The Pinocchio Theory

I scarcely have the words for this stupendous novel, whose visceral horror is only matched by its eloquence. (I should probably say, “elegant eloquence”, because its power comes in part from the way its gross splatter in terms of content is recounted in so artful a prose style). I have read horror fiction by Cassandra Khaw before — she is Malaysian, but currently lives in Canada; her day job is as a game designer — but she surpasses herself in this new book.

I guess you can say that Hellebore, where the novel takes place, is the anti-Hogwarts. It’s a school for young practitioners of magic, only the magic here is entirely violent, destructive, and feral. The narrator and protagonist, Alessa Li (a name with the same syllabic pattern as the name of the author), has the magical power of tearing bodies apart: a power she first discovers when she uses it in self-defense against her stepfather, who tries to molest her. But there is no innocence in the world of this novel: Alessa has no sense of being a victim, and she sees no distinction between self-protection and aggression. She claims that all the people she killed deserved it, but not that she was always defending herself. It is almost as if the novel is telling us: ‘oh, you say that there is no such thing as society, but only individuals and families? You say that the world thrives through competition, all against all? Well, I will show you what that is really like’.

We get a backstory for the novel, contemptuously dumped by the narrator in a single page, telling us how magic thrived in the older world, but was driven underground by the rationalism of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. These years were characterized by people’s craving to “cut the cosmos open and see what was inside.” This led to what we know as modernity, “a revolution in human thinking. We went from soothsayers to science, gods to generating electricity. Our lifespans grew; childbirth stopped being a macabre lottery.” The narrator’s point is that this flourishing of rationality, involving the absolute rejection of an earlier world of magic, for all its benefits was itself a sadistic drive to dominate the world. Rationalism and enlightenment were as barbaric as magic itself. And so, after “these years of frenzied development, interspersed with decades of war”, by a sort of inevitable backlash the magic returned. It quickly became a problem, because “this plague of global re-enchantment led to a decimation of the workforce… Capitalism was unsustainable without bodies to feed to the machine”.

What I have just summarized is passed over quite quickly in the novel. But it seems important to me because it sets up everything that follows. Alessa is not admitted to the Hellebore Technical Institute for the Ambitiously Gifted by some owl messenger; rather, she is brutally kidnapped, and finds herself there against her will. She tries to escape, but discovers that this is impossible. The students are nasty, and continually bicker with one another; but the faculty is even worse. I think this resonates with the actual world in which I live, and in which I read the novel: what Fredric Jameson once called “the bewildering new world space of late or multinational capital” is extremely difficult to grasp in objective, cognitive terms; rather, it is experienced on the subjective, individual level in the form of neofeudalism (as Jodi Dean and many others have argued). Although social relations are, in their overall structure, highly abstract and highly mediated, we experience these relations in the most immediate, visceral, and personal or sub-personal terms, through vast hierarchies of mastery and subordination. While the social world as a whole may be governed by ineluctable and inscrutable laws, as is envisioned and explored in Kafka’s texts of a century ago, today my individual experience of these structures is a partial and extremely localized one: the power to which I am unwillingly subjected is embodied, immediate, and directly branded into my flesh.

Khaw only intimates this historical background. For the most part, The Library at Hellebore narrates body horror as it fills the register of immediate experience. Everybody at Hellebore, student or faculty, is a monster: “someone with the potential to destroy the world three times over, and still have time for a good long brunch”. Put a lot of such people together, and they will both ally with one another and brutalize one another. Everything horrific about them will be cultivated and drawn out by the faculty, intent on shaping them into their worst selves.

But there’s even more. The novel mostly takes place at a crisis point. At the end of the school year, when the students graduate, the faculty devour them in a cannibalistic orgy. Many of the novel’s chapters are marked as “Before”, and give an account of the entire year Alessa spends at Hellebore. But these sections are interspersed with chapters set in the present: a few students have escaped being consumed, and they barricade themselves in the school library, doors locked so the faculty cannot enter. (They still have to deal, within the library itself, with the Librarian, a monster with the face of a human woman, but with a long caterpillar-like body). As the students try to defend themselves, and also fight among themselves, Khaw’s glittering prose (I can only call it that) details a seemingly unending series of wounds and aggressions, spillings of blood and gore and internal organs. But these are accompanied by subtle internal, affective shifts: moments of fear, but also moments of caring and (strange as it may seem) intimacy.

