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?
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| 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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