Good book but good book same, is one that can be reread at least once a year, for the rest of your life, retaining the same freshness, revealing new things. In fact, “may” is an understatement: if the book in question is really worth it, it causes an irresistible urge to reread it annually and becomes an instant balm as soon as it’s opened. I never counted the (many) works that produce this effect in my head, but “The Dispossessed”, by the American Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018), always hovers at the top of the list.
There are those who describe Le Guin as the great master of the so-called “soft” science fiction, that is, of the plots of the genre that would leave the properly scientific aspects aside in favor of a greater focus on the human dilemmas of the characters. “Soft” science fiction would also give more space to the “less exact” sciences, such as anthropology and psychology, as opposed to the “hard” sciences, such as physics and astronomy.
All of this is true, to some extent, in the case of “The Dispossessed.” But one of the writer’s many virtues is her absolute refusal to catalog in watertight boxes or drawers. Le Guin’s science fiction is not “soft”, it is multidisciplinary, analyzing the implications of the most different branches of knowledge for what it means to be human.
Perhaps that’s why his books have aged so well (“The Dispossessed,” after all, was written in 1974). In this year’s rereading, I noticed again how the author’s description of the relationship between what we know about human evolution and what we call ethics is complex, nuanced and distant from the stereotypes that many people still carry in their heads.
In the plot, two twin planets, Urras and Anarres, represent very different societies. In Urras, social inequality and authoritarianism prevail, and it is refugees from this situation who founded an anarchist and egalitarian colony in Anarres. After generations of near-total isolation, a brilliant Anarres physicist named Shevek is the first native of his planet to visit Urras, and the clash between his views and the beauties and ills of his ancestors’ world becomes a crucial part of the story. narrative.
It turns out that, in a conversation with an elite woman from Urras, Shevek is confronted with one of the ancient caricatures of what the theory of evolution means. “Life is a struggle, and whoever wins is the strongest. All civilization does is hide the blood and cover the hate with pretty words!”, says the girl, named Vea. “The law of evolution is that the strongest survive!”
“Yes,” Shevek nods, but what he says next seems paradoxical. “The strongest, in the case of any social species, is the one who is most sociable. In human terms, the one who is most ethical. You see, we have no prey or enemies on Anarres. We only have each other. strength hurting each other. Only weakness.”
Well, the last few decades of research have shown that this is exactly how the mindset and behavior of our species evolved. Most of us can make ethical slips from time to time, but it seems that we have a pretty solid tendency to realize that it’s fundamentally wrong not to treat others the way we want to be treated.
The most serious problems occur when we limit this rule to “our” group and come to see those outside that circle as less worthy of consideration. Unfortunately, this appears to be another human tendency forged by evolution. Undoing this contradiction is frustrating, it takes a hell of a lot of work—but it’s the only way.