The realm of fear and violence is also, subtly, a realm of affection and sensitivity, in which Alessa and her peers experience surprising moments of otherness-contact, or what the philosopher Joseph Libertson called proximity. These moments are expressed in prose that is surprisingly delicate and subtle, even as it describes sheer atrocity. For instance, at one moment Alessa describes experiencing “a vertiginous sensation half like food poisoning and half like the worst migraine ever…” Something like this is as much excitingly unfamiliar as it is excruciating; and this is the way that the prose of the novel moves us forward, although what it describes is unremittingly horrific and bleak. Even at its most caustic — as when Alessa says that “years spent around men who believed that their dicks were reliquaries taught me how to smile despite the wave of nausea rolling through me” — the novel’s language is carefully exploratory, and illuminating in its precision and lack of pretense.

This extends even to the strange intimacy and recognition that sometimes passes between Alessa and the other monsters:”Minji smiled thinly and we sat then in a new silence, aware we had, very companionably and without a shred of animosity in our hearts, declared, in fewer words than perhaps were merited, that we would eventually be at each other’s throats. Whether such a time would come to pass was irrelevant. The words couldn’t be taken back and a sliver of me would always regret our honesty in that moment.”

Such quivering sensitivity at the heart of brutality is what really makes the novel work for me. I would not want to live in the world imagined by Khaw; but the really disturbing thing about the book is how insidiously it insists that, most likely, I already do. The few vestiges of saving grace the novel offers us only make sense in the context of its overall frightening vision; this is what is most deeply disturbing about it. Monstrosity is not an intervention from the Outside (as it is, for instance, in Lovecraft’s stories), rather, it is as intimate as my relation to my neighbor, or even as intimate as my relation to myself.

Charlie Jane Anders’ new novel, LESSONS IN MAGIC AND DISASTER, is a fantasy novel with a light touch — sufficiently light that it is barely fantasy at all. The fantasy element — the practice of magic — is barely an extension of the actual world we live in. Jamie, he narrator/protagonist is a trans woman: a graduate student in English writing her dissertation on British women writers in the 18th century. She is involved in a difficult relationship with somebody who I presume is also a woman — though this is never explicitly stated; since this person uses they/them pronouns. The narrator’s other most important (and difficult) relationship is with her mother, who is mourning the death of her own partner (another woman). So this book is really about queer families, and about personal connections: those we cannot help being part of, and those we construct for ourselves. We all need, and most of us have, family relationships of one sort or another, though this is true without necessarily privileging the heterosexual nuclear family, and without denying the difficulties of such relationships (William Blake once wrote that “A man’s worst enemies are those/ Of his own house and family”).

In addition, the narrator is a practitioner of magic. Here, magic is understood as a way to manifest one’s own intentions. It involves finding a place that exists in between nature and culture, like human refuse left in the woods or some other natural spot, and leaving in that spot several objects: something that symbolizes or references what is being wished for, and something that is given up as a sacrifice. There can also be additional adornments. Jamie explains, somewhat dubiously: “it’s about knowing what you really want, in your fucking secret heart, and putting your wishes into the world in a way that can be heard.”

In the course of the novel, Jamie teaches her mother how to do magic, in an attempt to cure her mourning for her late partner. Over the course of the novel, magic sometimes works, but not always. It can have unanticipated consequences (as all forms of desire can have). And it sometimes blows back on the practitioner. Also, since one’s wishes generally involve relationships with other people, there are problems with what those other people — lovers, family members, friends, enemies, innocent bystanders — might themselves want and need.

Though personally, I do not believe that magic, as defined in the novel, actually works in the real world, it makes powerful sense in the novel as an intensified form of all the delights and dangers that come up when we negotiate our desires with other people (whom we may desire, love, or hate, and who in their own turn have their own equally complex desires). The workings of magic are also depicted as liminal (in between nature and culture, in between what we feel consciously and unconsciously, and so on), which makes it impossible to draw clean lines between realms as we all too often want to do. And the practice of magic also occurs within a world that, like the world we actually live in, involves both individual and collective dimensions, both the personal and the political, if only because bigotry is real, and homophobes interfere with the lives of people who just want to continue doing what they do.

