“We Have Nothing Else to Give”: Struggle for Human Identity within Posthuman Forms in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, The Left Hand of Darkness, and Never Let Me Go

 

How do you see yourself? What defines you as a person? Why are you human? Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, and Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go all examine the loss of the modern human identity that we face through the idea of “human” versus “other”, though the “other” is vastly different in each novel. Each novel then examines how to deal with the integration of the human self and the “other” into a posthuman form through the universality of things like death and especially empathy.

First, it is necessary to note that these novels take place in some alternate or future reality. All of these universes represent some sort of version of humanity that someone thought was possible, given that science fiction is all about the possible, the provable. It is likely that humanity will one day settle the galaxy, experiment with our own DNA code, create android versions of ourselves, or clone ourselves. All of these ideas are meditations on fears and hopes of how humanity will change in the future. We are endlessly obsessed with the idea of the self, our identity, and what it means to be human.

Also, before proceeding with the argument and look at the vast array of forms of “humanity”, it is important to define our modern idea of human identity: how do we see ourselves now? What makes a human a human? If aliens, androids, and clones are not human, why not? Le Guin’s aliens, Dick’s androids, and Ishiguro’s clones do not look all that different from us. They do not think all that differently. Perhaps there is some difference in culture for the Gethanians, but they want peace and love for their world all the same. The replicants just want to live out their remaining years on Earth, out of slavery and servitude. Kathy and Tommy want even less: a few years to themselves. Being born into a different culture or into slavery does not make you less human: we have centuries of human war right here on earth to prove that.

The only thing that most of us know for sure is that we, as individuals, are human. And then there are people around us, who are presumably human, and others, father out, who may or may not be. Maybe you do not consider certain people or groups of people fully human, if they lack some quality you yourself possess. For example, someone might not view Hilter as fully human; there is an argument to whether fetuses are human; there is an argument to whether someone in a permanent coma is still human. And then there are things that are, for most people, definitely not human: computers, frogs, trees, etc. In order to define ourselves as “human”, we need a whole slew of “others” who are differing degrees of “not-human”.

So, within Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Rick Deckard is (ostensibly) the human, while the replicants are the “others”. Rick Deckard is a cop in a post-apocalyptic world. After World War Terminus, most of the animals have become extinct, the entire political system of the world has fallen apart, and any humans that are allowed to have emigrated off-planet. Those who remain deal with the aftermath of a nuclear war, an abandoned and dying planet, and their own personal health defects.

Animals are set up within the book to be reminders of human empathy, proof that humans can still care for another, more vulnerable, living being in such a world. People who cannot afford or take care of real animals are seen as “lesser” within society. They are not fully human, and therefore shunned to a certain corner of society. Many people make do by buying fake animals, made to look as real as possible, and therefore mimicking the idea of human empathy. In accordance with this idea, androids are merely mimicries of “true” humans, who cannot show empathy.

Rick Deckard has his humanity questioned by the narrative from the beginning. His animal, a sheep, has died, and he has been forced to purchase a fake sheep. He spends significant amounts of time caring for this fake sheep in an effort to keep up appearances. But he apparently metaphorically lacks some piece of empathy; this is made apparent by his depressing relationship with his wife.

Deckard’s job is to “retire” (or hunt down and kill) replicants who have gone rouge. He receives a large assignment at the beginning of the story, and works on completing it throughout the novel. Since humans and replicants are so similar, he uses a test called the Voigt-Kampff to try to separate the two. This test measures empathy, based on the testee’s reaction to various hypothetical scenarios where animals are harmed or killed. Since replicants are assumed to be unable to feel empathy, this sets them up below humans on the scale that has been constructed. Replicants and animals both find their place on a scale that measures human empathy.

As Deckard sorts out the replicants and retires them, he becomes progressively more dehumanized as the book progresses. He’s a sort of killing machine. The replicants, on the other hand, gain human qualities. The reader, as well as Deckard himself, begins to empathize with the replicants. He questions the identity of his partner, Phil Resch, who can kill heartlessly, even after sleeping with Rachel. The issue comes to a head when he must question what he is doing, and whether there is a difference between human and replicant.

