Words, words, words.

“It appeared that a semagram corresponded roughly to a written word in human languages: it was meaningful on its own, and in combination with other semagrams could form endless statements. We couldn’t define it precisely, but then no one had ever satisfactorily defined “word” for human languages either.” (Story of Your Life, 140).

Let me begin by saying that I love the premise of this story. As a lover of languages, one of the things that has always bothered me with science fiction was the way in which human/alien communication is for the most part taken as a given. This is understandable; in most science fiction stories, an explanation of how the humans and aliens came to communicate would be intrusive and unnecessary to the rest of the story. But it has always nagged at me, this question of how we would communicate with aliens if given the opportunity. How would we be able to reconcile what would inevitably be two such different language systems? And I love that Ted Chiang decided to take on this question.

We were asked to pick out one word in this section of the story that we think speaks to the story as a whole and indicates the deeper meaning of the text. The above quotation made me think about the word “word” itself, and realized that yes, in fact, my concept of the definition of “word” was very vague. So, like any rational college student, I turned to the internet. Dictonary.com uses 85 words to define the seemingly simple “word” of which only about 20 were comprehensible to me: “a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principle carrier of meaning.” The problem is, of course, that one is limited to using words to define the idea of a word, and so what seems intrinsic suddenly becomes very complicated. And this problem is reflected in the narrator’s attempts to communicate with the aliens in the story.

The narrator finds that the limitations of human concepts of words and language are what hinder her in her communication with the aliens. Specifically, while for most humans written words represent specific spoken words, with the aliens this is not the case. (Interestingly, the root of “word” comes from the Proto-Germanic wurdan, which in term comes from the Proto-Indo-European verb were- meaning to speak or to say.) Human writing systems refer to spoken words in representing ideas, but for the aliens, spoken words and written words are two entirely different concepts, further complicating the idea of what a “word” really is. It makes sense, of course, that alien language would have evolved in ways entirely incomprehensible to humans. Language is so dependent on various cultural and other environmental factors that it’s a miracle that the language of a species from another planet can even be deciphered in this story. But Chiang uses this alien language to disrupt our ideas about what language really is. To us, all human languages are ultimately just (as Shakespeare wrote) “words, words, words.” But here a language is introduced that does not even have that common denominator. I think Chiang might be making the point that while language may seem arbitrary in terms of conveying some ideas, the factors that create languages ultimately play a larger role in shaping the ideas that they convey.

A side note: I was interested, so I looked up the root of the word "kangaroo" based on the anecdote the narrator recounts about it's origin. It is apparently actually from the Guugu Yimidhirr (Endeavour River-area Aborigine language) word gaNurru meaning "large back kangaroo." (Not "What did you say?" as was recounted.)

"Bridesicle"

“ ‘… you need consistent brain activity to maintain a hitcher. Once you die, the hitcher is gone.’ Like a phone number you’re trying to remember, Mira thought. You have to hold it with thought, and if you lose it you never get it back.” (“Bridesicle”)

The most disturbing thing about this story to me was not the reanimation of frozen dead bodies—it was the idea of “hitchers.” I think it’s interesting in the way it asks us to look at our definition of life, and what it means to be alive. I also appreciate the way it address issues of trust, guilt, and privacy. As a thematic element, it is intriguing. But the thought of the reality of it terrifies me. For as long as I can remember, my biggest fear has not been snakes or spiders or clowns; it has been mind readers. The idea of my thoughts no longer being private horrifies me, and so it was jarring in this story to see people voluntarily allowing others to “hitch” themselves to their subconscious.

It was strange, I thought, that it was never explained exactly how the “hitching” process works. I understand that this is fictitious world, but this idea of the transferring of consciousness seems to me to delve into the realm of fantasy. I guess what it comes down to is whether or not one believes in a soul. Is there a part of us that exists beyond our physical bodies? That which makes us “who we are” and forms our personalities, thoughts, and feelings? To me, it’s all just synaptic firings—when those stop, I don’t think there’s any “person” left to be transferred. The way it’s described in the story, it’s as if there is the whole other consciousness of a person living inside of you—but how is this transferred?

