Perfection and Pity: Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake

Human history is full of examples of our desire to be perfect, to create, to enjoy, to exploit what we believe is perfection. In the “Western” arts, this is a well-known leitmotif: from the statues of Greek gods to fictional depictions of beauty, from Bach’s music to Leonardo Da Vinci’s paintings. Of course, morality, religion, societal mores, human relations all enter into the discussion of perfection and beauty. Margaret Atwood’s novel Oryx and Crake (Vintage, 2009, pp. 389) adds to these considerations also feelings, especially the feeling of pity, the pity that pervades the reader for the protagonist, Snowman (Jimmy).

As in most speculative fiction, this novel, too, hinges on the events that precede and follow an apocalyptic event. The life of the characters in the pre-cataclysmic event is already far from perfect: specifically, the protagonist in his youth is basically a lonely boy looking for some kind of affection from his parents whose (pre-)occupations do not include him. Later on, he is enrolls in less prestigious art school for those young people who do not cut it in the sciences. Since he is “good with words”, he finds a job as an advertising copy writer. His friendship with Crake goes back to their youth, when they as little boys watch porn movies, play chess and computer games, and generally shun the rest of the children around them. This friendship brings him a more remunerative job, as Crake is the mind behind a very special project. This project aims to create a different (more perfect) human beings, starting with reorganizing the prepared embryo cells, so parents can choose a being who does not get sick, who has perfect physique, who does not crave sex, who is a vegetarian, etc. The private company already houses a group of the new perfect beings (physically beautiful) who are intellectually not ready to fend for themselves. So they have a teacher, Oryx, a woman who is the image of love for Snowman/Jimmy, but who is also loved by Crake. To prepare the possible embryos, a new sex pill is created which is tested all over the world without approval of any agency (in fact, there is no mention of any government or regulating agency in the book). This pill turns out to be the spark of the apocalypse, as it makes the users bleed to death. In the aftermath of a general almost complete excruciatingly painful human extinction, Jimmy takes over the care of the group of the perfect but ignorant human beings. This is the nutshell of the novel, as usual, it is impossible to do justice in this short paragraph to the complexities of it.

Although there is the usual note saying that the book is a work of fiction, to remind the reader that this may not be completely true, Atwood begins her narration by quoting from Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. This quote ends by expressing the idea that “my principal design was to inform you, and not to amuse you”. In other words, by creating a fictional world, Atwood intends to inform us of what exactly is going on around us in this present point of history. My mention of pity at the beginning of this review points to the fact that each element of the novel, each move that Snowman/Jimmy makes, has equivalents in our present. And pity stems from the fact that neither we nor the protagonist can really do anything about the things that we know are done wrong. Jimmy/Snowman cannot fight against the system that separates people into have and have-nots (both economically and intellectually) – does this sound familiar? In the novel, private companies have all the power to do as they please – does this sound familiar? Even individuals act totally unscrupulously in the novel – does this sound familiar? especially as regards children bought from poor families and used in child porn films. What is there for the protagonist to do? How can he act against forces that are so entrenched in his environment but act within the confines of his world and try to survive by himself? The readers can only feel pity for him, as they also feel pity for themselves, for the pitiful world we live in, for all the injustices that are perpetrated by individuals and companies. The world has recently been through the Covid pandemic – what have we learned from it? Now there are wars, military conflicts, hate is compounded on top of hate ad infinitum. Atwood’s novel ends with the possibility that Snowman/Jimmy is not the only “normal” human alive in his world. Should we think of that possibility for us? And what happens when perfection – our version of what it should be – does not pan out to be really perfect? Must perfection and pity coexist?

Future Fiction 3: Unexpected endings? You bet!

True to its main aim, the publishing house Future Fiction keeps giving new authors from a variety of cultural and geographical backgrounds a platform from which their worthy and amazing works can find yet a wider readership. Rich Larson’s Ghost Girl / La ragazza fantasma is a perfect example of this (multi)cultural endeavour. Published in 2018, the slender volume contains four of Larson’s stories, previously published elsewhere, and collected here together with their Italian translations.

            As usual, I do not give the plot away, but some spoiler alert remains. My review here deals with the intricate sorts of dependencies and power relations between technology and human foibles as these are evinced from Larson’s stories.

            The eponymous story “Ghost Girl”, set in Bujumbura in an unspecified period, but after a political and economic upheaval of great magnitude, when criminals and police try to prevail in a disastrous situation. The society seems intent on getting the most gain out of any situation. Individuals who exhibit unusual features command high prices on the international market, and hence the “ghost”, i.e. albino girl who is highly sought-after. The advanced technology serves first and foremost the military. But there is a ray of hope in what could be called a souped-up drone/robot who has been modified from a killing machine to a protector and more. The drone then, in capable and good hands, can overcome the programming of violence for its own sake. But the story proposes that in certain conditions, also humans can abandon their thirst for revenge.

