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Fitzgerald died the same weekend that Nathanael West, his comrade in Southern California dissipation, plowed a Ford through a boulevard stop and into a two-door sedan, killing himself and his wife—a coincidence that is either rich in literary irony or just proof of how bad the odds on the roads were.

Sane, upstanding drivers did, or might at any moment, and thus required a new style of policing. The issue became pressing, legally, during Prohibition, when smugglers began using privately owned cars to traffic hooch. A turning point arrived in the bootlegging case Carroll v.

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United States, decided in This kernel of police empowerment grew to fit the contours and the concerns of each age that followed. A version of the matter came before the high court in , in Whren v. United States, a case about a traffic stop—for turning too fast and without signalling—that ended in drug convictions. There are two strong claims in favor of the idea that our century-long adventure in owning and crashing gasoline cars was, although not perfect, a step forward.

The first is infrastructural: cars let Americans cross cities, states, woods, mountains, deserts, and, ultimately, the nation in reasonable time.

Vivisection, Virtue, and the Law in the Nineteenth Century

Cities and towns thrived with the flow. The second is cultural: the idea that car travel conjugates American life in its healthiest and most distinctive forms. Both arguments took root in the two-decade period after the Second World War. Albert holds that the war brought down the curtain on the sinister, crashy, Gatsbyesque idea of the road. American car travel almost halved between and , largely owing to wartime rubber shortages and gas rations.

Companies stopped making cars, and instead manufactured planes, guns, and battlefield transportation—work that, Albert suggests, gave these companies a patriotic glow when production resumed after the war. By then, the West was settling into conflict with the East, and a new project was under way. The world had to be persuaded of the freedoms of American life. Cars could be of help. In , President Eisenhower signed the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act, inaugurating the federal highways as the largest public-works project in U.

Albert is at pains to claim the system for the F. Administration, which first sketched it out. The interstates were strategically versatile: they could carry commuters and goods in peacetime and soldiers and evacuees in an emergency. They were also smoother, safer, and more capacious than previous highways, boosting the allure of the open road. The largest highway budget went to California. A popular narrative has it that, in the forties, a consortium of auto interests bought up streetcar systems in Los Angeles and elsewhere in order to replace the trains with buses—a conspiracy against urban rail.

Today, that account is disputed by many historians, who suggest that the auto companies were riding, rather than guiding, a transition to buses that had already begun, but early TV ads for cars did favor images of Golden State life, and pop culture followed. Turner notes that the Beach Boys buffed up songs with automotive techno-speak—much as, in another age, Tom Clancy embraced nuclear technobabble.

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In one wartime poll, a third of Americans reported wanting to own a plane, so car manufacturers built cars that were winged, wide, and streamlined, with jet-engine trim. A Chrysler commercial that year depicted a young wife being helped with groceries by a bag boy. Auto manufacturers needed to re-stoke a market that had cooled during the Second World War.

It is odd, then, that we still look to the mid-century for evidence that cars proved their necessity and worth. Tell someone that you cannot drive, and they respond as if you had confessed an intimate eccentricity, like needing to be walked on with high heels before bed. Still, I frequently wonder what experience I have missed out on as a consequence of never spending time behind the wheel.

In my imagination, cities like Los Angeles are filled with kids who cruise across the evenings with their dashboards glowing and soft bedroom pop throbbing through their speakers. Once, some years ago, a woman in a new rented convertible drove me along Mulholland Drive near midnight in a high wind coming in off the Pacific. The air was rough—leaves and twigs that had snapped in gusts whipped at our faces and the leather of the open seats. Then we arrived; a few days later, we returned the car. That journey ended, and we do not speak much anymore.

His politics hew closely to a baby-boomer outline, which is to say that they are deeply felt, heraldically blue, and largely incoherent just beneath the surface. He cheers on the Aquarians for rising against the establishment. He is circumspect about the truckers who, in , fought gas taxes and a lowered speed limit by, well, rising against the establishment. The crucial difference, in his mind, is that the Aquarians are blue, and the truckers are in large part red.

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Albert has decided that he dislikes autonomous cars for similarly red-coded reasons, never mind that the technology has steadier support from Team Blue. But are which-way-to-swerve issues better adjudicated by a surprised human sipping a Big Gulp? How this careful proposal squares with the joys of freedom and speed that he cherishes elsewhere gets little ink. It was he who took credit for turning the West Side Highway from a groaning overpass to a riverside boulevard.

Schwartz approaches the future much as he approaches traffic—as a complex, dynamic system—and his book emerges as a clearheaded bible for the twenty-first-century road. Many drivers regard autonomous cars as a pervert technology, like sex robots or Nespresso machines, and plan to reject the things as soon as they show up. In reality, self-driving cars are likely to overtake the market through a gradual shift in norms and features, a process that, Albert and Schwartz agree, has already begun.

Many drivers today cede way-finding to apps like Waze, which draws on the hive-mind intelligence of other vehicles to ease bottlenecks and dodge perils.

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Some cars now brake to avoid collision if the driver fails to, and many ping at you, like a better driver in the back seat, if you drift too close to danger. This human-proofing, far from throwing off the rhythms of the road, has increased safety, by most evidence, which is no surprise. A saner worry is about the environment, which new toys habitually defile. On paper, autonomous vehicles promise fuel efficiencies, and Schwartz notes that they also have the potential to prune back infrastructure excess. Lanes in the U. Guardrails and other bulk meant to protect humans from themselves could melt away, as could some perilous practices.

