The truth is that freedom may sometimes be manifested in the choices a person makes. The danger is that the simple act of choosing does not signify anything until we specify the domain of options over which someone chooses. (108)
A precondition for voluntariness is ultimately the availability of two equally desirable options, not just the mere act of choosing. To illustrate his point, Grewal quotes from Serena Olsaretti’s Liberty, Desert and the Market (2004), which tells the story of a girl, Daisy, wishing to leave her hometown, a desolate city in the middle of a desert. While nobody actively forces her to stay there, Daisy knows that she has no means to cross the desert alive. Thus, “[h]er choice to remain in the city is not a voluntary one” (Olsaretti 138; cf. Grewal 109f.), although she is formally free to leave. Olsaretti’s desert city is thus a good example for a situation “that is in some sense coerced even while being formally free” (Grewal 112), since there are no other acceptable options. We cannot, however, speak of a voluntary decision, as Daisy wants to leave.
This example stands in opposition to Olsaretti’s second thought experiment, the “Wired City”: “Wendy is the inhabitant of a city fenced with electrifying wire, which she is unfree to leave. However, her city has all that anyone could ever ask for, and Wendy, who is perfectly happy with her life there, has no wish of leaving it. She voluntarily remains in her city” (138; cf. Grewal 110). The difference between Daisy and Wendy is the notion of voluntariness. Both girls are theoretically unable to leave their respective cities, yet while one cannot do so due to the desert, the other does not want to, although one might presume that she lives in a somewhat repressive community. Therefore, a “choice is voluntary if and only if it is not made because there is no acceptable alternative to it” (Olsaretti 139, emphasis in the original). Tellingly, Olsaretti’s first example works without the notion of an oppressive authoritarian leader, who forces their subjects to remain in the city. Wendy’s decision to stay in the city is a form of coercion despite the fact that there is no detectable form of juridico-political power. Following Gerald Cohen then, Olsaretti concludes that a person can only be considered to have made a free choice, “if he has a reasonable or acceptable alternative course” (Cohen quoted in Grewal 109); anything else should be considered unfreedom in the sense of non-voluntariness. When Darko Suvin asserts that “free choice [must be the] guide of any society worth living in” (“Bust”), he actually demands the right to make voluntary choices between two equally desirable options.
Referring to the writings of thinkers like Antonio Gramsci, Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze and others (cf. 131ff.), Grewal’s network power can thus be seen as an addition to the macro-theory of structuration, “an integrated account of agency and structure” (55). As a result of neither expressing preferences for one structure over the actors nor the other way round, the theory of structuration (a term introduced by Anthony Giddens) helps to “move beyond the dichotomy that supposes either that we are masters of our contexts or that our contexts must master us” (Grewal 56). It thus provides an explanation of how power prunes freedom, even if no identifiable actor, i.e. a totalitarian leader, actively deprives people of their rights and choices. With the notion of network power, “direct coercion as such is not necessary” (ibid. 121). Rather it works “through the simultaneous promise of belonging to a dominant network and the threat of social exclusion, which together give a network influence over the actions of individuals” (ibid. 122). This type of power then thrives off the all-too human wish to belong to a community, fostered by the fear of expulsion and the unavailability of alternatives after enough people have joined the dominant network:
[N]etwork power exists in all the ways people are drawn to each other, wanting to gain access to cooperative activities with other people. It is relational: we cannot even talk about this power outside the multiple networks of individuals whose choices are shaped by allegiance to a common standard. It is immanent: not an abstract force, but inherent in our mediating social institutions. (ibid. 140)
To summarise, the analytics of network power show how aggregated individual choices can come to constitute a form of decentralised power immanent in social relations – and all without the command of a central authority (cf. ibid. 139). While “many theorists would prefer to attribute all relevant causation to identifiable individuals and their actions alone” (ibid. 127), Grewal opts for the middle line between individual responsibility and systemic coercion, thus paving the way for literature to escape the notion of methodological individualism. Grewal argues that “[i]t is possible to articulate a systemic condition of power without attributing ultimate agency to anything other than interdependent human choices and actions” (ibid. 129, emphasis in the original). In the context of neoliberalism this theory explains why “the blame for [the] failure [to abolish capitalism] does not lie with the subjects of contemporary capitalist societies, even though the responsibility for social change can lie nowhere else (that is, with ‘us’)” (Best 499). In fact, the people suffering from certain standards might actually be the origin and stabiliser of the system in the first place; we must acknowledge that “the structure, in this case, is a product of ‘our’ collective agency” (ibid.).5 Describing a vicious circle of support and suffering, Grewal’s approach visualises the neoliberal mechanisms of power: while neoliberalism claims to be free of coercion and oppression (in the West)6, its proponents constantly conflate the notions of freedom and voluntariness. He and Olsaretti argue convincingly that freedom alone does not suffice; it is voluntariness for which we should strive. His theory thus becomes the theoretical framework through which contemporary dystopian fiction can critically assess neoliberalism, showcasing its inherent misconception of ‘freedom.’
III. ‘Crowd-Founded’ Dystopia: Dave Eggers’ The Circle (2013)
Born in 1970, Dave Eggers has only recently entered the stage of dystopian fiction with his 2013 novel The Circle – as The Guardian journalist Edward Docx argues, a “work so germane to our times that it may well come to be considered as the most on-the-money satirical commentary on the early internet age.” Eggers had formerly made a name for himself as one of the “leading figures in [a] ‘group of emerging young writers’” (Hoffmann 23), as a result of his renowned first novel, the autobiographical A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (2000), which received critical attention primarily due to its rich meta-fictional commentary (cf. Mackay) and its reflections on authorial authenticity, confession, and memoirs (cf. Nicol). Ever since then, the Boston-born author has regularly featured on international and US-American bestseller lists. Commenting on a variety of events defining the 21st century, such as Hurricane Katrina, US-Middle-Eastern relations, or police shootings, Eggers has secured himself a stable readership and a loyal fanbase at home and abroad.1
Yet his relationship to reviewers is complex. While his work is usually discussed favourably, Eggers is also criticised for his literary instinct, which translates into an almost opportunistic hunt for the zeitgeist. This leads journalist Hillary Kelly to comment somewhat sarcastically, “[i]f you’ve read it [sic!] about it in The New York Times Sunday Review, chances are Dave Eggers has considered it as source material” (Kelly; cf. also Galant). Kelly’s comments are paradigmatic, exemplifying the ambivalent relationship of critics to Eggers’ work that seems to culminate in the discussions over his first dystopian novel. The Circle has proven to be very controversial; the critique usually highlights two points in particular, with the first concerning the novel’s literary quality. Some reviewers criticise the novel’s intellectual and literary deficiencies (cf. Hugendick et al.), accusing the text of banality of language and plot, flat characters, and an in-your-face didactic message that reduces the novel to an exercise in black-and-white painting (cf. McMillan). Eggers, says The New York Times columnist Ellen Ullman, “tends to overexplain,” resulting in the almost cartoonlike depiction of the characters inhabiting Eggers’ fictional company campus.
The controversy over the quality of Eggers’ work has grown into a debate about what should be considered more important, the quality of fiction or its didactic effect. Indeed, this is a very old discussion in the context of dystopian fiction, which has always had to fend off attacks from the literary establishment (cf. the concept of the ‘Menippean Satire’ by Northrop Frye; Frye, Criticism 309). However, all questions of literary quality aside, Eggers’ indisputable success and the