            “Let’s take this viral” should be a compulsory reading for all those who are taken in by the amazing possibilities offered by the ideas of Humanity + (ex-Transhumanism). The story takes place in a very distant future on an unspecified planet inhabited by units partly biological, endowed with amazing IQ, surrounded by all kinds of energy sources, whose every desire, whim, need can be easily fulfilled in kiosks, booths, vending machines. They do not worry about getting sick, about being broken, or malfunctioning, since there is a quick and easy solution to everything. They may upload to a probe to roam the universe. However, most of all, the units thrive on social recognition by other units, vie for being the first to start a trend, party as hard as they can, have sex anytime and almost anywhere, and get high on dope for days. Trying new things is their most desired activity. Cosmetic viruses are the prominently fashionable novelty, and the more visible and virulent the virus, the more desirable it is. Technology, then, is not a problem, what is problematic is the predictability of everything and the possibility of experiencing everything that is driving the lives of the units.  Under these conditions, can there be an ultimate experience? The story offers one possible answer.

            The third story entitled “Meshed” deals with the tug of war between a for-profit company (Nike) and a young athlete who exhibits a talent not seen before. The company needs to engage this young man in order to mesh him, i.e. to connect his nerves into a mesh which lets all those connected to it feel what the athlete feels when his muscles twitch and flex, when he scores a basket, in other words, to engage the audience neurally. Technology drives the profit, but it needs ever new sources, i.e. remarkable people of exceptional talent, capable of stretching the entertainment even further. Technology also allows those who hunt these new sources of entertainment to use all kinds of unseen aids (such as biofeedback) to understand the prospective advertising idol.  The nerve mesh makes it possible to override the central nervous system and not only track the person who is meshed, but also command it to speak or to be silent, to kill on command. But it also allows millions of other people to watch what the athlete sees and feel what he feels. Kids may dream about having their face plastered on a billboard and releasing their own signature shoes, but is there a limit to what they would be willing to do to sell themselves? The story gives one example of an answer to this question.

            “Your own way back” toys around with forms of survival after death: will the deceased’s consciousness continue as part of a clone, a digital hologram, a chip to be uploaded into a living relative? And who will make the final decision on the form in which the deceased will keep on being?  Clearly, money is still an issue, even in a technologically advanced future: not everyone can afford a clone that is a close replica of the deceased relative. And, if the link between the dead grandfather and a living grandson can be embodied through a chip implant, is the decision-making process easier? The possibility of consciousness surviving has have the option of the deceased to make the final decision himself/herself. What will that decision be? What are the criteria on which this decision is made? The story allows just for such a possibility.

            The language of the stories is true to the settings: police and rebel slang, business communication, techno-cool in-group vocabulary, young person’s expression. It is, however, deceptively simple: it hides connections and relations which make the stories rich and profound.   

            The Italian translations, prepared by Lorenzo Crescentini (a published author of sci-fi in his own right), do justice to the original stories. Of course, it is always difficult when one language has a specific meaning for a word which does not exist in the other, and it would be too easy to quibble with the translator’s choice. A case in point is the English word “scavenger” meaning “a person who looks for useful items in a trash heap”. Crescentini opts for cercatore and spazzino. Or “basement” which could be, but probably is not, seminterrato as far as the second story is concerned. A bit more problematic is the translation of some sentences with broken English, translated using standard Italian. A question that cannot be decided once and for all, is whether to translate personal names or not. In the second story, the protagonist’s name is Default (lots of choices in Italian: mancato, inadempiuto, difettoso, predefinito), the meaning of which is an integral part of the character’s behaviour. Perhaps the English term’s frequency of use in computer language makes the significance clear to the Italian reader. It is inevitable that some idioms may trick the translator, such as “bird’s eye view” which in the case of the second story, with all probability means (visuale) panoramica, not dagli occhi degli uccelli. The title “Your own way back” is rendered as Il ritorno, but perhaps Il ritorno a modo tuo would give a closer interpretation of the original. But these are just suggestions, and since translation is also a re-writing, the translator’s art must be taken into consideration.

            In conclusion, it is hoped that these four stories by Rich Larson find a multitude of readers both in English and in Italian. They are worth it for their enjoyment value, for their novelty, and for the interpretations of possible and probable futures we can look forward to.

