Like listening to a conversation among strangers: titillating, but not exactly enduring.
Victor Pelevin rewrites and updates the myth of Theseus and the minotaur for the information age. The story is told as a long conversation among a number of characters on an internet chat room: Organizm(-:, Romeo-y-Cohiba, Nutscracker, Monstradamus, IsoldA, UGLI 666, and Sartrik. Each of the characters, in turn, reports that they have awoken is a room, dressed in ancient Greek clothing, not sure of where they were or how they got there. They communicate this on an (ahem) thread initiated by Ariadne. They subsequently spend time interpreting a series of dreams that Ariadne reports—these are about the so-called Helmet of Horror, which seems to be the head of a minotaur. The conversation then expands to discuss virtual reality.
The various participants each have their own characteristics—Nutscracker is the VR expert, Monstradamus the know-it-all, UGLI 666 a fundamentalist Christian and so on. They report that there rooms open on different labyrinths, these in accord with each person’s qualities: Nutscracker’s is a series of videos of people auditioning for the role of minotaur and Theseus; Monstradmus’s is a dead end, with a gun that has a single bullet; UGLI 666’s is a church with a medieval labyrinth. Ariadne, who reports her dream—her labyrinth is another bedroom, with a very soft bed and sleeping pills.
These various discussions circle around the question of what does the labyrinth mean, what plays the role of the minotaur, when will Theseus come and see them, and who are the so-called monitors that censor the messages—cutting out curse words, hiding identifying details. Eventually, at the end—this cannot really be a spoiler, since we’re not reading Becket—Theseus does arrive, and the book becomes increasingly difficult to parse: it’s a puzzle-book, and to understand the end one has to understand the puzzle. That’s Pelevin’s big point, too: we all have to understand our historical situation. We, as readers, are also caught in a labyrinth. He opens the book with a quote from Borges: “No one realised that the book and the labyrinth were one and the same.”
So, I should put down how I understand this book to work. I will say, upfront, I generally do not like puzzle books of this sort (“The Sound and the Fury” is the least satisfying of Faulkner’s works, in my opinion, for this reason), and I didn’t make a study of Pelevin’s novel: I read it once. So I am certain that I got some details wrong. But I think I understood the big picture.
The book is rooted in Buddhist notions of mind. That’s what the Helmet of Horror is, an extended tweak on Buddhist psychology. Humans are completely at the mercy of their perceptions, he is saying—we all wear the Helmet of Horror ourselves, trapped in it and its infinite generation of the moment ‘now’ from the elements of the past. There are various ways to gain access to its workings—one of these is through dreams and self-introspection—and it should be understood as the same kind of thing as virtual reality: the same coding that goes into VR is at work in constructing our own perceptions.
In addition to perceptions, our thoughts are structured by the discourse into which we are born, and given to us by the culture in which we are raised. This is the ground, and we are the minotaur. We just don’t usually recognize it, thinking, instead, we are Theseus. But we wear the helmet; and when we look in the mirror, we see the minotaur, but think it’s someone else.
The key figures here are the two who show up the least, Sartrik (that is, little Sartre) and Theseus (also spelled Thezeus). It is important that the letter T is simultaneously near the center of the word Minotaur—its heart, so to speak—and isomorphic with a cross. T—Theseus, the Zeus—is the savior. It can be Jesus, as UGLI 666 notes, but need not be: it’s anything that pushes us out of the bounds of regimented discourse and to new ways of understanding the world. (Even as these new ways just create new discourses themselves, which also serve to hide the labyrinth, the minotaur, and Theseus.)
Sartrik is the one who recognizes what is really going on, and cogently explains that everyone wears a Helmet of Horror. He’s also a drunk (his labyrinth is a fridge full of alcohol), presumably because of his knowledge. But the group doesn’t fully understand what Sartrik is trying to tell them; only when Theseus arrives and forces a change does the matter become clear—although the text is anything but.
Theseus forces the minotaur to recognize itself, to be born, and also to die—another Buddhist image of infinite cycles. The first letter of the character names spell out—and at the time of Theseus’s arrival, they are put in the order to spell out—Minotaur. And what do they say? Moo. In an introduction, Pelevin says that the Minotaur does not like the word—presumably because it is then forced to recognize its own nature: as part bovine, or, in this case, as part virtual reality—MOO here referring to the text-based virtual games that were present at the beginning of the internet. (These are still sometimes called MOOs.) But then Theseus leaves, and we get the momentary return—again spelled out by the letters of the names—of the Minotaur’s father, Minos.
Following that—again, the acrostic is the clue (or should I say clew?)—comes a new thing, with Sartrik replacing Theseus. We are meant to know that the new thing is really old, though—the characters write Pre Pasiphaë—meaning, before the Minotaur’s mother—and reconfigure themselves as the Minosaur, a dragon, a dinosaur. And at its center is Sartrik, a drunk existentialist, pushing towards a new discourse, a new set of moderators. So they have recognized their own situation, but nothing’s changed, ultimately. After all, they all just remain people known only by their nyms, avatars, and what they write to each other: each remains in the labyrinth of his or her own prison. And so are we.
Which is all well and good, though it takes a lot of work to get here, and there were certainly some large chunks of exposition I skimmed. Overall, it was a good read—that’s what I meant when I compared it to listening in on someone’s conversation. Even the mundane can seem pretty interesting when you’re eavesdropping. I read the book through pretty quickly, swept up by the conversation. In the end, though, I’m not sure where it gets us? We’re all trapped by our own perceptions of reality? Yeah, fair enough. The only hint at freedom comes in recognizing our situation—though we cannot necessarily change it. Ok, heard that one, too.
In the introduction, Pelevin shows that he understands the rugged, contradictory demands of myth, how they are both supposed to tough on the central themes of human existence but also supposed to be untrue. And they might also be the codes by which we live—what he calls, using computer lingo, the shell code. I would have liked to hear him develop his ideas in an essay. Because I don’t think what he did in the book works as well.
The threaded nature of it—I get the temptation, when discussing Ariadne, to use a computer thread. And there are echoes of philosophical discourses, from Plato through Galileo, a traditional form, if one not used to much effect anymore. But the discursive nature of the myth also drains it of its power, its weight. And it dates it—the reference to there being no additional Star Wars stories after the death of Darth Vader is just wrong, now, and I wonder for how long the central metaphor of a chatroom will even be understood; in 2006, when this was published in English, it might have looked timely; now it looks hoary, if not archaic.
Which is the other part of what I was trying to get at when I compared this to eavesdropping on strangers. It was fun to listen, and I enjoyed—as much as I could—piecing together the little pieces into a bigger vision of what’s going on (though I realized to get an even more complete idea would require more of a time investment). It’s all very ingenious. Pelevin is smart, knows lots of things, arranged them in a cover way that was also readable—and yet, it seems, ultimately, forgettable, too.
Which is the last thing you’d want from a myth.