The Genres of Apocalyptic Literature

In the literary world, there are few genres more captivating and cathartic than the apocalyptic genre. Normally consisting of a dominant set of heroes against an impending doom that is usually out of the protagonist’s control, apocalyptic literature deals with how characters deal with the unchanging fact that their world is about to be reshaped. However, the mode of the apocalypse varies from place to place. Hence, there are many subgenres of apocalyptic literature.

Before the 1900s, divine judgment was a common theme for apocalyptic work. Ancient myths and legends, such as Noah’s Deluge from the Bible and the Epic of Gilgamesh, have characters that survive and deal with the consequences of a decimating flood because of a wrathful pantheon of deities. Later on, when John the Revelator was exiled on the Isle of Patmos, he wrote Apocalypse, which is included in today’s Bible as the final book of the New Testament: Revelation. The Book of Revelation, along with various apocryphal sources from the Gnostics, talked greatly on the end of the world and how the earth’s denizens would react with the repercussions of this great cataclysm.

With the ushering in of the 1900s, authors took another swing at the apocalyptic genre, creating 3 new distinct categories, all based on different types of disasters. The first to become popularized was the fear of extraterrestrial destruction. This was initiated by none other than Edgar Allan Poe in his 1839 short story, The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion. In this story, 2 souls in the afterlife discuss the destruction of Earth via a comet that wipes out Earth’s nitrogen and ignites the remaining oxygen into a global inferno. Later in the century, H. G. Wells infamously wrote his 1898 classic War of the Worlds, a tale in which aliens from Mars invade Earth, wiping out the majority of the human race with their superior technology.

The second genre, biological destruction, is similar to extraterrestrial destruction because of the fact that most of the factors involved could not be controlled by humans. However, biological destruction works do not seek extraterrestrial causes for the apocalypse; they look here on earth for the reason. A popular variety of biological destruction is a pandemic that kills the bulk of humans on the planet. First commercialized in M. P. Shiel’s 1901 piece The Purple Cloud, the disease-caused apocalypse quickly drew attention, spawning such great titles as George R. Stewart’s Earth Abides (1949), Stephen King’s The Stand (1978), and Michael Crichton’s The Andromeda Strain (1984). Later on, this genre grew to include biological warfare. Another, more recent, form of biological destruction is the zombie apocalypse genre, which deals with a world-wide rising of the undead in a crusade against the living. This is epitomized in Richard Matheson’s 1954 novel I Am Legend, and has continued to inspire modern-day apocalyptic authors today.

The most recent of the apocalypse genres is the technological disaster. Stemming from fears that technology will either fail or rule our lives, these literary works focus on the negative factors of automated systems. E. M. Forster’s story The Machine Stops recounts a frightening future in which humans are entirely dependent on machines to operate; the story delves into a situation where these machines fail to work anymore. This genre continues with Harlan Ellison’s short story I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream, which tells the story of a man attempting to escape an omnipotent artificial intelligence in a bunker. During and after the Cold War, the genre proliferated to include the possibility of a nuclear disaster. Such nuclear holocaust works describe the recovery of civilization after a major nuclear mishap, whether it is a nuclear power plant failing or, more commonly, the result of nuclear warfare. The technological apocalypse genre differs from extraterrestrial or biological apocalypses because in these cases, humans had direct control over the outcome of the apocalypse; many authors use this clause to include a collective guilt in addition to the themes of death and despair.

It has always been a fascination of humans to speculate on the end of the world, and apocalyptic fiction is a primary outlet for this interest. Whether it is destruction by asteroid, zombies, or nuclear meltdown, our global yet morbid enthrallment to our own demise continues to permeate our literature, and will continue to do so until we face our own apocalypse.

How to Name a Dinosaur: Revised

Naming a new species of animal can be a daunting task. Naming a new species of animal that has been dead for millions of years can be even more terrifying. Yet year after year, many new dinosaur species are discovered and classified by a myriad of people from around the world ranging from the diligent rice farmer in China to the well-educated scientist at the Smithsonian. Naming a dinosaur can be a fun experience for those with the serendipitous chance of actually naming one.

Beginning this process can be an overwhelming task: where on earth do you start? Hence, the first step is to identify the basic body plan of the newly-found beast. Body plans can tell you which general clade of dinosaur your fossil belonged to, and each clade normally has a recurring theme when it comes to names. Does it look like a petrified ostrich? Then it’s probably an ornithomimosaur, or bird-mimic dinosaur. These dinos have names beginning with birds and ending in –mimus, like Gallimimus (chicken mimic), Pelecanimimus (pelican mimic) and Struthiomimus (ostrich mimic). Does it have a beak, horns, and a frill? Try an ending with –ceratops (like Triceratops or Pentaceratops). Did you find a cool carnivore? Try the endings –raptor and –venator. You don’t even need to know what the heck Neovenator means to know that it’s dangerous! If you can’t figure out which genre of dinosaur yours belongs to, you can always resort to the classic ending –saurus. Likewise, you can go tongue-in-cheek with Latin & Greek, like several dinosaur names. In 1966, a pair of 8 foot clawed hands was found in Mongolia. To this day, the rest of the body has not been found. Hence, Deinocheirus: “terrible hands”.