Future Fiction 2: The natural in the artificial

Future Fiction is a publishing company (and more: see my previous post), specializing in publishing short science/speculative fiction from all over the world in the original and in an English translation. This time Francesco Verso collaborated with Francesco Manovani (another well-known author) on a jewel of a story, engaging, thoughtful, fast-paced and with surprising twists. The book contains not only the Italian original version and its English translation, but also an essay on immortality, building a bridge, in this case, between an aspect of the sci-fi story and philosophical musings.

The themes found in iMate are not far off from Verso’s fictional preoccupations found in his other works: the ethics, identity, desires and concerns of AI especially when the artificial is embodied a human form. The thin membrane that separates the “natural”, i.e. human, free, and the “artificial”, i.e., artifactual, enslaved, is thoroughly analyzed in this story, moreover, with a feminine spin. And, as is characteristic of Verso, puns abound and take the mind to other layers of meaning, not immediately perceived. Specifically, the “Mate” in the title is not only a 3D-printed flesh-and-blood biobot endowed with sophisticated intelligence and grown under strictest ethical and moral parameters living and working alongside humans. It is also check mate, i.e. triumph over human intelligence, hacking into the impregnable program the technicians who build iMates think invincible, all achieved by, yes, one of the iMates themselves. But it is also I mate, i.e. I procreate, and thus focusing on an aspect of human experience perhaps out of bounds to every but the most sophisticated AIs.

Janna, the protagonist in this story, tries her best to help her ill partner, David, to live safely and comfortably, by caring for him and by earning the money needed for his physical and psychological well-being. In the process, she is discovering her identity, her desires, and her view of the important things in life. Living in Sweden, where iMates are exceedingly expensive, she looks for better paying jobs elsewhere, to be able to afford one. Among all these preoccupations, she prioritizes her greatest desire: to have a child, even though David is against it. For the rest, you have to read the story, as I will not spoil the pleasure of discovery for you.

Suffice it to say that the story takes place in not a very distant future, building on technologies that are currently being experimented on. Even though they are extremely intelligent and endowed with feelings, sensitivities, desires, memories, iMates are built to serve the human “dominus” (master). They are not free or independent: they are always tethered unknowingly, invisibly, electronically, to the company that made them, which can make them faint at will and scan their inner workings. The society that is depicted is not much different from ours: there are incurable illnesses, car accidents, divorces, concerns around money, there is soccer, data theft, industrial secrets, legal restrictions, need for affirmative action and women’s rights; not to mention the fact that life expectancy is lower in Naples than it is in Sweden. All these are dealt with using technological props which blur the human “freedoms” and make people more like androids, living with unpleasant restrictions. But there is also friendship, love, altruism, not to mention egotism, competition, and class distinction. Mass communications are amazingly easy and ubiquitous, yet another aspect of our present situation, which may have unintended consequences. The story shows a happy ending for the iMates,perhaps leaving the humans evolving as they are wont to.

The essay which forms a part of the book (entitled “Immortal: why not? A philosophical reflection”) offers philosophical musings on immortality. It is not entirely related to the story, although it is argued by the author that iMates may be immortal: i.e., the idea of immortality attached to androids, not only to humans. The author, Maurizio Balistreri, discusses the pros and cons of human immortality, siding, of course, with the “for” side. He demolishes some obvious and usual assumptions of those who are against human immortality, such as the fact that whoever lives long is stuck to their old views and does not change/grow, or that there will not be enough food for all those who will live very, very long. Clearly, these are problems that will be solved in the future, using technology, of course. His essay raises one interesting issue, though, and that is the utilitarian view of human life: Balistreri builds his arguments on the fact that each one individual human contributes something to society. He does not, however, touch upon the fact that there is a hierarchy of types of contributions, and therefore, competition for what one particular society deems as important occupation/profession. The hierarchy is not written in stone, and it is perhaps too ambitious to attempt to wrestle with the variety of occupations that will be preferred in the far distant future, not to mention the fact that this utilitarian principle of human life is not the be all and end all of human life, however long.

In conclusion, iMate transports the reader into a possible future world inhabited by humans like us and by biobots (indistinguishable from humans) capable of doing much more than humans, but for that reason, having the same human preoccupations, needs, and wants, such as love, maternity, friendship, i.e. they are more than human. And in this way, the thin line between natural and artificial has disintegrated, at least for the biobots. This engaging story should form an indispensable part of the reading experience of everyone.