The hardest thing for me to describe about this novel is its mood or tone, which is delicate and hopeful, but also all too aware about the obstacles other people and the very structure of the world place in our way, as well as the ways we harm ourselves and others, make mistakes, treat other people (even our loved ones) unfairly, and generally have difficulty separating joy from pain, generosity from selfishness, or satisfaction from regret. In a way, this is therefore a mundane novel, or a ‘realist’ one; except for how the existence of magic in the narrative, and in the lives of its characters, serves as a form of self-therapy, and a way to connect with others. This other-directed dimension is what distinguishes it from the more common first-person realist narrative, and what allows it, ever so lightly, to access, and use to its advantage, the subjunctive dimension (as Samuel R. Delany might call it) of non-naturalistic fiction.

SHROUD is a look at alien sentience, by the (alarmingly prolific) science fiction writer Adrian Tchaikovsky. Two engineers are stuck in their spacecraft (which is actually more like a bathysphere) on the surface of an alien planet they call Shroud. Shroud is actually a moon of a gas giant in some solar system far from ours; but it is larger and denser (and hence with greater gravity) than Earth. It is enclosed in a thick hydrogen/methane/ammonia atmosphere, so thick that atmospheric pressure at the surface is twenty times that of Earth at sea level, and also so thick that no light can get through. Even the searchlights of the spacecraft can only cut through the murk for small distances. The astronauts are stranded; they have to travel halfway across the planet to reach the space elevator cable, dropped by the spaceship they originally came in, which is the only point from which they can be rescued (and indeed the only point from which any message they send can reach space beyond Shroud’s atmosphere at all). It turns out that Shroud is filled with rich and abundant life, which gets its energy from “planetary radiation, vulcanism, and a tiny greenhouse effect” (in this respect, Shroud is similar to some of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn). As the protagonists struggle to move across the surface of Shroud, they interact in multiple indirect ways with the native life, which is blind (since there is no light on Shroud) but which senses its surroundings by emitting radio waves (radar sensing, communication, and thought, all in the same medium). The human protagonists’ survival involves interacting with these native life forms in all sorts of ways. The novel is both an adventure story, and a sort of philosophical meditation on the possibilities of sentience.

I just finished reading C J Cherryh’s novella WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE (one of the three texts in the collection ALTERNATE REALITIES, available on the Kindle for $9.99). WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE is a brilliant work of science fiction. It takes place on a planet where powerful men (more often men than women) believe that they create their own reality and impose it on anybody “weaker” than themselves. They simply deny the existence of what is not within their will, learning to not even notice the existence of others who are excluded from their social arrangements (such others include both human beings who have been shamed and demoted or expelled from society, and to non-human intelligent beings). (This reminds me a bit of the way in which, in China Mieville’s THE CITY AND THE CITY, the people of the two cities have learned to ignore their mutual co-existence, each person unseeing the people of the other city).

The protagonist of WAVE WITHOUT A SHORE, Herrin, is a sculptor who is fatuously confident of his own superiority and genius; the only person he recognizes as perhaps an equal is his frenemy, Waden Jenks, the dictator ruling human society on the planet. Herrin makes a huge statue of and monument to Jenks; this project is a clash of the two men’s will-to-power, since Herrin is both glorifying Jenks and solidifying his tyrannical rule; and yet at the same time Herrin is asserting his own superiority over Jenks, since the implication of the piece is that Jenks needs Herrin’s artistic genius in order to claim supreme status. It is a prototypical example of how society is grounded in the Hegelian master-slave dialectic, or perhaps of Nietzsche’s vulgarization of this dialectic in his vision of hierarchies generated by conflicts of clashing wills-to-power.

Once the statue and monument are finished, Jenks understands that he has been both elevated and consigned to his place. In order to reinforce his dominance, he has his goons beat up Herrin and especially break all the bones in Herrin’s hands, so that the artist will never be able to sculpt again. There is a lot in the novella about how Herrin’s mastery is concentrated, not just in his ability to see and imagine, but above all in his manual dexterity in shaping clay and stone to his will. (This reminds me of the scene in Tarkovsky’s movie Andrei Roublev, where an aristocrat has artisans blinded so that they will never be able to construct a house more beautiful for the one that they made for him).