The narrative casts doubt on the Voigt-Kampff test, which is not entirely accurate in the first place. Many modern day people would probably fail it, as we do not tend to think twice about squishing a bug or a leather wallet. Within the book, Rachel tries to fool it, and though she does not, the idea that a low-empathy human could be mistaken for a replicant is not farfetched. Deckard himself takes it, but the results are not reassuring to anyone.

Later, after killing a certain amount of replicants, Deckard is able to afford another real animal: a goat. This serves as a reaffirmation of his humanity, and a sort of completion of his quest. No matter how much he empathized with the replicants, he is able to restore his alignment with humanity: he has an animal, and he has killed the “other”. Additionally, the animal is a goat, which is a good bit more independent and individualistic than a sheep (and perhaps, therefore, more human).

But alas, this peace is not meant to last: Rachel, the replicant created to believe she was not a replicant, kills Deckard’s goat. Rachel has been Deckard’s foil for most of the book, and they have an intimate connection shared by few characters. She is forcing him to acknowledge their shared characteristics, and his own false humanity.

In the same way Rachel mirrors Deckard, J.R. Isidore is set up as an interesting character in contrast to Deckard. He allows himself to feel empathy for the “human” and the “other”, the “real” and the “fake” right off the bat. He feels empathy when the fake cat dies, as well as when the actual spider is tortured. He feels empathy for the human race, as well as the replicants that eventually come to stay with him.

Fortunately for J.R., this means he never has to forcibly reconcile a split world view, as Deckard does. J.R. is one of the only characters we know to be truly human. His humanity is never called into question, but rather reinforced by his degenerative condition. Only a human would be effected by the environment in such a way. This reinforces the idea that the one defining characteristic needed for humanity is empathy. J.R. is the most empathic character, carrying an almost childlike innocence with it.

Deckard’s partner, Phil Resch, is almost the exact opposite of J.R. He feels no empathy for the replicants, and believes strongly in keeping the division between human and other intact. The narrative brings into question Resch’s humanity because of this. Even though he is proven to be human later, it is certainly a mystery for a large part of the novel. This helps build the idea the without empathy, it is hard to be truly human.

In Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, Genly Ai is our human narrator, with the Gethenians representing the “others”. Genly Ai is a Terran, and assumed to be part of the main race of the universe, which matches our version of humanity. The Gethens seem to be aliens, an ancient split or genetic experiment from our version of humanity. They have a different culture, and a different base anatomy, with no defined concept of gender.

Genly Ai is dropped into the world of Gethen and expected to learn the culture well enough to navigate the world and integrate the people into the Ekumen, the larger collective of humans and humanity in the galaxy, dedicated to preserving human communications and values. However, the people of Gethen and their culture proves to be extremely elusive and hard for Genly to understand.

Estraven, Prime Minister of Karhide, serves as Genly’s main foil, the main “other”, and the main representation of Gethenainan culture. Genly and Estraven do not seem to be able to communicate early in the book. Estraven’s culture and the concept of shifgrethor do not make sense to Genly. When Estraven thinks he is being obvious, Genly thinks he is being vague and evasive. About halfway through the story, Estraven realizes what has been happening. Similarly to the way Rachel must forcefully pull Deckard into his identity, Estraven has to go and rescue Genly from the prison and drag him across the ice in order for Genly to finally understand their shared humanity. The whole time, Estraven is the character who seems to have an erie awareness of what is actually going on. He understands the “fear of the other” that drives not only the countries of his world apart, but also himself and Genly Ai.

Similarly to Do Androids Dream?, in Left Hand, empathy becomes the defining factor to being “human”.

It is a terrible thing, this kindness that human beings do not lose. Terrible, because when we are finally naked in the dark and cold, it is all we have. We who are so rich, so full of strength, we end up with that small change. We have nothing else to give. (Le Guin 89)

Eventually, sharing love with Estraven allows Genly Ai to empathize with him and understand his humanity. On the ice, they are cut off from their respective societies and rules, stripped down to the bare bone, without the otherness of class and culture distracting them.

