An Unlikely Double Feature: Humans²

I was surprised to find so many parallels between the two books I read recently. Sometimes reading books sequentially causes you to approach one from the other and I feel as though a month of popping in and out of Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens: A Brief History of Mankind really got me thinking about humanity and people from a fresh perspective. After that, treating myself to the third in the Enders Game series, Xenocide, I was surprised to find many of the ideas of Harari’s popular science hit interacted well with this sci-fi masterpiece.

 

Yuval Noah Harari, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind (2011)
Orson Scott Card, Xenocide (1991)

Some of the similarities were smaller, like the equal treatment of Male and female within a broader discussion of human. In Sapiens, this was because Harari was more interested in discussing humans as a biological curiosity rather than people as characters or stories. In Xenocide, Card is again drawing upon a perspective that views humans by contrast to several alien species. These two texts – one popular-science nonfiction, the other popular science fiction – take on a similar mission to determine the nature of humanity by analysing it against similar intelligent life. Where Harari talks about Sapiens (the prevalent homo sapiens or garden-variety human of the modern world), he discusses its differences from the other kinds of human species that we seem to have destroyed to ensure our own survival. Similarly, in Card’s fictional universe, humans are on the brink of committing xenocide (genocide of an alien species) by destroying the only other intelligent alien species in the universe, to protect their own survival. I think the story resonates with a ring of truth for three very reason that the destructive survival instincts of all people are well known to any reader.

In taking on the theme of humanity as their central focus, both books make an effort to marry philosophy and science in discussions about happiness, gods, science, and the consequences of developing technology. Of course, in Xenocide the timeline of the multiple disasters facing the scientists of the colony planet Lusitania is condensed to heighten dramatic tension, but the issues are familiar to anyone reading about the future of humanity: the development of new crops that can survive worsening external circumstances like climate and disease, finding ways to cripple viruses that become increasingly sophisticated, and how to interfere with an enemy armed with nuclear weapons. These issues appear in both books in different guises, as central fears facing the entire race. Where Xenocide includes alien races also seeking to ensure their own survival, even at the detriment of humanity, we only have to consider in Sapiens how homo sapiens destroyed the other varieties of human beings and how we fight amongst the subdivisions created in our own race.

I found that the two books also suffered for their ambition, as they tried to cover too much while leaving some of the most interesting and moving topics only lightly scratched. I would have wanted to read more of Harari’s thoughts on the future of biotechnology and on Buddhism. Understandable when your score is so wide as human history, things inevitably get missed out, but the pacing felt strangely off. Likewise, Card introduces so many interesting factors at play in a grand struggle for survival, but the deus ex machina solution felt rushed and only tricked all that came before. In both cases, the was a tendency towards sweeping statements and the grandiose, which felt a bit trite. Harari cited some parts of his discussion but left huge generalisations left to your imagination, which really irked the academic in me. There were also silly bits of terminology that kept being teamed in, quite unnaturally. Harari insisted on using the term Sapiens instead of humans, which was initially helpful when discussing the history of various species of human, but later on felt like a marketing gimmick. Card kept releasing the same hierarchy of intelligence in dealing with aliens – ramen, varelse, framling. It served more as a forced reminder of his prior world-building that tore me out of my enjoyment of the story, like a recap or expository sequence in a TV series would.

One moment in Xenocide particularly reminded me of Sapiens; Ender’s sister Valentine is trying to describe how genetic behaviours inevitably control human behaviour, as part of an explanation to one of the alien races that :

“Our whole history, all that I’ve ever found in all my wanderings as an itinerant historian before I finally unhooked myself from this reproductively unavailable brother of mine and had a family– it can all be interpreted as people blindly acting out those genetic strategies. We get pulled in those two directions.
“Our great civilizations are nothing more than social machines to create the ideal female setting, where a woman can count on stability; our legal and moral codes that try to abolish violence and promote permanence of ownership and enforce contracts–those represent the primary female strategy, the taming of the male.
“And the tribes of wandering barbarians outside the reach of civilization, those follow the mainly male strategy. Spread the seed. Within the tribe, the strongest, most dominant males take possession of the best females, either through formal polygamy or spur-of-the-moment copulations that the other males are powerless to resist. [Xenocide, 400]

In Sapiens, Harari discusses these genetic limitations placed on human beings and how we are beginning to surpass them:

The implication has been that, no matter what their efforts and achievements, Sapiens are incapable of breaking free of their biologically determined limits. But at the dawn of the twenty-first century, this is no longer true: Homo sapiens is transcending those limits. [Sapiens, 398]

In Xenocide, an intelligent virus manipulates the local alien population to behave according to its needs. In Sapiens, Harari describes how people have likewise influenced animal and plant breeding to suit their needs:

Sapiens exerted peculiar selective pressures on chickens that caused the fat and slow ones to proliferate, just as pollinating bees select flowers, causing the bright colourful ones to proliferate. [399]

I was fascinated by the different ways in which Harari and Card approach this same phenomenon of human taking control of their environments and shaping it to their needs. Where Card takes it one step further, into dramatic tension, is the implication of something non-human trying to do this same thing – introducing a competing intelligence. Therein lies to the future that Harari hints at – quite dramatically, also – as he describes a superior class of genetically and mechanically enhanced humans that are not subject to Sapiens limitations. Humans version 2.0, perhaps.

The Androgynous Protagonist

Some books have a knack for surprising you. When I first came across Enders Game, I was expecting a battle story about the complexity of, say, The Hunger Games – entertaining, grouping, but ultimately no more complex than children and teenagers locked in unreasonably violent battles. Instead, Orson Scott Card’s series about a futuristic world, where source travel is normal, though uncommon, and humanity faces its first dealings with alien races, led me through unexpected philosophical quandaries. Like the protagonist, Card’s readers must learn to orient their minds to reassess their fundamental assumptions, less that up is now down, more that alien is not necessarily inhuman.

 

Orson Scott Card, Enders Game (1985), Speaker for the Dead (1986)

To my knowledge, Card’s first two books of the Enders Game series can be quite divisive – the first is a traditionally, even typically “masculine” story, where a young protagonist, Ender, faces challenges and forces far beyond his abilities and circumstances that are designed to test his mettle. The twist at the end does nothing to reduce this, though we see how it is Ender’s combination of his “masculine” and “feminine” strengths that allow him to prevail. In the second book, this dichotomy of stereotypically gendered traits is developed further, producing a person that seems supra-human and this able to represent humanity as it should be. This ability to transcend normal human weaknesses, especially done in a way that does not come across as a lazily-written powerful hero is the core of Card’s ability to put down a philosophically-charged narrative.

Ender is the Goldilocks child of his family, as his brother Peter is an archetype of male characteristics, to the point of vicious, violent behaviour and a need for power. On the ought hand, his sister Valentine is gentle, emotionally-intelligent, and easily manipulated. Ender is chosen because he has managed to find a balance between male and female, something his siblings only manage much later than him. While able to demonstrate extremely violent behaviour when necessary for survival, Ender had no wish to hurt anyone. In the following exchange between Ender and his beloved sister, Card demonstrates the connection between understanding and love which torments Ender as the adults around him force him again and again into situations where he must destroy others to survive.

“Every time, I’ve won because I could understand the way my enemy thought. From what they did. I could tell what they thought I was doing, how they wanted the battle to take shape. And I played off that. I’m very good at that. Understanding how other people think.”
“The curse of the Wiggin children,” She joked, but it frightened her, that Ender might understand her as completely as he did his enemies. Peter always understood her, or at least thought he did, but he was such a moral sinkhole that she never had to feel embarrassed when he guessed her worst thoughts. But Ender–she did not want him to understand her. It would make her naked before him. She would be ashamed. “You don’t think you can beat the buggers unless you know them.”
“It goes deeper than that. Being here alone with nothing to do, I’ve been thinking about myself, too. Trying to understand why I hate myself so badly.”
“No, Ender.”
“Don’t tell me ‘No, Ender.’ It took me a long time to realize that I did, but believe me, I did. Do. And it came down to this: In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them in the way that they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them–”
“You beat them.” For a moment she was not afraid of his understanding.
“No, you don’t understand. I destroy them. I make it impossible for them to ever hurt me again. I grind and grind them until they don’t exist.” [EG, 251-2]

To Ender, this is a devastating tragedy, that his desire to survive trumps his caring for others. To his superiors at the Battle School, this is what makes him an ultimate weapon. While this is used in the first book as the force that drives Ender through impossible scenarios, winning our admiration for his strength and resolve, the second book elevates his power to mercy and forgiveness, rather than destruction and war. You come to love Ender, as he survives adversities that would crush a normal person. It felt sweet to see that his life – that feels like such a curse to him – becomes something beautiful that he can feel proud of and ultimately be rewarded for.