Romani/Sinti/Gypsies and (Italian) science fiction

Clearly, the attractive seduction of the ideal Gypsy lifestyle is easy to see: outside the grid, no taxes to pay, traveling wherever and whenever with whomever, no responsibilities other than to oneself, no consequences to engaging in what may be defined as some illegal activities. Nevertheless, there is always the other side of the coin, in this case,  discrimination, hate, uncalled-for beatings, detentions and arrests, etc. In addition to the  lifestyle mystique, the question of Gypsy origin looms large. And here is where things start to become full of amazement: what is their original “homeland”? Are they survivors of the Atlantis upheaval? Do they come from outer space?

This last is a hypothesis suggested by Lino Aldani in his themoro korik (Perseo Libri, 2007). Lino Aldani (1926-2009) is hailed by many as the most important of Italian science fiction writers. But by any measure, themoro korik cannot be part of a list of science fiction works simply on account of the other-worldly origin of the Gypsies, suggested but not elaborated on in this novel. Aldani’s love for the Roma and Sinti (living in Northern Italy) is obvious in this and his other novel, Quando le radici (Piacenza, Science Fiction Book Club, La Tribuna, 1977).  In both novels, Gypsies (more specifically, young Gypsy women) provide a possible way out for disenchanted young gadjo men: urbanized, caged-in by work and unable and unwilling to fit in a technological world, but above all who wants to find a different lifestyle.

In Quando le radici (literally, “When the roots”), Aldani seems to be suggesting that impermanence in the form of eradication of one’s past has two paths (for the gadjo). On the one hand, technology levels villages to the ground and therefore obliterates the old way of life. On the other, the possibly unchanged Gypsy nomadic life offers a fresh start. The protagonist, Arno Varin, works in the city but visits the area of the small village he was born in, and talks to the old generation of survivors who live without water and electricity and who are in constant danger of being dispossessed because a new highway is planned on the site. Gypsy peddlers come regularly to sell their wares and Arno falls in love with a young Gypsy woman. Being young and impulsive, he kills the bulldozer driver sent to prepare the ground for construction, and therefore he has to flee to save his life. His solution? Join the Gypsy peddlers.

 

Themoro korik (literally “the world over there”, in Aldani’s imaginative version of Romani) presents the view that the chasm between Gypsy life and non-Gypsy life is just too great to be able to make meaningful connective bridges. Towards the end of the first part of the novel, a  Gypsy father, his wife, and their daughter, enveloped in round, violet-colored light, disappear into another dimension (or another, parallel world, from which the Gypsies have been kicked out millennia ago), without the protagonist having a chance to join the daughter, with whom he is in love. The novel is more like a write-up of an unorthodox participant observation study, in which the protagonist joins an old professor, an admirer of all things Gypsy, and meeting them, studies their ways and above all, language. Almost half of the book is dedicated to a glossary of Gypsy terms, coming from both Hervatsko Roma and Sinto Lombardo, given as equivalents to the Italian lemmas. One can only wonder if all of these equivalents are in use or are genuine, as the introduction to the glossary notes that “lo zingaro e` svogliato e mentitore… ama scherzare e prendere in giro il gagio che l’interpella” (p. 153; “Gypsies are indolent and liars…they love to joke around and make fools of non-Gypsies who consult them”). Linguists have characterized Romani as an Indo-Aryan language, therefore Romani cannot support Aldani’s other-worldly origins.

 

In conclusion, Django, the Gypsy who disappeared, does not pilot a spaceship, nor is he a King of his people, like Yakoub of Robert Silverberg’s Star of the Gypsies (Pyr, 2005). So Aldani’s use of Gypsy characters puts them squarely in the HIC (here) and NUNC (now) of history, even though Django and his family vanish inexplicably, from a science fiction point of view, but not from the point of view of a fantasy, a very poorly elaborated fantasy nonetheless.