Having become “human” in the eyes of the readers, Estraven’s eventual death is all the more impactful. It reminds us of our own mortality. His death is a final act of empathy, a sacrifice of himself for a person (Genly) and a people (mankind, as he says) he cares deeply for.

Similarly, Rachel and possibly, Deckard, have less than four more years until their imminent death (as all replicants have a limited lifespan). J.R., the character with the most empathy, is on a fast track to the grave because of his condition. It seems the discovery of shared empathy and therefore, shared humanity is meant to remind us of our own humanity and therefore mortality. The two characters that become “human”, Deckard and Estraven, also become closer to death.

And death is perhaps the ultimate shared human experience, which reinforces how similar the “human” and the “other” are. In the end, we are all just lying in the ground. No matter our modern definition, it seems humanity only requires one key thing: the ability to empathize with those around you and understand we are all headed for the same place.

When humans can empathize fully, and can impose their identity on others or overlay other’s identity upon themselves, the fundamentally idea of a human can change, and become “posthuman”, rather than “fake”, or “artificial”. At that point, things like body construction, gender, birth circumstances, class, whatever, don’t matter anymore. And that’s the ultimate goal for humanity: to reach some post-human point where these things do not make a difference, where our empathy is not regulated to those lines.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go presents a slightly different situation: we do not have a main character entrenched as “human”. Kathy and her classmates are “others”, while the outside world makes up the “human” aspect of the world. This is not a story about the human trying to integrate the other, but the other looking in to a more privileged world. It’s a different side to the same story.

The “others” in Never Let Me Go are the donors. They are basically clones, created and raised to give organs to the humans of society. After their education at Hailsham, they serve as carers for a while, before they must begin the donating process.

As in Do Androids Dream?, this puts an interesting class dynamic spin on the issue. There is the implication that certain people, who are born naturally, are more “human” and therefore more deserving of life than the clones are. Both the replicants and the donors seem to be sub-par citizens, on par with slaves. This is often the way humans today see “others”, whether they be other races of people, or other classes of people, or other cultures of people (as in Left Hand) or people with different views, or whatever. Whether because of class or culture dynamics, “others” are less than.

Similarly to Deckard, Kathy gradually realizes she is not human. However, she takes this much better than he does. Her capacity for empathy has already been proven to her through her artwork and the gallery. It is never a huge source of contention for her.

Following this conclusion, Never Let Me Go is the only work in which the idea of the “human” and the “other” does not merge. In both other works, the idea of empathy for the “other” must be reconciled with the main character’s humanity. The “other” must be pulled into their definition of humanity in order for them to make peace. Deckard has to accept that he might be a replicant, that his electric toad might be the closest he gets to the empathy represented by other’s real animals. He decides to use the Penfield mood organ box and sets it to the feeling of long deserved peace. Even if the Penfield mood organ is programming people like androids, he is receiving the feeling. “Fake” or not, it serves to resolve the narrative, reassuring the audience that the authenticity of Deckard, his toad, and his feelings are not necessarily what makes him human. His empathy has already crossed that bridge.

Genly Ai has to learn to see the differences within Estraven and accept them. He learns to appreciate the things that make Estraven different. Without this unity, the two of them couldn’t have made it across the ice. That entire journey is about the joining of opposites in relation to Estraven and Genly: the light and the dark, the shadow and the snow, the male and the female, the human and the other:

Light is the left hand of darkness
and darkness the right hand of light.
Two are one, life and death, lying
together like lovers in kemmer,
like hands joined together,
like the end and the way. (Le Guin 115)

This final connection of the two characters cements the narrative of Left Hand the same way Do Androids Dream? was cemented by Deckard’s final peace from the Penfield mood organ.

However, Kathy never fully accepts herself as human. Even in her quest to gain some time with Tommy, she still sees the two of them as “others”, meant for a different fate than the rest of the world.

However, I still think that the idea of death as a unifying factor applies here. Even if Kathy does not get to integrate herself into humanity in life, she and Tommy are both going to die having proved their empathy. Hailsham gave them that freedom. So even if she never considers herself human, the readers certainly will, and that gives Kathy that same posthuman transcendence Deckard and Genly/Estraven receive.