The hands of Deinocheirus. Each arm is 8 feet long. The rest of the body has never been found.

If a description just doesn’t seem to be sufficient, you can always pay homage to someone else by naming them after another person. Names like Alvarezsaurus and Crichtonosaurus pay respect to Luis and Walter Alvarez and Michael Crichton; the former were the two who proposed that a meteor caused the extinction of the dinosaurs while the latter was named after the author of Jurassic Park. However, not all names are suitable for this treatment. Case in point: Piatnitzkysaurus. Other names are equally absurd. The dinosaurs Othnielia and Drinker are both named after famous paleontologist, and are among the laughing stock of the dinosaur world as such.

The drunken inebriate of the dinosaur world: Drinker

You can go the traditional way and name the animal based on simple Latin or Greek roots or other ancient origins; this was how the founders of paleontology began naming dinosaurs. Gideon Mantell kept things to the point with Iguanodon, which means “iguana tooth”. Similar dinosaurs, like Megalosaurus (large lizard) and Hadrosaurus (bulky lizard) are other examples. If you have a flair for the mythological, you can name your dinosaur after something from legend, like Laelaps or Abydosaurus. There is a precaution for using purely Latin or Greek prefixes/suffixes, as it could lead to ridiculous names like Animantarx (which in reality means “living fortress” but sounds like a laxative) or purely unpronounceable names like Opisthocoelicaudia. Yeah.

Opisthocoelicaudia: a ridiculously large animal with a ridiculously unpronounceable name.

A culturally sensitive way is to name the dinosaur after its geographical location. Classic dinosaurs like Albertosaurus stem from this train of thought. On a similar note, you can name dinosaurs in the native language of the country it was discovered in. The dinosaur names Nemegtomaia and Khaan are both Mongolian; China produced the dinosaur names Mei-long and Yangchuanosaurus. The Australian aboriginal language gave way to such names as Qantassaurus and Minmi. You might be wondering if English has produced a dinosaur in the similar vein. Sadly, only two have been named as such. One is Gasosaurus, since it was discovered near a gas station. The other is called (no joke) Irritator, because it was such a hassle to dig up. Americans should just stick with Latin.

Irritator looks irritated.

As a final note, be ambitious! Nobody is going to remember an Agnosphytis. However, the public will eat up names like Tyrannotitan and Raptorex. Names like Iguanacolossus, Sinraptor and Diabloceratops are sure to catch any wandering eye’s attention. Sadly, Rugops will not. A dinosaur’s name gives it first impression to the public. While the pantheon of popular dinosaurs will most likely remain the same with T. rex and Stegosaurus, there’s always the chance that a newcomer might grab the attention of a novelist or film director; take Velociraptor, for instance, which was fairly unknown until its inception into Jurassic Park and the Lost World. So, by all means, go ahead and enjoy naming that dinosaur! As long as it doesn’t sound like Becklespinax, it’s sure to be a great one! 

How to Name a Dinosaur

               Naming a new species of animal can be a daunting task. Naming a new species of animal that has been dead for millions can be even more terrifying. Yet year after year, many new dinosaur species are discovered and classified by a myriad of people from around the world ranging from the diligent rice farmer in China to the well-educated scientist at the Smithsonian. Naming a dinosaur can be a fun experience for those with the serendipitous chance of actually naming one.

                Naming a dinosaur can be an overwhelming  task: where on earth do you start? Hence, the first step is to identify the basic body plan of the newly-found beast. Body plans can tell you which general clade of dinosaur your fossil belonged to, and each clade normally has a recurring theme when it comes to names. Does it look like a petrified ostrich? Then it’s probably an ornithomimosaur, or bird-mimic dinosaur. These dinos have names beginning with birds and ending in –mimus, like Gallimimus (chicken mimic), Pelecanimimus (pelican mimic) and Struthiomimus (ostrich mimic). Does it have a beak, horns, and a frill? Try an ending with –ceratops (like Triceratops or Pentaceratops). Did you find a cool carnivore? Try the endings –raptor and –venator. Still today, the name “Velociraptor” evokes fear into those who have watched Jurassic Park; you don’t even need to know what the heck Neovenator means to know that it’s dangerous! If you can’t figure out which genre of dinosaur yours belongs to, you can always resort to the classic ending –saurus. Likewise, you can go tongue-in-cheek with Latin & Greek, like several dinosaur names. In 1966, a pair of 8 foot clawed hands were found in Mongolia. To this day, the rest of the body has not been found. Hence, Deinocheirus: “terrible hands”.