Food and Transhumanism*

Although transhumanism, an international philosophical and social movement, has been growing steadily in the past twenty years, there are no formal, programmatic statements regarding this ideology and nutrition. In the 9 forward-looking proposals that comprise the Transhumanist Declaration, food has found no place. Paradoxically, this lack of specific and systematic mention of the role, nature, and importance of food in transhumanism is both understandable and appalling at the same time. One side of this paradox is understandable on account of at least two reasons: 1. Food has not been recognized (and it still is not in certain circles) as an academic field worthy of thorough scientific, social, and philosophical scrutiny. Most of the signatories of the Transhumanist Declaration were, in one way or another, part of the academia, and therefore the topic of nutrition fell easily through their ideological sieve.  2. All the x-human philosophies (such as posthumanism and metahumanism) propose a positive, if not optimistic view of the future and this presupposes a taken-for-granted, steady, and general availability of nutrition to everyone. This assumption needs more than a fleeting look, however.   The appalling aspect of the lack of mention of food stems from the fact that all that transhumanism stands for, expressed so clearly in the second sentence of the first point in the Transhumanist Declaration, relies on the continuous, balanced, meaningful intake of nutriments: “We envision the possibility of broadening human potential by overcoming aging, cognitive shortcomings, involuntary suffering, and our confinement to planet Earth”. Clearly, the human body is the main object of the possibilities of enhancement, and therefore, the view of the body underpins all the transhumanist developments. The idea of morphological freedom guides all the transhumanist scientific research. Transhumanism aims at enhancing and therefore going beyond the existing, biologically determined, human capacities. To obtain night vision, to breathe like a dolphin, to learn all the languages of the world instantaneously, requires some type of prostheses, implants, DNA manipulation, and these, in turn, require additional energy for the body. It may be that a specific enhancement will need particular sets of energy-boosting elements, and therefore transhumanism cannot predict what these may be, especially when the body is seen as an individual work of art (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/zoltan-istvan/transhumanist-art-is-brin_b_5447758.html). An enhancement which is eloquent in its absence is that no transhumanist wants to have two stomachs or additional taste buds, or to predispose his/her stomach to digest what is so far not digestible by humans, although here science fiction has something to say on the subject (photosynthesis tweaked for humans, nano implants capable of producing the desired energy, etc.).

 

And yet, without the expressed, concrete and profound discussion regarding food and nutrition (whether it be called fuel, energy, or otherwise), all the transhumanist scientifically-based developments remain abstractions without concrete support. What is at stake are not single opinions regarding the desirability or safety of GMOs, or replacement choices of beef (such as worm meat or lab-grown substances from beef muscle cells), but the interaction and interdependence between the individual and society. True to the postmodern attitude of celebrating the self as a “free” individual actor, transhumanism also boasts that its philosophical and conceptual bases have roots in humanism, hence in the belief of positive social results of scientific advancements. But this tension between the individual and society has unforeseen consequences for the role and meaning of food (not only in the sense of eating alone as opposed to eating in company). This tension is illustrated by a whole gamut of concepts, experiences, feelings which comprise the triangle suggested by Warren Belasco (in his Food. The Key Concepts. Oxford: Berg, 2008). This triangle has at its points (consumer’s) identity,  (maters of) convenience, and  (sense of) responsibility. Furthermore, creating ad hoc solutions such as a Longevity Cookbook does not answer the individual nutritional requirements once the varied and possible enhancements will take place. The question, therefore, to be answered is the following: Will the enhanced individual be able to sustain her/his/its body on her/his/its own or will it need societal help?

 

*This is a continuation of my research presented at the international conference entitled “Gastronomy, Culture, and the Arts. A Scholarly Exchange of Epic Portions” , University of Toronto at Mississauga, 12 March 2016.

Quantum emanations and Byzantium

The other novel published together in the same volume with Francesco Verso’s Bloodbusters (see my post of December 14) is Sandro Battisti’s L’impero restaurato (Mondadori, November 2015). Both received the Urania Award in Italian Science fiction, and this decision to publish them together could not offer a better view of what Italian science fiction is today: the range, themes, scopes, languages, visions of future are widely different, distinct and thoughtfully enjoyable.  While Francesco Verso’s characters often enjoy a tongue-in-cheek, down to earth, palpable human (human/machine) interactions, Sandro Battisti’s world belongs to all-powerful aliens, capable of controlling quantum energies and use this power to achieve their ends. Thus, near human future  on one side of the literary continuum looks across to alien shenanigans at the other.

L’impero restaurato (The restored empire) is part of a cycle of novels dealing with various themes, but one of the leading concerns is the answer to the question “What could/would an all-powerful, alien, male being do to/with humans?”. To make the answer more concrete, Battisti endows the protagonist, Totka_II, emperor of the Connective Empire, with the ability to capture quantum emanations from earth of any historical period and allow them to be embodied. Totka_II is one of the most powerful of Nephilim  (in the novel, this race of biblical echoes is responsible for human ‘progress’). He is smitten with Byzantium’s power, opulence, military prowess, and therefore while he is looking to found another capital city for his empire, he is bent on establishing a new Constantinople. Using the ability to control quantum fluctuations he observes the court of Justinian and Theodora, the meeting between Justinian and a papal envoy, the triumphant entry to the city by general Belisarius. The most powerful pull on him, however, turns out to be Theodora, whose checkered past he knows.

