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.

"Racism and Science Fiction"

"I don’t see how a science fiction writer can do more than wring your heart while telling you how it works. No writer can…” (“Racism and Science Fiction, 392.)

Delany mentions in his essay the above quotation from a review of his work in Galaxy in 1969. He shrugs off the compliment and moves on with his story, but I would like to pause here a moment and dwell on this description of his work. I realize that the above passage might not tie in well to the themes of his essay, but I think it speaks to some of the broader themes we are looking at in this class. This quotation reminded me of the first essay we read (“Why Don’t We Love Science Fiction?”.) I thought that this idea of the goal/purpose of science fiction would have fit in well with Appleyard’s view. Good science fiction speaks to the human experience, showing us ourselves through the lens of another time, another planet, or another culture. This quotation also places science fiction in a more emotional context. It is not enough that we recognize ourselves in works of science fiction—it is when we are able to feel ourselves in these stories that science fiction makes its impact.

This is why I think the above quotation described science fiction so perfectly. It is able to reconcile to very polarized entities: the “cold” logic of science and the warmth of human emotion. Leaning too far towards one end gives you an article in a scientific journal, leaning too far towards the other gives you a romance novel. And while each of these styles of writing have their fans, neither of them are exactly what I would call compelling reading. But good science fiction takes the best parts of both genres and makes an ultimately more universal and accessible narrative. Science fiction is not the only genre that does this—good historical fiction has a similar function in that it makes the reader emotionally invested in otherwise remote historical events. But science fiction is unique in that it can answer the questions of how or why things work while keeping the reader in its thrall. My favorite types of science fiction are the ones with a perfectly logical, plausible explanations for why things in the story work the way they do. (This was my one problem with Lathe of Heaven. Although I liked the premise of dreams that alter reality, I would have loved a plausible scientific explanation of the mechanism through which his dreams interacted with reality.) I know this seems a bit much to ask of a work of fiction, but let us not forget that this is science fiction— and scientific phenomena, although often mysterious, rarely defy logic.

"Bloodchild"

“I could have done that. I nearly did. That’s Qui’s away. I wonder if he knows.

(“Bloodchild,” p. 29)

One subject that we didn’t touch on in class yesterday (yes, I know this entry is somewhat late) but that still interested me was that of the role of Gan’s brother Qui in this story, and their different perspectives on what it means to be caged and free. Qui sees the Preserve as a cage, and tries to run away before he realizes that there is no “away” to run to. Unlike Gan, he sees T’Gatoi almost as their jailer rather than their protector, and claims that the Tlic don’t care about the Terrans as anything other than “host animals” for their eggs. What he is trying to escape though, is not so clear. He knows that as long as Gan is around, he will not have to carry any Tlic eggs, so it is not the fear of being implanted that causes him to run. I think it is knowing the reality of what will happen to his brother, and seeing how accepting Gan is of it all that makes him want to escape. We don’t see any other Terrans in this story beyond Gan’s family, but I imagine that in the past there were many more like Qui who couldn’t handle their place in this society. The only reason Terrans like Gan and Hoa are accepting of their fate, in his mind, is because they are never confronted with the reality of it. After seeing a human eaten alive by Tlic grubs, his response is t run, to try to escape the future he cannot stop. But he finds that there is nowhere to go.

The only escape Qui can find seems to be in the sterile eggs, where he can get lost in the drug-induced dream state and forget about the reality of the situation of Terrans. But he cannot stay in this state forever, and Gan thinks (as we can see above) that the only way Qui will find an escape is through destroying himself. Which, though tragic, makes sense: he cannot accept the world in which he lives, and has run out of ways to escape. It is interesting though, that when given the option for this “escape,” Gan doesn’t take it. He says it is because he cannot leave his sister to the fate that was meant to be his, but this is not the whole of it. I think part of the reason that he does not kill himself is that, unlike Qui, he has been brought up not to notice this cage—from birth, he has known what it is like to be encircled by T’Gatoi’s arms, and to see her as his protector rather than his jailer. He has been conditioned, almost, to not want to get away, to the extent that when he finally sees what will happen to him, he cannot bring himself to escape.

It is interesting, in the above passage, that Gan finally seems to have the upper hand. Throughout the story we see that Qui looks down on Gan for accepting what will happen to him, for not fighting back or running away. But it is Gan who has the last laugh, knowing as he does that his brother does not need any Tlic to destroy him, that he will ultimately bring it on himself. It is a somber tone set for the end of the book— it seems as if Gan’s surrender and Qui’s inability to stop it symbolize the last effort of the Terrans to break free of the Tlic. But, it is too late, their lives are too far intertwined, and there is no more point in trying to escape.