tony didn’t defend Mary, since he felt ambiguous about her, and about his feelings during the performance. But he still felt sorry for Hand’s “normality,” though he wouldn’t have wished his own artistic sadness on anybody.
His mother had told him long ago, maybe when he was six—to be an artist, one has to be dead to everyday life. That had started to make more sense now that he was fourteen.
But Tony had to admit this was an extreme view. Wasn’t everything already dead? What about the need to live, to be happy, and to procreate? To be safe, as a child, as a teenager, as Hands felt and Tony did not. His mother loved art. But she had the old knowledge of it. It was gone now. She told Tony your infatuation and entanglements of your heart, your passionate heart, would—was destined—to give shape to its feelings in art, but that was no consolation to Tony.
Tony looked over at Hands. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, muscular and pale, Hands was beautiful. Tony imagined drawing him naked without his Tsuit. He’d already made hundreds of secret drawings of a naked Hands using his imagination. He wouldn’t dare share them with Hands or anybody else.
Hands scarcely questioned anything. He wouldn’t understand. Culture meant nothing to him. He said there was only one choice—to rebuild again.
Tony’s mother questioned everything—the “venerated conventions”—she called them —science, religion, art, politics, morals, and language. She said science killed us. She said there’s no such thing as morals—it’s all custom and habit. Religion was all myths (Which wasn’t a bad thing, she said. She liked Mary Verme’s outlook.), language had evolved to banality.
Eventually Chinese conformity and consumerism became the ideal until they initiated the forced migration of their people to other parts of the world. She didn’t have anything against the Chinese, she said. His father was Chinese. Supposedly they were the ones that finally destroyed everything in the War of Annihilation.
We’re all animals now, she said. She was suspicious, nonetheless. Seeking the truth? She was against that also. Anyway, who sought truth nowadays, she said. What is truth, anyway? She didn’t believe in divinity. Religion she mocked. The Tech First terrorists everywhere had blown things up, poisoned the food and water, destroyed. Anything unexamined was bogus and anything examined turned out to be bogus, she said. We’re always evolving, she said. It’s perpetual adaptation.
It’s hard to believe his innocence, Tony thought—Hands’ innocence in all of this. It’s all good, he said. He still believed. He was no doubting Thomas, man. The world was gone, man. It was beyond dystopia, it was meta-dystopia. The world was dead. We’re so separated from life, Tony thought. Yet, his mother said it had always been so—Dichotomy—she called it. Between art and life, intellect and nature—we who still had consciousness had to explore the ramifications of this separation. We could be agents of reconciliation, she said. But it wouldn’t be anything practical. That’s our role, she said. This was confusing for Tony, even as her words molded his vision. The world seemed to demand practicality now, and he felt lesser than Hands and embarrassed for Mary the thespian.
Not that we could have art for art’s sake, said his mother. That was certainly ludicrous, she said. Dumb. Over three hundred years ago—the end of the 18th century—she ranted, the Germans started a movement. It was called romanticism. The idea that anybody could
His mother had told him long ago, maybe when he was six—to be an artist, one has to be dead to everyday life. That had started to make more sense now that he was fourteen.
But Tony had to admit this was an extreme view. Wasn’t everything already dead? What about the need to live, to be happy, and to procreate? To be safe, as a child, as a teenager, as Hands felt and Tony did not. His mother loved art. But she had the old knowledge of it. It was gone now. She told Tony your infatuation and entanglements of your heart, your passionate heart, would—was destined—to give shape to its feelings in art, but that was no consolation to Tony.
Tony looked over at Hands. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, muscular and pale, Hands was beautiful. Tony imagined drawing him naked without his Tsuit. He’d already made hundreds of secret drawings of a naked Hands using his imagination. He wouldn’t dare share them with Hands or anybody else.
Hands scarcely questioned anything. He wouldn’t understand. Culture meant nothing to him. He said there was only one choice—to rebuild again.
Tony’s mother questioned everything—the “venerated conventions”—she called them —science, religion, art, politics, morals, and language. She said science killed us. She said there’s no such thing as morals—it’s all custom and habit. Religion was all myths (Which wasn’t a bad thing, she said. She liked Mary Verme’s outlook.), language had evolved to banality.
Eventually Chinese conformity and consumerism became the ideal until they initiated the forced migration of their people to other parts of the world. She didn’t have anything against the Chinese, she said. His father was Chinese. Supposedly they were the ones that finally destroyed everything in the War of Annihilation.
We’re all animals now, she said. She was suspicious, nonetheless. Seeking the truth? She was against that also. Anyway, who sought truth nowadays, she said. What is truth, anyway? She didn’t believe in divinity. Religion she mocked. The Tech First terrorists everywhere had blown things up, poisoned the food and water, destroyed. Anything unexamined was bogus and anything examined turned out to be bogus, she said. We’re always evolving, she said. It’s perpetual adaptation.
It’s hard to believe his innocence, Tony thought—Hands’ innocence in all of this. It’s all good, he said. He still believed. He was no doubting Thomas, man. The world was gone, man. It was beyond dystopia, it was meta-dystopia. The world was dead. We’re so separated from life, Tony thought. Yet, his mother said it had always been so—Dichotomy—she called it. Between art and life, intellect and nature—we who still had consciousness had to explore the ramifications of this separation. We could be agents of reconciliation, she said. But it wouldn’t be anything practical. That’s our role, she said. This was confusing for Tony, even as her words molded his vision. The world seemed to demand practicality now, and he felt lesser than Hands and embarrassed for Mary the thespian.
Not that we could have art for art’s sake, said his mother. That was certainly ludicrous, she said. Dumb. Over three hundred years ago—the end of the 18th century—she ranted, the Germans started a movement. It was called romanticism. The idea that anybody could