Monday, January 22, 2018

Solaris – A Complex Introspective Sci-fi Novel on Human Limitations




In the ‘Paris Review’ article (by Ezra Glinter) on visionary Polish novelist Stanislaw Lem, it is aptly remarked that, “Nobody can really know the future. But few could imagine it better than Lem.” Lem’s complex body of work astoundingly inquires upon the timeless questions of: what it means to be human, inadequacy of memory and anthropomorphic cognition of the universe around us.  Although Lem was adorned as one of the most read sci-fi writer in the world, he himself resisted the notion of being pigeon-holed as a sci-fi novelist. Mr. Lem also had poor relations with his American counterparts and often opinionated that American sci-fi is ill-conceived, censuring the popular works of Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. While incorporating lot of complex scientific methodologies in his novels, the core of Lem’s stories aren’t clubbed into the category of ‘Hard sci-fi’; his devotees hail his stories as deeply philosophical, where the space and other science stuff takes backseat to probe the peculiarities of thought, memory, and existence.

Solaris is Mr. Lem’s most famous work, which has spawned out two dissatisfying movie versions (he hated Tarkovsky’s version and was indifferent to Soderbergh’s version). Published in 1961, Solaris was his first English translated novel (by Joanna Kilmartin and Steve Cox in 1970). The translation was done based on the French version (1964) and Lem, who is very fluent in English, dismissed the translation as ‘second-rate’. Nevertheless, for English readers there’s no other different source to fully breathe in the totality of Lem’s vision. Despite the author’s misgivings, I was quite compelled by Lem’s ironical, if not erudite, approach in exploring the unbridgeable communication gap that will always plague the attempts of ‘Contact’ between human and non-human sentient beings (it makes me wonder how much more compelling it would have been for Polish readers).  

The novel starts with Kris Kelvin, a psychologist, blasting off into the atmosphere of the planet Solaris (few light years from Earth in an unspecified year). Solaris, a planet revolving two suns, is covered by an ocean, marked inadequately with weird terrains and formations. The interesting thing about the ocean is that it is presumed to be a unique, sentient organism (or just a massive brain) whose consciousness has long been a debate among the group of scientists who call themselves as ‘Solarists’. The opening passages of the novels drop us into the dark, slowly shedding light on the strange happenings within desolate ‘Station’ of Solaris. Later we glean that Solarist studies have long been on the decline, since the scientific fraternity despite their decades of efforts and sacrifices of lives have gained little knowledge about the giant, enigmatic ocean. The spacious station now houses only three members and even their works may soon be suspended due to the waning interest back on Earth. 


In this volatile situation, Kris arrives into the Station and shockingly receives the news of his mentor/friend Gibrarian’s suicide. The other two scientists – Dr. Snow and Sartorius – act very strangely. Snow, the more talkative of the two, ambiguously warns Kris about certain preternatural experiences. Soon, he witnesses the simulacrum of his long-dead lover Rheya (he has long felt guilty of having driving her to commit suicide). The manifestation is meticulously created, right down to the scar at the back of her shoulders. Kris learns that the ocean is probing deep into their memories to manifest lost people from their respective lives. This naturally isolates the scientists from each other, provoking them to deal with these ghosts of tragic past in their own way. Initially, Kris questions his sanity and takes drastic steps to get rid of the ‘visitor’ (later named as ‘Phi-Creatures'). He imprisons Rheya within a shuttle and blasts it into the orbit. But another Rheya visits him the next day, clinging to his bedside.

The phi-creatures or visitors are intriguingly conceptualized. They couldn’t be easily harmed, perfectly realized from the memories of the mind from which they are created, and most importantly, they are unaware of their creation. Although the scientists believe that these manifestations are devious tools to study humans, the phi-creatures’ self-awareness and existential angst stimulates thoughtful questions on ‘what makes us human’. Feelings of obsession, isolation, and guilt gradually transform Kris to guard Rheya, although Dr. Snow repeatedly castigates Kris on why such approach is ultimately futile and dangerous to their scientific mission. And, how would these great minds, who find it hard to triumph over the corporeal memories, can bring themselves to understand or make contact with a bewildering sentient organism?   

Andrei Tarkovsky's (up) and Steven Soderbergh's adaptation of Lem's novel (in 1972 and 2002 respectively)

Stanislaw Lem’s prose may not have the formalist stylistics of Philip K Dick, but he has the knack for creating deeper rapport using seemingly simple exchanges. As ‘visiting’ Rheya understands the truth about her creation, she asks to Kris, “Do I look like her?” to which he replies “You did at first. Now I don’t know. I don’t understand. Now all I see is you”. Such conversations between increasingly conscious Rheya and Kris bring out the treacherous nature of memory and its slight detachment with the reality. The other most intriguing thematic exploration is Lem’s musing on how we inevitably anthropomorphize every scientific concept, rendering inconceivable the contact with an advanced alien mind (“We take off into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death... And yet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be a sham…….. We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. We don't know what to do with other worlds”, brilliantly remarks Dr. Snow). The author questions human race’s pomposity to mythologize space colonization and alleged near-future alien contact, while it hasn’t mastered or adequately addressed the darkness within itself. Lem further notes how in the cosmos of unfathomable cruelty and miracles, human race will be eternally limited by its existential or moral barriers (“Earth is a common type – the grass of the universe! And we pride ourselves on this universality…”).      

Stanislaw Lem’s detailed account of Solaris, chronicled through Kris’ study of old journals, is criticized as dis-interesting, dry and unnecessarily digressive. However, I loved those passages, especially the author’s vivid imaginative creation of ‘extensor’, ‘mimoid’, ‘symmetriad' & 'asymmetriad’ (these are unique, intricate structures mysteriously formed on the surface of Solaris ocean). The explanation of how Solarists of each generation operated and spawned divisive ideologies was also described in a very engaging manner (in the novel, the waning interest over Solaris & Solarists is often interpreted as a metaphor for the corruption or disintegration of communist ideologies).

Even though I initially loved Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris, it only sort of feigns ambiguity (lacks the edgy feel of the book) and never profoundly addresses Lem’s central themes. Despite Lem’s lamentation over poor English translation, Solaris remains as an astounding novel that blends in inexplicable yet relentlessly thought-provoking philosophical and scientific questions.



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