Ishiguro framed the narrative in such a way as to introduce them first as human, and later as others. The readers learn with the students that they are others, but do not accept it. In this way, the readers can reconcile the human and other in a way Kathy could not. It may even make the metaphor more powerful for the readers, forcing them to think about the disjointedness between the two the need for such a connection in modern day life, especially in reference to the aforementioned class, race, birth circumstances, etc. This can be applied to modern day society: we should stop putting people in separate, other boxes, and start to see everyone as human.

Perhaps we are headed towards a future where humanity becomes less “human”. Perhaps we will slowly merge with our technology, through cybernetic implants or artificial insemination and “test-tube babies”. Maybe one day we will be only technology, or only clones of each other or of past humans. Perhaps we will drift closer to androgyny. As transgender and non-binary gender issues gain public spotlights, and become more accepted, the idea of a “normal” human might change. The idea that the core of our base identity today will change so drastically is scary. But as long as we keep our empathy alive, our kindness for each other, it does not matter how much the rest of the package changes; our humanity will live on. Our ability to see ourselves as others and reconcile those two images will allow us to continue to evolve, however that might look.

 

Works Cited

Dick, Philip K. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? New York: DoubleDay, 1968. Print.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let Me Go. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2005. Print.

Le Guin, Ursula K. The Left Hand of Darkness. New York: Ace, 1969. Print.

In Never Let Me Go, the donors are required to produce artwork, as a way to prove their humanity. One of the main purposes of Hailsham seems to be to prove the existence of souls within the donors. And most of the donors do produce artwork, that is apparently significantly astonishing to convince at least some people (like Madame and Miss Emily) of their humanity.

Identity is a huge theme in this book, since the donors don’t really understand where they came from, who they were copied from, or how to negotiate the short amount of person hood they get to have. This identity is largely framed by the rest of society’s perception of them and their souls. Before Hailsham and its art, they were not seen as people.

However, Tommy doesn’t seem to have artistic skill. He struggles with being creative early on, and is later told by one of the guardians that he shouldn’t stress too much over it. Eventually though, she retracts this statement, and repeats how important it is for him to produce art. Later into his adulthood, he pushes himself to concentrate on producing art, and eventually creates some interesting pieces.

However, I don’t think this is very realistic. Some people just don’t have the inclination to produce art. Maybe they feel they are lacking in ability, or it is too frustrating, or its simply not something they want to do. It not as if you can just “work harder”, as Tommy did, and achieve that. Some people can, some people can’t. But the absence of artistic inclination doesn’t mean they’re any less human.

There is a strange value that our culture puts on things like art, literature, music, etc. They’re often seen as very high class things, for “educated” people. Less privileged artists often have a harder time breaking into the field, since their art not as visible. But more privileged people who have artistic talent are placed on some sort of pedestal. The “special-ness” of the Hailsham students, when seen through other donor’s eyes, is a reflection of this, to some extent. This is honestly a terrible thing. If Tommy doesn’t want to do art, that doesn’t make him any less human.

In fact, on a broader scale: If Tommy, or anyone for that matter, wanted to sit and stare at a wall for their entire life, without producing anything of “value”, that doesn’t mean they aren’t human. The idea that you must make yourself worthwhile for society is a very capitalistic one. Its one I uphold, given that contributing to society fulfills my own personal goals, but it shouldn’t define one’s personhood.

I think that we, as well as the donors, are human because we are born human. Our skills, abilities, interests, actions, etc. don’t make us human. “Humanity” is not reserved for the great artists, the scientists, the elite, whatever. Humanity for is everyone: from the newborn babies who do little but eat and sleep, to poets, to musicians, to politicians, to criminals, to psychopaths, to dictators, to manual labor workers, to the very old, who also do little but eat and sleep. Everyone is human.

 

In using the graphic novel, Charles Burns is able to make full use of body horror imagery in Black Hole, through all the deformities of the “bug” that develop for some of the kids. The image-based nature of the book makes this more apparent that perhaps a regular book would.

Many of the deformities are seen as ugly and not normal. The kids of with these deformities are pushed out of society. On the other hand, some kids “pass” fairly well. They are able to function in normal society, while hiding the effects of the bug. Three of our four main characters: Keith, Chris, and Rob, all manage to hide their deformities, at least for some amount of time.