I won’t discuss the later twists of the narrative, except to say that Cherryh plays out the consequences of the collapse of Herrin’s worldview, and his being forced to understand that others exist — both human beings and aliens. Reality is capacious and contradictory; it contains many forces, and nobody can think to dominate and control them all. The way I have expressed it, this seems like an obvious point to make; but in asserting it, Cherryh undermines and deconstructs the pernicious myths that are central to our cultural imaginary, and that have been asserted not only by the most obvious creators and mythmakers (like Ayn Rand and Leni Riefenstahl), but much more widely in the literary and cinematic fictions that we consume and swear by.

Adrian Tchaikovsky is one of the most accomplished science fiction writers of the past two decades. He is also remarkably prolific, having published well over thirty hefty novels, together with many shorter works, in the years since 2008. Tchaikovsky also has a great range. He seems reluctant to repeat himself, and has instead explored a wide variety of subgenres in science fiction and fantasy: everything from novels of uplifted animal intelligence (the Children trilogy), to the dying-Earth subgenre (Cage of Souls), to metaphysical space opera (the Final Architecture trilogy), to alternative visions of evolution (The Doors of Eden), to science fantasy with a dollop of horror (Walking to Aldebaran).

Tchaikovsky’s latest novel, Service Model, might be characterized as robot cyberfiction. It recounts the story of a robot’s picaresque adventures in a ruined, posthuman world. “Charles”, as the robot is initially called, initially serves as a valet to a rich man, and is programmed to anticipate his every wish, and to pamper him to a degree far exceeding what even the richest actual human beings today are able to get their servants to do. Charles is content in his position, even though his idle, wealthy employer is clearly a degenerate scumbag (I am using this phrase, which does not appear in the actual text of the novel, in the precise sense in which it is defined by the Urban DIctionary: “a person whose behaviour and attitude holds back the progress of the human race while eroding social solidarity”).

Only one day, without realizing it, Charles slashes his master’s throat while in process of shaving him. With no master left to serve, Clarles has to leave. In addition, since the name “Charles” was only imposed as a feature of his initial position, once that position is gone, so is the name. For the rest of the novel, and following a suggestion from somebody else, the robot calls himself Uncharles instead. (I am only using he/him pronouns here because of the initial name “Charles”; the robot shows no particularly gendered characteristics one way or the other).

Most of the book narrates Uncharles’ search for another source of employment; and secondarily in order to find out why he murdered his employer, since he cannot discover any reasons to have done so. He sees himself as a mechanism, having tasks to perform, but without anything of the order of needs, desires, and emotions, such as human beings might feel. Uncharles seeks a new job, not for monetary reasons — he has no physical needs as long as he can be recharged from sunlight — but because he still feels a strong impulse to do the sort of work for which he was initially programmed: to be the enthusiastic helper of a living human being. The problem is that the world has been largely destroyed. Pretty much everything has been reduced to debris. The wasteland is heavily populated with robots set adrift, much as Uncharles himself is. Human beings have almost gone extinct; for the most part, the only surviving ones are relegated to hellish situations of continual pain and punishment.

For most of the volume, Uncharles passes through a series of situations that are unattractive for him, and evidently satirical from the point of view of the author and of us as readers. Thinking the murder of his employer results from some sort of mechanical defect, Uncharles goes to a robot repair center that is entirely dysfunctional (which is evidently for the best since its only form of “repair” for broken robots is to terminate them and scavenge their physical remains for spare parts). Uncharles then goes to a sort of farm or factory where the few surviving human beings are compelled endlessly to re-enact their supposed pre-robotic folkways (consisting in straightened living situations, hellish commutes, and meaningless and unending factory labor, though they do not actually produce anything). Then there is a library where all human knowledge is transcribed into 1s and 0s and then erased, with the original sources (books, movies, etc.) also being physically destroyed. After that, there’s an enormous junkyard where robot armies continually battle one another for no discernible reason. And so on. These scenarios are referenced to famous modernist authors, such as Kafka (the bureaucracy of the repair facilities), Orwell (the ceaseless surveillance of the people forced to reenact the most oppressive circumstances of their past lives), and Borges (the library) — though this is a joke only for the readers, as it is something the robots themselves remain unaware of.