Drinking and driving would be less of a menace although, unfairly, the party-bus phenomenon would persist. Motorcycling is already on the wane. Trucking, notoriously a battle between schedule and sleep, is more safely and efficiently done by robot. Schwartz is not sanguine about job loss in the age of autonomous cars—a topic so urgent that it cropped up in the first Democratic debates. The E-ZPass eliminated toll-collecting jobs, he points out, but the process was slow enough that people had the chance to clock out at retirement or find new work.

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A century ago, cars themselves smothered everything to do with stables and coach-making but created jobs for drivers and mechanics. Autonomous cars will not obliterate blue-collar jobs—the vehicles will still break down—but they may not offer so tidy a substitution. Powerful techie minds have also been stunningly dumb when it comes to thinking through the second- and third-order effects of their doings, so the idea of putting them in charge of policy is alarming.

The costs of this decision can be seen on every curb: the typical American vehicle spends ninety-five per cent of its life parked. In theory, private driverless cars can reduce that waste. Instead of owning two cars, you can have a single car that drives Mom to work, drives itself back home, ferries Dad and the kids around, and zooms back to the office to pick up Mom.

Cities can help, he thinks, by making parking spaces scarce and expensive as the driverless age approaches. He advocates, as he has for decades, congestion pricing—if space on the road is valuable, let drivers pay for it—and his advocacy has received surprising support from Uber. Ride-share cars earn relatively little in gridlock, so the move makes economic sense.

I walked back to the San Francisco D. The place was virtually unchanged. An attendant led me to a small intestine of a queue. The people in line looked as if they expected everybody else to mug them if they turned around. Unlike the French, who have a reputation for constructing earnest bureaucracies around precisely the wrong detail, or the Italians, for whom chaos can seem to be a higher form of freedom, Americans take bureaucratic process as they take the open road: with a mixture of impatient enterprise and resentful submission, a belief that the true problem is these other people , clogging freeways, arguing at counters piled with crumpled forms, and treading on their private realms of order with systemic uncontrol.

When my number came, I approached the counter, and offered my forms as if passing a dog toy to a wolf. The woman clicked at her keyboard, and glanced incredulously at her screen.

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So, too, in his novel-writing Jules Verne. But what of the future of the novel itself? What kinds of changes are occurring in the narrative form that Jules Verne is using, and what further changes are heralded or foretold by his own approach? More especially, what impact does his concept of the novel have on the development of the novel more generally?

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The answer to such questions begins with a truism. Jules Verne, working in the realist tradition, believes axiomatically that the writing of fiction requires a process of preliminary documentation. Scientific discourses on occasion occupy the whole of the foreground, while the more traditional elements of fiction—character and plot development—recede into the background. This occurs, for example, when the author enters into detailed historical and anthropological information about different peoples in Five Weeks in a Balloon , or in the disproportionate descriptions of marine life in Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas , or in the extensive calculations of planetary positions in the lunar novels.

This may not be science fiction in the sense of speculative, futuristic writing, but it is scientific fiction, in other words fiction that is accompanied by, and sometimes overtaken by, science. Jules Verne himself was not unaware of this contradiction in his style, from which he eventually deduced that the novel, as a genre, was in some danger. It is certainly the case that his approach is characterized by a monumental shift towards science, geography, physics, astronomy, history, or documentary journalism. The preoccupation with technology and learning was, when the Voyages Extraordinaires were launched, still something that it was possible to consider as contrary to art, belonging more to the domain of journalists and pedagogues.

With Baudelaire, it is true, that had begun to change, as art was seen increasingly to be compatible with the trappings of modernity. But with Jules Verne, the discourses and the technologies of the nineteenth century all at once loom massively in the frame. With Verne, the novel moves very conspicuously toward new artistic frontiers, at the very same moment as it depicts within its pages the exploration of remote geographical frontiers.

Perhaps this helps to explain why Hetzel so summarily rejected in the manuscript of Paris in the Twentieth Century , in. Although it was Hetzel who did so much to shape this new vision of the literary in Jules Verne, it is also abundantly clear that Verne himself had a real sense of his artistic and stylistic mission. While in the Anglo-Saxon world in particular he is still often seen as a writer of adolescent literature, or distortingly and simplistically viewed as the father of science fiction despite the many novels in which he represents entirely conventional modes of travel , there remains the sense—both in his utterances about the novel and in the style of his writing—that he is rethinking the frontiers of the genre.

That Verne wanted his work to be considered a mainstream contribution to literature is moreover underlined by the many overt literary references he makes throughout the Voyages Extraordinaires. These have the far from naive function of positioning his work within a literary context, of giving it resonance and identity within a literary tradition. In fact, there are literary references and echoes everywhere in his work, giving not merely the sense that this author is hobnobbing with the great writers of history and modernity, but also the impression that he is consciously weaving his individual path through the intertexts of literary history and, like his near contemporary Flaubert, making a modernist statement about the collapsing relationship between writing and rewriting.

It is indeed an ambition that he will retain throughout his writing career—though clearly it is expressed with an awareness of the paradox that it needs to be expressed—and it becomes the source in later years of a regret, as he sees himself.