Mindful of Utopia
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
So, with exactly opposite intent, Elween was managing to reinforce my already worrying conviction of misapprehending this society's deeper mores. With a touch of exasperation I struck back: "All right, if sex is not profoundly important, what is?" She was taken by surprise, as well she might be. "What is important?" she echoed. "Profoundly important. What really matters here? I've been wondering about that since my first day. Adding-ups don't matter, economics don't matter, progress doesn't matter, vision doesn't matter, and now it turns out passions don't matter. What does?" She gave me a rather peculiar look, and of course I recognized my outburst had been something of a bolt from the blue. But I couldn't restrain myself; vexing uncertainty about the implications of our lovemaking was upsetting my already shaky burden of cultural uneasiness. "I don't mean to be making demands," I went on more gently, "but I really don't know. In my world, money, power, beliefs, and, yes indeed, sex, really matter. Persons sacrifice for them, even risk death for them. But here? I haven't seen anything comparable. And if I can't tell what matters, I've got no guidelines about the real meaning of what I do. I would have thought that for us this afternoon might matter as commitment, psychological oneness, spiritual union--a lot of this is probably coming out as crap, but I'm sure you see what I mean--anyhow, apparently to you those are not what it implies, if I may be forgiven the word." "If what mattered to me was commitment, it wouldn't be by means of sex, unless we were going to start a family, maybe. As for all that union and oneness, we could have that without sex." "But that doesn't explain what matters!" "What matters. . ." she began thoughtfully, "is that we have a relationship. It doesn't have to include sex, but"--she suddenly reverted to her usual buoyant manner--"with you sitting right in front of me with your clothes off, what else could you expect?" I smiled in spite of myself; Elween was irrepressible, and I guess that's what particularly attracted me to her. (My wife had sometimes been irrepressible, too, but then it was more like a challenge to my overdeveloped repressibility, so to speak.) I put my arms around her and we kissed with a kind of chaste tenderness, naked though we were; for the moment, at least, there was indeed nothing to worry about, no implications, no undertones, nothing left unsaid. But also, it flashed through my mind even as I began stirring again, no necessary continuity between this afternoon and whatever might follow. The order and sequence by which I had always calibrated the world could not be counted upon here. But the moment itself-- ---------------------------- "But now comes the real question," I hurried to cut off the snickering from his friends, "What if your space requires a lot of heavy work, walls moved and equipment installed, but all your friends need is a desk moved from one side to the other?" "I'm just a super lucky guy, I guess." "But wouldn't they resent it?" "Why?" "They're doing more work for you than you are for them." "They sure are," agreed Shaliman, "and that's the way I like it." "But it's not the way they'd like it. They'd be putting in more work than you, even though it's supposed to be mutual assistance." "I don't see what the boys would have to complain about. Their desk got moved, didn't it? So their work space is all set, which was the whole idea." "But they did more work for you than you did for them!" Shaliman thought that one over. "I see what you mean, pal. I guess what I ought to do is move the desk back and forth from one side to the other until I'm as sweaty as they are." Beaming with pride in his Solomonic solution, he looked around at his chortling claque. What I couldn't be sure of, of course, was whether he really couldn't get my point or was playing obtuse to make a fool of me. I decided to try once more. "It just isn't fair. You and they would be applying unequal effort to get equal results." Shaliman seemed singularly unimpressed, but Harvy jumped in again. "Hey, Arnold, you've got it all backwards. The object is to get the work spaces set up, right? Okay, both parties do what needs to be done, and the spaces are ready. What else matters?" "It would matter if I had to spend more time and effort helping a person than the person had to spend helping me!" "But that's the way it is, if the person needs more help than you. The point is that in the final analysis, what you needed, you got. What more could you ask?" ---------------------------- She gave me a tight hug to which I responded tentatively, as usual in my physical contacts with ardent women in public, in their teens, and in parallel worlds (in descending order of frequency). Marjalis merely said hello, and Cassalian not even that. "We're glad you returned," said Cheleek, "It's time to complete painting the building, and your role is important." "Nice of you to say that, but I remain the rawest of amateurs," I modestly replied. "However, surely imagery formed in your world should be quite different from ours. A singular contribution!" I understood what she meant, but hadn't become aware of much difference in imagery per se. On the other hand, I could agree that, potentially, there were indeed different sources of my imagery--war, crime, homelessness, exploitation, maladjustment, for starters. (I wondered if those had made themselves felt in my painting yesterday.) "Well, I'll get to work and see what emerges," I said, starting along the wall to the section I had painted. To my surprise, Cassalian was painting right there--in fact he was painting over my work. A stark black grid practically obliterated my pleasingly sinuous orange and green intersection, and slashes of discordant color demolished the harmonious color fields alongside (these adjectives were, of course, my own selection). I felt a flare of outrage, but hesitated acting on it because for all I knew this was as legitimate as painting over the work of an absent artist, as I had done yesterday. But when Cassalian became aware of me standing behind him, he deliberately dragged a heavy stroke of purple over a nice little turquoise arabesque I had taken considerable pains with. That couldn't be legitimate! "Listen, kid," I said grimly, "I don't know what you're trying to prove, but don't expect me to just grin and bear it. I've dealt with older, bigger, and tougher punks than you in my world!" Actually, I hadn't, but he'd never know. He turned, glared, and started a move toward me with his gloppy brush, but I didn't flinch and faced him down with a more intense look of anger than he had probably ever seen in this amiable world. So he contented himself with going a few feet to the left and resuming work
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
How does a man who denies the possibility of an ideal world react when he finds himself actually in utopia? How does he deal with being the sole outsider in a parallel world, largely similar to his own but featuring utopian principles and customs? What becomes of his skepticism when he finds contentment in the parallel world so widespread that the pursuit of wealth and power holds no attraction? What kind of relationships can he establish with women when he knows nothing of their romantic practices and expectations from life? These questions are explored in Merritt Abrash's novel Mindful of Utopia, the adventures of a man transported from Earth to a parallel world. He finds a utopia featuring universal personal freedom, unlimited by law, status, or economic factors. This is made possible by an informal but unfailingly honored network of reciprocal relationships, some of which the traveler has always believed are contrary to human nature. But after experiencing their successful functioning in his encounters and adventures – romantic and otherwise – with dozens of the world's inhabitants, he arrives at decisive conclusions about his future in utopia and with which woman he will share it.
About the Author
Merritt Abrash, author of Mindful of Utopia, has published, articles on the utopian and dystopian fiction of a wide range of writers, including Thomas More, Edward Bellamy, H.G. Wells, Arthur Clarke and Ursula Le Guin. While teaching courses in utopian thought and literature at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, he co-founded and edited the journal Alternative Futures, edited the anthology Utopia in a Scientific Age, published occasional short fantastic fiction, and had a futuristic black comedy professionally staged. In 1976, he initiated the Society for Utopian Studies, which has become the leading scholarly organization in the field, and for which he has directed several annual conferences.