Paradoxes of Identity: Nothin but Curtains and Mirrors

Kurt Vonnegut's masterpiece, Mother Night, has quickly ascended to the top of my list of recommended literature. He has created a fascinating study of human identity set in the ultra-violent world of Nazi Germany. The complex character of an ostensible American spy, Howard Campbell, spins out his existence as simple and as reactive to his environment as can be envisioned; it seems that at every turn, Campbell needs a nudge in some direction to aid his decision to act. And yet, even in his simplicity, the intricacy of human creation in art and society, as in personal identity is revealed as it must be: an act, which we are forever at pains to decipher in others, and which even in ourselves often have difficulty explaining. The characters weave in and out of their espionage existence, never quite knowing who they are, or whence come their actions. This is skillfully done in language that recalls the image of a mirror reflecting itself on to infinity.

Such absurd notions of humanity are never far from Vonnegut's characterizaton. It is here that he is truly reigns supreme. The reflected mirror analogy is particularly apt when one considers Campbell's role in the war effort. As an American living in 1930s Germany, Campbell is recruited as a spy. His talent at writing quickly places him in charge of the Nazi propaganda machine, which he executes brilliantly--almost too brilliantly. Throughout the novel, the reader is mysteriously inconclusive regarding Campbell's true intentions with regard to the war. This is, of course, assuming that there even exists such thing as a pure unelicited motive (and in Vonnegut's world, one is more likely to doubt that there does.) By excelling in his office and writing compelling propaganda, Campbell becomes known as the single most effective voice in the creation of the Holocaust. So the mirrors reveal themselves--An American, recruited to counter the Nazi opposition, creates the conditions for a war in which Americans must die. I can think of no situation which quite captures such absurdity of war or the human condition. Such a portrayal of this bizarre infinite regress makes war inexplicable, and yet inevitable.

The characters, too, become infinitely inexplicable as their motives and identities regress further and further until they are lost in a fog. So many characters emerge as double, triple, on unto n-tuple agents, that there seems to be no true identity. All identity is merely a role to be played out with no solid grounding in objectivity. Of course, we all subtly alter our own personality under the demands of different social environments, but Vonnegut shows us clearly in an ad absurdum demonstration what this fact means to our identity. Our conception of ourselves as grounded in our principles, in our deepest, clearest sense of an objective self, is a delusion. Ones own self as object is really only his own subjectivity reflected back through a mirror of infinite interpretation.

Such images brought to my mind the character of Chance Gardener, in Jerzy Kozinsky's novella, Being There. In that novel, Chance, a simpleton, is regularly attributed a mental acuity and sagacity by the other characters. These traits are all merely baseless illusions creationedfrom the whole cloth of their own expectations. Vonnegut takes this one step deeper, removing the visible truth from the equation. There is so true character, no identity as we have come to know it; there is nothing more to idenity than the tidal flow of interpretation between absurd minds.

So compelling can be our delusions, that in them may lie not only the illusion of self, but the motivation for our blackest acts. Campbell's character almost seems to manufacture hisexistence as a U.S. spy in a post-war psychotic break, the effect of his knowledge of the reprehensible role he has played in the extermination of Jews. The American agent seems at times to be a nothing more than a figment of Campbell's imagination, projected into his memory of the past. Vonnegut makes him into a tool for showing us clearly and beautifully how we rationalize and attempt (vainly) to make some sense of our existence.

As the novel progresses we see Campbell as almost pathetic in his need to be goaded into action in the most demanding of situations. Provoked into action not only by the American agent, but by events around him, Campbell is guided in his every decision. So powerless is he to act of his own accord that we think that, left to himself, he would become trapped between options like Buridan's ass, who unable to crystallize true will into a choice, wasted away and died.

The characters and events of Mother Night are almost mystical in their existence, crystalizing into platonic ideals the most irrational aspects of humanity. The novel as whole coheres in all the best ways, reflecting character in action, and both of these in the setting and overarching themes. It is a brilliant exposition of the mysterious ways in which we manufacture existence and meaning for ourselves, and yet makes clear the ever illusive nature of the human mind.