However, some deformities are neither completely grotesque nor undetectable, but only vaguely weird, sometimes in an almost attractive way. Eliza, for example, has a strange little tail, that is never drawn unattractively or in a “gross” way. For Keith, it is often seen as “cute” or even sexual, as it seems to play a part in their sexual encounters.

These three ways society can see the “deformities” also reminds me of the concept of “passing narratives”, as applied to race, sexuality, gender, diseases like Leprosy or HIV/AIDS, (to a certain extent, religion), etc. Many of these things can be seen by different people at different times of human history as a) completely unacceptable, horrifying, or wrong, b) acceptable if the bearer can pass as the default “normal” (healthy, white, straight, Christian, cis, etc.), or c) as sexually charged/fetishized (especially in the case of race and sexuality).

Parts of the imagery alludes directly to this. Deformities like Rick’s and Dave’s are reminiscent of death and disease: they are walking reminders of the sickness. Chris’s oral interaction with Rob’s little mouth and Keith’s attraction to Eliza’s tail both mimic same-sex attraction to a certain degree. There is also the connection to transgender people, in Rob’s yonic development, Eliza’s phallic one, Chris’s constant shedding of her skin, and Keith’s binding of his chest with ace bandage. This brings in a certain amount of fetishization and innate body horror present in the transgender narrative.

Often, ostracization of these groups occurs, because of fear of “catching” (of the diseases or immorality associated with the group), forcing the creation of separate, challenged communities, similar to the community of kids in the woods in Black Hole. However, such communities often lack public support, access to good food, adequate medical care, protection under the law, etc.

At the end of the book, many of the characters (most notably Eliza and Keith) reject the “normal” way of doing things and embrace their own communities, which turns out to be one of the only healthy ways to deal with being so very different (as opposed to, say, Dave’s murders and suicide). Hopefully that can change.

 

((Also: maybe we already discussed some of this in class (?), but I missed that day.))

I was thinking about how important and symbolic V’s title is within the book. But that’s honestly been analyzed to death. However, Evey’s name is also really interesting, in its spelling, phonetics, and biblical connections.

First, E is the fifth letter of the alphabet from the beginning, just as V is the 5th letter from the end and the Roman numeral for 5. (This number, 5, and its corresponding letter V, have their own set of symbolic meanings, from anarchy to transformation, but that is neither here nor now.) The two characters are very similar, sharing common oppressions, and later, experiences and ideologies. Evey’s name is, phonetically, just made of those two letters: E and V. This foreshadows Evey’s eventual taking up of V’s mask and, to a certain extent, his persona. His personality very much dominates her development and growth, in his training of her.

These two letters also seem to shadow alpha/omega dynamics: V (alpha) is a beginning, of new thought, of new ideas, and of revolution, and Evey (omega) is the end: she provides the final say and ending blow of the revolution. Or vice versa: Evey (alpha) is the younger of the two, and the new hope, while V (omega) and his death represent the end of an era of tyranny.

There’s also a connection to the biblical Adam and Eve within V for Vendetta. Evey seems to be the first female character to escape the prison of her dystopian society, and therefore representative of Eve, the first woman (and first person) to experience true knowledge. Her Adam might be V, as he is very much her counterpart and supporter, as Adam and Eve were companions. When Evey takes up his mask, they become equals.

Her Adam might also be Adam James Susan, who shares the symbolic name. Susan is the founder and leader of The Party, the controlling force in England. As Evey is the final leader of the revolution, this sets them at odds with each other. Evey strives for knowledge, while Adam struggles against it. As he says: “The freedom to die, the freedom to live in a world of chaos. Should I allow them that freedom? I think not. I think not.” In this way, Adam Susan is likened to the biblical Adam and his resistance to knowledge.

And just as Eve is caught up in a larger battle between God and Satan, Evey is caught up in a larger battle between good and evil, knowledge and ignorance, and freedom and control. She is the real pivot point of both stories, the place where the reader can relate. V says himself that he is an idea, rather than a person. But Evey is human, only transcending this at the end, when she ceases to be Evey, but rather, V.