Uncharles is accompanied on his voyages by another figure known as The Wonk (who turns out to be a human woman in robot disguise — I don’t feel like I am giving away a spoiler here, because the reader realizes that this in the case, long before Uncharles is officially informed of it). She plays Sancho Panza to Uncharles’ Don Quixote, with her comments continually undermining his delusions about his tasks and about the structure of society. She also keeps noting to Uncharles that, in contrast to his original programming, he has developed something like free will. This is an observation that he continually denies, but that readers in the long run judge to be true.

The question of human freedom or flexibility versus robot programming and external determination is also continually raised in the novel’s own language. A close third-person narration is continually describing Uncharles’ reactions to various things by comparing them to human emotional responses, while at the same time disavowing these comparisons by saying things like: Uncharles was acting very much like a person getting angry, though of course as a robot he didn’t feel anger or any other emotions. The novel gets a considerable degree of this power from this sly use of rhetoric, as well as from the evidently satirical and exaggerated characterizations of all the predicaments within which Uncharles finds himself.

In short, Service Model is a brilliant novel, equal in power to many of Tchaikovsky’s other works, but unique among those works in its particular strategies and angles of approach. Its ultimate impact is to blur the distinction between internally-generated and externally-imposed actions and responses, as between what philosophers call dispositions and what common sense refers to as feelings. And therefore it also erodes (even as it overtly affirms) differences between natural and artificial intelligence. This is both the source of the considerable pleasure I took in reading the novel, and the sign of its being a deep philosophical thought-experiment and argument in its own right.

Michael Bérubé is one of our best social and cultural critics. He has written important books on cultural studies, disability studies, and the politics of the “culture wars” in academia and beyond. Bérubé’s new book, The Ex-Human, is about science fiction. Bérubé offers thoughtful close readings of a number of classic science fiction texts: Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, Cixin Liu’s The Three-Body Problem, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep? (with some reference to its film adaptation as Blade Runner), Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001 (with some reference to its better-known film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick), and Octavia Butler’s Parable series and Lilith’s Brood series.

Bérubé’s discussions of all these texts are subtle and insightful. But close reading in its own right is not the point of the book. Bérubé includes autobiographical personal reflections, and discusses writing the book in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, which deeply changed the dynamics of his own personal and family life, together with everyone else’s. Above all, though, the book is concerned with how science fiction allows us to entertain non-human perspectives upon human life and existence, and specifically to imagine the end of humanity — or rather (and better) its transformation in radical ways that exceed our capacity for imaginative projection and continued empathy.

I am inclined to share Bérubé’s pessimism about human futures. Immanuel Kant said that, regardless of its mistakes, excesses, and bad human rights record, the French Revolution was inspiring and positive because it demonstrated the sheer fact that human beings were capable of rebelling against injustice and envisioning something better. But today we find ourselves facing a sort of inverse of this situation. Regardless of whether Donald Trump gets elected to a second term or not, his widespread support by millions of American voters is frightening and horrific because it demonstrates the sheer fact that human beings are so enthusiastically vicious, bigoted, and sadistic that they are more than willing to embrace a worsening of their own lives, as long as this guarantees that other people will be treated even worse than they are, and that they will retain the privilege of enjoying the spectacle of other people’s suffering, like Christians in Heaven who gain surplus gratification from observing the torments of sinners in Hell. Though Bérubé doesn’t express himself precisely in these terms, he is definitely saying something similar. He cites, for instance, Octavia Butler’s insight that human beings are both highly intelligent and inveterately hierarchical, an extremely deadly combination.

Bérubé chooses the works he discusses precisely because they all share something of this ferociously negative vision, even though many readers/viewers seem to have gone out of their way to avoid acknowledging this. He defines his perspective by identifying it with that of Ye Weinjie, the character in The Three-Body Problem who deliberately contacts the Trisolarians (the aliens who inhabit the Alpha Centauri three-star system), thus encouraging them to invade Earth. Having suffered through the Chinese Cultural Revolution, and subsequent tyrannical and environmentally destructive actions of the Chinese government, Ye Weinjie concludes — mistakenly but not unjustifiably — that an alien invasion might well be the one thing that “can somehow save us from ourselves.” Bérubé is careful to distinguish this position from the more overtly radical one (also dramatized in the novel, and expressed in theoretical terms by such anti-natalists as David Benatar) that straightforwardly seeks the self-annihilation of Homo sapiens altogether.