The novel proceeds as evil forces gather to attack  the positions of Totka_II’s empire, while the emperor is busy planning the new capital city. One of his envoys who was to report to him the augural liver reading does not return, and his vice, Sillax almost loses control while he is overwhelmed by the fluctuating energies which his technicians try to channel properly.    The augur whose observations of the sacrificed animal’s liver do not give a unequivocal answer to the emperor’s envoy turns out to be an enemy whose military ability almost destroys the Connective Empire. I will stop here not wanting to  spoil the pleasure for those who have not read the novel.

In an interview (with both Urania winners,  published together with their novels in the last pages of the book, pp 298-301), Sandro Battisti claims that “l’umano non mi ha mai affascinato: è l’inumano la grande frontiera da indagare, così immenso nelle sue potenzialità da sovrapporsi, nel mio pensiero di uomo, all’infinito.” (the human never fascinated me: the great frontier to be investigated  is the non-human, so immense in its potentialities that it superimposes itself as infinity, in my thoughts as human.) The novel clearly shows this interest: human beings exist as fluctuating energies, as posthuman entities bidding the will of the Nephilim and treated worse than slaves. But humans are also very attractive to Totka_II, especially Theodora, who in her desire to learn about the Connective Emperor’s real identity, abandons her earthly life. However, to imagine, let alone describe in verbal language, an alien world of vast complexity is impossible, and here is where the non-human empire meets its challenges. Battisti is careful not to be too technical, and leaves a lot to the imagination. But he also uses unexpected (almost deus-ex-machina) strategy to have Totka_II emerge victorious. One could quibble with Battisti’s mixing, on one hand, the  utterly out of this world aliens able to travel on quantum fluctuations, with, on the other, their need to hang on the words of an augur. Also, the human language in the alien world rears its head now and then, as in the case of the directional metaphor which uses the direction of the hands on the clock (!) (“passeggiando in rigoroso senso antiorario”: walking strictly counter-clockwise). Nevertheless, there is no better illustration of Giambattista Vico’s principle verum factum est  (we [humans] can only know what we made) as in the predictability of the fact that empires are created, have to be maintained,  and fall, whether they be human or alien. The lovers of empires will cherish this aspect of Battisti’s Connective Empire.

 

 

Livido/Nexhuman

 

Francesco Verso’s SF novel Livido has recently been translated into English with the new title Nexhuman (Xoum 2015). What follows is a slightly reworked short Afterword* to the English version (with permission from Francesco Verso).

What follows is not intended to be a conclusive statement about this remarkable novel, but to serve as a springboard for discussion about the ever-elusive definition of what it means to be human, this time from transhumanist and literary perspectives.
Transhumanism is an international philosophical and cultural movement whose main tenet is the belief in the positive outcomes of enhancing and augmenting all human faculties. The improvements go beyond simply alleviating pain or bettering one’s eyesight. They involve using prostheses, implants, nanotechnology, exoskeletons, DNA editing, and much more to augment human abilities beyond their natural limitations (for example, adding gills, making night vision possible, etc.). Transhumanism values reason, progress and optimism through self-determined, self-directed evolution. According to this movement, death is not inevitable and senescence can be rendered negligible.
If science fiction can be defined as works of literature that are contingent upon some as yet unfulfilled scientific advancement, transhumanist science fiction refers to those works of literature that deal with self-directed evolution, not with cyborgs created by others, but with subjects whose enhancement is directly willed by themselves.
Francesco Verso’s Nexhuman can be considered a transhumanist trailblazer in the more and more verdant forest of Italian science fiction. Although the novel does not focus specifically on self-directed evolution, the narration proceeds towards one of the crucial aspects of transhumanism – that of mind uploading. Nexhuman paints a dystopian picture of the future, where the complexities of a consumerist, profit-driven, technology-obsessed, trash-filled world, populated by humans and nexhumans, seemingly obliterate those aspects of humanity which matter most: love, identity, family, friendship and aspirations, to name just a few. However, these themes and many others find a common thread in the question of the Self: not just the basic ‘Who am I?’ but other probing queries, such as ‘Who is the Other?’, ‘How do I exist with the Other?’, ‘Where do I fit in?’, or ‘What should I do with my life?’. And, above all, ‘Who will the Self be in a world where the external body can be of any shape and material?’.
Nexhuman offers a most noteworthy possibility regarding the relationship between the Self and the Other. For millennia, humans have acknowledged the fact that there exists a chasm between the Self and the Other: a binary, exclusionary relationship that separates the two fragments into clearly delineated compartments. It is true that anthropological triangulation, or double-consciousness, offers a tripartite view, but it still relies on the same components: self, other and other-self. The novel describes, in stark and nasty detail, the results of this antagonistic stance: quasi-fratricide, possible matricide, ‘nexhuman-cide’, exclusion (seen in the character of Ion) and separation (human vs. nexhuman; male vs. female). Peter Payne attempts to avoid falling into the trap of hate even when he is bent on vendetta. He falls in love with a being he does not know is a nexhuman, and he keeps loving her even after finding out that she is a copy of a sixty-year-old woman’s mind that has been uploaded. His search for Alba’s severed pieces symbolises his quest to find himself – but not at the cost of excluding others. And here is the point at which transhumanism’s mind-uploading technology shows yet another possibility, clearly illustrated in the novel: to live as Self within the Other(s). The Self can be uploaded into any form (human or not), of any age, and this can be done many times over – just as Alba’s example shows. The Self can live within other people’s memories: Peter Payne uploads his own memories into the program of his mother’s hologram, where she will live on. However, the most inclusive sense of the Self within the Other is Peter’s feeling that Alba lives within him. Of course, these serious aspects of the ‘payneful’ experience receive good doses of irony (specifically: love growing out of a trash-filled environment; trash-forming and recycling of garbage, but also of mind; Peter’s approval to upload his mind not because of his mutilated, bruised body, but on account of love; etc.).
Therefore, the Self and the Other(s) are categories that are not exclusive, but are subsumed within each other: the new consciousness of both Peter and Alba are not simply imagined but embodied, not dreamt but uploaded. There is no antagonism between the Self and the Other(s), nor are there blurred, indistinct outlines. They are enclosed, experienced, practiced, familiar and deeply felt. They are not fluid but embraced, and readily received.
Frederick Pohl, the American science fiction writer, claimed that, ‘A good science fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.’ Nexhuman’s traffic jams include the usual problems encountered not only in science fiction – extreme environmental degradation, unscrupulous employers, failure to stop aggressive and violent behaviour – but also those created by new transhumanist technologies, such as self-constructed bodies, mind uploading, misuse of mind-transforming technologies, inability to educate the young, and wide gaps between humans and nexhumans. The novel does much more than this since it redefines the relationships between the Self and the Other(s), offering a new way of being human: that of embracing one Self within the Other(s).

