Books offer a choice about
the color of the pill you are asked to swallow.
In the classic film circa
1999, The Matrix the color coded pill became a metaphor for a person’s
desire to connect and dissociate with the reality of existence. Swallow the red
pill guaranteed the consumer delivery into a frightening world of grim reality
of life compared with the blue pill that offered an intoxicating illusion of
normality, comfortable and vivid but ultimately false.
If you are a writer, you
have to choose which pill you are offering to readers.
“Michael Chabon May Just
Be the Perfect Writer for the Obama Age” is the title of Kathryn
Schulz’s review of Michael Chabon’s novel Telegraph Avenue,
What he aimed for, Chabon says, was
to combine regret and loss ‘with a slight sense of optimism: that there is going
to be a next time, that we get these moments and they do recur.’
The intriguing part of
Schulz’s review is about the cameo appearance of Obama giving one of his
uplifting “Yes, we can” speeches in 2004. Obama was blue pill all the way until
he reached he reached the White House where he swallowed a bottle of red pills
after that first day in the Oval Office. As a parable for being electable,
it rings true. Promise the electorate the red pill and smear your opponent with
rumors he has already taken the blue pill and is lying to you about what he’s
found reality to be.
Books, like political
candidates, make promises to the public. Choose me. That simple request is never
as simple as it sounds. The red-pill literary adventure takes the reader on a
dark, bumpy ride where seriously damaged people, institutions, and cultures are
shown for what they are. Noir is the pathway of the red-pill world of crime
fiction. If you want blue-pill crime fiction, don’t buy a noir novel as that is
exactly the world you wish to escape.
That brings me to the main
point. Blue-pill books and politicians offer escape from reality. They knock off
the sharp edges, polish the glass until it sparkles, and promise hope and
redemption. The red pill boots you headlong into a world where you won’t be safe
or saved. It is a place of doubt, uncertainty, inequality, intolerance, and
hatred. No one gets elected on a red pill platform. The possibility of
redemption is a blue-pill experience.
The considerable power of
hope and redemption in daily lives was once the exclusive reserve of religion or
other sacred institutions. In contemporary times, there is the emergence of a
third period: let’s call it the white pill. Religious fundamentalists who come
from divergent religious backgrounds swallow the white pill, which turns
non-believers into demons and infidels and believers into members of the purity
and loyalty brigade.
The white pill suppresses
tolerance, compromise and critical analysis, and substitutes overwhelming
feelings of hatred and revulsion directed toward non-believers. Swallowing the
white pill is entry into the world of black and white, where enemies are demons
and are to be destroyed. Violence and death follow like night following day. A
third-rate YouTube film or a cartoon throwing mud inside a sacred zone has the
capacity to activate the rage center of white pill users and send them into the
street with banners, guns and bombs.
The white-pill people are
fact-hating fanatics who occupy in a twilight space between those who take the
red and blue pills. They have their own books, leaders, and manufacture their
illusions that remain resilient to evidence, argument, or persuasion.
White is good. Everything non-white is evil. Their world is a simple binary one
where instead of ones and zeroes, it is good and evil. And a fanatic high on a
white pill is highly sensitive to a slight to his or her idealization of
sacredness. They will die before giving up their illusions.
As I write this essay, I
think of the three red pills in the bottom of my literary cabinet—Phnom Penh
Noir, The Orwell Brigade, and Missing in Rangoon. If
Kathryn Schulz’s review of Telegraph Avenue is right, I have chosen to
go against the age where the queue is long for the blue pill. And I would add
even longer for the white pill. For red-pill writers, we are left to the
margins, hawking our visions to people racing past, taking a sideways glance,
before rushing ahead to find a pill that promises salvation and
Reading is hardly on the
radar screen of most people. It’s called a leisure activity. A private pursuit
for those with time and money for books, who are mainly seeking a way to
entertain themselves or experience adventure or thrills, and occasionally a book
might inform and instruct them about a feature of the world that attracts their
interest and attention.
The world of color-coded
pills is far more serious in the political realm where powerful interests use
huge wealth to write the population of voters a prescription. Sometimes like
Romney, they are caught telling an audience of the red-pill vision he really has
of them. It is hard to recover once you’ve changed the prescription. That is
true whether you are a politician or author.
As Obama found out after
his election, showing the blue pill can get you elected. Once in power,
switching to the red one will turn supporters bitter and resentful. ‘Why I Refuse to Vote for
in the Atlantic is the fall out by someone who feels Obama’s
prescription in the last election was a swindle. The relationship between
authors and readers is no different. A book also makes a promise to the reality
that a reader can expect to find. Promise one thing and deliver another, and the
reader will refuse to buy the next book.
Most people will vote in
large numbers for candidates who promise them the white-pill program. They also
want books that deliver the experience of the white pill. They demand the death
of blasphemers wherever they can be found and destroyed. Next time you are
thinking about buying a book or voting in an election, ask yourself—what color
of pill is being promised. In many places, the red pill is illegal. Offer it you
go to jail. Swallow the red pill and you are sent into exile.
The danger is a world
where the blue and white unholy alliance comes to power and bans the red pill.
Meanwhile, in many places, you still have a choice. Whatever you decide is your
poisonous relationship with reality, will it be the world you were promised? Or
will you be left with a hangover and as Chabon’s fiction suggests, you suck it
in, try again, and again. Your head striking the wall until the wall gives