For Bérubé, then, the greatest virtue of science fiction is its ability to articulate perspectives “in which we have become able to see ourselves and our sorry fate from the vantage point of something other than the human.” Rather than using such common terms as posthuman or transhuman, Bérubé describes his perspective as ex-human. To me, this suggests the scenario of tending one’s resignation from, and retiring from, the human race, although Bérubé does not quite describe it in these terms. In any case, the term ex-human avoids the self-congratulatory visions of exceeding and transcending the human that we find in Nietzsche, say, or more to the point in recent Silicon Valley TESCREALists (TESCREAL = “transhumanism, extropianism, singularitarianism, cosmism, rationalism, effective altruism, and longtermism”). [You can find out more about TESCREALism here]. For Bérubé, the ex-human “is distinctive in that it is framed by the possibility of human extinction and driven by a desire to imagine that, somehow, another species is possible.” Becoming otherwise is desirable, and may well be a better alternative than remaining conventionally “human”; but it should not be seen as a conquest, a triumph, or a heroic accomplishment.

The novels and films discussed by Bérubé all express this desire in various ways, albeit often tentatively. The bioengineering of a less malevolent successor species to Homo sapiens is most explicitly envisioned in Oryx and Crake. Much more mildly, Ursula Le Guin’s vision of a society that is not governed by gender in The Left Hand of Darkness proposes a modification of “human nature” that is not flawless, but evidently more desirable than not. Though Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep? is explicitly premised upon the supposition that human beings are able to feel empathy, whereas androids are not, it is not only set in the aftermath of a human-made catastrophe (nuclear war), and questions its human-supremacist premise in many other ways as well. 2001 also contrasts banalized human characters with the supercomputer HAL, who is arguably the most empathetic character in both the novel and the movie. 2001, like Androids and Blade Runner, suggest that transcending, or at least reforming, what we understand as “the human” is urgently necessary, and indeed perhaps inevitable.

The richest discussion in The Ex-Human is that in the final chapter, devoted to Octavia Butler. Here Bérubé discusses both the Parable diptych, and the Lilith’s Brood trilogy. The Parable books presciently envision a Trumpian America, and set against it a small-scale utopian community project. In the course of the novels, the protagonist Lauren Oya Olamina does succeed in setting up a worthwhile intentional community, but only after the most horrific and painful tribulations. And in any case, such a result is not scalable to humanity as a whole. This leads Butler to posit space travel and migration to other worlds as a more permanent solution to self-inflicted human suffering; but it is all too symptomatic that Butler was never able to write a third novel in the series that would convincingly envision such a movement. Here Bérubé cites Gerry Canavan’s exploration of Butler’s many abandoned manuscripts. (In fact, this impasse was already encountered in Butler’s early novel Survivor, which she ultimately disowned as a result).

Bérubé then turns to Butler’s earlier Lilith’s Brood series, consisting of Dawn, Adulthood Rites, and Imago. In these novels, Butler envisions an Earth devastated by nuclear war, survived only by a small number of humans who are rescued by an alien species with superior technologies, the Oankali. These aliens define themselves as gene traders; they seek to produce a genetic hybrid between themselves and humans. I won’t go into Bérubé’s reading of this trilogy in detail. I will only note that the biggest interpretive disagreement about the trilogy is over whether we should regard the Oankali as benevolent saviors, or whether we should regard them as manipulative and oppressive colonialists. There is good evidence for both approaches in the books. The Oankali insist, quite plausibly, that human beings are bound to destroy themselves (again; since the premise of the novels is that we have already done so once), unless they accept the deep species modifications that are being offered them. However, the Oankali clearly maintain a position of superiority vis-a-vis the surviving humans, lying to them, forcing them into actions against their will (up to and including what can only be understood as rape), and continually overriding human demands and desires, supposedly for the humans’ own good. Bérubé offers a remarkable synthesis of these two opposed readings; he agrees that the Oankali’s treatment of human beings is entirely, unacceptably nasty; but at the same time he suggests that (from Butler’s own perspective, which Bérubé endorses) such a forcible remaking of humanity into something *other* is preferable to human beings remaining as they are. The human condition as it actually is can only lead to horrors of nuclear holocaust, devastating epidemics, or the re-election of Donald Trump. I have to say — much as I do not want to — that Bérubé has a point.