globe and dominating international discourse.
As the novel demonstrates, Santos’ voluntary decision, once universally accepted, limits the range of actions for others considerably, until democratically elected representatives literally run out of options other than to comply with the standard:
The pressure on those who hadn’t gone transparent went from polite to oppressive. The question, from pundits and constituents, was obvious and loud: If you aren’t transparent, what are you hiding? Though some citizens and commentators objected on grounds of privacy, asserting that government, at virtually every level, had always needed to do some things in private for the sake of security and efficiency, the momentum crushed all such arguments and the progression continued. If you weren’t operating in the light of day, what were you doing in the shadows? (ibid. 241)
While politicians are formally free to accept the standard (there is no one actively forcing them to do so), their choice ultimately becomes an involuntary one. Faced with aggression from both “pundits and constituents,” who disregard questions of security and privacy and suspect their representatives of being entangled with shady business practices like nepotism and corruption, the representatives in question are required either to accept the standard or to face the end of their political career in the next vote. The text makes it blatantly clear that voluntariness constitutes a necessary characteristic in order to speak of ‘freedom.’
As Timothy W. Galow writes, the system thrives on the acceptance of its measures, illustrating “the thin line between choice and coercion in contemporary consumer society” (124). There is a further clear example in the novel of how network standards emerge from initially free and voluntary choices, which eventually morph into a systemic form of coercion that eliminates alternatives options for action. Juggling ideas on how to increase voter participation in general elections – theoretically, a desirable and understandable wish in democratic societies – the Circle’s think tank suggests to simplify the voting process by expanding existing possibilities for voting online, culminating in the proposal that “your Circle profile automatically registered you to vote” (TC 388, emphasis in the original). Although conducting elections with social media profiles already represents a big leap for democratic structures, Mae takes this idea one step further and again provides an example for how voluntary decisions can create an unsurpassable standard. Referring to those “83 percent of the voting-age Americans” (ibid. 391) who have already logged into the Circle network, Mae poses the following question: “[s]o why not require every voting-age citizen to have a Circle account” (ibid., emphasis in the original)? Justifying her proposal by commenting on its feasibility due to the superior technology provided by the Circle, Mae soon wins over the board.2 The genesis of this standard is comparable to the aforementioned camera example. Initially, thousands of individuals decided to join the network voluntarily, hoping for easy ways to communicate online. This group of people grows exponentially. The more people join the network, the more disadvantageous non-membership becomes. As David Grewal explains, “the incentives to switch onto a dominant network become greater, the alternatives, even if freely available, become even less attractive” (122). Being a Circler does not only provide direct advantages from this point onwards, not being a Circler has direct negative consequences for those abstaining from the network. However, Mae’s proposal turns the options into a standard: from now on, people need a Circle account to vote. The decision to accept a standard is thus no longer voluntary. Although formally free, non-Circlers have run out of alternatives, and are now compelled to join the network – not necessarily hoping for social, economic, or political advantages, but to secure their status quo.
The Circle is deeply committed to the depiction of network power on the levels of both content and discourse. To demonstrate how power must not be reduced to coercive mechanisms, the novel has embraced a specific style. Dialogue dominates in The Circle, often extending over one or two pages without explanatory prose or even inquit formulas. This particular style aligns The Circle within the long tradition of eutopian writing. Works like More’s Utopia for instance are famous for their use of Socratic dialogues (cf. Seeber, Selbstkritik 16): one character asks a question on the structure of society, another provides answers. As Northrop Frye summarises, the eutopian “story is made up largely of a Socratic dialogue between guide and narrator, in which the narrator asks questions or thinks up objections and the guide answers them” (“Utopias” 324). The evolving dialogue creates the impression of co-authoring the world: both interviewer and interviewee are equally immersed in the literary construction and presentation of the alternative society. This egalitarian communication mirrors the egalitarian principles guiding the very same society from which the discussion arises. On the discursive level, as on the content level, then, eutopia arises as democratic project from communal efforts.
Dialogue in The Circle serves two purposes in particular, apart from locating the novel within the utopian canon. Mostly, it has an explanatory and an illustrative function, introducing both the reader and Mae to the Circle. Describing the “core beliefs here at the company,” for instance, Mae’s supervisor Dan explains the Circlers’ ideology to both his intra- and his extradiegetic audience:
Mae, now that you’re aboard, I wanted to get across some of the core beliefs here at the company. And chief among them is that just as important as the work we do here—and that work is very important—we want to make sure that you can be a human being here, too. […] And making sure this is a place where our humanity is respected, where our opinions are dignified, where our voices are heard—this is as important as any revenue, any stock price, any endeavor undertaken here. Does that sound corny? (TC 47)
Ending his speech with an open question, Dan invites Mae to react to his world-making, asking her for her acceptance and approval. Elaborating on the eutopian ideals, Dan also seeks to convince the readers, who he addresses indirectly. Continuing to talk to Mae and the reader in dialogical form – a typical mechanism of eutopia (cf. Baccolini, “Womb” 293) – Dan invites both Mae and the reader to become part of the Circle’s in-group.
Secondly, the excessive use of dialogue constitutes an investigation into network thinking, illuminating the co-dependency of individuals. Often citing entire dialogues between Mae and fellow Circlers, the novel rarely skips or summarises a conversation, but renders it accessible in its entirety. This way, readers will soon notice a particular speech pattern employed by all Circle employees. They insert leading questions, i.e. questions that already suggest the appropriate answer, after each relevant chunk of information: “That sound good” (TC 49)?, “Does that make sense” (ibid. 96)? or “Does that sound right” (ibid. 177)? and “[D]o you see the benefit in this” (ibid. 183)? They thus extract consent or rejection from their dialogue partner, creating the illusion of a dialogue on equal terms. Eamon Bailey employs this technique, too, when he talks to Mae about her ‘stealing’ a kayak from the shop she usually goes to – a crime barely worthy of the name for she is friends with the owner and had the intention of returning it:
He smiled almost imperceptibly and moved on. ‘Mae, let me ask you a question. Would you have behaved differently if you’d known about the SeeChange cameras at the marina?’
‘Yes.’
Bailey nodded empathetically. ‘Okay. How?’
‘I wouldn’t have done what I did.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because I would have been caught.’
Bailey tilted his head. ‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want anyone seeing me do that. It wasn’t right.’ (ibid. 282)
Bailey’s use of leading questions is conspicuous, structuring the course of the dialogue by extracting the answers he wants to hear. By asking open questions such as “How?” and “Is that all?,” Bailey leads Mae to give the suggested replies, while simultaneously maintaining a pretence of democracy, as Mae’s consent is not staged. On the contrary, although nudged in a certain direction, Mae is always in control of herself and her words. Bailey’s rhetorical strategy of question and answer fulfils the criteria of freedom yet flaunts the maxim of voluntariness. Mae is not compelled to give these answers,