 |
| Apollo 15 launch. |
The following essay by John Updike was very influential on my way of thinking about gender and how men perceive their bodies. I may get a "cease and desist" order for reprinting it, though as an academic writing a not-for-profit blog I may be somewhat protected. If this entry suddenly disappears, just Google it. The use of archetypal language in this essay is truly astounding. I will be returning to this later for a more in-depth look. And an interesting point from a writer's point of view: Updike's paragraphs are here almost exactly the same length. Damn.
The Disposable Rocket
John Updike
Inhabiting a male body is like having a bank account; as long as it’s healthy, you don’t think much
about it. Compared to the female body, it is a low-maintenance proposition: a shower now and
then, trim the fingernails every ten days, a haircut once a month. Oh yes, shaving—scraping or
buzzing away at your face every morning. Byron, in Don Juan, thought the repeated nuisance of
shaving balanced out the periodic agony, for females, of childbirth. Women are, his lines tell us,
Condemn’d to child-bed, as men for their sins
Have shaving too entail’d upon their chins,—
A daily plague, which the aggregate
May average on the whole with parturition.
From the standpoint of reproduction, the male body is a delivery system, as the female is a mazy
device for retention. Once the delivery is made, men feel a faith but distinct falling-off of interest.
Yet against the enduring realm heroics of birth and nurture should be set the male’s superhuman
frenzy to deliver his goods: he vaults walls, skips sleep, risks wallet, health, and his political
future all to ram home his seed into the gut of the chosen woman. The sense of the chase lives
in him as the key to life. His body is, like a delivery rocket that falls away in space, a disposable
means. Men put their bodies at risk to experience the release from gravity.
When my tenancy of a male body was fairly new—of six or so years’ duration—I used to
jump and fall just for the joy of it. Falling—backwards, or downstairs—became a specialty of
mine, an attention-getting stunt I was still practicing into my thirties, at suburban parties. Falling
is, after all, a kind of flying, though of briefer duration than would be ideal. My impulse to hurl
myself from high windows and the edges of cliffs belongs to my body, not my mind, which resists
the siren call of the chasm with all its might; the interior struggle knocks the wind from my lungs
and tightens my scrotum and gives any trip to Europe, with its Alps, castle parapets, and
gargoyled cathedral lookouts, a flavor of nightmare. Falling, strangely, no longer
figures in my dreams, as it often did when I was a boy and my subconscious was more honest
with me. An airplane, that necessary evil, turns the earth into a map so quickly the brain turns
aloof and calm; still, I marvel that there is no end of young men willing to become jet pilots.
Any accounting of male-female differences must include the male’s superior
recklessness, a drive not, I think, toward death, as the darkest feminist cosmogonies would have
it, but to test the limits, to see what the traffic will bear—a kind of mechanic’s curiosity. The
number of men who do lasting damage to their young bodies is striking; war and car accidents
aside, secondary-school sports, with the approval of parents and the encouragement of brutish
coaches, take a fearful toll of skulls and knees. We were made for combat, back in the
postsimian, East-African days, and the bumping, the whacking, the breathlessness, the painsmothering
adrenaline rush form a cumbersome and unfashionable bliss, but bliss nevertheless.
Take your body to the edge, and see if it flies.
The male sense of space must differ from that of the female, who has such interesting,
active, and significant inner space. The space that interests men is outer. The fly ball high
against the sky, the long pass spiraling overhead, the jet fighter like a scarcely visible pinpoint
nozzle laying down its vapor trail at forty thousand feet, the gazelle haunch flickering just beyond
arrow-reach, the uncountable stars sprinkled on their great black wheel, the horizon, the
mountaintop, the quasar—these bring portents with them and awaken a sense of relation with the
invisible, with the empty. The ideal male body is taut with lines of potential force, a diagram
extending outward; the ideal female body curves around centers of repose. Of course, no one is
ideal, and the sexes are somewhat androgynous subdivisions of a species: Diana the huntress is
a more trendy body time nowadays than languid, overweight Venus, and polymorphous Dionysus
poses for more underwear ads than Mars. Relatively, though, men’s bodies, however elegant,
are designed for covering territory, for moving on.