                If a description just doesn’t seem to be sufficient, you can always pay homage to someone else by naming them after another person. Names like Alvarezsaurus and Crichtonosaurus pay respect to Luis and Walter Alvarez and Michael Crichton; the former were the two who proposed that a meteor caused the extinction of the dinosaurs while the latter was named after the author of Jurassic Park. However, not all names are suitable for this cause. Case in point: Piatnitzkysaurus. Other names are equally ridiculous. The dinosaurs Othnielia and Drinker are both named after famous paleontologist, and are among the laughing stock of the dinosaur world as such.

                You can go the traditional way and name the animal based on simple Latin or Greek roots or other ancient origins. This was how the founders of paleontology began naming dinosaurs! Gideon Mantell kept things to the point with Iguanodon, which means “iguana tooth”. Similar dinosaurs, like Megalosaurus (large lizard) and Hadrosaurus (bulky lizard) are other examples. If you have a flair for the mythological, you can name your dinosaur after something from legend, like Laelaps or Abydosaurus. There is a precaution for using purely Latin or Greek prefixes/suffixes, as it could lead to ridiculous names like Animantarx (which in reality means “living fortress” but sounds like a laxative) or purely unpronounceable names like Opisthocoelicaudia. Yeah.

            A culturally sensitive way is to name the dinosaur after its geographical location. Classic dinosaurs like Albertosaurus stem from this train of thought. Koreaceratops does not have the same impression. On a similar note, you can name dinosaurs in the native language. The dinosaur names Nemegtomaia and Khaan are both Mongolian; China produced the dinosaur names Mei-long and Yangchuanosaurus. The Australian aboriginal language gave way to such names as Qantassaurus (and Minmi). You might be wondering if English has produced a dinosaur in the similar vein. Sadly, only two have been named as such. One is Gasosaurus, since it was discovered near a gas station. The other is called (no joke) Irritator, because it was such a hassle to dig up. Americans should just stick with Latin.

            As a final note, be ambitious! Nobody is going to remember an Agnosphytis. However, the public will eat up names like Tyrannotitan and Raptorex. Names like Iguanacolossus, Sinraptor and Diabloceratops are sure to catch any wandering eye’s attention. Sadly, Rugops will not. A dinosaur’s name gives it first impression to the public. While the pantheon of popular dinosaurs will most likely remain the same with T. rex and Stegosaurus, there’s always the chance that a newcomer might grab the attention of a novelist or film director; take Velociraptor, for instance, which was fairly unknown until its inception into Jurassic Park and the Lost World. So, by all means, go ahead and enjoy naming that dinosaur! As long as it doesn’t sound like Becklespinax, it’s sure to be a great one! 

               

The Fontainehead

There are many things art is not. For one, art is not compromise.

Art is not conformity. Art is not formulaic or expected or predictable. Rather, art is a savage force, one that is spontaneous and harshly personal to the artist. Art is the rawest form of expression known to mankind, and can be manifested through a variety of mediums, whether it is sculpture, architecture, painting, music, or literature.

Anna Fontaine knew this to be true, and it seemed as if she might be the only one who knew. Tattered scraps of blue paper decorated her studio, with half-shaped sculptures adding a sort of eerie presence.

At school, Fontaine thought she knew what art was. The first day, her professor defined it for her: the application of skill and imagination into a form to be appreciated and critiqued by popular standards. At first she had blindly accepted this definition, spoon-fed by her Classically trained traditional “superiors” with the rest of her peers. But as Fontaine’s passion blossomed, so did resentment with the establishment.

Fontaine’s first major work was a sculpture. Inspired by work she had seen on a trip to Rome, she sculpted Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty. To her professor’s disturbance, she presented it to her.

“Anna—” she started, struggling for words. Fontaine had sculpted Aphrodite in a morose, asymmetrical style. One arm was protruding grotesquely off the side. A leg was thick, the other gracile. Her hair twisted like a briar patch, erupting into a barrage of callous thorns. When her professor had heard she had picked Aphrodite as her subject, she was ready for a traditional depiction of the goddess. To her, this was not art.

“—I must say, this is—shocking.” Her professor said, regaining composure. The lines of her face creased faintly, but just enough for Fontaine to still sense disdain.

“It’s my interpretation, professor. Some people see beauty differently than others, and thus express it differently.” Anna said, defending her work.

