Morrow actually has an interesting (if blasphemous) answer to that question, which arises during a period on the much benighted tanker when all of the food runs out. In fact, Morrow addresses plenty of interesting questions having to do with the death of God. How do atheists deal with the fact that there is--actually, make that was--a God? How do feminists deal with the fact that this God seems to be not only corporeal, but male? And how are people supposed to continue living a moral life, knowing that God, the source of morality itself, has perished?
As I said, interesting questions all. Too bad that Morrow decides to answer them with some of the most hilariously awful storytelling that I have ever had the privilege to read.
Take the reaction of the atheists. The atheists are, first of all, cartoon sketches of atheists, a feature revealed by (1) the fact that Morrow refers to them by archetype (e.g., "the Marxist") rather than by name, and (2) the fact that they actually sit around in plush armchairs smoking cigars. They also make some of the lamest atheist one-liners in the history of atheism: the aforesaid Marxist, for instance, is fond of such snide remarks as "Ah, the pseudo-choices of late capitalism" (p. 141) and "Only in late-capitalist America, eh?" (p. 133). There is the following appalling exchange that, worst of all, is played completely straight:
"Winston, you appall me." Arms akimbo, Sylvia aimed her blighted corneas directly at the Marxist. "Reason, you said? 'The name of reason'? This isn't reason you're doling out--it's atheist fundamentalism!" . . .And then, there is the atheists' actual solution to the problem of God's body--a solution that, when revealed, left me doubled over at the sheer, brash stupidity of the whole endeavor. (Spoilers are ahead, for those who dislike their comedy outside its original context, however foul.) Yes, folks, the college-educated, philosophy-spouting members of the Central Park West Enlightenment League want to deal with the existence of God by bombing his body with airplanes built by obsessive World War II re-enactors. Sometimes commentary is unnecessary.Sylvia tore off the shawl, hobbled into the foyer, and yanked open the front door. "Ladies and gentlemen, you leave me no other choice!" she foamed as the July heat wafted into the frigid lounge. "Honor dictates but one course for me--I must resign from the Central Park West Enlightenment League!"
Let's turn to the second interesting question: how feminists deal with the fact that God is male. The answer, according to Morrow, is threefold: first, sign up to join the crew of the ship towing God; second, engage in numerous, prolix complaints about the patriarchal order and the downfall of women the world over if word is to get out that God is male; and third, paint your face with your own blood while swearing revenge on men. (Actually, there's a fourth answer: secretly radio your atheist boyfriend, the head of the Central Park West Enlightenment League, to bomb God's corpse with reconstructed World War II planes--but we've already dealt with those fools.)
And finally, what about the ability of ordinary people, especially religious people, to live a moral life, knowing that God is dead? This is a serious ethical and theological question--in fact, a moral reasoning class at Harvard is devoted in large part to this question. It's too bad, then, that Morrow's answer is to have a priest run through crowds of carousing sailors shouting, "Listen to your congenital conscience!" and citing Kant's categorical imperative (p. 186).
To be fair, sometimes the book was so bad that it became almost more plausible for me to believe that Morrow was doing it on purpose, engaging in satire or allegory or some higher form of comedy beyond the mortal comprehension of a mere recreational reader like myself. Take, for instance, his sex scene with the maps (pp. 268-70), quite possibly the worst sex scene that has ever hit me unexpected. But then there is his pretentious philosophy name-dropping (pp. 119, 171), and his painfully eager emotional scenes (see, e.g., pp. 335-36), disturbing signs that he is actually being serious. At any rate, whether he intended to be satirical or not, his book is not quite good enough to actually be satire, at least from my point of view.
The bold premise aside, this is an irredeemably, laughably bad book, filled with one-sided cardboard characters, atrocious writing, and an often nonsensical plot. There are just enough laugh-out-loud moments of almost comedic ingenuity in this book that I am uncertain how well my reaction will map to other readers' reactions; but for me, at least, the funny merged so completely with the bad as to damn Towing Jehovah forever to my list of Truly Awful Novels.
Copyright © 2003 Steven Wu 