But her time as Evey is obviously very important, as it defines her character and role in the narrative, both of which are foreshadowed in the meaning behind her name.

I applaud Margaret Atwood for bringing the question of queerness into A Handmaid’s Tale. So often in fictional worlds, I see queerness scraped under the table. It is as if queer people cease to exist once we enter the world of speculative fiction. Books like The Left Hand of Darkness are often cited as the best examples, even though there is no intentional representation, and any form of queerness is “alien” or “non-human”.

But in A Handmaid’s Tale, the character of Moria is gay. You get to see how she has navigated such a heterosexual-based world. Because all of her values so strongly clash with this world, she becomes the rebel, the fighter, of the story. She is one of the only characters to make multiple escape attempts. In her eventual capture and acceptance of her situation, the dystopian tone of the world becomes all the more final and defined.

You also get to see those queer people who were not as lucky as she was, who were hung at the wall. In A Handmaiden’s Tale, it seems queerness is punishable only by death (not even the colonies), unless you are lucky enough to have that special brand of feminine queerness that straight men deem “ok”. In this way, male heterosexuality defines an even larger scope of the world than originally thought, touching people usually outside its realm (such as gay men and lesbians).

This makes the book much more real for me, as a queer person. I am able to understand what my place and experience might be in such a world, which is usually harder in fiction. I am sure that this world is terrifying enough for straight women. Every part of them, from the spiritual, to the mental, to the emotional, to the physical is owned. They are told what religion to follow and exactly how to follow it. Any form of self-expression or self-intention, from how you wear your hair, to your style of clothing, to the books you choose to read is taken away. Your ability to care for and define your own body is taken away. The handmaidens can’t even use lotion. The women become objects, acquired with status.

As a trans guy, it literally becomes my worst nightmare. Offred had to make a choice between 1) having to be shoe-boxed into a tiny facet of “womanhood” warped through the male gaze into something based only upon female reproductive organs, and 2) basically, death. I know that if I were faced with such a choice, I’d choose death, every time. Control over my own body is already something that I’m just barley grasping at, and to have that taken away and replaced with a genitalia-based identity would be truly awful.

One of the things that surprised me the most as I was reading this book was the weird lack of conclusion to the huge “romantic” build-up between Genly Ai and Estraven. It seemed to follow the classic formula. You find out pretty early on that Estraven is pining over Genly. (“Why can I never set my heart on a possible thing?”) Genly Ai doesn’t seem to trust or like The Mysterious Stranger. But then Estraven saves him and they have a Bonding Experience on the ice, and they’re Alone Together and there’s this moment of Awkward Sexual Tension. It’s every young adult romance, slowly building up through the book.

And then it sort of fizzles out. They can’t cross this barrier of “alieness”. Even their mindspeaking, which certainly has some romantic/sexual/bonding undertones (especially given the way Genly reminds Estraven of his sibling), ends in discomfort/fear for Estraven and deep confusion for Genly.

I don’t know why this was initially so disappointing. I hate that sex is the end all be all of our society and I appreciated that Genly and Estraven were able to push through their differences and experience the joy of their journey with a strong platonic love instead. Perhaps I’m just so used to seeing it pan out that way.

Maybe it is also unsettling because this instance presents the only duality (Genly and Estraven) in the book that doesn’t seem to come together in the end, after being at odds earlier. Light and darkness come together on the ice (sun and shadow are both needed to cross safely), as do fear and courage, and cold and warmth. Estraven’s masculinity and femininity finally come together and make sense for Genly and their two races eventually unite at the end.

Of course, all these things are a result of Genly and Estraven’s trek across the ice, which is successful because love finally bridges their differences, even their physical ones. Maybe the whole situation is just pointing out the unimportance of sex in trust and success and unity, which would be awesome, given how centered on sex the rest of Gethen’s culture seems to be. Keeping their relationship away from sex or even romantic closeness also keeps it from becoming too heteronormative and expected. We, as readers, are still in this world were sex and romance and gender are different. They’re not going to follow our formula, but instead define a new one.

 

Also, people have made playlists for, like, background music?! the Internet is an amazing place.