 

*Some of the ideas elaborated on here were first presented at the Graduate Students’ Conference entitled ‘(Un)human relations/ Relazioni (dis)umane’, held at the University of Toronto, Toronto, Canada, 6 May 2015.

Science fiction and capitalism

Ursula K. Le Guin’s short talk made me think about the following three things:

1. Without her publishers and readers she would not have been where she is today. Even though the thrust of her speech can be enjoyed and appreciated, it is undeniable that it easy for her to make certain claims, literally, from the pulpit. But this is the irony of capitalism: one can bite the hand capitalism feeds without the hurtful consequences. She surely cannot force publishers to charge public libraries less than the outrageous amounts they do; she can communicate it, but verba volant without consequences, especially until profit drives everything, as she says.

2. Fear, technology and capitalism seem to go hand in hand. Fear: fear of not being able to pay debts, fear of someone destroying your property, robbing you of it, and/or killing you,fear of falling ill, fear of death,  etc., etc., etc. Technology: that technology which seems to be running amok  without us being able to do anything about it. Capitalism: the bigger the better, etc., etc., etc. Fear, technology, capitalism make up the three cornerstones of any dystopian science fiction. As someone has claimed before, it is difficult to write a really inspiring, beautiful, important, attention-grabbing utopian science fiction narration.

3. She says: “We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.” The parallelism is interesting, but it falls short of being useful for a more profound discussion (exactly like all short maxims on which social media thrive). Let’s see if scifi writers take up the challenge and offer us alternatives to capitalism which may become clear working models, not just words. This would make scifi proactive, rather than reactive: and this is the real challenge posed by her suggestion that writers help us envision alternative worlds. There are reasons behind the difficulty of this enterprise (pun intended): if science fiction illustrates the troubles of the present, contemporary society, or a future one which behaves just like this one, it is reactive and intimates that coping with what is now is already too outrageous. But a scifi novel cannot really give us anything that is completely outside of our capacity of perception and understanding, otherwise it would be gibberish.  The challenge therefore is not only to construct worlds which depict alternatives to capitalism, but to do so in a comprehensible and solid manner.

