If I say “science fiction,” what
is the first that comes to your mind? Robots? Spaceships? Lasers? Science fiction
deals with a large range of categories that often draws the attention of
role-play gamers and hardcore geeks, but why does this genre rarely capture the
attention of literary scholars? With the exception of a few books like Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, and Huxley’s Brave New World, Science Fiction isn’t
studied in very many schools; does this mean that there is no literary merit in
Sci-fi? Heather Masri describes the genre as “a speculative mode of thought
that might be compared to the scientific method or picturized as a complex and
unique interaction between a story and its readers” (2); would this imply that
Sci-fi should be kept out of the literature classroom, and studied, instead, in
departments of science? Philip K. Dick’s novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, seems to say there is a
different reason. In a moment of metatextual reference, the novel describes the
reception of sci-fi novels on Mars. This reference addresses the real-world
difference between the perceived intentions of the genre, versus the actual
results of a sci-fi novel’s release.
The
truth of the matter is this: science fiction does not get as much credit as it should
deserve. Masri attributes the genre with the ability to “share an approach to
reality that is different from ‘realistic’ literature;” she says that sci-fi
novels “portray a world that is not merely fictional, but radically different
from the one we normally think of ourselves as inhabiting” (3). Sci-fi uses
stories about far off worlds and adventures to describe our world in ways that
only seem unfamiliar, but are actually
very human. Nealon and Giroux describe this phenomenon as a separation between
the “self” and the “subject:” when we read science fiction, we are reading a
“subject,” but at the heart of the text is an argument that discusses the
reality of the “self.” In Do Androids
Dream of Electric Sheep?, we read a story of people interacting with an
“other”, while, at the same time, the novel is showing that there is very
little difference between the “self” and the android “subject.” The intention
of sci-fi novels is to use an enticing story about other worlds to get people
to read, imagine, and learn about issues in our real lives, but our actual
society doesn’t value the worth of these novels: novels that are more
naturalistic in theme are valued more because they seem more possible. Dick’s
novel shows, though, that with time and experience, the unrealistic dreams of
robots and spaceships could become ideas of realism.
In
Dick’s novel, the people of Earth have been pushed by war and destruction to
colonize Mars. Measures have been taken to ensure that the colonists feel that
the move to Mars can be just like home. The main strategy for Martian-human
happiness, though, is by making a “subject” of Earth: the people left behind on
the planet that is now covered in radioactive dust are considered “undignified”
and many are considered “special” as a result of radiation poisoning.
Propaganda on Earth repeats the saying “Emigrate or degenerate! The choice is
yours!” (Dick 8). This propaganda shows its face again when “Isidore found
himself forced to listen to” the government’s colonization program on TV (18).
The program Isidore listens to also remarks on the condition of those on Earth:
“Let’s hear from
Mrs. Maggie Klugman… A recent immigrant to Mars, Mrs. Klugman in an interview
taped live in New New York had this to say. Mrs. Klugman, how would you
contrast your life back on contaminated Earth with your new life here in a
world rich with every imaginable possibility?” A pause, and then a tired, dry,
middle-aged, female voice said, “I think what I and my family of three noticed
most was the dignity. […] It’s a hard thing to explain. Having a servant you
can depend on in these troubled times . . . I find it reassuring” (18).
The announcer seems to emphasize
that there is a difference between the “contaminated
Earth” and the “new life” on Mars
that is “rich with every imaginable possibility.” Mrs.
Klugman even sounds “tired” and “dry” when she makes her (scripted?) report
about the “dignity” of Mars. From the perspective of an Earthling, everything
is built up to say that those who live on Earth have no dignity, and that Mars
is a practical paradise in comparison.
The
seeming paradise of Mars is later described in contrary terms by Pris Stratton
who says that “[Mars] wasn’t conceived for habitation, at least not within the
last billion years. It’s so old. You
feel it in the stones, the terrible old age” (150). Isidore fears that Pris
could be lonely on Earth, but she remarks that “all Mars is lonely. Much worse
than [Earth]” (150). By alienating the people of Earth from the people of Mars,
the government of Mars can successfully make their people feel better about
living away from their own world. It is only through the eyes of a
non-empathetic android, Pris, that the truth is realized: this Mars is only a
poor simulation of Earth, and can never be a true reproduction of the original.
To add another level to this simulation of Earth, the “Earth” that these people
of Android-Mars reminisce over is, itself, just a poor representation of the
Earth depicted in the novels that they would smuggle and read on the Martian
surface.
There
needs to be a good system of subjugation in place in order for the people of
Mars to feel at home, otherwise there would be civil unrest and distrust in the
governments that started the war that made them leave in the first place. To
make these Martians feel at home, the planet becomes, as Jean Baudrillard would
describe, “a simulation of the third order” (Baudrillard 12). The seeming “home
world” of Mars tries to hide the basic fact that it is not, in actuality,
Earth. The planet is dressed up nicely to look
like Earth, and there are pharmacies and beauty shops to make it feel like Earth, but despite having jobs
and luxuries and hobbies, the people on Mars cannot ignore the difference.
How can this
trauma be remedied?