What interested me about the above passage was that it hinted at an alternative explanation for the “hitchers”—they’re just memory. Could it be that they’re just a psychological trick that people play on themselves to keep their loved ones living on? It seems implausible, maybe, but it’s no less plausible than transferring someone else’s consciousness into one’s own. Is this a coping mechanism then for the death of a loved when, a way to keep them “alive” in one’s memory? Mira would obviously have preferred not to have her mother intruding into her thoughts, but took her on as a hitcher out of guilt, only to have their new relationship drive her to suicide.

The above quotation also causes me to wonder how it is that the “dead” maintain their personalities while cryogenically frozen. If the can’t retain their hitcher after death, how is it that they maintain their own selves after death? It seems as if again the author is arguing that the personality exist separately from the body. The personality survives despite a lack of consistent brain activity, despite the body being killed time and time again. In Mira’s case, the personality survives in order to be reunited with her love, arguing that there are some forces that transcend life itself.

"A Habit of Waste" and "Unbearable Weight"

“What the child want to go and do this kind of stupidness for? Nothing ain’t wrong with the way she look!” (“A Habit of Waste” p. 266)

This story stood out to me in that it wasn’t so much science fiction as it was “speculative fiction.” I know that the terms are often used interchangeably, but throughout the story I was acutely aware of how different this story was from the other works we’ve been reading. I was trying to figure out why this was, and I realized that it’s because the only thing that has changed in this world is the ability to clone human consciousness into a new body. Writing it out like that makes the process seem strange and definitely in the realm of science fiction, but while reading it, it just seemed like a logical extension of the plastic surgery we have today—not that far-fetched at all.

I like the way that Hopkinson focuses on changing only this one aspect of society in order to strengthen her commentary on our society today. It is interesting that she chose this aspect to change, especially in relation to the article we read by Susan Bordo—both focus on women’s image of their bodies and the way they exert control over themselves and their bodies. Bordo describes the body as the “text of culture” and by changing the way in which the body is portrayed in this story, Hopkinson uses the body to express the pressures of the dominant culture in her story.

These pressures do not change in this alternate reality—they are the same in our world as they are in Bordo’s and Hopkinson’s: namely, the pressure to control the female body and fit it to the “ideal.” The mother’s reaction to the daughter’s caving in to this pressure, as quoted above, reflects the reaction many of us have to people we know with eating disorders or other body-image issues. We may not see anything wrong with the way they look, but they can see nothing else. In starving themselves or otherwise changing their body, however, Bordo argues that they are not so much trying to improve it as they are trying to exert control over their own life in response to the cultural pressure telling them what they should or shouldn’t look like.

Body image is ultimately a struggle of powers: the power of society telling a woman what she should look like versus her power over her own body and her image of it. It is significant that in this story, the only thing Hopkinson has changed is in giving women complete control over their bodies—they now can, for a price, become the ideal that society pressures them to be. But even with this level of control, there is no peace of mind. This is because the ideal presented is never truly attainable. The only way of getting the “perfect” body is to learn to love the one you have.

Just something I wanted to share...

So, as we've been reading "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" and talking about empathy, and the role it plays it shaping us as humans, this song kept playing in my head.

I volunteer at a peace camp for 4th and 5th graders, and this is one of the songs we sing with them. Definitely one of my favorites. Would androids like this song? It should be part of the Voigt-Kampff test...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV6_nYlgOrI&feature=related

Dust to Dust

“This rehearsal will end, the performance will end, the singers will die, eventually the last score of the music will be destroyed in one way or another; finally the name “Mozart” will vanish, the dust will have won” (Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, 98.)

This passage impressed me in its ability to connect the world in the novel to the world of the person reading the novel, further engrossing the reader in the world of the novel by allowing them to empathize with the characters therein. Rick’s thoughts here about the rehearsal and its connection to the larger fate of the planet, although nihilistic, show the apparent inevitability of the decay of the planet. The same inevitability is true of our world, although it is less obvious, as there is no radioactive dust reminding us that we are doomed. But all of the above will come to pass, and to dust the earth will eventually return. Rick’s thoughts here reminded me of a sort of eulogy for the planet—the idea of the dust winning brings to mind the biblical passage often read at funerals: "...for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return” (Genesis 3:19.) Even the most beautiful of our human creations, our best and brightest (here, Mozart) shall eventually decay. The only difference between this and the real world is that in our world, we can pretend this is not the case. In this world, constant reminders of their fleeting existence in the universe surround them: the radioactive dust, the kipple, and the ever-increasing list of extinct species. We know, ultimately, that nothing is permanent, but continue, as a species, to struggle against this reality, to convince ourselves that we matter, because to believe otherwise is just too much to bear.