Linguistic seductions: 2. Futuristic craving for knowledge

The subtitle of this post is “Memory, language, future: Greg Bear’s Blood Music”. The novel, an elaboration of a short story (published in New York by Arbor House in 1985) brings enthrallment, wonder, and surprisingly somewhat optimistic perspective on a chance-driven post-apocalyptic future. It is always a futile task to summarize a book, but it is necessary to do here because this post concentrates on the role of a special type of linguistic communication which relies on what may be termed bioquantic memory. Vergil Ulam, a top researcher with Genetron (La Jolla, California), performs unauthorized experiments on the gene machine. Roughly speaking, recombining mammalian genes and mixing them with viral and bacterial genes he focuses on introns and cordons, strings that do not code for protein structure, but are still alive, growing, reproducing, and clumping into groups: in other words, communicating with each other. This gets him fired, and while leaving, trying to keep at least some of them alive, he injects himself with a solution of these altered microbes.  The altered lymphocytes grow in his blood and repair some of his shortcomings (pale complexion, overweight, flabby muscles, to name just a few). All is well within Ulam who listens to “Sounds. Not sounds, Like music. the heart, all the blood vessels, the friction of the blood along the arteries, veins. Activity. Music in the blood.” (p. 58). Then Ulam realizes that this cellular work is bound to reach his brain. He anthropomorphises the work of the cells: “It’s taken them maybe three, four days to figure out language, key human concepts. …They didn’t even know. They thought I was the universe. But now they are on to it. On to me. Right now. …They must have thousands of researchers hooked up to my neurons. They’re damned efficient, you know, not to have screwed me up. So delicate in there. Making changes. … Hurt them, hurt me.” (59-60).  He calls them noocytes (from the Greek work noos = mind). These cells desire to overcome the human body’s material limitations and start to put out feelers – of course, doing this, they leave the human  hosts who disappear, die, transform, are absorbed into other noocytes. Not everyone who is infected (Ulam shook hands, made unprotected love, touched surfaces with his sweaty hands) meets this end: very few people remain untransformed (for ex., those cognitively challenged, Ulam’s mother). Suzy, an uninvaded character, is given a choice to be absorbed into the noocyte universe and experiences the world of the noocytes through words that the noocytes have her absorb, but not only: “The words did not just form in her mind. They were accompanied by a clear, vivid series of visual and sensual journeys, across great distances, mental and physical. She became aware of the differences between cell intelligence and her own, the different experiences now being integrated, she touched on the forms and thoughts of people absorbed into the cell memories; she even felt the partially saved memories of those who had died before being absorbed. She had never felt/seen/tasted anything so rich.” (171-172).  The noocytes, in their quest for knowledge, by using all the available resources, transform the North American continent. Even though attempts are made to contain the march of the noocytes, they do invade the whole world. In the process, however, they realize that they cannot completely obliterate their human hosts, and learn how to recompose materially some individuals, at least for a short while. The noocytes thrive on knowledge – both human and biological – as they collect memory of everyone ever alive. Once this happened, the Big Change occurred. the novel end with these words (in bold, as all the other noocyte verbal communcations are typographically illustrated):

     Nothing is lost. Nothing is forgotten. It was in the blood, the flesh, And now it is forever.

This short description of certain plot elements does not give this amazing novel justice. The themes are wide-ranging (research, chance, mother-son relationship, US – Europe links, value of humanity); the intervening years between the novel’s publication and now add to dimensions not foreseen by Greg Bear (the role of the Twin Towers, the demise of “Eastern Europe”, the growth of transhumanism, etc.) and enrich the enjoyment of reading the book.  But one of the most intriguing thoughts offered by the description of the noocytes is the fact that peaceful immortality based on human experiences is given another embodiment: the smallest micro-cellular elements can hold within their processes memories that go back very, very far, especially as far as human existence and culture allows. In other words, humanity can survive, but not in its present shape and form, and therefore there is a limit on what the noocytes can do with us as sources of knowledge. They will likely survive in their form, we will not (although our memories will thrive): and this is the limit of the optimism in the novel.

Science fiction stories depict humanity’s angsts and yearnings. Great science fiction stories illuminate and enlarge, through technological lens,  Homo sapiens‘ vices, virtues, desires. What are the implications for verbal language? The answers offered by Blood Music are intriguing, surprising, but also disappointing. Intriguing, since the novel underscores yet again the fact that without verbal language (oral and written), knowledge would not progress, and hypothesizes that communication between human a non-human entities is not possible without language. The surprising aspect points out the possibility of  coexistence between language and senses in a disembodied universe (humanly speaking). Disappointingly, the novel does not explain how verbal language is  translated into bioquantum bits understood by the noocytes and their knowledge retranslated so that we understand them. As much as I would love to know and experience what  my cells think and make of me, for now this unwritten (pun intended) connection remains in the realm of science fiction. Perhaps it’s just as well that it stays so, until Homo sapiens learns to exist without violence.