Enter, Androids:
Every Mars colonist is given his or her very own android companion. These
androids, as Mrs. Plugman said in her interview, act as servants for the
“dignified” people of Mars. But these machines should make it even more obvious
that these people aren’t on Mars, right? Well that is not entirely true, thanks
to the Rosen Association. Eldon Rosen says in his interview with Rick Deckard
that “[The Rosen Association] produced what the colonists wanted” (Dick 54).
The Rosen Association developed the Nexus-6: an android that was so close to
being human that it could almost fool
a test designed for the sole purpose to determine the difference between humans
and androids. The colonists wanted a
robot servant that they could not distinguish from a real, human being. Eldon
even says that if his firm hadn’t
made it “other firms in the field would
have” (54, italics added).
Despite the
illegalities involved, living humans can even have sex with these androids, as
we see happen between Rick and Rachael in chapters 16-17. The pure simulacrum
that exists in the form of the Nexus-6 androids provides a link to the humanity
and companionship that the people of Mars desperately crave. The Martian-humans
suffocate their longing for Earth by distractions of things that represent Earth, like their shops and
androids. These distractions though, are not real: they, too, are just replications of the types of human
establishments that existed before the Earth became a radioactive mass of kipple. Isidore’s theory of kipple reflects these reproductions:
“Kipple is useless objects […] When nobody’s around, kipple reproduces itself.
[…] There’s the First Law of Kipple […] ‘Kipple drives out nonkipple’” (65).
The simulated lives that these androids seek are as useless as kipple, but they
will keep making reproductions until all of the original bits are pushed out.
There
is still plenty of reminiscence held in the hearts of the Martian-humans, and
this is seen through their described love for “pre-colonial fiction.” Pris
Stratton tells Isidore about the pre-colonial fiction books that she became
interested in while on Mars:
“Stories written
before space travel but about space travel. […] A lot of times they turned out
wrong. For example they wrote about Venus being a jungle paradise with huge
monsters and women in breastplates that glistened. […] Anyhow, there’s a
fortune to be made in smuggling pre-colonial fiction, the old magazines and
books and films, to Mars. Nothing is as exciting. To read about cities and huge
industrial enterprises, and really successful colonization. You can imagine what
it might have been like. What Mars ought
to be like. Canals. […] Crisscrossing the planet […] and beings from other
stars. With infinite wisdom. And stories about Earth, set in our time and even
later. Where there’s no radioactive dust.” (151).
The way Pris describes these
novels represents a shift in genre. These texts, on Earth, are science fiction.
Science fiction, according to her was “worthless” on Earth because “the craze
never caught on” (151-2). For the readers of pre-space travel Earth, these novels
represented a form of subjectivity that Samuel R. Delany describes as events
that “have not happened” (Delany 11).
When pre-war Earthlings read these novels, they acted as a “self” reading “a
subject”, and there is no overlay: as far as readers could tell, the events
described in the novels have not happened, but very well could happen. Science Fiction in this manner doesn’t clearly reveal
the “profound engagement with the most pressing issues of the contemporary
world” that Heather Masri attributes to the genre (Masri 1).
On
Mars, however, the texts are called “pre-colonial” and with that title, they
have a different operant genre: naturalistic fiction. Delany writes that “the subjectivity level
for a series of words labeled naturalistic fiction is defined by: could have happened” (Delany 10). When
the people of Mars read these novels, they recognize that the things people
wrote about could have happened, but
didn’t. The subjects of these novels often included space travel and Mars,
though, so—having been involved with space travel and Mars—the Martian-humans
are both self and subject when reading these novels: the Martian-humans are
reading about what could have been
themselves. At the same time, however, these are simulated “humans” reading
simulations of their humanity.
On
Earth, pre-colonial fiction is sci-fi; on Mars, however, the texts are closer
to naturalistic fiction (which already sells well in our own world.) The
naturalistic fiction feeds into the colonists need for Earth memories. The novels,
magazines, and films tell about the dreams, hopes, and fears of the people before the war; the fact that they were
often “wrong” about the future is inconsequential to the feelings of empathy
that the novels evoke.
It’s
dangerous to feed into the Martian-human reminiscence, though, because that
reminds them that they are no longer truly “human,” but are, instead, simulacra
of what they once were. These novels have to be smuggled around Mars, and there
is excitement to be had from doing so. The fact that there is a ban on these
works adds to the idea that there is power in their ability to remember Earth.
The novels present the reader with an idealized future that they could have been living, had things gone
in a different way (translated: “had World War Terminus never happened . . .)
Science
fiction doesn’t sell well because it is not realistic or possible enough. At
most, it is glanced over as though it is a mere series of postulations about a
future that will probably never be. There is something to be said, though,
about the way the genre plays into our idea of the English literary canon:
novels that only tell what have not
happened are ignored, but if they are made more naturalistic, and include
elements that could have happened,
they could be accepted. Nineteen
Eighty-Four reveals a future that very well could have happened, but
didn’t; it reveals the real human fears of censorship and police-states. Brave New World could still happen, though it hasn’t; it
could’ve happened already, though, and it speaks to many human dispositions. As
Dick’s novel reveals, the success of a novel depends on its reception. The
reception is dependent on the genre and the genre is dependent on its message.
In the end, the naturalistic fictions that speak more to the “human experience”
will sell better and will be studied more than the science-fictions that only
dream of imagined futures.
Bibliography
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Jean. Simulacra and Simulation.
Trans. Shelia Farin Glaser. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994.
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