An erection, too, defies gravity, flirts with it precariously. It extends the diagram of
outward direction into downright detachability—objective in the case of the sperm, subjective in
the case of the testicles and penis. Men’s bodies, at this junction, feel only partly theirs; a demon
of sorts has been attached to their lower torsos, whose performance is erratic and whose errands
seem, at times, ridiculous. It is like having a (much) smaller brother toward whom you feel both
fond and impatient; if he is you, it is you in curiously simplified and ignoble form. This sense, of
the male body being two of them, is acknowledged in verbal love play and erotic writing, where
the penis is playfully given a pet name, and individuation not even the rarest rapture grants a
vagina. Here, where maleness gathers to a quintessence of itself, there can be no insincerity,
there can be no hiding; for sheer nakedness, there is nothing like a hopeful phallus; its aggressive
shape, is indivisible from its tender-skinned vulnerability. The act of intercourse, from the point of
view of a consenting female, has an element of mothering, of enwrapment, of merciful
concealment, even. The male body, for this interval, is tucked out of harm’s way.
To inhabit a male body, then is to feel somewhat detached from it. It is not an enemy, but
not entirely a friend. Our being seems to lie not in cells and muscles but in the traces that our
thoughts and actions inscribe on the air. The male body skims the surface of nature’s deeps
wherein the blood and pain and mysterious cravings of women perpetuate the species.
Participating less in nature’s processes than the female body, the male body gives the
impression—false—of being exempt from time. Its power of strength and reach descend in early
adolescence, along with acne and sweaty feet, and depart, in imperceptible increments, after
thirty or so. It surprises me to discover, when I remove my shoes and socks, the same paperwhite,
hairless angles that struck me as pathetic when I observed them on my father. I felt
betrayed when, in some tumble of touch football twenty years ago, I heard my tibia snap; and
when, between two reading engagements in Cleveland, my appendix tried to burse; and when,
the other day, not for the first time, there arose to my nostrils out my [sic] own body the musty
attic smell my grandfather’s body had.
A man’s body does not betray its tenant as rapidly as a woman’s. Never as fine and
lovely, it has less distance to fall; what rugged beauty it has is wrinkleproof. It keeps its capability
of procreation indecently long. Unless intense athletic demands are made upon it, the thing
serves well enough to sixty, which is my age now. From here on, it’s chancy. There are no
breasts or ovaries to admit cancer to the male body, but the prostate, that awkwardly located little
source of seminal fluid, shows the strain of sexual function with fits of hysterical cell replication,
and all that male-bonding beer and potato chips add up on the coronary arteries. A writer whose
physical equipment can be minimal as long as it gets him to the desk, the lectern, and New York
City once in a while, cannot but be grateful to his body, especially to his eyes, those tender and
intricate sites where the brain extrudes from the skill, and to his hands, which hold the pen or tap
the keyboard. His body has been, not himself exactly, but a close pal, potbellied and balding like
most of his other pals now. A man and his body are like a boy and the buddy who has a driver’s
license and the use of his father’s car for the evening; once goes along, gratefully, for the ride.
.jpg)
Early on in 2001, the viewer witnesses an extended docking sequence between a tiny phallic space shuttle and a gigantic, wheel-shaped space station: the entire sequence is staged as a cosmic dance to the tune of a waltz. This scene prefigures 2001’s climax, in which the pod that contains astronaut David Bowman flies into a psychedelic, vaginal space vortex that transports him to a stark white chamber where he dies and is reborn as a new organism, the Star Child.
Death ovum meets space sperm: the sexploration of space.
Little wonder, then, that the image of the egg represents the extraterrestrial menace in Alien’s poster and trailers. Such a common image would seem silly if not for the fear of monstrous birth it evokes: the shell of the egg is cracked in a grotesque parody of the vaginal cleft or a cruel acidic grin. The Alien egg advertises, first and foremost, the evil ur-womb: it gives birth and men die.
The creature that will spring from this egg is a nightmare vision of sex (eros) and death (thanatos). It subdues and opens the male body to make it pregnant and then explodes it in birth. In its adult form, the Alien strikes its victims with a rigid, phallic tongue that breaks through skin and bone. More than a phallus, however, its retractable tongue has its own set of snapping, metallic teeth that connects it to the castrating vagina dentata. The vagina dentata, a symbolic expression of the male fear that a woman’s genitals may eat or castrate her partner during intercourse is tied to the image of the phallic woman (i.e. a woman with a knife) and the monstrous generative mother, whose vagina threatens to devour and reincorporate her offspring.
,_ENT1231.jpg)
,_ENT1231.jpg){kind=link}