In Speaker for the Dead, Card conceives of an altruistic output for Ender’s unique ability: Ender writes a book that transforms the frightening alien enemy into something that can be loved and understood. He writes anonymously about the alien race in a sympathetic way, aided by the last survivor of the race he nearly destroyed, and humanity comes to see the destruction of this race as the tragedy Ender knew it to be. In the process, Ender himself enters legends as a monstrous figure that massacred a great race, while the book he writes becomes scripture for a new religion, the Speakers for the Dead. This process of Speaking is a new style of memorial service, where Ender speaks the truth of a person’s life, good, bad, and ugly, so that everyone present can completely know and live that person. It is not a pleasant process, not falsely comforting like the loving things said at a funeral, but the catharsis is undeniable. His Speaking in the book, describing an alcoholic, wife-beater in a way that did not excuse his actions but went some way towards explaining how he came to be a disgusting individual was powerful reading. Card clearly understands people extremely well, not merely in a cause and effect kind of way, but in the way that every intelligent being, however repulsive, alien, or strange, can be made human through understanding and compassion. This is the crux of the brilliant plot of the second book, as Ender is called to Speak three unique deaths, where for the first time in millennia, humans have been murdered by aliens. His successful investigation is only possible because he seeks to understand the alien race, rather than interpreting their behaviour from a human perspective. As in the first book, he is able to approach scenarios from a fresh, unbiased protective, in order to get new results.

The power of Speaking is shown to be a beautiful thing, even if it must first cause pain. Ender Speaks the death of a violent alcoholic man, Marcão, in the process uncovering the mysteries and lies of the small community, allowing its inhabitants a fresh start together. His importance in their lives wins him great admiration and respect, as well as a family, without his meaning for it. One example of the good he causes is in the thawing of Marcão’s wife, Novinha, which allows her children to feel her love once again:

Ela embraced her mother, and for the first time in years she felt warmth in her mother’s response. Because the lies between them were gone. The Speaker had erased the barrier, and there was no reason to be tentative and cautious anymore.
“You’re thinking about that damnable Speaker even now, aren’t you?” whispered her mother.
“So are you,” Ela answered.
Both their bodies shook with Mother’s laugh. “Yes.”
Then she stopped laughing and pulled away, looked Ela in the eyes. “Will he always come between us?”
“Yes,” said Ela. “Like a bridge he’ll come between us, not a wall.” [SftD, 321]

One of my favourite messages that I come across again and again in stories and films and shows is that of finding the good in anybody, however nasty or rotten they might seem, through understanding their story. The concepts of good or evil people that you grow up with pale by comparison to the depths of motives that draw people into performing good or evil acts. It resonates with me when authors can capture this in a subtle way, such as in Ender’s speaking of Marcão, where he does not excuse his violence, but by placing it in context reminds us that Marcão was also human and that his choices were not from an inherent evil but stemmed from many circumstances around him, some outside of his control. Rather than exoneration, the process of Speaking aims for understanding.

I was also amazed by Card’s ability to play around with the humans’ changing perspective of their alien neighbours, their tendency towards suspicion and fear, and the way that Ender approaches diplomacy. Both the alien and human characters in Card’s books are written with an interesting blend of strength and sensitivity that brings you to admire them as they battle with the problems surrounding them. Where the first book fixates on strategy and the human relationships of battle and war, the second carries this over to a new battleground of family and community. The complex politics on both bureaucratic and familial arenas are endlessly fascinating, as Ender navigates his way through thorny personalities in order to get to the truth. I have always enjoyed stories about people more than stories that are only concerned with plot, but I found that Card had mastery over both.

Full of gnarly and loveable characters, complete with interesting philosophical ideas about what defines something as human, and equipped with gripping stories, this series has something for everyone.

Similar to: Ursula le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea; Isaac Asimov, Foundation; J. D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey; William Golding, Lord of the Flies; Natsuki Takaya, Fruits Basket.

Early Dystopian Sci-Fi

There is a something very strange about experiencing a work of art, whether a book, a film, or a painting, and feeling that you know it already. It comes from the experiences you have had of its influence, echoing across later artworks. I felt this recently watching 2001: A Space Odyssey, and it struck me again reading this week’s book: a science fiction classic lent to me by a generous colleague of mine.