Rick, though, recognizes not only the inevitability of this decay, but also his role in actively contributing to it by killing androids. He calls himself “part of the form-destroying process of entropy,” unmaking that which has been made (98.) The way he views his role in the destruction of the world reminded me of the role of the god Shiva in Hinduism. From what little I know of it, one of Shiva’s incarnations is that of “the destroyer.” But this is not necessarily in the same way that we view destruction—here, destruction is seen as a balance to creation, and they are both necessary parts of the same cycle. The problem with the world in the novel is that there is destruction, but no organic creation to offset it and restore the balance. So humans create androids, both so that something is created and so that there is something to be destroyed.

Finally, the nihilism of this passage, the sense of helplessness in face of the decay of the planet illustrates the trapped, helpless feelings of those remaining on Earth. They watch life disappear and decay around them, but are unable to stop it order to escape. Their only option is to wait until they too, return to dust. Existence is a battle they are fighting with time, and it is a battle they know they cannot win. Even the small victories, the small signs of life (going to the opera, having an animal) are useless in the face of the destructive power of time. Nihilism, while hardly a cheerful response, seems here appropriate.

Extinction and Electric Sheep

“There are no owls, he started to say. Or so we’ve been told. Sidney’s, he thought; they list it in their catalogues as extinct: the tiny, precise type, the E, again and again throughout the catalogue… Sidney’s never makes a mistake, he said to himself. We know that, too. What else can we depend on?” (41.)

In the broader context of the novel, this passage might not be particularly special. It would be easy to skim through, taking note of it perhaps, but not giving it any extra attention. But I found this to be one of the more poignant insights into the world of the novel. By this point the reader knows that there are very few animals left in the world, understands the oppressing nature of the silence of an all-but abandoned planet. But this one phrase brought home the reality of it to me: “the tiny, precise type, the E, again and again…” The way that all this extinction, the loss of thousands of species, of millions of animals, has been boiled down to a single, tiny letter “E.” The word “extinct” comes from the Latin extinguere—the same root of the word “extinguish.” And that’s a fitting symbol, for this E: recognition of all the life that has been extinguished. There it is, in black and white, irrefutable in its precise print. The effect should be alienating; in the grand scheme of things, what difference do mere words on a page make? But instead it draws the reader in further, to imagine a world in which this has become mundane, what it means that these words can be typed so calmly, so precisely.

And yet, for all that these extinctions are exhaustedly noted, itemized and catalogued, the world still keenly feels the loss of all these species, and this comes across in this passage as well. To people who no longer have an animal, Sidney’s offers a fantasy: all the animals ever on earth, yours for the imagining. It seems odd that this, a price catalogue, would list extinct species, but it is clear that it is much more than just a catalogue. Listing the extinct animals along with the surviving ones may seem hopelessly optimistic, but it is a way of keeping them alive, at least in the collective memory. You may never see one in your lifetime, but there were once owls, and birds, and raccoons roaming the planet, and while this catalogue cannot bring them back, it can at least remind you of what you are missing. In a world falling apart, it remains, documenting, but also offering this momentary escape. And so it is not surprising that Sidney’s takes on such an important, almost Bible-like role in Rick’s mind—what else, really, can he depend on?

But there is a nagging doubt: “There are no owls—or so we’ve been told.” “Hope is the thing with feathers” Emily Dickinson said, in this case wearing the feathers of an owl. The “E” is there, solid as ever, but Rick allows himself, momentarily, to hope that maybe Sidney’s got one, just one, wrong, that one owl slipped through the cracks. This is why, season after season, year after year, he keeps looking at Sidney’s, the hope that, impossible as it may be, that someday that “E” will itself be extinguished.