To be a nerd denotes an individual with some specific and heightened
obsession given an almost unnecessary intellectual edge: a nerd obsesses, but
their obsession is always tinged by an underlying self-conscious acknowledgement
of their obsession that they are constantly trying to legitimise by exposing it
to a kind of intellectual rigour. Theories and complicated narratives,
experiments and hypotheses, internet debate and pwnage, then, are the end
result of this obsession, made perpetually self-sufficient by the nerd’s innate
tautological desire to obsess on their obsession. It is the echo chamber of
nerdom they all dwell within.
In this process of intellectualisation,
the nerd complicates their particular obsession to the point where it becomes bewildering
to people who have little to no interest in, and exist in the social sphere
outside, their obsession, but who are still subjected to the nerd’s obsession
because it is a major, if not the major, component of their life. Thus,
the nerd cannot comprehend anyone who does not share their interest. In rejection
and retaliation of their bewilderment these people use the word ‘nerd’ as a
kind of weapon, albeit a weapon which has dulled to a kind of wry acceptance
over the years.
As it was initially a term of
criticism—primarily, of being a social outcast—the stereotype of the nerd has
always been one marked by a negative symbolic network that heightens their
already assumed social awkwardness. Fashion-less clothing, big glasses, wheezy
voices, pimples, too fat, too thin, pale,
hyper-sexual-in-a-constant-masturbation-way, and other like elements enforce
the notion that the nerd exists on the fringes of society, worrying away at
their obsession and caring little for their place in the human race.
Considering the (partial) stigma
of being a nerd and the stereotype I am not so sure I slot within, this admission
may come as quite the shock (so I’d recommend you brace yourself), but I am
quite the nerd.
…
Yes, I know, shocking right?
Now, this
is to say that I am a nerd in a particular sense; that is, I am what can be
called a ‘bookish’ nerd, rather than perhaps the more widespread, inclusive and
clichéd ‘computer’ nerd, which can be seen to account for ‘video-game’ nerds, ‘mathematical’
nerds, 'science' nerds and ‘internet’ nerds, among others. Often, in the case of the ‘computer’
nerd, their interests intersect with these sub-nerd categories, and it is the ‘computer’
nerd is most often associated with kind of stereotype I was describing before: they are the alpha-nerd or ideal nerd.
To be
frank, technology scares the hell out of me, computers often just conk out when
I use them with little (well, mostly no) explanation, I am not particularly good
at video-games, and my use of the internet amounts to stupid YouTube videos,
PhD research and, generally, time wasted.
No, my
self-ascribed nerd title of ‘bookish’ is related to my pretty wide knowledge of
literature, which of course encompasses the fact that I have taken my
intellectualisation of this obsession so far that I am now a PhD in English
Literature. I spend my life creating and using theories of literature to help
me justify my obsession; to think about literature—and more particularly
language—as vital to measuring and understanding existence.[1]
In a
peculiar sense, however, this obsession is so far off the grid that my
nerdishness can be seen to be excused. The sort of literature I research and
the sort of theory I work with is mostly outside the general public’s interest
or knowledge. Unlike computers, they’re rarely, if ever, exposed to the stuff I
work on, and thus view my obsession as more an oddity that the pursuit of a
nerd. Knowing this, I rarely subject people to this particular
obsession, and, accordingly, they are rarely left in a state of incomprehension that leads to them labeling me a nerd.
However, my
‘bookish’ nerd ways do not stop at my knowledge of the ‘high’ (to use a
terrible, generic, off-putting word) literature I study.
I also love
the fantasy genre. And it is this that really assigns me the title of
nerd.
I have
loved it since I was kid: the whole notion of alternate realities, alternate
social systems, alternate species, magic world’s existing beyond the physical
laws of our own, heroes and villains, their epic sense of grandeur, and books
sprawling across volumes that meander their way through thick and
enlightening, no-stone-unturned description of all these very elements.
They catered to my escapist
fantasies and my obsessive need to see the full (at times, too-full) picture of
how things work—by the seeming, but vitally not absolute, necessity of
entering a made-up world the writer of fantasy often feels compelled to make
sure the various systems (political, social, religious, physical) of his/her
world are completely clear and utterly mapped out (check out how many fantasy
novels have appendixes). Yet, I didn’t care (still don’t) if they lacked subtlety
and if the story telling—the plot—was often better than the writing itself; that
the characterisation often ventured into the safety of common, mostly binary tropes of masculinity and femininity, good and bad, truth and falsity, honour
and dishonour—so long as I was entertained, I entered the world of these books
and left them feeling pretty alright.