“Yes, of course, but that’s not how Aphrodite is supposed to be!”

Oh, how those words stung. Anna didn’t see Aphrodite as some classical Greco-Roman figure to be countlessly exploited in various studies and sketches. She is a concept, a theme; an ephemeral visage open to the interpretation of the viewer.

That Aphrodite sat in the middle of Fontaine’s studio, serving as an eternal reminder. Humans will always compartmentalize: they will always attempt to shape and mold foreign ideas and notions to fit the limited socially-accepted parameters of the common man. But art is of a higher order. It is the direct expression of its creator, a unique moment all to its own. Unfettered by the critiques of those who fail to understand, it evolves faster than the mind, stemming rather from the consciousness and subconsciousness of its architect.

Anna Fontaine quickly outgrew her professors. At first, she tried to understand, but it felt morally wrong. How is art a true inward expression when it has to meet certain standards and quotas instated by those in charge? That’s not being visionary; that’s being a slave! A slave of an intellectually unprepared populace, led by those as ignorant as their flock. Fontaine knew that she needed expertise by learning from higher education. But she couldn’t bear the restraints.

She tried to emulate them, but she failed. So, for a time, she decided to give them what they wanted. Her professor was pleased by the next few pieces. A shaped vase with a delicate pattern. A pleasing sculpture of two figures sitting on a bench. A friendly tree. Her professor approached her after her presentation of a glass ornament, saying:

“Oh Anna, this is wonderful glasswork! I am so glad you’ve toned it down. Looking back, we can laugh together on your Aphrodite!”

Anna feigned a smile, but oddly felt hurt inside. She had achieved the professor’s acceptance, hadn’t she? Why did it feel so wrong?

“Oh yes, that Aphrodite. How would you describe it now?” Anna asked her professor.

“Oh, mindless rebellion. We all feel it: that ‘urge’ to defy the structured orthodoxy. It was just a phase for you, I’m sure. Artists go through phases, you know.” She said. Anna smiled curtly and left the room feeling entirely empty.

Fontaine knew deep inside what was amiss: she had gained the accolades of her teacher, but in the process she alienated herself.

And what of rebellion? Art is rebellion! Rebellion against the establishment, always seeking to break new ground in every manner and field. Art is the supreme form of expression, uncensored by society.

It was at that moment that she understood art: expansive and moving, a flowing fluid entity who always recreates itself in the image of its maker. Art does not go into phases, as her professor had told her: rather, it stems from the personal ambitions and passions of its artist. Pablo Picasso did not create cubism for the simple sake of going through a phase: he created cubism as a way to express the inner desire to view subjects in ways previously impossible. In a way, his work (like Anna’s) was an act of defiance: a revolt against the standards of society in a way to more perfectly express his inner vision. As his vision changed, so did his art. People perceive this as a “phase”, disregarding the human aspect of the emotional investment placed into art. Hence, art, in any form, is a physical extension of the artist’s consciousness. The corporal aspect allows others to analyze, appreciate, and connect with the artist, and allows the viewer to frame his or her own feelings into something tangible and understandable.

Anna looked at her Aphrodite. The piece was an ‘abomination’ to some, but was a way for others to channel their personal views of something (in this case, beauty) into something easily examinable. In that sense, art is the great empathizer. Anna was afraid to use the word ‘uniter’, for art certainly doesn’t unite the masses. However, everybody can identify with at least one piece of art, whether music, painting, literature, architecture, or any other form of expression.

She had told that to her art professor: she wasn’t very happy with Anna’s conclusions.

“Anna, I had truly thought you had outgrown your defiance. There’s no use attempting to—to fight the world of art! It’s just a fact of life that certain things are popular now, and smart artists should take advantage of the increased publicity of certain art. Its how art becomes famous! Surely you must understand, right Anna?”

That day, Anna resigned from her art classes. It was oddly liberating.

Art was not meant to conform to the public! Such ‘art’ is not art, and the artists no longer are artists. Rather, they become sell-outs. Such artists turn into success-oriented businessmen and women, focusing on the notoriety of their work instead of the expressive ingenuity. This work, and all those that follow in the same vein, become pale imitations whose only purpose is to feed the voracious appetite of the mainstream. In essence, truly useless and emotionless pieces of matter arbitrarily put together into something ‘pleasing’.

So now, Anna Fontaine sat in her studio, surrounded by her creations. They were wild, unrepressed representations of various subjects; all inert representations of her true self (as art should be). Anna knew that dropping her classes would present a stumbling block for her career, but as an artist, she knew she would prevail. She had shaken off the chains of the mainstream, and donned the regalia of true artistry: unabashed emotion.    

Art is not compromise.