“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.