Yevgeny Zamyatin, We (1921)

Yevgeny Zamyatin’s novella, We, is well-known by virtue of its influence on one of the greatest dystopian novels ever written: George Orwell’s 1984. Its depiction of a totalitarian communist state that oppressed its citizens under the guise of providing universal peace and happiness is one that no longer feels revolutionary to us, thanks to many texts that followed, such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World or Ayn Rand’s Anthem, to name but a few of these. These ideas reflect a nightmarish vision of the dark side of Russian communism – something I found to be an interesting foil to my recent reading, where viewpoints were less radical in voicing dissent.

Something that surprised me, however, was the news from my colleague that Zamyatin was influenced by his time living in Newcastle-upon-Tyne – where I have lived for the past year. He was sent there to supervise the construction of ice-breaking ships, and was apparently inspired by this, leading him to assign his characters with names similar to those given to the ships – D-530, I-330. I found a really good article that explores Zamyatin’s relationship with the city and its possible influence on his work, including We. Essentially, his experience of England was a mix of disgust and dislike towards what he saw as its uniform buildings that showed no imagination. Similarly, the city in We is described as lacking distinctive features, made of strong glass, preventing privacy except with permission for copulating.

Moving away from the interesting biography behind the text, I enjoyed Zamyatin’s clever use of imagery and description to demonstrate the narrator D-530’s evolving understanding and exposure to imagination. His early suspicion of human tendencies towards engaging with dreams and feelings slowly eroded as he is exposed to alternative modes of living and a world beyond his own regulated existence. Some of the later chapters blossom with vivid metaphors, such as:

And there are planets following me: flame-spurting planets, densely populated with fiery singing flowers; and mute, blue planets, where rational rocks are united into organised societies—they are planets like our Earth that have reached the summit of absolute, one-hundred-percent happiness… [161]

I see the transparent, living cranes bending their swanlike necks, stretching out their beaks, thoughtfully and tenderly feeding the Integral with scary explosive food for its engine. [164-5]

It was extremely effective when this is stripped away to show the reader exactly the impact of losing one’s imagination in the final chapter, as though bleaching a previously colourful text back to blank, lifeless prose. It reminded me favourably of Daniel Keyes’s use of a similar narrative device in Flowers for Algernon, where the narrator’s intelligence is demonstrated through his vocabulary and the complexity of his sentence structures.

In other places, the book was less sophisticated, though understandably so, as it aimed to situate the reader in what would have been a confusing new genre. For example, D-530 frequently refers to and makes comparisons with the ancient past where humans lived in a normal society, or to a similar imagined society on a different planet. These comparisons felt ineffective to me, as it had the effect of breaking the fourth wall and spoiling the suspension of disbelief. Immediately the fiction dissipates and the author’s hand is visible in stark relief. In a few spots, this allows Zamyatin to create fascinating images, such as below, but usually it felt forced within the narrative:

About five centuries ago, when work in the Operation Room had only just begun, there were fools who compared the Operation Room with the ancient Inquisition, but you see, that was just absurd. It was like equating a surgeon doing a tracheotomy to a highway robber: they both might have the same knife in their hands and they are both performing the same action (slitting the throat of a living person)—and yet one is a benefactor and the other, a criminal, one is a + sign and the other is a – sign… [72]

Finally, a point that really resonated with me was one made early in the book: that art can be made to serve the state. The novel itself was banned, which is easy to understand, as it is easily read as a critique of state control. Many Soviet writers struggled against the strict censorship and censure of their work, while others, such as my beloved Vladimir Mayakovsky were allowed to flourish at the coast of writing only what perpetuated state ideals. Zamyatin captures this maxim of the times in a society where each citizen is required to create art to promote their model is civilisation – which is to be sent to other planets, to spread the empire, so to speak. This is captured in a pithy one-liner that entirely removes imagination and impulse from art:

Poetry is a state service; poetry is purpose. [60]

Zamyatin’s We, while having lost much of its initial force in the last century after its best ideas were reused and developed in later texts, is certainly worth reading to understand the earliest roots of dystopian science fiction, and to see how the core ideals have remained the same. We are shown that people in the West value individualism over communal happiness and fear the means that a powerful nanny state could use to oppress their freedoms. I found Zamyatin’s exploration of these ideas to be done in a sensitive, linguistically-elegant way, even though it was not as hard-hitting as it may have been to his contemporaries.

Similar books: Ayn Rand, Anthem; George Orwell, 1984; Aldous Huxley, Brave New World; Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon; Antonio Tabucchi, Pereira Maintains.