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Review
[Mild ending spoilers below.]
It feels like this story wasn't planned out in intricate detail, and the author wrote it off the cuff. As a result, there are many wonderful and blackly comedic bits of worldbuilding that feel like they were tossed in almost arbitrarily: the fact that people only become legal adults at 43 and aren't allowed to see other human beings before then for fear that they'll have s*x; the fact that every body part, from thro*t to bre*st to sal*va, is censored; the fact that using a bathroom requires your genit*lia to be scanned by a government employee beforehand, to verify you have the "correct" ones. But the details didn't quite cohere for me, and the overall effect is rather slapdash. The story doesn't take itself that seriously, which made it difficult for me to take it that seriously.
With the major exception of the last section, which doubles as an author's note. In this way, 3XXX reminds me of a short story by David Foster Wallce called Octet, in the collection Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (found here, page 52). Both stories begin normally, but suddenly end with an author's note speaking directly to the reader about the story, reflecting on the experience of writing it. These author's notes have a deflationary quality, revealing the artifice of the story as what it is, just something made up in someone's head. Here, the main plot of 3XXX is explicitly addressed as just a fantasy where the tides of censorship and repressive moral puritanism are easily turned back. Can they be stopped so easily in real life? Will they be stopped at all? Is intimacy possible in this world?
Art is communication is intimacy: you bare your heart when you write, trying to make the audience understand you. The struggle to write a story is the struggle to connect intimately to someone, anyone, out there. Censorship of art is censorship of intimacy, ruling out a vast range of possible human connection, and on the personal level, a failure to write the perfect story is a failure of intimacy. A failure to make yourself understood.
David Foster Wallace's note at the end of Octet, and a lot of his writing in general, is characterized by an extreme anxiety over whether this intimacy is being practiced correctly, whether he's been successful in connecting to the audience, whether he's liked. From Octet:
‘This thing I feel, I can’t name it straight out but it seems important, do you feel it too?’—this sort of direct question is not for the squeamish. For one thing, it’s perilously close to ‘Do you like me? Please like me,’ which you know quite well that 99% of all the interhuman manipulation and bullshit gamesmanship that goes on goes on precisely because the idea of saying this sort of thing straight out is regarded as somehow obscene.
Meanwhile in 3XXX, a character writes: "I don't want to hurt anyone, so I avoid getting close to people. What if I desire them in the wrong way? What are the right thoughts to have? How do I expel the bad thoughts? Is there a way to distinguish between good and evil thoughts? If I don't know, should I be allowed out of school?"
And in the 3XXX author's note, the author, reflecting on how it feels like they're saying the wrong things, says: "I guess it's just making me realize that I don't know how to be intimate with other people."
In all cases there is a deep fear of what happens if your attempt at intimacy fails, if your communication comes off wrong, if society rejects you for trying to reach out. The brand of moral puritanism being addressed here, which runs through society as an undercurrent, is deeply afraid of naked desire and harshly punishes "incorrect" forms of intimacy. It can lead to an omnipresent anxiety and shame over human connection, whether you're worthy of it, whether you're doing it wrong. The desire for intimacy is eternal, but a world that represses it is a world where everyone is anxious and alone.
Quotes:
And to be T*rned On (TO) is a sign of moral weakness. You have succumbed to the temptation of the outlets laid out by the terrorists and become a walking human bomb. Your g*nitalia, meant only for the toilet, have become a parasite that will devour you and your loved ones alive.
The Gentle Healthy Fashion Mall, a concrete building painted green, is located just three blocks away from your apartment. Many young people love shopping there because the clothes are inexpensive and have enough pro-abstinence messaging to fulfill the patriotic fashion quota.
After handing in the report yesterday, nothing came up that needed your attention -- petty crimes like looking anywhere but someone's face without a certified license, not covering up your skin properly, and forgetting to check in with your appointed neurohygiene therapist are on the rise. Thankfully, though, the police force wants to save your energy for the bomb cases.