Then, when I was thirteen, a
friend lent me Game of Thrones (which, in a sense, makes me cool, cos,
like a hipster with a favourite band, I was into Game of Thrones before it
was big) and my entire understanding of fantasy was exploded. Here was a book that understood there are no absolutes, even in fantasy. I became less a
nerd of the fantasy genre, and a complete nerd and fanboy of George RR Martin. But
for few exceptions—namely The Magicians by Lev Grossman, Harry Potter,
and The Farseer, Liveship Traders and Tawny Man trilogies
by Robin Hobb—the problematic and sincere shallowness of fantasy was suddenly
and irreparably problematized by Game of Thrones and, indeed, the
entire Song of Ice and Fire series. For Martin takes the tropes and
ideas and commonalities of fantasy down a quiet alley and punches them
repeatedly in the face, until the mangled mess that emerges is eerily familiar
but disfigured; he promises them safe passage then beheads them in front of a
howling, blood-thirsty crowd; he attends their funereal in drag and insists
on interrupting the priest with vague questions of theology, whilst ogling
their mother.
Which is not to say that these tropes, these almost essential systems of fantasy, are
completely absent—dead and buried—in A Song of Ice and Fire; for they are
present, only as ghostly, hesitant shadows, which will every now and again try
to correct proceedings into the safe terrain of classical fantasy, before being
brutally shunted to the side with Martin’s characteristic gleeful hatred of life,
laissez-faire attitude towards his characters, and perfectly reasonable—and
in fantasy, virtually ground-breaking—understanding that all actions,
particularly honourable ones in a distinctly dishonourable world, will have a
reaction, and this reaction, as in life, will not always be equivalent to the
intentions of the original action.
It is this knowledge of ramification, and his exquisite plotting (albeit marred in later books by lack of fine editing), that is Martin’s
greatest achievement.
His ability to show the dirt and grime of a medieval fantasy
world, thus being true to the historical moment he is capturing and displacing
in his fiction, where magic is a fluctuating, little understood presence,
populated by people whose desires mostly amount to a need for power (and thus, perhaps, stay alive), expresses exactly
the kind of punishment such a morally void place would dish out to those who
assume to be able to dominate it from beyond its immoral core. It removes his books from the idealism
of other fantasy works and complicates the genre, making it new and exciting
again.
Which is to overlook how he has effectively
made his readers and, now, viewers constantly ask questions of what will happen
next (such is the inherent, and well-documented, no-one-is-safe nature of the books—people
are turning to internet forums on Game of Thrones, where they never would’ve
bothered before), ask the lingering question of Jon Snow’s mother (I have a
theory), become anxious about the eventual fate of the Starks, develop a
sincere love of Tyrion (and in one Martin’s finest achievements—again blurring
lines between good and bad—turn Jaime Lannister into a human being), get the hots for Daenerys, and even develop
a keen understanding of the murky politics at play. All this is played against
the constant anxiety of threat pervasive in the books and television series; a threat the reader/viewer is constantly forced to confront and understand as pivotal to the series development, even if it is uncomfortable at times (see the infamous Red Wedding).
And can I say that the series has
only added to the colour of the books: its slight divergences and
characterisation (the series actually better captures the Arya spiral into
downright psychopathic nuttiness than the books) and understanding of what
Martin is expressing all amount to the spectacle of Game of Thrones as
one of the most curious cultural phenomenon’s of recent times—its bringing the fantasy
genre (usually derided for the narrative characteristics I mentioned before) and
the fantasy nerd (usually associated with D&D and fighting with Styrofoam
in the park) into the mainstream. When it is on, I look forward to the show
every week, like a computer nerd I imagine looks forward to, I dunno, a new Hewlett-Packard,
um, thing.
I heart you, Game of Thrones. But, then, I know many of you do too. We're all nerds, its just I was a nerd before you. Nerds away!
[1] See: http://arantingdistraction.blogspot.com.au/2013/12/how-i-learned-to-stop-worrying-and-love.html
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